The dealer who made the Impressionists

Paul Durand-Ruel, Renoir

If the first few months of the year nearly saw me miss Goya at the Courthauld and Dumas at the Tate Modern, I managed to get organised in time – just – to book almost a whole week in advance in order to catch Inventing Impressionism at the National Gallery, with just days to go.

It closes at the end of the month and had been one of my long-intended visits – with the intention being for the first few days. But such is life.

In the event, it was a delightful trip – and a fascinating one.

The exhibition is built around the life and work of Paul Durand-Ruel – not an artist himself, but one of the very first dealers in the way we understand that term today.

But more than a century before the Satchis got into the art market, Durand-Raul found himself representing artists who had been rejected by the Salon, the heart of France’s stifling art establishment.

Hanging the Laundry Out to Dry (18755), Morisot

We begin with a room that recreates (in part) one of the dealer’s own – complete with double doors decorated by Monet. It’s a room that is full of Renoir.

Now after last summer’s Paris art orgy, The Other Half and I felt that, if we never saw another Renoir it would be too soon.

But here were plenty more – and, in general, they did nothing to convince us that his work was anything other than garish, chocolate-box sentimental.

There’s an odd exception: a portrait of Durand-Ruel from 1910 is just such an example. But all too rare.

Poplars (1891), Monet

Since last July had finally seen a visit to the Orsay in Paris, we felt fairly well versed in Impressionism, but while we were able to reacquaint ourselves with some works – I got quite excited on approaching Monet’s Autumn Effect at Argenteuil (1873), which I recognised instantly and from a distance as being from the Courthauld – there was plenty of other works to see that we had not previously.

Durand-Ruel’s story is a fascinating one. But this excellently-curated exhibition leaves us with an indelible understanding of his impact on art.

For instance, he effectively invented the retrospective: one room is dedicated to this idea, bringing together a span of works by Monet – the first artist to have his career treated in such a way.

But it gets better.

This room includes six of the original 15 Poplars works of Monet’s that Durand-Ruel displayed in a single exhibition – again, the first of its kind.

Springtime (1872), Monet

Brought together from across the world, they are a joy to behold. The light captured in them is lovely.

Durand-Ruel didn’t necessarily have a great deal of success in selling the works he bough, often in bulk, from the Impressionists. But he ensured that became known, not just in France, but internationally.

If the likes of French literary icon Emile Zola was entranced by some of the ‘new painting – he described the dappling effect on the woman’s dress in Monet’s 1872 work, Springtime, as being like “sequins of light like drops of water”, the reaction of a critic from L’Echo Universel was more common, when he described the “sickness of Impressionism”.

The Child's Bath (1893), Cassatt

There is also plenty of Manet here, plus Degas (horses and ballet dancers) and some Morisot.

Pre-Impressionist context is provided early on with some Delacroix, Corot, Courbet, Millet (a massive influence on Van Gogh) and Rousseau.

The latter’s View of Mont Blanc, seen from La Faucille (1863-67) is wonderful, even though compositionally it really should not work. But that’s great art for you – and an example of how there is so much to learn from studying any work.

This wasn’t just a case of ‘renewing acquaintances’. We encountered some ‘new’artists (for us).

Eugène Boudin (who first introduced Monet to painting outdoors) was older than most of the Impressionists. His delightful The Entrance to Trouville Harbour (1888) was purchased for the National Gallery instead of a painting by Monet – that his work had not been exhibited by Durand-Reul counted in his favour with the board, apparently.

The Entrance to Touville Harbour (1888), Boudin

Coincidentally, the Monet that it would have received in 1905 – Lavacourt Under Snow (circa 1878-81) – came into the gallery’s possession as part of a bequest in 1917.

And then there's Mary Cassatt, an American artist who lived most for most of her life in France, and represented here with The Child’s Bath from 1893.

She was to be valuable to Durand-Ruel in introducing him to many wealthy patrons in the US.

Indeed, the exhibition allows those of us on this side of the Atlantic to see a lot of works that usually hang in galleries in the US.

Music in the Tuileries Gardens (1862), Manet

It also confirmed that I now know my Monet from my Manet (finally!).

You cannot see the likes of Manet’s Music in the Tuileries Gardens (1862) without marvelling at his use of black.

And you cannot see Monet without marvelling at the light.

It confirmed that a year has not changed the minds of either me or The Other Half regarding Renoir, although it did remind us how good Pissaro and Sisley were.

And it served as a further reminder that Impressionism has many faces.

It is an exhibition that is well worth catching. There’s a week left.

The gallery that leaves a big impression

Bal du Moulin de la Galette, Renoir

The original gallery plan for our Paris week had been to take in the Musée d’Orsay on the Tuesday and the Pompidou on the Friday – primarily to tally with forecasts for rather damper weather.

But after Tuesday’s thwarted effort to make it inside, we headed back to the Orsay early on Wednesday morning, crossing our fingers and hoping it would be third time lucky.

Having quaffed coffee and croissants at a café opposite, and still ensuring that we were only about fifth and sixth in the queue for our kind of pre-bought tickets, we finally made it beyond the portals – and then spent a very pleasant three hours exploring its treasures.

Evening Prayer in the Sahara, Guillaumet

The Orsay is most famous for it’s world-beating collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionist works, but there’s far more to it than that.

A beautiful space in a building that was formerly a railway station, an initial stroll through the centre of the ground floor gives you a great sense of context, with a plethora of the sort of rather staid, classically-styled sculpture that was sanctified by the Académie des Beaux-Arts, the body that held a vice-like grip on the country’s art.

L'Absinthe, Degas

It provides a valuable background against which to understand the radicalism of the Impressionists and other artists from the second half of the 19th century and into the 20th.

But before we got to the Impressionists came other galleries.

There were two rooms of Second Empire furniture and decorative arts, which were frankly hilarious in their utterly over-the-top quality – not least in the sheer farcicality of representations of Napoleon III as a Ceasar.

But another two rooms contained fascinating works by the Orientalists – an entire movement I had never come across.

The antithesis of present-day demonisation of Muslims and Arabs as a whole, it was fascinating to see how artists had explored and then portrayed the exoticism of the Middle East and North Africa.

Gustave Guillaumet’s Evening Prayer in the Sahara, from 1863, is a fascinating picture with beautiful light.

Olympia, Manet

And Café in Adalia, by Charles Emile de Tournemine (1856) is another really interesting work.

Heading upwards to the top floor for the main course, we were fortunate that, even through the crowds had headed there first, the place wasn’t overwhelmingly full.

There was no lack of things to enjoy among the Impressionists.

For me, these included L’Absinthe by Degas (1875-76), a painting that scandalised in its day, both in France and when shown in England, for its portrayal of characters who could be – and were – damned as  ‘dissolute’.

Les Coquelicots: Environs D'Argenteuil, Monet

Quite differently, although I’m generally not particularly fond of Degas’s ballet paintings, Dance Class at the Opera (1873-76) is a pleasure to behold, while Dancers Climbing the Stairs (1886-90) provides an object lesson in just what a difference a quirky perspective can make.

The Luncheon on the Grass (1862-3) and Olympia (1863) by Manet also both shocked in their day, and while it may seem difficult to comprehend that now, it’s worth remembering particularly that the directness of the women’s gaze was a prime cause of the scandal.

It was a pleasure to see works by Manet again – some of them for the second time – after last year’s exhibition at the Royal Academy in London.

Flood at Port-Marly, Sisley

But on the other hand, I’ve never held much of a candle for Monet. That would change dramatically later in the week, but in the meantime, Les Coquelicots: Environs D’Argenteuil (1873) proved lovely, and Rouen Cathedral paintings provided a greater insight into how he conveyed light.  

And at least I’m getting better at unmuddling by Manets and my Monets.

Mind, by the end of the week, The Other Half was declaring that we’d “seen more Renoir than you could throw a chocolate box at”, and I am bound to think that that was an excellent way to put it.

When I was studying art history for A’level, one of the first Impressionists that I liked was Renoir. But in recent years, I’ve found him far too … well, chocolate boxy.

The Card Players, Cézanne

Bal du Moulin de la Galette (1876) restored my faith to an extent – the dappling light on the boaters, for instance, is lovely – but Les Baigneuses from 1918-19 reminded me exactly why it’s a long time since he was a personal favourite.

We missed out on the van Goghs and the Gauguins, as those were in a separate exhibition while their usual rooms are being restored.

However, one of the revelations of the visit was discovering Walter Sisley, whose works I was only slightly familiar with.

Yes, Britain really did manage to produce one world-class Impressionist – even if was born in Paris to British parents, and didn’t live very long on this side of the Channel, but let’s sketch over such facts.

Luxe, Calme et Volupté, Matisse

The d’Orsay has 46 Sisleys: I was particularly taken with Flood at Port-Marly from 1876 and Regatta at Molesey (1874).

Although I found myself surprised that Cézanne was included within the general gallery of Impressionists, it was, as always, good to see more of his work, and one of his six versions of The Card Players (1894-95) is wonderful.

And there’s nothing wrong with a Cézanne still life or two either.

But one of the great personal joys of the visit was turning a corner in one of the later, post-Impressionist galleries, to find Matisse’s Luxe, Calme et Volupté from 1904, the year before he and Collioure collided in the explosion that gave birth to Fauvism.

Art Nouveau room

With crowds at a minimum, I had time to stand back and admire – and then to get up close to really see the precision of the brush work.

This was the start of his moving away from pointillism and divisionism, and it’s fascinating to see how he set out to capture the light in comparison to how the Impressionists had done so.

One of the things with Matisse is that the colours really shouldn’t work. But you realise on seeing some other artists who tried but couldn’t do the same thing, just how – almost magically – Matisse made them work.

There was plenty more sculpture upstairs – including several by Rodin, together with works by Camille Claudel.

Monument to Cézanne, (1912) Maillol

We were also delighted to find a number of works by Aristide Maillol, the sculptor from Banyuls-sur-Mer, just south of Collioure, whose large bronze figures, classical, yet simplifying the human form, are considered to be a precursor to works by the likes of Henry Moore.

And it would be remiss of me not to mention the absolutely stunning Art Nouveau room.

So, another day, another gallery. How do you follow that?

As it happened, we ambled up to the Jardin du Luxembourg, where we sat and roasted ourselves in fabulous sunshine.

More art would have to wait for the promised rain.