On Honoring the Essence of Experience
There’s an anecdote about Claude Monet, the French impressionist painter, that I think about often. It’s said that after he developed severe cataracts, he had to label his paint tubes, and arrange the paint on his palette more intentionally to prevent selecting the wrong colors.
His eyesight inevitably affected his paintings. And I’ve read different opinions on the extent of how much his vision actually impacted his work before and after surgery, but I imagine there was a pretty noticeable difference. And that’s what some people say, while others note that the differences are exaggerated. Regardless, Monet had tremendous worry and hesitated to go through with surgery.
Unsurprisingly, he eventually caved. Post-operation, once Monet could see the difference in the colors he painted and what he saw in reality, like how blue the world appeared, he allegedly destroyed some of his canvases, and later retouched some of his recent paintings when he also noticed the reds looked too muddy.
I’m not surprised by this response. I’m sure it was horrifying to experience that disconnect, given Monet learned from nature and attempted to paint the essence of his perceptions with a keen eye for how color and light changes, devoting himself to capturing those colorful nuances.Plus, he also painted to capture his feelings about his experience, too. Both, his reverence for nature, and his devotion to capturing his perception of it are, to me, admirable, and intense.
“These landscapes of water and reflection have become an obsession. This is beyond the strength of an old man, and yet I want to express what I feel. I have destroyed some of the canvases. I begin once again. ... I hope something will come of all this effort."
I’m sympathetic to the notion that such a devoted and masterful artist was misperceiving colors, one of the very things he sought to capture. That must be painful to know your ability to express what you experience is declining and could be taken from you. It makes sense he feared getting any eye surgery, knowing it could easily make things worse.
But, Monet was still painting as he could see and feel to the extent that he could. So, to me, it seems like what he painted was still true, or at least to a different version of his reality based on his perception at the time. I know that in his shoes, I’d probably do the same and repaint. And though his revisions might seem obsessive to some people, it seems like a means of trying to honor his experience’s true essence, or at least an attempt at that, I think.
And yet, all art is always going to be shaped by perceptions and limitations. And that makes the idea of perfection, and truth elusive. No matter my desire to capture and express the essence of my own experience with written words, or any other medium, I can’t escape my limitations; my perceptions are never really going to be accurate or complete. Everything is distorted. But, there’s still reason to write about life the way I see it and the way I feel it. If anything, this makes trying to honor the essence of my experience an act of surrender. And that’s one of the most beautifully human things.
Leave me feedback, thoughts, questions, whatever, etc.
These daily posts aren’t polished essays, but an experiment in taking one thing that’s lingering with me and publicly executing on trying to develop and articulate my thinking about it, especially when my thoughts are incomplete.
I think of everything on my entire Substack as something I can come back to and iterate & expand on later, including these posts! So, if anyone leaves a comment that sparks anything for me, I’ll consider exploring it further sometime. Here’s a link to a Google doc. of the above post:
→ Right Here!!←
If you have any specific thoughts that came up for you while reading, feel free to just jump in the doc. and leave comments on those moments, or all over throughout; leave thoughts on whatever you want, and ask questions, or share reactions to specific things. What stands out? What are you curious to know more about?
— Sandra