Chapter 50 Chapter 50

The unfortunate incident haunted Philip's mind as much as he wanted to forget it.What troubled him most was the fact that Fanny's years of study had been in vain.In terms of hard work and sincerity, no one can catch up with her: she truly believes that she is endowed with artistic talent.But in this regard, self-confidence obviously does not explain anything.Aren't his friends all confident?The same goes for others, like Miguel Ajuria.The Spaniard was engaged in writing with painstaking efforts and determination, but the things he wrote were shallow and boring and unreadable.So much painstaking effort, so little results, the gap between them is really eye-popping.Philip's miserable and unfortunate school life in his early years aroused his inner self-analysis function.The eccentricity he had acquired without knowing it was as deeply ingrained as a drug addiction, and he could not get rid of it.Now, he felt even more deeply the need to analyze his inner feelings.He couldn't help seeing that his own feelings about art were different from others.A good work of art can directly tug at Lawson's heartstrings.He appreciates the work intuitively.Even though Flanagan could grasp certain things by feeling, Philip had to think about them to grasp them.Philip appreciates works by reason.He could not help sighing to himself that if he had in him that so-called "artist's temperament" (he hated the term, but could think of no other), he would be able, like them, to acquire it by feeling rather than by reasoning. The feeling of beauty.He began to wonder if he had only a little ingenuity at hand, and at most he could only rely on it to follow suit.This is really not enough.Now he is also following the example of others and no longer pays attention to skills.The most important thing is how to express the painter's inner feelings through the picture.It was in Lawson's nature to paint in a certain style; and though he, as a painter, was susceptible to influences of all kinds, in his deliberate imitation the sharp edges and corners of his His personal style.Philip stared blankly at his portrait of Ruth Chalice, three months after it was completed, when he realized that his picture was but a faithful copy of Lawson's.He felt himself ingenious and incompetent.He paints with his brain, and he knows in his heart that all valuable works of art are the crystallization of the soul.

He did not have much property, less than sixteen hundred pounds in all, and he had to save and live on a budget.In ten years, he can't expect to earn a dime.Throughout the history of art, there are many painters with no income.He had to be content with poverty and live his time bitterly.Of course, if one day I can create an immortal work, then it will be worth living a poor life. I'm afraid I can only have a future as a second-rate painter.If you sacrifice your youth, give up the joy of life, miss all the opportunities in life, and only get the fruit of a second-rate painter in the end, is it worth it?Philip was very familiar with the situation of some foreign painters living in Paris, and knew that they lived in a small world and had a very narrow circle of activities.He knew that some painters had worked so hard for twenty years in order to become famous all over the world, but they were still not famous in the end, so they all fell into poverty and became alcoholic.Fanny's suicide by hanging aroused Philip's memories of the past.He had often heard of the terrible fate of this or that painter, of the ways in which they had committed suicide in order to get out of a desperate situation.He also recalled the painter's sardonic advice to poor Fanny.If she had listened to him earlier and given up this hopeless attempt, she might not have ended up like that.

After finishing the portrait of Miguel Ajuria, Philip decided to send it to the Paris Art Exhibition.Flanagan also planned to send two paintings, and Philip thought he was on the same level as Flanagan.He has devoted a lot of effort to this painting, and he is confident that there is something to be said for it.When he examined the painting, he certainly felt that something was wrong, but he couldn't explain why for a while, but as long as he couldn't see the painting in front of his eyes, he would turn it into joy again, and no longer feel happy. Frustration.Paintings submitted to the art exhibition were returned.At first he didn't care too much, because he had thought of various reasons in advance to convince himself that the possibility of choosing the candidate was very slim.Unexpectedly, a few days later, Flanagan rushed to tell Philip and Lawson that one of the paintings he sent had been selected for the exhibition.Philip congratulated him dryly.The ecstatic Flanagan just celebrated with his forehead and hands, and didn't notice the sneer that Philip couldn't help showing when he congratulated.The quick-witted Lawson immediately recognized the thorn in Philip's words, and looked at Philip curiously.Lawson's own picture was no problem, he had known it a day or two before, and he was vaguely displeased with Philip's manner.As soon as the American had left, Philip asked Lawson a question, which was so sudden that Lawson was surprised.

"If you were in my position, would you just quit?" "What do you mean by that?" "I doubt it's worth being a second-rate painter. You know, if you change your career, let's say medicine or business, it doesn't matter if you spend your life in mediocrity, as long as you can support your family. But if you paint second-rate all your life How promising can the work be?" Lawson had a good impression of Philip. He thought that Philip had always been very honest in situations, and he must be distressed by the failure of the drawing at this time, so he tried his best to persuade him: Everyone knows that many works returned by the Paris Art Exhibition were later Didn't it become a masterpiece in the painting world?It was to be expected that he, Philip, was rejected for his first submission; as for Flanagan's fluke success, it was nothing more than this: his paintings were all superficial sleight-of-hand and deadpan. It is precisely this work that the judging panel appreciates.The more Philip listened, the more impatient he became; Lawson could not understand that Philip's depression was due to a fundamental loss of confidence in his own abilities, and that he should think himself crestfallen at such a trivial setback!This is too small to look down on people.

Lately, Clutton seems to have been estranged from those who dine at the same table at Grevia's restaurant, living a life of solitude.Flanagan said he must be in love with some girl, but there was no sign of love in his serious seriousness.Probably, Philip thought, he was avoiding his old friends in order to clear his mind of new ideas.One evening, however, when all the others had left the restaurant to go to a play and Philip was left sitting idle, Clutton came in and ordered food.They chatted casually.Philip found Clutton more talkative than usual, and less stinging in his words, and decided to ask him a lesson while he was happy today.

"Hey, I would like to invite you to take a look at my work," he said tentatively, "I would like to hear your opinion." "I'm not doing it." "Why?" asked Philip, blushing. The group of them made this request frequently among themselves, and no one would refuse it outright.Clutton shrugged. "Everyone says they welcome criticism and advice, but in their hearts they only want to hear compliments. Besides, even if criticism is made, what good is it? It doesn't matter if your painting is good or bad, what's the big deal?" "What does it matter to me?"

"Nothing. A man paints only because he has to. It's a faculty, like all the other bodily faculties, but only a few have it. A man paints, It's purely for yourself, if you don't let him paint, he might commit suicide. Please think about it, God knows how many years of hard work and painstaking efforts you have put in to be able to put a few strokes on the canvas, and the result is So what? Nine out of ten works submitted to the exhibition will be returned; You are lucky if you buy your picture and hang it on his wall, and he looks at it as seldom as he does the dining table in the house. Criticism has never been with the artist. Criticism is purely objective judgment, and what is objective has nothing to do with the painter."

Clutton covered his eyes with his hands so that he could concentrate on what he had to say. "After the painter gets a certain unique feeling from the things he sees, he can't help but want to express it. He can't tell why, anyway, he has to use lines and colors to express his inner feelings. It's like a musician who reads a line or two and automatically conjures up a certain combination of notes, without being able to explain why these or those words appear in his mind. Evoke this or that group of notes in your mind, anyway. And I can give you another reason for the sheer futility of criticism. The great painter always forces the world to see nature as he sees it, But a generation later, a novice painter sees the world in another way, while the public still judges his work by the eyes of his predecessors, not by himself. The Barbizon painters taught our ancestors to There is a certain way to observe trees, but then Monet came up with another way, and he was unique, so people talked a lot: how can trees be like this. They never thought that the way a painter likes to observe trees, trees will be There is something about it. When we paint, we paint from the inside out—if we can force the world to accept our vision, people will call us great painters; if we can’t, the world will ignore us. But we It doesn't make any difference. Whether great or small, we don't value the world's praise and criticism. It doesn't matter what happens to our works after they come out; when we paint, We've got everything we can get."

The conversation was temporarily interrupted, and Clutton swept away the food in front of him like a cloud.Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, studied Clutton carefully.His uneven head--as if carved out of stubborn stone, which the sculptor's chisel could not subdue when carving--was matched again and again by the thick mane of black hair. , a surprisingly large nose and a broad jawbone, indicating that he is a tough guy with a stubborn personality.But Philip was secretly thinking: under this strong mask, could there be a surprising weakness lurking?Clutton's reluctance to let others see his masterpiece may have been pure vanity: he could not stand the criticism of others, and he did not want to risk being rejected from the Paris art exhibition; Treat him as a master of art, but dare not take out his works to compete with others, for fear that he will feel inferior in comparison.Philip had known him for eighteen months, and he had become more and more rough and bitter, and though he did not want to compare himself publicly with his fellows, he often expressed resentment at their easy success. .He could not understand Lawson.When Philip first met them, he and Lawson had had a very close past, but that was no longer the case now.

"Lawson, no problem," he said scornfully, "he'll go back to England someday and be a fashionable portraitist, earn tens of thousands of pounds a year, and wear the Royal Society of Arts before he's forty." The laurels of the members. Just draw a few more portraits of the dignitaries and celebrities!" After hearing this, Philip couldn't help taking a peek into the future.He seems to have seen Clutton twenty years later, sharp, withdrawn, rough, and unknown, still clinging to Paris, because the life in Paris has penetrated into his bones; He is an influential figure on the cenacle, he has trouble with himself and the world around him; he is more and more fanatical in his pursuit of the elusive and perfect artistic realm, but he can't produce any works, and maybe he will in the end. Become an alcoholic.Recently an idea had troubled Philip.Since there is only one life in this world, it must not be wasted.He doesn't think that only by becoming rich and famous in the world can he live in vain, but he can't say how to be worthy of this life.Maybe we should read all the vicissitudes of life and make the best use of our talents.In any case, Clutton was clearly doomed, unless he could paint some immortal masterpieces in the future.He thought of Cronshaw's curious simile of the Persian rug, which had often occurred to Philip of late.At that time, Krona was as mysterious as the Faun, and he refused to go further to clarify the meaning, but repeated: Unless you realize the mystery of it yourself, it is meaningless.The reason why Philip hesitated to continue his artistic career came down to the fact that he did not want to let his life be wasted.Clutton spoke again.

"Do you remember I told you about that fellow I met in Brittany? I met him here the other day. He was going to Tahiti. He's a A penniless pauper. He was a brasseu, daffaires, I think that is what is called a stockbroker in English. He had a wife and children, and had a very considerable income, but he willingly abandoned it all and focused on A painter. He ran away from home and came to Brittany alone to start his artistic career. He was penniless and almost starved to death." "And what about his wife and children?" asked Philip. "Oh, he left them to starve and drag them down." "That's too immoral." "Oh, my dear brother, if you want to be a gentleman, don't be an artist. The two are incompatible. You've heard of people who make stupid things to support their old mothers. To swindle out of money--well, it shows they're good sons of dutiful duty, but that's no excuse for shoddy work. They're just businessmen. Real artists would rather send their wives to workhouses. I know here He once told me that his wife died in childbirth. The death of his beloved wife made him very sad; but when he sat on the edge of the bed to guard his dying wife, he found that he I am secretly typing up the manuscript, silently recording her facial expressions when she was dying, her last words before she died, and her own personal feelings at the time. I am afraid this is not a gentleman, huh?" "Is your friend an accomplished painter?" "No, not yet. He draws in a Pissarro style. He hasn't noticed his specialty, but he knows how to use color and decoration. But that's not the point. It's passion, and there's something about him." There's such a passion in it. He treats his wife and children like a complete rogue; he always behaves like a complete rogue, and he treats those who do him a favour--sometimes with the help of his friends. to keep him from starvation--rude, like a brute. And yet he happens to be a great artist." Philip was lost in thought.The man had sacrificed everything: comfort, family, money, love, fame, and vocation, in order to be able to express on canvas with paint what the world had given him.That's pretty amazing.But Philip just didn't have the guts. Thinking of Cronshaw just now, Philip suddenly remembered that he had not seen the author for a week, and after parting from Clutton he went straight to the Lilac Garden Cafe, where he knew he would meet Cronshaw.During the first few months of his sojourn in Paris, he had regarded Cronshaw's every word as a golden rule, but as time went on, the practical Philip gradually became less convinced by Cronshaw's empty theories. .His thin bundle of poems does not seem to be the fruitful fruit of a miserable life.Philip was born in the middle class, and he could not get rid of the middle-class instincts in his character.Cronshaw was penniless, earning a living as a hired bookman.He was not curled up in a squalid attic, he drank at tables in cafes, he lived a two-and-a-half-and-a-half-and-a-half life—all of which corresponded to Philip's notion of decency. Contradictory.Cronshaw, being a shrewd man, would not have been unaware of what the young man thought of him, so from time to time he would return a few words to Philip, sometimes in a joking tone, and on more occasions with sharp sarcasm and sarcasm for his philistinism. full of energy. "You're a businessman," he said to Philip, "and you want to invest your life in Consolidated Bonds, which will give you a three-point annual return. I'm a spendthrift, and I'm going to eat my money. and go naked to God." This comparison annoyed Philip.Because such a statement not only adds a touch of romance to Cronshaw's attitude towards life, but also slanders Philip's view of life.Philip felt instinctively that he should defend himself, but for a moment he could not think of anything to say. Conflicted and unable to make up his mind that evening, Philip wanted to speak to Cronshaw about his affairs.Fortunately, it was late, and the saucers on Cronshaw's table were stacked high (how many saucers there are indicates how many glasses of wine he has downed), and it seemed that he was ready to express his unique views on the affairs of life. "I wonder if you would give me some advice," said Philip suddenly. "You won't accept that, will you?" Philip shrugged impatiently. "I don't believe I'm going to make much of a name for myself in painting. I don't see much going on as a second-rate painter, so I'm going to quit." "Why not?" Philip thought for a moment. "I guess it's because I love life." Cronshaw's peaceful round face changed drastically.The corners of the mouth suddenly drooped down, the eye sockets were sunken, and the eyes were dull.Strange to say, he suddenly bent his waist and hunchbacked, showing an old-fashioned look. "Is it because of this?" He yelled and glanced around.Indeed, even his voice trembled a little. "If you want to get away, do it early." Philip stared at Cronshaw with wide eyes.Such emotional scenes often made Philip feel shy and uneasy, and could not help drooping his eyelids.He knew that what was presented before him was a tragedy of a down and out life.There was a silence.Philip thought that at this moment Cronshaw must be looking back on his own life, perhaps thinking of his youth, which was full of bright hopes, which gradually faded in the ups and downs of life, leaving a poor and monotonous life. There is joy in the cup, and there is a bleak and bleak future.Philip stared blankly at the little stack of saucers, and he knew that Cronshaw's eyes were resting on them also.