All language subtitles for ITV Great Art Series 4 2of5 I Claude Monet 1080p_ENG_Subtitles01

Welcome to Great Art.
For the past few years,

we've been filming
the biggest exhibitions,

art galleries and museums
in the world

about some of the greatest artists
and art in history.

Not only do we
record landmark shows,

but we also secure privileged access
behind-the-scenes,

which we then use as a springboard

to take a broader look
at extraordinary artists.

Sometimes, however, we simply choose
to look afresh at an artist,

in this case one of
the all-time greats, Claude Monet.

Director Phil Grabsky
chose to focus the film

entirely on the vast collections
of letters by Monet

that have survived,
well in excess of 3,000,

and, by carefully choosing extracts,
to reveal the man behind the art.

He was complicated, passionate,

dedicated, revolutionary
and humorous.

He was also at times destitute,
suicidal, bereft and frustrated.

Running these letters alongside
the paintings he was working on

and the locations he explored,

you gain a wonderful insight
into a complex human being.

And if you understand
those complexities,

you can understand the art,

which has always been so much more
than lushly-painted surface.

I was born in 1840 in Paris,
but raised in Le Havre.

I was born unruly.

Even as a very small child,
I could not accept rules.

School seemed to me like a prison

and I couldn't bear being
locked indoors for four hours a day.

In Le Havre,
when I was around 15 years old,

I began to earn a reputation
as a caricaturist.

I became known throughout the town.

I charged between 10 and 20 francs
for my portraits

and signed them with
my second name, Oscar.

It was at the picture framer's

that I often exhibited
my caricatures.

There, I also met Eugene Boudin.

At Boudin's suggestion,

I agreed to go out and paint
with him in the open air.

I became...
fascinated by his quick sketches,

born of what I call immediacy.

For me,
it was like the removal of a veil.

I understood.
I grasped what painting could be.

My destiny as a painter
opened up before me.

One day, Boudin said to me,

"You're talented,
your sketches are excellent,

"you're not going to
leave it at that.

"Learn to draw well."

I took his advice.

Paris, 19th May, 1859.

My Dear Boudin,

I have to tell you of
all the fine paintings

I'm seeing in Paris.

The Troyons are superb.

The Daubignys are beautiful.

And there's some nice Corots, too.

And how's this
for a good bit of news?

Before I left Le Havre,

I was given an introduction
to meet Troyon and I duly went.

I showed him two of my still lifes,
his comment was,

"Well, my dear chap,
your colour's OK,

"the effect is correct.

"However, you must get down
to some serious study,

"for this is all very fine,
but it comes very easily to you,

"that's something you never lose.

"If you want my advice
and want to take up art seriously,

"begin by joining a studio

"which specializes
in figure painting, an academie.

"Take heed and
you'll see I'm not wrong,

"draw with all your might.
You can never learn too much."

Honfleur, 15th July, 1864.

Every day I discover
more and more beautiful things.

My head is bursting,
I want to paint it all.

It really is appallingly difficult
to do something

that is complete in every respect.

I think most people are content
with mere approximations.

Well, I intend to battle on,
scrape off and start again.

Since one can do something
if one can see and understand it...

..and when I look at nature,
I feel...

I feel as if I'll be able to
paint it all,

capture everything...
HE SIGHS

..and then it vanishes,
once you're working.

All this proves that you must think
of nothing else.

It's on the strength of observation
and reflection that one finds a way.

We must dig and delve unceasingly.

I'm working hard.
I'm quite content.

Although what I'm doing
is far from being as I should like.

I must tell you that
I'm sending my flower picture

to the Rouen exhibition.

There are some really
beautiful flowers out at this time.

Sadly, I've got so much to do
on my outdoor studies

that I dare not start on any more,

though I'd love to paint
those gorgeous daisies.

Paris, 22nd May, 1866.

I'm happier than ever.

I'm working nonstop

and my courage
is as high it has ever been.

My Woman In A Green Dress
was accepted by the annual Salon

and that success has led to
my selling several paintings.

I've made 800 francs.

I hope, when I have contracts
with more dealers,

it'll be better still.

Paris, 20th May, 1867.

My Dear Bazille,
Manet's opening is in two days

and he's in a frightful state.

Courbet opens a week today.

Can you imagine,

he's inviting every artist in Paris
to the opening?

He's sending 3,000 invitations
and on top of that,

every artist also gets a copy
of his catalogue.

Renoir and I are still working
on our views of Paris.

25th June, 1867.

My Dear Bazille,
what a pitiful situation this is.

My poor Camille, she is so kind,
a really good lass.

I'm writing to ask you
to send whatever you can.

Since although I'm getting along
well with my relations

they've warned me that, yes,
I can stay here as long as I like,

but if I need money,
I have to earn it.

On 25th July, Camille's baby...
Well, our baby, is due.

I'm going to Paris
where I'll be for 10 or 15 days

and I'll need money
for a lot of things.

Do try and send me a little more,
if only 100 or 150 francs?

Please, bear it in mind,

without it,
I'll be in a very awkward position.

12th August, 1867.

Once again,
I have had to reach out

to people I barely know
and receive snubs from them.

I'm going though
the most terrible torments.

I had to come back here
not to upset the family

and also because I didn't have
enough money

to stay in Paris,
while Camille was in labour.

She's given birth to
a big and beautiful boy

and, I don't know how,
I feel that I love him...

..and it pains me to think of
his mother having nothing to eat.

I was able to borrow
the bare minimum for the birth

and my return here, but now both
she and I are totally without money.

29th June, 1868.

I must have undoubtedly been born
under an unlucky star.

I've just been turned out,
without a shirt on my back

from the inn where I was staying.

I have found somewhere safe
in the country for Camille

and my poor little Jean to stay
for a few days.

As for myself,
I leave this evening for Le Havre.

My family refuse to help me
any more.

I don't know
where I'll sleep tomorrow.

THUNDER RUMBLES

I was so upset yesterday
that I was stupid enough

to hurl myself into the water.

Fortunately, no harm was done.

December, 1868.

I'm in Etretat,
I'm very happy, very delighted.

I'm setting to
like a fighting cockerel,

for I'm surrounded here
by everything I love.

I go into the country,
which is so lovely here

that I... perhaps find it

even more lovely in the winter
than in the summer.

And naturally
I'm working all the time,

and I think this year I'm going
to do some serious things.

In the evening,
I come home to my little cottage

to find a good fire
and a dear little family.

If only you could how see
how the little lad is now.

How lovely it is to watch
this creature grow.

I'm enjoying
the most perfect tranquillity.

25th July, 1876.

The creditors are proving
impossible to deal with,

and short of a sudden appearance
on the scene of wealthy art patrons,

we are going to be turned out
of this...

this dear little house...

..where I led a simple life
and was able to work so well.

I do not know
what will become of us.

I had so much fire in me
and so many plans.

15th January, 1878.

In two days,
we must leave Argenteuil

and to do that,
I must pay my debts.

30th March, 1878.

My wife has just had another baby
and...

I find myself penniless

and unable to pay
for the medical care

that both mother and child
must have.

I have pitched up on the banks
of the Seine at Vetheuil,

in a ravishing place.

I am once again a man
of the country

and I shall only go to Paris

on those occasions
when I need to sell my pictures.

10th March, 1879.

I am absolutely sickened
with and demoralised

by this life I've been leading
for so long.

When you reach my age, 38,

there is nothing more
to look forward to.

Unhappy we are,
unhappy we will continue to be.

14th May, 1879.

My dear Monsieur Hoschede,
I must accept the hard fact

that I cannot hope
to earn enough money

from my paintings to pay
for our life at Vetheuil.

We can't be very good company
for you and your wife, Alice.

Myself, more and more embittered
and my wife nearly always sick.

I believed I could create dreams
of work and happiness here.

I am now utterly... without hope

..and see everything
at its blackest and worst.

5th September, 1879.

My poor wife,
after the most ghastly suffering,

gave up the struggle this morning...

at half-past ten.

I am in a state of distress,

finding myself alone
with my poor children.

I am writing to ask another
favour of you,

could you retrieve the locket

for which I am sending you
the ticket?

It is the only keepsake my wife
had managed to hold on to...

..and I would like to be able
to place it around her neck

before she's taken.

My dear Pissarro,

you, more than anyone,
will understand my grief.

I am overwhelmed.

I have no idea which way to turn.

Nor how I am going to be able
to organise my life

with my two children.

I am much to be pitied.

Fecamp, 26th March, 1881.

Dear Monsieur Durand-Ruel,
I received your letter.

Thank you for your generosity.
I am working hard.

I'm putting a lot of effort into it

and I hope to bring you
some good things.

Pourville, 15th February, 1882.

Dear Alice,
I am with some good people

who are delighted to have a lodger
and can't do enough for me.

One could not be any closer
to the sea than I am,

on the shingle itself

and the waves beat
at the foot of the house.

4th April, 1882.

I am definitely getting harder
to please, nothing is working.

Apart from that,

nature is changing so much
at the moment.

How lovely the countryside
is becoming.

What a joy it would be for me
to show you the delightful places

there are to see here!

2nd February, 1883.

Dear Alice, it makes me miserable
to know you are unhappy.

It is absolutely essential that you
see Hoschede whatever you do,

the longer it drags on,
the harder it will be.

There must be
a way of drawing him out

to have a serious
and reasonable discussion.

29th April, 1883.

Alice and I are still
in the throes of moving house.

In the past week, I've experienced
every kind of difficulty imaginable.

We are so short of money.

Anyway, this morning,
with some of my children,

I'm setting off for Giverny.

Giverny, 13th May, 1887.

Dear Monsieur Durand-Ruel,

there's a growing movement
in our favour.

There's no doubt we are getting
a better reception

from the people who buy pictures.

In other words,
business is going well.

I've sold almost all
of my paintings.

7th October, 1890.

I'm hard at it,

working stubbornly on a series
of different grain stacks.

But at this time of the year,
the sun sets so fast

that it's impossible to keep up
with it.

The further I get,

the more I see that
a lot of work has to be done

in order to render
what I'm looking for.

Instantaneity, the same light
spread over everything.

Rouen, 12th February, 1892.

It really doesn't suit me
living in a town

and I'm very fed up.

But today,
I feel a little more cheerful.

I've been able to move
into an empty apartment

opposite the cathedral,

but it's a tough job
I'm setting out to do.

BIRDS CHATTER

I'm hard at work,
I'm taking great pains

and think only of my cathedrals.

I'm shattered.

I've never felt so physically
and mentally exhausted.

I'm quite stupid with it
and long only for bed,

but I am happy, very happy,
and would be happier still

if this wonderful weather holds out
for a few more days.

I'm at work by 7am.

I continue until 6:30
in the evening,

standing up all the time.

Nine canvases. It's murderous.

And to think
I've dropped everything,

you, my garden, all for this.

Every day, I add something

and stumble unawares
on some new aspect

that I hadn't been able
to see previously.

How hard it is, yet it is coming on.

I'm broken.
I cannot work any more.

I had a night filled
with bad dreams.

The cathedral was collapsing on me.

It seemed to be blue,
or pink, or yellow.

London, 26th February, 1900.

In the early hours of this morning,
there was an extraordinary fog,

I did an impression of it
that I don't think is bad,

otherwise it's... it's still fine,
but very variable.

So I had to start lots of canvases
of Waterloo Bridge

and the Houses Of Parliament.

Unfortunately, the fog doesn't seem
to want to lift

and I fear the morning
will be wasted.

It's been very fine today
with the sunshine,

which is a rarity
and, as I had predicted,

the sun already sets
a long way from the place

I'd wanted to paint it,

in an enormous fireball
behind the Houses of Parliament.

Although by nine, I'd already done
some work on four paintings,

I was convinced,
since I'd got up at six,

that I was going to have
a very bad day.

As always on a Sunday,
there wasn't a wisp of fog,

it was appallingly clear in fact.

And then the sun rose

and was so dazzling,
I found it impossible to see.

The Thames was all gold.

God, it was beautiful,

so fine that I began to work
in a frenzy,

following the sun
and its reflections on the water.

Meanwhile,
kitchen fires began to be lit.

Thanks to the smoke,

a mist descended,
followed by clouds.

I can't begin to describe a day
as wonderful as this.

One marvel after another,
each lasting less than five minutes,

it was enough to drive one mad.

Giverny, 2nd March, 1904.

Paul, thank you for your letter
and the cheque for 10,000 francs.

All along,
I have continually rejected offers,

many on very good terms,

to the point where I wrote to you
a short while ago

to see if I should continue
to reject such offers.

You replied that I needn't worry.

I'm entirely absorbed in my work.

These landscapes of water

and reflections
have become an obsession.

Giverny, 18th May, 1911.

My dear Paul,
I have some very sad news for you.

My beloved wife is about to die.

It's only a matter of hours now.

I can't tell you
what I've been going through,

particularly this last fortnight.

My strength and courage
are giving out.

7th September, 1911.

I so need cheering up.

I've had a few very sad months

consoling myself
with my dear wife's letters,

all of which I reread...

..going back over most of
our life together.

Otherwise, I...

I haven't been able to find
an interest in anything.

Giverny, 7th June, 1912

I'm not a great painter.

I only know that I do what I can

to convey what I experience
before nature...

and that most often...

..in order to succeed
in conveying what I feel,

I totally forget the most
elementary rules of painting,

if they exist, that is.

In short,
I let a good many mistakes

show through when fixing
my sensations.

It will always be the same
and this is what makes me despair.

I can only see with one eye.
I've got a cataract.

I'm following a course of treatment
in order to delay

and, if possible,
avoid an operation.

More than ever
and despite my poor sight,

I need to paint...

and paint unceasingly.

Giverny, 18th July, 1913.

I can't see very well, it's true,

but at least it doesn't seem to be
getting any worse.

I am old and live a retired life.

I loathe self-advertisement,
interviews and the like.

People can talk about
and discuss my work,

but my life is nobody's business
but mine.

10th February, 1914.

My poor son, Jean,
died from illness last night.

29th June, 1914.

I've started work again and you know
I don't do things by halves,

getting up at four in the morning,
I slave away all day,

until, by the evening,
I'm exhausted.

1st September, 1914.

Most of my family has left me with
no knowledge of their whereabouts,

only my son, Michel, who has been
temporarily discharged is with me,

along with Blanche.

A mad panic has swept our area.

As for myself,
I'm staying here regardless

and if those savages
insist on killing me,

they'll have to do it
in the midst of my paintings,

in front of my life's work.

I'm working more and more,
but how hard it all is!

I am enslaved to my work,
always wanting the impossible.

I haven't many years left
ahead of me, but...

..I must devote all my time
to painting,

in the hope of achieving something
worthwhile in the end.

Giverny, 24th November, 1918.

I had a fine start to my 79th year,

with the glorious victory
coming first

and a visit from the great
Georges Clemenceau,

who came to take me to lunch
and on his first day off, too!

I'm very proud.

I'm not very fond of public displays

and it's not false modesty
on my part

that prompts me to say
that I don't think I deserve it.

Far from it.

I've done what I could as a painter

and that seems to me
to be sufficient.

I don't want to be compared
to the great masters of the past.

8th December, 1919.

You can imagine how painful
the loss of Renoir has been to me.

With him,
goes a part of my own life.

The battles
and enthusiasms of youth.

It's hard.

I'm the last survivor of the group.

31st October, 1921.

Dear Georges, I am sending you
the detailed information

I promised you on the subject

of the donation
of my Decorations to the state.

I will agree to the room
in the Orangerie on condition

that the Beaux-Arts administration
undertakes to do the work there

that I judge necessary.

Instead of the 12 panels,
I'll provide 18.

It's true that
the number doesn't matter,

only the quality.

8th May, 1922.

I'm almost blind and I'm having
to abandon work altogether.

It's hard, but that's the way it is.

A sad end, despite my good health.

9th September, 1922.

Dear Georges, went yesterday
for a consultation in Paris.

Result, one eye absolutely gone,
an operation will be essential.

Meanwhile,
there's a course of treatment

that might make the other eye
better and enable me to paint.

22nd June, 1923.

Doctor,
I'm in the depths of despair.

I can see nothing outside,
or in the distance.

It makes me sorry
that I ever decided

to go ahead
with that fatal operation.

Excuse me for being so frank

and allow me to say
that I think it's criminal

to have placed me
in such a predicament.

The distortion
and exaggerated colours

that I see are quite terrifying.

21st October, 1923.

Doctor, I received
the spectacles from Germany

and, much to my surprise,
the results are very good.

I can see green again,

red, and, at last,
an attenuated blue.

It would be perfect
if the frames were better,

the two lenses
are too close together.

Giverny, 27th July, 1925.

Dear Doctor,
I'm delighted to be able to tell you

that I've truly recovered
my sight at last.

In short,
I can live and breathe again,

I am overjoyed to see everything
once more

and I'm working passionately.

Giverny, 21st June, 1926.

I've always had a horror
of theories.

My only merit is that I have painted
directly from nature...

..seeking to convey my impressions
of her most elusive effects.

Giverny, 18th September, 1926.

I'm glad to say
that I'm getting better,

although, at times,
I'm in great pain,

so much so that, in fact,
I was thinking of preparing

my palette and brushes
to resume work,

but relapses and a further bout
of pain prevented it.

I'm not giving up that hope

and, er... I am occupying myself
with some major alterations

in my studios and plans
to perfect the garden.

You ought to know in any case that,

if I don't recover
my strength sufficiently

to do what I want to my panels
for the Orangerie,

I've decided to offer them
as they are.

Yours, forever, Claude Monet.

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