He loved good painting, "distinctive"
painting, with the cloying sweetness of a romance, that copied only the
forms of women. He had money, a good studio, his father was standing
behind him ready to help--why shouldn't he accomplish as much as many
others who lacked his opportunities? . . .
So he began his work by coloring a canvas entitled, "The Dance of the
Hours," a mere pretext for copying pretty girls and selecting buxom
models. These he would sketch at a mad speed, filling in the outlines
with blobs of multi-colored paint, and up to this point all went well.
Then he would begin to vacillate, remaining idle before the picture only
to put it in the corner in hope of later inspiration. It was the same
way with his various studies of feminine heads. Finding that he was
never able to finish anything, he soon became resigned, like one
who pants with fatigue before an obstacle waiting for a providential
interposition to save him. The important thing was to be a painter . . .
even though he might not paint anything. This afforded him the
opportunity, on the plea of lofty aestheticism, of sending out cards
of invitation and asking light women to his studio. He lived during
the night. Don Marcelo, upon investigating the artist's work, could not
contain his indignation. Every morning the two Desnoyers were accustomed
to greet the first hours of dawn--the father leaping from his bed, the
son, on his way home to his studio to throw himself upon his couch not
to wake till midday.
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