Original subtitles

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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