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La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Part 1 of 2)
Impressionists in England. It was far too strange. Marguerite, French through and through, could not help but attend such an exhibition. She wondered what the English thought of a movement which was already developing into something else in France. They must indeed have been lucky to receive the graces of Manet and Degas in their stolid, musty halls. Such things were always a treat to see, even in France.
Being a courtesan, Marguerite could go to such things escorted or unescorted, as she wished. She preferred attending alone. Nonetheless she was resplendent in soft green satin, the train of her bustle a bit shorter than it might have been. She often worried about careless gentlemen stepping on and tearing her gown. An elaborate necklace of emeralds and jade adorned her neck, the neckline of her bodice dipping to almost scandalous proportions. Her hair boasted an elaborate gold and jade flower, the fiery curls creating a wild frame for her face. Long, satin gloves completed the ensemble, climbing up to her elbows. She liked to be looked at. Indeed, if she were not viewed as much as the art, it would be a pity.
She stood before Degas's L'Absinthe. This was the first showing of the painting in England, if she recalled correctly. Others were crowded near it as well, murmuring in outrage and disgust. But she ignored them. She looked at the woman, the expression of her face. She was a plain thing, but she looked blank. Before her stood a cup of that illicit spirit, absinthe. It moved her. She imagined the cup flowing with blood and placed herself in the painting. Yes, sometimes things were too much to bear, sometimes life seemed to trundle on aimlessly, with no rhyme or reason. She wondered why people could not see past the act of drinking the absinthe and into the woman's soul.
A man approached the courtesan's shoulder. It wasn't his intent to hover, but in the press of bodies before the piece, space was at a scarcity. A small pick of wood clenched in his teeth, John observed the muddied colors of the painting. His tolerance for impressionism was higher than other artistic movements, such as neo-classisism, whose works could be so patently obvious, so empty of the need for interpretation that it made him wonder why one bothered calling it art at all.
( Lifeless Art )
( A Study of One Another )
Being a courtesan, Marguerite could go to such things escorted or unescorted, as she wished. She preferred attending alone. Nonetheless she was resplendent in soft green satin, the train of her bustle a bit shorter than it might have been. She often worried about careless gentlemen stepping on and tearing her gown. An elaborate necklace of emeralds and jade adorned her neck, the neckline of her bodice dipping to almost scandalous proportions. Her hair boasted an elaborate gold and jade flower, the fiery curls creating a wild frame for her face. Long, satin gloves completed the ensemble, climbing up to her elbows. She liked to be looked at. Indeed, if she were not viewed as much as the art, it would be a pity.
She stood before Degas's L'Absinthe. This was the first showing of the painting in England, if she recalled correctly. Others were crowded near it as well, murmuring in outrage and disgust. But she ignored them. She looked at the woman, the expression of her face. She was a plain thing, but she looked blank. Before her stood a cup of that illicit spirit, absinthe. It moved her. She imagined the cup flowing with blood and placed herself in the painting. Yes, sometimes things were too much to bear, sometimes life seemed to trundle on aimlessly, with no rhyme or reason. She wondered why people could not see past the act of drinking the absinthe and into the woman's soul.
A man approached the courtesan's shoulder. It wasn't his intent to hover, but in the press of bodies before the piece, space was at a scarcity. A small pick of wood clenched in his teeth, John observed the muddied colors of the painting. His tolerance for impressionism was higher than other artistic movements, such as neo-classisism, whose works could be so patently obvious, so empty of the need for interpretation that it made him wonder why one bothered calling it art at all.
( Lifeless Art )
( A Study of One Another )