Claude Monet

An underlying paradox characterizes Claude Monet studies: while the art of Claude Claude Monet has elicited a greater volume of research, publications, and exhibitions than that of almost any other Western artist (on par, perhaps, with Picasso), it is still possible to discover facets of his work that have remained unexplored until now. This tantalizing situation very much applies to the present exhibition: it seemed only too tempting to bring to the eyes of our public, and to publish, often for the first time in color, the greatest number to date of Claude Monet's Mediterranean works. Indeed, these clusters of paintings, conceived and created together during the course of Claude Monet's three campaigns on the Mediterranean, were primarily intended to be seen and enjoyed as groups, in their togetherness. The primary raison d'etre of the project seemed evident: if one readily associates Claude Monet with the obsessive task of "painting light," would it not make sense to look at his works that were produced under the most extreme light - the light of the South? Bordighera and Antibes , on the Italian and French Rivieras, and Venice , each in very distinct ways, provided the artist with the most intense light conditions he could have hoped for, short of traveling to Texas .

Yet, given that we are dealing with Claude Monet, painting light was not simple. First, for an obvious reason, light can be nothing without what is lit: the constantly shifting elements-sea, mountains, canals, and so forth-that constitute Claude Monet's motifs. In addition, the intensity of light is inconstant: light is inseparable from the flux of time. Finally, the fluctuations of light were matched by the vicissitudes of Claude Monet's own psyche, and by his intense need to be heard, seen, and imagined by others, while immersed in his search for himself. Claude Monet's sojourns on the Mediterranean , and his ensuing pictorial program, were fraught with unsolvable complexities.

The story of Claude Monet's pursuit of his goal and his often agonizing struggle seemed to justify the effort on our part to reunite works that epitomize many themes inherent in the story of modernism. Many of these paintings, however, had long fallen into oblivion, and this project would likely never have seen completion without the support, involvement, and understanding of numerous individuals and institutions.

Of course, Bakhtin is speaking here of texts, not paintings. Texts are written to be read and to tell us something. The pictures of Claude Monet do not tell us anything; they merely represent forms that we visualize and identify with palm trees, the Alps, the Mediterranean Sea , and Venetian palaces. It is impossible to "read" any of these pictures directly, though obviously we can "recognize" the Alps , say, or the sea with as little difficulty as we can read the simplest text.

In other ways, however, Claude Monet's work is to be linked with texts, clearly meant to be read. First, throughout his two early sojourns to the Mediterranean , he never ceased to write about his paintings, and about the whole context of his painting. A prolific letter writer, Claude Monet sent stacks of letters to his dealer, his artist friends, and, above all, to his mistress (and later his wife), Alice Hoschede. Secondly, Claude Monet expected reviews to be written by critics about his work. He knew that the critics would not fail to write these texts and he occasionally experienced fear, even nightmares, about what they might be writing. These two sets of intersubjective texts are an inherent aspect of Claude Monet's approach to his art and will be the subject of considerable investigation here. These dialogues are, it seems to me, inseparable from the very notion of Claude Monet painting on canvas. Claude Monet's paintings were always addressed to someone; they solicit, even demand, a response.