Original subtitles

ln the last episode.

l wrote to you Monsieur Monet.

Well at least you got my name right?

l prefer to work from nature.

l was impatient to be out there in the light.

l think you've really done something.

You know we can never go back from this moment.

So you're not a very successful artist then?

Not yet.

l stood there in that green dress for four days

when you needed a painting for the salon.

Are you gonna recognise this child?

Cezanne, where did you spring from?

Unfortunately the man is as incomprehensible to me as his work.

They're not ready for you, Manet.

When will they be ready?

l'd say not for a while.

He's trying to do something else.

Something else, that isn't art.

Refused.

lf the salon so often reject me,

l must take the matter into my own hands.

We should have our own exhibition like Manet.

lt all happened so suddenly,

all my friends, everyone dashing off in different directions.

Have you even thought about with at all?

l have.

What if you get killed?

Most likely the war will be over in a couple of weeks.

After the war Camille and l were

afraid of What we might find when we returned from London.

Burn out homes, shattered churches.

As the train touched the outskirts of Paris

we were greeted by building we once knew,

now crumbling to rubble.

Wall after wall, pockmark by rifle shots, blasted by cannon.

Fifty years on Monsieur Monet, l fear the world has not changed.

A city ravaged by war has a sad stark beauty, and a scent,

l couldn't place it at first, till we passed the cemetery.

Let me get this right, the entire war,

eighteen seventy, seventy one you were in London?

With my wife and little boy.

l'd done my military service ten years before.

Besides an artist has greater battles to fight.

The salon, the most important showcase for art in France,

that was our battlENround.

But the Marquis de Chenevier the new minister for art,

was a fierce enemy.

His job was to strangle art.

For any great nation to recover from war

it must be strong, resolute, united.

it is the patriotic duty of every artist to serve France through art.

With a witness, the streets of Paris

are delusions of freedom and revolution lead to violence and terror.

Liberty, equality, fraternity.

Work, justice, public order that is what this nation needs.

Artists of France know this.

Reject tradition.

So long as l draw breath you have no future.

ln Paris the government was suspicious of the smallest gathering.

You could feel it on the streets.

Good to be back, beyond the taste of English cooking.

l must apologise for the changes,

used to be a women on every street corner.

- Now a soldier. - Still looking to pick you up mind.

Not me Manet, you perhaps.

Oh well Manet, Monet with any luck they'll shoot you by mistake.

What replaces government?

l'll tell you, government.

Evening.

lt's exactly the same in London.

Disraeli, Gladstone, different men, still politicians,

the battle will never be over.

We've seen enough bloodshed.

- What you saw action? - More than you.

Renoir, your only enemy was dysentery.

Dysentery and poverty.

Renoir needed to get his work shown.

But after the war, the salon jury was in no mood for Renoir.

Well, well, well.

How delightfully modern, such a bold approach to an indelicate theme.

And this will look absolutely magnificent

on the walls of a public latrine.

Edgar DENas, rich, charming, witty.

The ballet was his muse.

To the audience of the opera house it had such an air of refine mood.

Bravo. Bravo.

But backstage...

one or two patrons of the arts maybe,

but the rest, a dirty business.

To pluck a young girl out of poverty and into their fatherly care,

an allowance given liberties taken.

Yes, a dirty business.

ln those days DENas was a great friend to us all,

that was before the rot set in.

Good afternoon.

He was such a strange fish.

That's enough for now.

What is it with you and dancers?

Not you too.

Does it occur to nobody that what l love is

the sweep of the fabric, the shapes the dancer's bodies make,

l don't depict dancers l depict movement.

- l know, l know. - Well then don't tease me.

What do you think? Be honest.

You get backstage a lot. Rehearsals.

Well the performance is their art, their illusion, but

backstage, rehearsals the reality,

yawning, tired ache in a dancer's body.

ls that what l think it is?

- The patron of the arts. - Selecting his little girl.

There's always something in the shadows.

lt's what l do, it's what we do.

We paint the reality.

lmagine that; A salon of realists.

A salon of realists.

The painter of women, they called Renoir.

Morning.

Without the female breast, he once said

l would never have become a painter.

Glass of wine?

The women in his paintings were always beautiful.

Sorry l wonder if you could help me,

he's poured two by mistake.

Go on, help me celebrate, to a fine days business.

Manet!

Manet, we're having a lunch in the pub,

- why don't you join us? - That's a spectacular cheese.

l just sold three paintings.

A new dealer?

Oh always just and the... no it's not a good dealer but...

He buys my paintings too, you can't celebrate every time.

Oh well why ever not, what is life for?

Hurry up, Renoir.

We bought a bottle of vintage cognac as well.

Never mind, we'll get another one.

Of course, you should never rely on a single source of income,

but if a wealthy man is investing in your talent,

who would say no.

But nothing was ever certain.

Manet and DENas had their family money of course,

it was different for them.

Portraits, that's what people want.

And l am going to paint yours, papa.

What's the point?

A sick old man, why?

A bit small.

- Small? - Small and gloomy.

You don't want a place at the salon, fine.

But you must at least please your buyers.

l don't have to please anyone.

l'm an artist. l paint what l see.

- l paint the truth. - Till the money runs out.

- All is well? - Yes, yes.

- With the business? - lt's fine.

Carry on, paint the truth.

Oh my goodness, it's enormous.

lt's for the salon.

But you detest the salon.

This is going to be a masterpiece.

- Of me? - No.

l'm gonna give those stuck up swine exactly what they want.

Now this l would without hesitation call a masterpiece,

if l was stark raving mad.

lf l were mad, l would agree with you.

that is eh if you were mad too, which obviously you're not.

But the scale is epic, subject matter almost acceptable.

The, the mess he's made with his brushes,

and whose skin is that colour?

Not mine, thank god.

No.

Next.

Oh, come on.

l went to the salon,

not a single DENas on display, not one.

l know, papa.

What did they refuse, show me.

Papa, l didn't submit. The ankle, keep still.

You've worked that ankle enough.

Leave that ankle alone.

- Always too much. - Papa.

You never know when to stop.

Your talent, your gift, you must do itjustice.

- lt's just there. - Where?

Eyes that way.

Where?

Where?

His eyesight wasn't good before the war,

after it had gotten much worse.

He couldn't bear the sunlight.

But the sun was my muse.

Every morning it rises and every sunrise, every second is unique.

That morning l leapt out of bed to capture that moment.

The light changes constantly.

A sunrise must be painted as it happens,

it is a race against time.

Each tiny gradation of light, all the shifting tones of colour.

Don't tell me you can just saunter off to a studio

and recreate those from memory.

To capture the moment in the moment that's the challenge.

How long did l have, thirty minutes at most, maybe only ten.

Sweeping, washes of paint.

Thin fluid bands, a swift foundation

the sky, the docks, the water, ah so many shades of gray.

Quicker, shorter brush strokes.

Boat masts and the ghost of a harbour infused with the rising light.

And there, in fierce burning reds the heart of the sun.

- You haven't written a word. - Oh, no, sorry.

Did you have any idea how important this painting was to become?

l was painting, chasing that fleeting light,

it was a new way of working, but,

no, simply one painting among many that l couldn't sell.

Do not get too set in your ways.

l do think about it, papa,

a good family, a loving wife.

To be free of the need to be artificial,

it just hasn't happened.

l meant in your painting.

You work hard, of course you do.

You think l should paint like Monet,

dash them off in a blink of an eye.

Oh the fleeting light.

As if light cannot be recreated in a studio.

Quick, quick, the sun is shining where's my paintbrush.

How are your eyes?

That's the fashion nowadays to tell the time by the painting,

as if it were a clock, tick, tick.

Don't talk to me about these halfwits

who clutter up the countryside with their easels.

lf l had my way l would arm a special police force to,

to shoot them on sight like vermin,

lurking in the bushes with their stupid white canvas shields.

And you wonder why you have no wife.

- Sorry, papa. - Edgar.

DENas was always different from us.

Part of our movement but outside of it.

You never quite knew where you were with him.

Have you heard the news?

Marquise's been replaced by a monkey.

No, this is bad news l'm afraid.

Your favourite dealer has overreached himself

too many paintings, not enough buyers.

He just needs to be patient things will pick up.

The market's dead he's stopped buying.

What, completely?

One dealer, how much difference can it make?

lt's not too late to submit.

No, never.

As long as we let the salon make the rules,

our work will just be the smallest flame in constant danger of.

l say we start a fire.

Come on, remember Bazille's dream?

An exhibition of our own.

With no jury, no Marquise.

We paint what we want, we sell what we can.

A salon of realists.

Manet?

l wish you luck sincerely,

but, to attack from within that's the challenge.

Why? Why live by their rules?

What do you want next, the LENion d'Honneur.

lf such honours did not exist l would not invent them, but they do.

The LENion d'Honneur, since you ask, yes l would accept it.

Good night.

DENas?

A bottle of champagne, l think, gentlemen.

An exhibition of our own, there was no going back.

But for DENas the struggle was about to become much harder.

Jean, please!

- He's having fun. - And l'm working.

Well stop for a while.

l can't stop the light will change.

So? The field's not going anywhere.

That's not the point.

Never mind, stay there stay there.

Your father, l'm...

l'm sorry.

The grief is hard enough. Then there are the creditors.

Dear papa has left me rather a lot to tie up.

But he was a wealthy man.

So did l.

So you're keeping busy.

The exhibition, we found a studio.

Nadar, the photographer, he's lending it to us.

And we have more artists lined up, please reconsider.

How many people are gonna come to this?

Sorry, it's me thatjust seems...

Utterly mad.

And most of them have nothing to lose, no talent, no reputation.

But DENas, he'll never sell another painting.

No, you know a photographer's studio, how apt.

One passing fade plays host to another.

ln the weeks before the exhibition

we drove ourselves harder than ever.

We painted from our hearts, not our heads.

lt meant everything to us to find new ways to capture our world.

l'm taking a break.

l wish l wasn't painting you seated.

Why?

l prefer paintings that make me want to stroke them.

When l finish a buttock, l like to give it a little pat.

Now come on, we've got to get this done.

Neni, this is serious.

Stupid exhibition.

Who's idea was it?

What?

- What's the matter? - Nothing.

The exhibition, it was Bazille's idea.

Who?

Frederic Bazille, he died in the war.

Oh idiot, stupid, he enlisted.

Come on.

Did you find yourself painting with more freedom than before?

Painting? Painting.

What about the finances, the letter writing, the publicity,

the printing of the brochures, the content of the brochures,

and the setting up of a company,

collective membership agreement rule seventeen, paragraph ten A

is that what drives an artist?

To be an investor in a joint stock company, what a business.

Painting? Oh we did a bit.

Within that small photographer's studio, on the Boulevard du Capucines,

was the most vibrant most modern exhibition Paris had ever seen.

Good bye.

Well maybe they'll all come in the evening.

- lt's only first day. - lt's the opening.

There should be a crowd, a queue around the corner.

This is no ordinary exhibition.

You're right. lt's a disaster.

You must be patient, word will spread.

We need reviews.

l wrote to everyone.

- l wrote to everyone. - All the papers?

l wrote to every newspaper, every journal, every single one.

On looking at the first rough works,

and rough is the right word,

one simply shrugs one's shoulders,

on seeing the next lot, you burst out laughing.

Oh but at the last ones, when you finally get angry,

and you are sorry that you did not give the franc

you paid to get in to some poor bENgar.

Oh dear. No, that's it. No. Give your franc to a bENgar,

then he can go and buy two of their paintings with it.

lt's just wonderful, wonderful.

Every day worse than the last.

Opening day a hundred and seventy five visitors,

a months later, final day fifty four.

Art critic, is that a profession?

lt's not even finished,

it's all blurred, he must have been drunk.

Claude.

ls there something about the work that you don't understand?

Oh, the artist himself.

Actually l, l do have a question, yes.

How's your eyesight?

l think you should leave now.

No. We've paid our money. We're having our entertainment.

This is an art exhibition not a circus.

Oh, oh so, so this wasn't painted by a clown.

Maybe l should make myself clearer.

- Well l'd agree with that. - You're upsetting my wife.

They said we were declaring war on beauty.

The wallpaper in it's embryonic state was more finished.

Our young heads were filled with beauty,

and my impression, sunrise, what was it.

My impression, somebody wrote, unimpressed.

From an insult came a name.

lmpressionism, a name, the only return on all that work.

- Superb, brilliant. - Manet!

My god, what on earth are you doing here?

Congratulations, what an exhibition!

What?

What? You would rather have been exhibiting with us than at the salon?

You're joking. Half a million people saw my work.

But what you're doing it's glorious.

Well the public it seems would disagree.

They don't understand it now, of course they don't.

lt's the future. Your husband is the Raphael of water.

- The what? - Raphael.

He's a dead painter.

What was it Courbet said when he was complimented on that seascape.

lt's not a seascape

- it's a time of day - Time of day.

That's why they don't understand

you don't paint a subject,

you paint your fake of that subject of a time of day.

Yes, that's all very well

but have you got that twenty francs you said you'd lend me?

You've heard about DENas.

His father's business, he owes a fortune.

- Poor DENas. - Ah poor DENas.

So now he has to live like the rest of us.

Don't give me poor DENas, we all need money.

Alice Hoschede, how do you do?

Claude Monet.

Claude Monet, the great artist yes, l know.

- Hardly great. - No. You're great.

People just haven't seen it yet.

Madame, you're very kind.

Or so my husband tells me.

l prefer more refined work myself, but each to his own.

Now you'll be painting for us out in the garden...

Madame while l was waiting was that you playing the piano?

lt was just a little serenade, yes.

Ah, well l prefer more refined work myself,

but each to their own good day.

Oh Monsieur Monet, come back.

lf l was too direct, forgive me.

Madame if my work is beyond your comprehension,

what good would it do me to paint here?

l would curse you and you would curse me.

l would not curse you.

Well then l would curse enough for the both of us.

Please give my rENard to Monsieur Hoschede.

Monsieur Monet, may l be honest?

Have you not been so wordy?

lf l had a choice between a Monet and a Raphael

- l would choose a Raphael. - So would the Marquis.

But when l was a child, did l appreciate Raphael?

His mastery of composition, his Chiaroscuro.

Please give me time.

Whatever you paint here l shall learn to cherish.

- Camille, Camille. - Sh, sh.

l've just seen light like never before.

You know the smoke from the train, it stains the air.

And then the sunlight illuminates the smoke,

the colour that l saw in those white clouds,

- l have to capture... - Claude,

the butcher won't give us any more credit.

After that last exhibition, l didn't think that l could go on.

We've run out of bread.

Ah, butchers, bakers what do they matter?

Claude, we need to eat.

We survive, don't we?

You said no to Mr. Hoschede?

No, no. l'll do their work.

Thank you.

What's the matter?

What is it?

Sit down, sit down.

What? What are you looking at?

Nothing.

The light on my face.

Why do you like painting in the dark?

Remove your clothes please.

Remove your corset, please.

Models weren't people to DENas, they were objects.

Moving shapes, animals who lived in the shadows.

Usually when l do that the gentleman stares at my body.

But DENas took everything in, always writing notes to himself.

l thought you were a painter not a writer.

ldeas, observations. That's why he never stopped experimenting,

finding new ways of working.

You don'tjust paint what you see?

Of course not.

Trickery and vice, that's painting.

lt's like committing a crime.

Each of us in his own manner was trying to find his way back,

from that dreadful exhibition.

Um, you were bolder than most.

The Gare Saint Lazare.

Had to do it.

Renoir said you were mad.

To me that was a good sign.

How do you do?

Monsieur, l'm the artist Claude Monet.

l would like to paint your station.

To paint it, l see well the...

the front of the building is the most ornate...

Monsieur, l would like to paint inside.

l don't think so,

l mean the steam gets everywhere, you won't see a thing.

l will see the steam.

- Yeah? - l will paint the steam.

Right?

l would like to paint wherever l choose.

ls there a problem?

Eh, well there is a bit, yes eh,

this being a train station we do tend to get rather a lot of

trains and passengers.

Monsieur, for some time now l have been considering

whether to paint the Gare Saint Lazare or the Gare Du Nord.

l have to tell you your station from the way

that it is run to the architecture is infinitely superior.

Well we'll do our best.

lf l am to immortalise a railway station

would you rather l went to the Gare Du Nord?

Ten minutes, l'll be ten minutes at the most.

The trains were halted, platforms cleared.

He even ordered the engines to be crammed with coal,

so as give out more steam.

For several hours l, station master, Monet

had the freedom of the Gare Saint Lazare.

Bend your back more please.

- How much longer? - Please your back.

- Do you like women? - What an extraordinary question.

Well you always make us look to ugly.

lf you want to look beautiful go and sit for Monsieur Renoir.

l show women as they really are,

not as some ignorant aristocrat want them to be.

The Marquise at the salon, you wouldn't know him.

l know a lot of very respectable gentlemen.

- You'd be surprised. - Yes, l'm sure l would.

Some of them even pay to spy through the keyhole.

l am an artist.

- You paint nudes. - l do not paint nudes,

l paint women without their clothes on.

Ah, they're so different.

The nude is always in a pose.

A women without her clothes is a woman in an honest moment,

that's why it looks as though you're peeping through a keyhole.

Your back.

DENas never married of course, and there were strange rumours.

But over the years he painted women as they're never been seen before.

Real women, doing real things.

Real women, doing real things.

The greatest artist the English called him.

Not the greatest character though.

Money came and went, but the debts still mounted.

But l desperately needed Hoschede to keep buying my work.

And l've got you too.

- Monsieur Claude. - Mademoiselle.

Monsieur Monet.

- ls it really you? - Madam.

- Nice suit. - Thank you.

- Nice hat. - Thank you.

And the cravat, sensational.

- lt's horrid. - Blanche!

Don't the turkeys need feeding, come on off you go, all of you.

So you're going up in the world.

Alas no, this was a payment from your husband.

Oh.

But this time l rENret l need cash.

Yes of course.

- And how is your wife? - Much the same.

But we have another exhibition, and if that goes well...

What is it?

- Don't nENlect her. - l'm not.

l'm doing this for her.

What do you think that l'll take the money to the nearest bar?

ls your husband in the house?

No um he had to go to Paris.

Paris? He was going to pay me.

He can't, he can't pay you.

We can't pay you. Oh, sorry.

l'm sorry.

He won't talk to me but he um

he owes a lot of money to a lot of people.

l'm sorry, l'm sorry l've ruined your cravat.

Tell your husband not to sell my paintings.

They will soon be soaring in value, believe me.

Blanche was right, it's horrid.

Yes it is, it's horrid.

The critics hated the painting that l did for Hoschede.

But by our third impressionist exhibition, in eighteen seventy seven,

the tide had started to turn very slowly.

At least the review were better.

Here, one cannot deny the terrifying realism

of these faded creatures exuding vice.

And, and here, a joyful glow touches even the shadows,

the effect is like the shimmer of a rainbow.

And this one, the bustle, the colour, the movement,

the clamour, a pictorial symphony.

Ah the wisdom of the art critic.

Oh at least some of them were starting to see.

Yeah one or two.

But what does an artist remember,

hundred words that sing his praises or ten that cut him to pieces?

That's a pretty one.

The critics had other words for it.

Well l think it's pretty.

My friends wonder why l'm not married.

l would spend my whole life in mortal dread

that my wife would say 'that's a pretty one'

after l'd finished a work.

Did you have any idea what DENas was working on?

At that point the usual,

- l had my own work. - Not the usual.

l'm referring to the recent auction of the DENas estate

- his private collection? - Oh those!

- No one knew about those. - lt would have ruined him.

No, don't look at those.

- Go get out. - Don't be angry.

That is all for today, finished.

- Please, Monsieur DENas. - Now! Go!

No, those pictures would not have gone down well

with his usual collectors.

Prostitutes, madams, brothel's?

Oh yes, DENas a strange fish indeed.

Poor Alice, my patron Ernest Hoschede was

in two million francs of debt, can you believe it?

So you're all here, hello, hello.

l'm so sorry we're late.

Alice.

Camille.

l'm sorry the house isn't clean.

Oh no, please this is so kind of you.

Girls this isn't your home.

They're children and it is their home.

Thank you. Thank you both so much.

Oh and this is Ernest my husband, Camille.

- Earnest. - Monet.

Off you go.

- Let me take that. - Thank you.

There, there stop crying, sh!

Post.

Leave it on the side, thank you.

lt's from Monsieur Manet.

Camille, from Manet.

There's a man who will go to heaven.

Here come on hey.

Hey, hey.

- Come on, Camille, keep up. - l can't.

We've hardly left the house.

Come on, girls who can find the best picnic spot in the world?

The days, the nights of screaming,

no one should suffer like that.

Camille!

At first l resisted,

but slowly the idea took form in my mind and

as it took form it became an obsession.

l found myself searching for the succession of colours

that death was imposing on her face.

A violent emotion of the colours.

First and foremost l reacted to those.

What could be more natural, to preserve the last image

of a person who's about to leave you, forever.

Painter first, then husband.

A little air l think.

Oh yes, what happened to my mirror?

The removal men dropped it.

So lovely to look at.

Monsieur, my little boy, he made you this.

Au revoir.

A new minister for arts and he's a friend of yours.

You may get your LENion d'Honneur, after all.

Thank you for suggesting.

l can only achieve it through corrupt means.

l'm working on a new painting.

l can see it now the, the colours, light.

This will be my finest painting yet.

- You always say that. - And it's always true.

Where does the time go?

When l was young l stored up all my plans in a cupboard

locked away safely with a key.

- And now... - You've lost the key.

Seeing you is always a tonic.

Time for me to go,

the light outside shouldn't be so bad now.

We didn't know then what was happening to Manet.

To live with so much pain.

DENas was always a loyal friend to Manet.

But he was a lonely and unhappy man

and that was bENinning to show.

By eighteen eighty he'd started scheming

to control the impressionist exhibitions, and us.

Too much bickering and unpleasantness for me.

l went back to our old adversary, the salon.

My Lavercor painting was selected but could anybody see it?

What is the point of having a picture in an exhibition that no one can see?

lt's the salon.

My picture was almost on the ceiling, a butcher could have hung it better.

They cram them in like soldiers in a cattle truck.

Oh we'll tell our friends to bring binoculars.

l'm complaining to the minister of fine arts,

this is the last year that l exhibit at the salon

and l mean it this time.

Monet is dead but l'm Monet.

You think you'd be the first to know.

Where is it?

The impressionist school has the honour of informing you

of the grievous loss it has suffered in the person

of Monsieur Claude Monet, one of it's revered masters.

Revered's good.

The funeral for Monsieur Claude Monet will take place

on May the first at ten o'clock in the morning

in Monsieur Cabanel's gallery.

You're requested not to attend.

On behalf of the head of the impressionist school, Monsieur DENas.

DENas. What?

DENas also twisted the knife by spreading malicious gossip

about myself and Alice Hoschede.

How dare he.

Ah Monsieur Monet, we thought you'd deserted our happy camp.

l'm an artist DENas, not one of your props.

You will not make slanderous comments in the press about my private life.

Surrender your impressionist brush just like Auguste Renoir.

Come crawling back, what's the matter?

Not as well hung as you thought?

At least l got mine up.

Perhaps you should go back to decorating pots.

- DENas. - Hypocrite, you betrayed us all,

running back to the salon like a dog to it's vomit.

What am l supposed to tell my family that l'm out on the streets

because l've decided to do what DENas tells me.

l've got eight children to support.

Ah, do you have any idea which ones are yours?

l love my family, l also love my work.

There is love and there is work,

- and we have but one heart. - Remember this DENas.

One day your cronies will leave you

and despite your talent you will grow old alone

and you will die alone.

DENas... made enemies of us all.

- Tell me your side. - A little later.

Of course, you must be tired.

Life is short, l have a painting to finish.

The critics call my work the cult of ugliness.

My dear Cezanne doesn't think enough of public opinion.

He despises the most elementary things,

language, dress, hygiene.

l'm painting for myself, not to amuse other people.

Perhaps you're just not good enough.

Perhaps l'm too good.

Perhaps l'm a genius.

l'd very much like to behave like a husband.

But as you never cease reminding me you are married to somebody else.

l think l'm coming to the end of impressionism.

And l'll be the only one left.

Cezanne, you have shown us the future.