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Page 1
The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along
the galleries. The Salon should have remained within fixed limits of
inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its
masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence
of the former institution. Now, instead of a tournament, we have a
mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar;
instead of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the
result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps' "Turkish Cafe," "Children
at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far
more to his credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the
great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year, than his
twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together
in six galleries.
By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every
one there has been much talk of unknown and unrecognized genius. When,
twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the
"Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the
"Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria, admitted by celebrated
artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials
of criticism, that young and vigorous palettes existed, no such
complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas can send in
his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no
longer exists, there is no longer anything judged. But whatever
artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the
examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration
of the crowd for whom they work. Without selection by the Academy
there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish.
Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have
appeared in it which still remain in their native obscurity, in spite
of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names
perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre
Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his
brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the
saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter
reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,
--reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the
tribe of artists.
In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of
one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor,
and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings,
three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a
courtyard, or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above
the three or four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his
studio, looking over to Montmartre. This studio was painted in
brick-color, for a background; the floor was tinted brown and well
frotted; each chair was furnished with a bit of carpet bound round the
edges; the sofa, simple enough, was clean as that in the bedroom of
some worthy bourgeoise. All these things denoted the tidy ways of a
small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A bureau was there, in which
to put away the studio implements, a table for breakfast, a sideboard,
a secretary; in short, all the articles necessary to a painter, neatly
arranged and very clean. The stove participated in this Dutch
cleanliness, which was all the more visible because the pure and
little changing light from the north flooded with its cold clear beams
the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre painter, does not
need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin historical painters;
he has never recognized within himself sufficient faculty to attempt
high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting.
At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at
which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque
idea of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in
themselves, Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette,
and lighted his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting
till the frost on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full
light in. The weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who
ate his bread with that patient, resigned air that tells so much,
heard and recognized the step of a man who had upon his life the
influence such men have on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step
of Elie Magus, a picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment
Elie Magus entered and found the painter in the act of beginning his
work in the tidy studio.
"How are you, old rascal?" said the painter.
Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought
his pictures at two and three hundred francs apiece, so he gave
himself the airs of a fine artist.
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