International studio (16.1902)

Liicien Simon


of their technical excellence. It is truly wonderful
to follow the play of his brush, and study the
expressiveness of his touch, the manner in which
he puts his colours on the canvas, the modelling,
the virtuosity shown in his treatment of the atmo-
sphere. It is indescribable. In his Portraits *
(a group of six persons), seen in the Salon of 1897,
wherein M. Simon showed members of his family
—four ladies seated, a child of seven or eight years,
his son, on the knee of one of them, and the artist
himself in the background, leaning on the back of
an armchair—I remember vividly many details,
notably the child’s legs, which were treated in
truly admirable fashion, with absolute certainty
and sincerity. I recall, too, the freshness, the
pearly sheen, the floral tone of the glistening silk
'* See “ Art in 1897,” page 6.

aprons worn by the young Breton girls in a litde
canvas of his entitled Salle de Bal a Loctudy, which
I consider to be one of the most perfect things he
has done.
With his temperament, M. Lucien Simon could
not fail to be attracted by the spectacle of the
great struggles of nature and of humanity; and
one can easily understand why he came to care
less for the charms of Parisian life and the
elegances of society than for the fierce aspects-'
so characteristic and so grandiose—of that desolate
region, the peninsula of Penmarch, at the extreme
point of Finistere. Nothing could be more tragical
nothing more calculated to allure the artist’s soul-
It would seem as though some avenging Fate had
fallen, in a tempest of destruction, on this l°st
corner of the world. Everything has been devas
tated by Time and by sea; nothing but rum
remains of Nature or of the
work of men’s hands; n°
smiling flower relieves these
arid plains; even in mid-
summer these vast stretches
of gloomy waste seize onei
despite the burning sun,
with an icy grasp. On the
shutters of a little house m
the island of Marken I once
read this inscription—“Re
member, Man, that Time)5
flying; think of Eternity t0
come.”. A like lamentation
mounts from these laud
scapes. Everything tells of
the uselessness of effort, of
the penalties of life. Tim
granite houses, firmly bud1
on the soil, against the
menace of the storm, the
solid church steeples am
half hidden by the masses
of cloud which incessantly
sweep the skies ; nature
and man alike seem afraid)

the only living thing is

sea, always hostile, alway
From a fa1
like the
It

LOLOTTE EN CAPOTE

FROM A DRAWING BY LUCIEN SIMON

snarling,
comes its roaring,
roaring of wild beasts,
never smiles, never displa)"’
a peaceful surface, to re
the feasts of light above,
is opaque and thick an1
ever continues to foam-

■fleet
but
d

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