All language subtitles for impressionists_ep2_www.mytvblog.org

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.