File:Jules Bastien-Lepage and his art. A memoir (1892) (14768087675).jpg

Identifier: julesbastienlepa00theu (find matches)
Title: Jules Bastien-Lepage and his art. A memoir
Year: 1892 (1890s)
Authors: Theuriet, André, 1833-1907 Clausen, George, b. 1852 Sickert, Walter, 1860-1942 Blind, Mathilde, 1841-1896
Subjects: Bastien-Lepage, Jules, 1848-1884 Bashkirtseff, Marie, 1860-1884 Realism in art
Publisher: London : T. F. Unwin New York, Macmillan
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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deBatignolles or Avenue Wagram to the ChampsElysees and the Bois de Boulogne. The faces ofweary people sitting on public benches casually seenin passing or caught sight of across the counter of ashop had hints and suggestions of meaning which shemissed in the sleek features of the swells whom shemet in the drawing-rooms of her friends. So it happens that instead of painting the pretty,neat, carefully brushed children marshalled by statelybonnes in the Pare Monceaux, she chose in preferencethe unkempt ragamuffins running wild in the streets.She found more scope there for the exercise of thatscrupulous and powerful realism which was the secretof her strength. In the Jean and Jacques, The Girlwith the Umbrella, Le Meeting, she has vividly ren-dered some of the incidents in the town life ofchildren. The faces of these little boys and girls,so pathetic in their premature maturity, in theirshrewd or sad or pathetic outlook on the world, areextraordinary in their truth to life. With most of
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(By Marit BashkirtsqtF, MARIE BASEKIBTSEFF. 171 the childhood taken out of their childish features,they look at us, if we consider them well, with eyes where experience has already taken the place ofinnocence—the experience taught them by the teemingstreets, those hooks of the poor, for ever unfoldingfresh pages before their inquisitive eyes. They cannot be called beautiful, these pictures, inthe sense that fine forms, nobility of outline, charmof expression are beautiful. But they are interesting,vivid, quick with life. Take that little piteous figureclutching the big, gamp-like umbrella, while shedraws her battered shawl more closely around her.With what a look of stolid, inarticulate suffering sheseems looking through the rain on the life that isdark and dreary as the prospect before her. You seethe hair actually blown back from the forehead, andone mesh has got caught round the handle of theumbrella as she meets the force of the wind withtight-shut lips—a humble subject, but r

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