A young Parisian portrait artist visited me; he was wearing a new grey velvet suit (in the King’s honor, he pointed out). With arms crossed on his boyish chest he defended his dedication to portraiture.
He examined my paintings with friendly admiration but bristled when I said that it is not enough to paint one thing well. I said that anyone studying a single aspect of art for a lifetime can attain a measure of perfection! An accomplished artist must paint nudes, seascapes, animals, birds, plants.
Spitting into my fireplace, coughing, the fellow said:
“Do you call your Mona Lisa and your Saint John landscapes?”
I could sense that he was annoyed by my French.
So, his handsome, goateed, disappointed face went out in the rain—rain on his velvet suit.
And I began rethinking: why have I painted few landscapes, seascapes (in the Dutch tradition); why have I painted so many madonnas? I should paint deluge scenes, glaciers, Vinci.
Rain on his velvet suit.
How can I continue my journal when it grows increasingly difficult to write? Left hand or right hand, I am troubled. I am troubled in other ways: I walk into another room and can’t remember why I left my desk. Where is that sable brush Francesco brought me from Paris? I am unable to recall names. And F—sits there, perturbed, as I attempt to remember. I also forget facts, and I am at a serious loss. What is to be the outcome? As I review my treatises, I am aware that they are worthy; it seems to me I have an adequate grasp of language; yet. Writing is not my métier: I prefer a silverpoint or a chalk drawing or the infinite pleasure of oil colors. Sitting in the cold window sun, I sip Chablis...