That was my first thought. By the third hour, I wished it was all just four actual hours of the painting process in complete silence because the ensuing drama was the most decrepit spectacle conceivable.
One-dimensional portrayal of jealousy expressed by supposed adults with a mental capacity of kindergarten inhabitants, whose entire years-long relationships ostensibly crumble at a foundation in a span of hours because, my dears, art is a window into the soul, and to capture that window we need sacrifices. So let's throw vapid melodramatic tantrums about how the artist is in love only with his art, and the deep symbolism of you painting over my unfinished 'Noiseuse' posing means you really don't love me. The audible groan when I noticed that the blocking prevents you from seeing the canvas anymore must have woken up the neighbors, because that's where you realize if one thing from Balzac is going to carry over, it's going to be the concealment of the final version. The overly exaggerated Beart's hysteria about him capturing the "real her" that you will never actually see since virtually nothing on canvas would ever support this strained farce was just a cherry on top.
The narrative really should have been just the bickering of Beart and Piccoli. Model being unable to hold the pose and help him "get it right" and him being frustrated that he might have lost it. Not these, and I'm actually going to use this word, pretentious ruminations of how three days of posing/painting something made me realize such incredibly deep things about myself, like I was reborn and my life has a new spark.
One-dimensional portrayal of jealousy expressed by supposed adults with a mental capacity of kindergarten inhabitants, whose entire years-long relationships ostensibly crumble at a foundation in a span of hours because, my dears, art is a window into the soul, and to capture that window we need sacrifices. So let's throw vapid melodramatic tantrums about how the artist is in love only with his art, and the deep symbolism of you painting over my unfinished 'Noiseuse' posing means you really don't love me. The audible groan when I noticed that the blocking prevents you from seeing the canvas anymore must have woken up the neighbors, because that's where you realize if one thing from Balzac is going to carry over, it's going to be the concealment of the final version. The overly exaggerated Beart's hysteria about him capturing the "real her" that you will never actually see since virtually nothing on canvas would ever support this strained farce was just a cherry on top.
The narrative really should have been just the bickering of Beart and Piccoli. Model being unable to hold the pose and help him "get it right" and him being frustrated that he might have lost it. Not these, and I'm actually going to use this word, pretentious ruminations of how three days of posing/painting something made me realize such incredibly deep things about myself, like I was reborn and my life has a new spark.