Yesterday I went to Impressionist Gardens, an exhibition at what’s now called the National Gallery Complex. It was a joyous and sensuous experience. I haven’t got much feeling for paintings or the visual arts in general but I really loved these because I really loved the subjects. You could smell these gardens, some fresh and green, others the terracotta kind that made you feel you were on holiday in Italy. Some Monet reflective lily ponds were really magic.
Klimt
I went with Carl, who is an artist himself, so he took twice the time I did to get round, as he examined brush strokes, handling of masses and such things, while I would think, That looks very nice. That Sargent painting is exactly how a garden appears at twilight, when the colours of flowers become stronger and deeper, and small light sources like the moon and a cigarette tip become prominent.
Sargent
Or, that white phlox looks lovely among the green, and why doesn’t mine come out like that? I also liked the commentary, which identified the flowers - pelargoniums, nasturtiums, roses, cornflowers and poppies were popular, but it also went into detail about the kinds of cabbages that were grown in East Lothian in the 1850s.
Renoir
Anyway, it’s a glorious exhibition and both of us were very happy when we left it, which wouldn’t have been the case if we’d gone to see accomplished paintings of something dark eg by Francis Bacon.
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