Nineteenth Century Medical Guide

Chapter 450 446. Source of Inspiration

Morisot is wearing a long white dress and holding an oriental folding fan in her hand, sitting on a red sofa in a strange posture. Behind her is a strange decorative painting, and the deep red background forms a strong contrast with her white dress.

Her eyes were a little dull, even distracted, and sometimes she would unconsciously lift her skirt slightly to reveal her pair of black leather shoes, adding a little fun to the whole picture.

"Okay, it will be ready soon."

Manet, who was standing opposite Morisot, was wearing a floral shirt splattered with paint. He was waving his paintbrush, painting the last part of the toes black and then outlining the folds on the skirt. "Good, good, very good, this sitting posture is perfect. This is how you should sit when you rest. It's over!"

Morisot admired Manet's painting skills. In just over an hour, he was presented on the canvas. His brushstrokes were sparse, but the thick layer of dark color on the canvas was diluted into thin and shallow lines after encountering the bold and bright white. The rough main lines could set off his delicate face and eyes.
This look perfectly explained her mood just now. It was a deep look that wanted to see through the person outside the painting and the painter, and it even seemed a little rude.

"Morisot, your posture and feeling are really great!" Manet has identified Morisot as his model since he painted her from behind last time. "It was the same with the balcony last time. Although it was inspired by Goya, your white skirt with the green railings that cross the picture surpassed him in terms of feeling alone!"

Morisot liked both paintings very much, especially the one he was leaning on the sofa just now.

It doesn't have bright colors, and the subject matter is unremarkable. In the eyes of outsiders, it may be an ordinary work. But only the model herself knows that Manet expressed her inner world with just a brush.

"Sometime, paint a portrait of me holding a brush." ​​Morisot suddenly said while looking at the canvas. "The previous painting of my back in the operating theater was good, but you couldn't see my face, and you stopped halfway through."

"Okay, I'll look for you next time." Manet agreed, but not completely. "But you become very serious when you pick up the brush, and your facial expression becomes tense. On the contrary, a lazy posture like this suits you and can inspire me! You are really my source of inspiration. How many paintings have you painted since you became my model? I am very satisfied with every one of them!"

"You have a source of inspiration." Morisot put down his fan and looked through Manet's sketchbook. "Then where is my source of inspiration?"

Manet was stunned. It was hard for him to put himself in Morisot's shoes with his single-core processor. But he quickly resumed his brush collection and answered Morisot with an answer he thought would solve the problem: "How about I be your model?"

"never mind."

Morisot was not blaming him, but felt that Manet had his own avant-garde style, but there was still some conservatism in his mind.

Last time, "Woman Painting in an Operating Theater" should have been a very bold and outstanding work, but after Manet finished the composition layout, he only added a small part of the color and then retreated.

The reason was that someone reminded him that it was too unorthodox for a woman to paint in oils, and even though the person in the painting was Morisot, who was often selected in the Salon, the painting itself was by Manet. When the two were combined, this painting would never be included in the Salon works.

Because of this, Manet actually sealed it up in his studio.

Morisot found it hard to understand, because how could a guy who could bring blasphemous paintings such as "Luncheon on the Grass" and "Olympia" into the Salon retreat because of the words "It will not be included in the Salon works"? The only explanation is that Manet himself also agreed with or implicitly acquiesced to this view.

In the eyes of most men, art is still the province of men, and Manet seems to be no exception.

Morisot, who was already 26 years old, was not a young girl who had just grown up. She had studied painting for more than ten years, had received a complete art education, had fully mastered the standards and principles of art, and had also developed a distinct personal style. Such a young artist waiting to blossom would inevitably be touched after seeing Manet's amazing painting techniques.

She wanted to break free from worldly prejudices and paint her own paintings.

However, just like Manet, her painting "The Last Tour Operation" was also shelved in the studio. But unlike Manet, she was completely hesitant in terms of technique. How to fill in the colors, how to distribute the light, and how to express the characters' different expressions in an instant were what needed to be carefully considered.

She needs her own source of inspiration.

"I go first."

Morisot changed her clothes and did not communicate with Manet any more until she was about to leave. She said, "I need to concentrate on finishing that painting first. I may not have time to model before I finish it."

"When will you finish the painting?" Manet didn't know how to persuade him, so he could only ask in his own way, "Can you let me know as soon as you finish? Other people's expressions are too stiff, only you can perfectly show the look I want."

Morisot nodded lightly and left Manet's studio, wandering around with his sketchbook.

If she ever asked God for help, it must be because she encountered confusion and anxiety in her artistic development. The more she pursued, the higher her requirements became. The scene of the surgery performed by Cavey was still vivid in her mind, and Manet's technique was right in front of her, but she just couldn't combine the two.

This made Morisot feel as if both his body and mind had fallen into the abyss.

She recalled what her teacher Achille Otieno had taught her: to paint, one must first feel the charm of nature, then become one with nature, and then add characters or special scenery to it, and taking a piece of it is the best painting.

But how should surgery be performed?
Feel the charm of surgery? And then become one with the operating table?
The grandeur of the tour back then was long gone, and just recording the details of that moment didn't mean anything. Could she lie on the operating table and feel it? Maybe, but she wasn't crazy enough to do that.

Morisot was very confused. He walked aimlessly along the long street, not knowing where he was. He just kept walking.

Manet's studio is located in the east of Paris, on the right bank of the Seine, not far from the Place de la Bastille. Morisot stared blankly at the Statue of Liberty soaring into the sky on the July Column, feeling the heaviness of the wheel of history and the solemnity of looking back at the past after breaking free from the shackles.

Walk forward for more than half an hour and you will reach the oldest Place Royale (Place des Vosges). Surrounding it are high-end galleries and art shops, as well as cafes and the former residence of a famous writer. This is a place for residents to rest, chat, and drink afternoon tea. Of course, children prefer to play under the fountain.

A very fine square, but it seems to be getting further and further away from the tour operation of Kave
Morisot did not stay here for long. He walked through Hugo's former residence, looked at the densely packed shops and pedestrians in front of him, and randomly found a half-open iron gate and walked in. Inside the gate was an open space surrounded by old buildings. It was cold and deserted, without even a doorman, and there was a feeling of "don't come in and out casually" everywhere.

But for some reason, she went in anyway. The sun in Paris at the end of June was getting hotter and hotter. It was almost noon, and Morisot walked straight into the shadows. Just as she was about to find a low building to rest, she saw a fat man coming out of the side door. He was wearing a long thick fur coat that might not be able to be put on in the winter. His fat face was wrapped in the fur collar, and even his neck disappeared.

After asking around, she found out that this was the back door of the National Museum of Natural History. The person in front of her was Sir Nathel Haag of Austria, and the side door he had just walked out of was the Pavilion of Humanity.

"Did you see it? The National Museum of Natural History, the Hall of Anthropology," Hager pointed to a row of small words hanging next to the doorplate behind him, "Exclusive for Austria!"

"Austria?"

"What? You don't know Carvey Hines?"

Hager wanted to use Cavey as an introduction to the surgical specimen that shocked human history, but Morisot became interested earlier than he expected: "Dr. Cavey? I know him! Is there anything related to him on display here?"

Two minutes later, a torso was cut open, and a specimen of an adult male with various labels and notes on it appeared in front of her. Unlike the previous days, Fernando was accompanied by a dog with its abdominal aorta removed.

Morisot stared at the introduction board in front of him and fell into deep thought: "'Traces of Genius': Some people's talents can make them worry-free for life, some people's talents are enough to make the top people in the relevant field ashamed, but Kavi Hines's talent is a gift from God, a turning point and benchmark in the history of all mankind."

In the art world where talented people are everywhere, this kind of boasting is heard too many times in the salon. What really shocked Morisot was the exquisite sense of the corpse that made everyone admire it.

Step out of the canvas, away from lines, perspectives, colors, light and shadow, and immerse yourself in the anatomy itself, looking directly at every separation, every stitch, and every fit, so that you can personally feel what it is like to witness the birth of an unknown field.

Gradually, she seemed to have some empathy with the people in the operating theater.

"Ms. Morisot?" Hager looked down at his pocket watch.

It was the first time he saw someone staring at something so absorbed in the moment. Even Hott’s heartbeat only quickened for a few minutes when he first saw it. But she had already been quietly observing for five or six minutes. “Miss Morisot, if you like, you can spend a few francs to ask the photographer at the main entrance for a photo that has already been taken. Of course, you can also stay here and paint all of this, like many avant-garde painters do.”

However, Morisot came to his senses, just said thank you and turned away.

After leaving the house, she found a cab and went directly to the Hôtel-Dieu. She wanted to go back to the operating theatre where she had painted and recall the original feeling. However, she seemed to have forgotten that the operating theatre of the Hôtel-Dieu was not open to the public, and the reason she was able to enter last time was entirely due to Kavi's pursuit of art and a little bit of chance.

After repeated inquiries, the theater manager took out the report board, which showed no news of Dr. Kavi performing surgery.

In the afternoon of hope and disappointment, Morisot finally felt hungry. She went to the cafe opposite the hospital and ordered a cup of coffee and a small piece of cake to take a short rest.

Morisot knew that finding inspiration was not easy and often took a lot of time. She recalled another quote from her first teacher, Geoffroy-Alphonse Jocani, who only gave her introductory lessons and was too rigid in his approach, but it stayed with her.

“You need to fill your time not only by painting, but also by thinking and feeling. Keep painting, then stop appropriately to think and feel, then paint again. Repeat this cycle. Work hard and persist. One day you will reap the rewards.”

The glass window in front of her separated her from the hospital, and the metal baffle in front of the mirror was lined with tempting coffee cups of various shapes and colors. The one in the lead was a plain-looking black cup with a price tag and the only "Not for Sale" sticker in the room.

“This cup is”

The waiter looked up, then waved his hand habitually, as if he had been asked this question several times: "This cup was used by Dr. Kavi. The boss specially asked for it as a souvenir. It is not for sale."

"Doctor Kavi's?"

"Yes, he often comes here to drink coffee."

"Have you been here today?"

"I just came this morning and went to the hospital. I'm not sure if he's gone or not. Most likely he's gone. He rarely shows up recently."

Morisot stopped thinking about Kavi and took his coffee to the table outside. He sat beside it and continued to draw the passers-by.

There were public carriage drivers pulling people into their carriages, laundry women carrying buckets into the store, dough kneaders in the bakery next door, and barbers selling all kinds of hairstyles. Gradually, she began to walk into the Hôtel-Dieu. Although she couldn't enter the operating theater, she could always enter the wards. Patients wandering out of bed, busy nurses, doctors reading medical records, and the occasional boilerman and cleaner were all her materials.

She only uses the simplest lines to outline, and uses her intuition to control her fingers to create shadows. She abandons all complex thinking and does not require any precision, only ensuring that she captures everyone's basic expressions and movements.

Gradually, he seemed to understand the problem with the painting, understood why he chose to use that picture to express the real purpose of the entire tour, and understood the significance of the painting's existence.

But it was not enough! The target seemed to be within reach, but when Morisot really wanted to grab it, he still could not reach it.

At this time, a heart-wrenching scream came from the end of the ward corridor. The specific words could not be heard, but a name caught Morisot's attention.

"Dr. Kavi!!!"

There’s another chapter at 1 o’clock