Full text of "Reminiscences of Rosa Bonheur"
NCA uses the 'Meet the Masters' K-8th Art Curriculum Exploring 35 Master Artists. Back in the classroom, they will work on a mostly self-guided follow-up packet Edgar Degas, Grant Wood, Joan Miro, Rembrandtvan Rijn, Rosa Bonheur. Facing Rosa Bonheur was very happy to reach the country of Ossian, and .. the Bonheur household, the art development of himself and his gifted children .. In spite of the pleasure she found in copying the great masters — and some of. Rosa Bonheur. balance, composition, contrast detail, realistic, studio symmetry, texture background, brush strokes, foreground self-portrait, spiral, texture.
The other half of the attic had curious chairs and divans and four little iron beds enameled in white and gold, and each bed was so smoothly made up that I asked what they were for.
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White Pigeon said they were bric-a-brac--that the Attic Philosophers rolled themselves up in the rugs on the floor when they wished to sleep; but I have thought since that White Pigeon was chaffing me. White Pigeon was the one I saw that first afternoon when I looked up, not down, out, not in. She was from White Pigeon, Michigan, and from the very moment I told her I had a cousin living at Coldwater who was a conductor on the Lake Shore, we were as brother and sister.
White Pigeon was thirty or thirty-five, mebbe; she had some gray hairs mixed in with the brown, and at times there was a tinge of melancholy in her laugh and a sort of half-minor key in her voice. I think she had had a Past, but I don't know for sure. Women under thirty seldom know much, unless Fate has been kind and cuffed them thoroughly, so the little peachblow Americaine did not interest me.
The peachblow was all gone from White Pigeon's cheek, but she was fairly wise and reasonably good--I'm certain of that. She called herself a student and spoke of her pictures as "studies," but she had lived in Paris ten years.
Peachblow was her pupil--sent over from Bradford, Pennsylvania, where her father was a "producer. Peachblow the while was petulantly taking the color out of a canvas that was a false alarm. White Pigeon had copied a Correggio in the Louvre nine years before, and sold the canvas to a rich wagon-maker from South Bend. Then orders came from South Bend for six more Louvre masterpieces.
It took a year to complete the order and brought White Pigeon a thousand dollars. She kept on copying and occasionally receiving orders from America; and when no orders came, potboilers were duly done and sent to worthy Hebrews in Saint Louis who hold annual Art Receptions and sell at auction paintings painted by distinguished artists with unpronounceable names, who send a little of their choice work to Saint Louis, because the people in Saint Louis appreciate really choice things.
Littlejourneys meant illumined the walls," jerked Peachblow, over her shoulder. Then Anglaise gravely brought a battered box of crayon and told me I must make a picture somewhere on the wall or ceiling: I took the crayons and made a picture such as was never seen on land or sea.
Having thus placed myself on record, I began to examine the other decorations. There were heads and faces, and architectural scraps, trees and animals, and bits of landscape and ships that pass in the night. Most of the work was decidedly sketchy, but some of the faces were very good. Suddenly my eye spied the form of a sleeping dog, a great shaggy Saint Bernard with head outstretched on his paws, sound asleep.
I stopped and whistled.
If I could draw like that, would I copy pictures in the Louvre? I am a Yankee--I guess Rosa Bonheur. Soubrette is her great-grandniece, or something. I'm not ashamed for Monsieur Littlejourneys to know! Then I expressed my regret that the trinity could not go, and White Pigeon expressed her regret because they had to stay at home.
And as we went down the stairs together we chanted the Kyrie eleison for our small sins, easing conscience by the mutual confession that we were arrant hypocrites. But I was saved, for just as we reached the bottom stair there was a slight jingling of keys, and the landlady came up through the floor with a big lunch-basket. She pushed the basket into my hands and showering us with Lombardy French pushed us out of the door, and away we went into the morning gray, the basket carried between us.
The basket had a hinged cover, and out of one corner emerged the telltale neck of a bottle. It did not look just right; suppose we should meet some one from Coldwater?
But we did not meet any one from Coldwater. And when we reached the railway-station we were quite lost in the crowd, for there were dozens of picnickers all carrying baskets, and from the cover of each basket emerged the neck of a bottle. We felt quite at home packed away in a Classe Trois carriage with a chattering party of six High-School botanizing youngsters. When the guard came to the window, touched his cap, addressing me as Le Professeur, and asked for the tickets for my family, they all laughed.
Fontainebleau was the fourth stop from Paris. My family scampered out and away and we followed leisurely after. Fontainebleau is quite smug. There is a fashionable hotel near the station, before which a fine tall fellow in uniform parades. He looked at our basket with contempt, and we looked at him in pity. Just beyond the hotel are smart shops with windows filled with many-colored trifles to tempt the tourist.
The shops gradually grew smaller and less gay, and residences with high stone walls in front took their places, and over these walls roses nodded. Then there came a wide stretch of pasture, and the town of Fontainebleau was left behind.
The sun came out and came out and came out; birds chirruped in the hedgerows and the daws in the high poplars called and scolded. The mist still lingered on the distant hills, and we could hear the tinkle of sheep-bells and the barking of a dog coming out of the nothingness.
White Pigeon wore flat-soled shoes and measured off the paces with an easy swing. We walked in silence, filled with the rich quiet of country sounds and country sights. What a relief to get away from noisy, bustling, busy Paris!
God made the country! All at once the mists seemed to lift from the long range of hills on the right and revealed the dark background of forest, broken here and there with jutting rocks and beetling crags. We stopped and sat down on the bank-side to view the scene. Close up under the shadow of the dark forest nestled a little white village.
Near it was the red-tile roof of an old mansion, half-lost in the foliage. All around this old mansion I could make out a string of small buildings or additions to the original chateau.GEORGE CALEB BINGHAM - GREAT ARTIST SERIES - VIDEO - ArtNature
I looked at White Pigeon and she looked at me. The sun's rays were growing warmer. I took off my coat and tucked it through the handle of the basket. White Pigeon took off her jacket to keep it company, and toting the basket, slung on my cane between us, we moved on up the gently winding way to the village of By.
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Everybody was asleep at By, or else gone on a journey. Soon we came to the old, massive, moss-covered gateposts that marked the entrance to the mansion. A chain was stretched across the entrance and we crawled under. The driveway was partly overgrown with grass, and the place seemed to be taking care of itself.
Half a dozen long-horned Bonnie Brier Bush cows were grazing on the lawn, their calves with them; and evidently these cows and calves were the only mowing-machines employed.
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On this wide-stretching meadow were various old trees; one elm I saw had fallen split through the center--each part prostrate, yet growing green. Close up about the house there was an irregular stone wall and an ornamental iron gate with a pull-out Brugglesmith bell at one side. We pulled the bell and were answered by a big shaggy Saint Bernard that came barking and bouncing around the corner. I thought at first our time had come. He often cheated on her with other women, including her own sister, which deeply hurt the artist.
Kahlo also experienced heartbreak with her several miscarriages, which inspired some of her works. She was unafraid to depict even the most private elements of herself on canvas. InKahlo moved to Paris alone, where she exhibited many pieces.
She also struck up a friendship with artist Pablo Picasso, who admired her pieces. The artist suffered from illnesses like gangrene, but still persisted with her career, once arriving to a gallery showing in an ambulance.
Inat the age of 47, Kahlo died in the same house she was raised. Her cause of death is not entirely agreed upon; some think she killed herself, while most believe that it was a pulmonary embolism. There was a rebirth of interest in Kahlo in the s, when she became an icon for feminists and independent women.
There is clear pain and sorrow in many of her pieces, but the whimsy, the colors, the richness….