DOI issue:
No. 109 (April, 1902)
DOI article:Mourey, Gabriel: The art of M. Lucien Simon
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.19875#0179
Lucien Simon
See " Art in 1897," page 6.
of their technical excellence. It is truly wonderful aprons worn by the young Breton girls in a little
to follow the play of his brush, and study the canvas of his entitled Salle de Bal a Loctudy, which
expressiveness of his touch, the manner in which I consider to be one of the most perfect things he
he puts his colours on the canvas, the modelling, has done.
the virtuosity shown in his treatment of the atmo- With his temperament, M. Lucien Simon could
sphere. It is indescribable. In his Portraits* not fail to be attracted by the spectacle of the
(a group of six persons), seen in the Salon of 1897, great struggles of nature and of humanity; and
wherein M. Simon showed members of his family one can easily understand why he came to care
—four ladies seated, a child of seven or eight years, less for the charms of Parisian life and the
his son, on the knee of one of them, and the artist elegances of society than for the fierce aspects—
himself in the background, leaning on the back of so characteristic and so grandiose—of that desolate
an armchair—I remember vividly many details, region, the peninsula of Penmarch, at the extreme
notably the child's legs, which were treated in point of Finistere. Nothing could be more tragical,
truly admirable fashion, with absolute certainty nothing more calculated to allure the artist's soul,
and sincerity. I recall, too, the freshness, the It would seem as though some avenging Fate had
pearly sheen, the floral tone of the glistening silk fallen, in a tempest of destruction, on this lost
---comer of the world. Everything has been devas-
tated by Time and by sea; nothing but ruin
remains of Nature or of the
work of men's hands; no
smiling flower relieves these
arid plains; even in mid-
summer these vast stretches
of gloomy waste seize one,
despite the burning sun,
with an icy grasp. On the
shutters of a little house in
the island of Marken I once
read this inscription—" Re-
member, Man, that Time is
flying ; think of Eternity to
come." A like lamentation
mounts from these land-
scapes. Everything tells ot
the uselessness of effort, ol
the penalties of life. The
granite houses, firmly built
on the soil, against the
menace of the storm, the
solid church steeples are
half hidden by the masses
of cloud which incessantly
sweep the skies ; nature'
and man alike seem afraid;
the only living thing is the
sea, always hostile, always
snarling. From afar
comes its roaring, like the
roaring of wild beasts. It
never smiles, never displays
a peaceful surface, to reflect
the feasts of light above, but
is opaque and thick and
'lolotte en capote" from a drawing by lucien simon ever continues to foam.
166
See " Art in 1897," page 6.
of their technical excellence. It is truly wonderful aprons worn by the young Breton girls in a little
to follow the play of his brush, and study the canvas of his entitled Salle de Bal a Loctudy, which
expressiveness of his touch, the manner in which I consider to be one of the most perfect things he
he puts his colours on the canvas, the modelling, has done.
the virtuosity shown in his treatment of the atmo- With his temperament, M. Lucien Simon could
sphere. It is indescribable. In his Portraits* not fail to be attracted by the spectacle of the
(a group of six persons), seen in the Salon of 1897, great struggles of nature and of humanity; and
wherein M. Simon showed members of his family one can easily understand why he came to care
—four ladies seated, a child of seven or eight years, less for the charms of Parisian life and the
his son, on the knee of one of them, and the artist elegances of society than for the fierce aspects—
himself in the background, leaning on the back of so characteristic and so grandiose—of that desolate
an armchair—I remember vividly many details, region, the peninsula of Penmarch, at the extreme
notably the child's legs, which were treated in point of Finistere. Nothing could be more tragical,
truly admirable fashion, with absolute certainty nothing more calculated to allure the artist's soul,
and sincerity. I recall, too, the freshness, the It would seem as though some avenging Fate had
pearly sheen, the floral tone of the glistening silk fallen, in a tempest of destruction, on this lost
---comer of the world. Everything has been devas-
tated by Time and by sea; nothing but ruin
remains of Nature or of the
work of men's hands; no
smiling flower relieves these
arid plains; even in mid-
summer these vast stretches
of gloomy waste seize one,
despite the burning sun,
with an icy grasp. On the
shutters of a little house in
the island of Marken I once
read this inscription—" Re-
member, Man, that Time is
flying ; think of Eternity to
come." A like lamentation
mounts from these land-
scapes. Everything tells ot
the uselessness of effort, ol
the penalties of life. The
granite houses, firmly built
on the soil, against the
menace of the storm, the
solid church steeples are
half hidden by the masses
of cloud which incessantly
sweep the skies ; nature'
and man alike seem afraid;
the only living thing is the
sea, always hostile, always
snarling. From afar
comes its roaring, like the
roaring of wild beasts. It
never smiles, never displays
a peaceful surface, to reflect
the feasts of light above, but
is opaque and thick and
'lolotte en capote" from a drawing by lucien simon ever continues to foam.
166