Documente Academic
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Documente Cultură
Georges Seurat
the art of vision
Michelle Foa
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Acknowledgments viii
Introduction 1
1 Seeing in Series 7
2 Figuring Out Vision 63
3 Seductive Sights 113
4 Sight and Touch in Black and White 155
Postscript: The Eiffel Tower as Urban Lighthouse 197
Notes 205
Index 227
Illustration Credits 233
acknowledgments
I am happy to have the opportunity to thank in writing the people and institutions who
have helped to make this book possible. Since this work originated as my doctoral disser-
tation at Princeton, I would like to begin by expressing my deep gratitude to Hal Foster,
Rachel DeLue, and most of all Carol Armstrong for their support, insight, and guidance.
Their feedback on the project continued to inform its development long after I left
Princeton, and I’m profoundly grateful to them for it, as well as for their advice over the
years and for the models of intellectual rigor with which they provided me. In particu-
lar, Carol’s continued support for my work has meant a great deal to me, and she has my
enduring thanks for all of her encouragement. I first studied art history as an undergrad-
uate at Brown University, and it was my courses and conversations with Kermit Champa
that made me want to become an art historian. I am grateful to him for that inspiration
and for supporting my interest in continuing my studies in graduate school.
I was fortunate to spend a year teaching in the Department of Art History at Mount
Holyoke College as I was finishing my dissertation, and I thank the faculty there for their
warmth and collegiality. During that time I first met Bob Herbert, and I am indebted to
him for the scholarly and personal generosity that he has shown to me ever since, and for
all of his work on Seurat. Tulane has been a wonderful academic home since then, and I
thank my colleagues in the Art Department for their intellectual stimulation and friend-
ship. Thanks are also due to the Dean’s Office of the School of Liberal Arts, the Newcomb
College Institute, and the Office of the Provost for the grants and fellowships they have
awarded me to pursue my research and publish this book. I am grateful, as well, for the
support that I received from The Barr Ferree Publication Fund of the Art and Archaeology
Department at Princeton. Jim Rubin gave me tremendously valuable feedback on the man-
uscript at various stages, and he has my profound thanks for all of his wisdom and guid-
ance. Gary Hatfield’s generous comments on my work, and my conversations with him,
have been extremely helpful to me, and I am deeply appreciative of his input.
Talks that I have given over the years helped me to develop some of the arguments
put forward here, and I am indebted to the organizers of those events, as well as to some
of the fellow participants and audience members, for giving me the opportunity to pres-
ent on my work and for their thought-provoking questions and comments, including:
Kathryn Brown, Anthea Callen, Robin Kelsey, Marni Kessler, Ségolène Le Men, Sarah
Linford, Yukio Lippit, David Lubin, Peter Pesic, Todd Porterfield, Chris Poggi, Gwendolyn
DuBois Shaw, Debora Silverman, Tania Woloshyn, and Henri Zerner.
Thanks also go to the staff at the following institutions for facilitating my research
and granting me access to archival materials: The Philadelphia Museum of Art (and Joseph
Rishel in particular), The Barnes Foundation, the Musée d’Orsay, The Metropolitan
Museum of Art, the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, the Bibliothèque de l’Institut national
d’histoire de l’art, the Bibliothèque nationale de France, and the Bibliothèque Forney. I am
also grateful to all of the institutions and private collectors that provided me with repro-
ductions for this book, and to my research assistant Aschely Cone for her hard work in
helping me to acquire those images. I would also like to express my heartfelt gratitude to
Katherine Boller at Yale University Press for her support for this project and for guiding it,
and me, so smoothly and conscientiously through the publication process. Thanks are also
owed to Heidi Downey and Amy Canonico at the Press for their work on this book, and to
Deborah Bruce-Hostler for her copyediting of the manuscript.
On a personal note, I thank my mother, stepfather, and sisters for their support, and
especially Jeremy and Ethan, who are so very important to my happiness. Finally, I thank
my father, who showed me the joys of being immersed in books, pursuing one’s curiosi-
ties, and sharing one’s discoveries with others.
ix acknowledgments
Introduction
Georges Seurat painted The Hospice and Lighthouse of Honeur in the summer of 1886,
one of seven paintings in a series that he produced of Honfleur’s port and surrounding
coastline (see fig. 8). The lighthouse in the middle ground is matched by one in the far
background, visible, but just barely so, from where Seurat was standing. To the right of
the lighthouse in the background is a jetty that stretches out into the water. These same
lighthouses and jetties appear repeatedly in Seurat’s paintings of Honfleur, as the artist
wandered from place to place around the port and produced a series of pictures portray-
ing overlapping parts of the site. Between 1886 and 1890 (the last summer of his life) Seurat
spent part of every summer but one in a different port town along France’s northern
coast, each stay resulting in a series that consisted of somewhere between two and seven
pictures. A few of the particularities vary from port to port and from series to series, but
the underlying logic of these pictorial groupings is the same; each picture in a given series
depicts a part of the larger site that is represented in or referred to by at least one other
painting in that series. These are groups of images that track Seurat’s movements in space
as he shifts from one vantage point to another to study the objects and spaces around him
from a multiplicity of viewpoints, with each view, and each painting, supplementing the
others. Seurat’s seascapes, then, center on extended visual and bodily engagement with
one’s surroundings, and thus fit in well with his long-standing reputation as an artist
interested in visual experience and its pictorial representation.
It is this interest in vision that my book takes as its central focus. Indeed, few artists
of the modern period are as closely associated with the subject of visual perception as
Seurat. Within a few weeks of exhibiting A Sunday on the Grande Jatte—1884 in the spring
of 1886, Seurat’s work was associated by certain critics, most prominently Félix Fénéon,
with theories of how vision worked. Seurat’s reputation as an artist keenly interested in
vision stayed with him throughout his short career and it lived on, in some form or other,
in many subsequent accounts of his work. And yet there is much that we still don’t under-
stand about the subject. Indeed, it is surprising how little we know about what particular
aspects of sight, besides color vision, interested Seurat, or about how, precisely, this inter-
est in vision is reflected in his work, besides in his pointillist method of paint application.
What did vision mean to Seurat, what model(s) of vision and its representation in pictures
DETAIL OF FIGURE 8 was he working with, and how, specifically, do his pictures manifest these concerns?
My strategy for answering these questions is, in part, to approach his body of work
as a body of work. Seurat’s œuvre is a diverse one, and when he died he left behind seven
figure-based paintings, about thirty landscape paintings, and over two hundred conté
crayon drawings. A tendency in Seurat scholarship has been to extract one figural painting,
a few landscapes (not even necessarily from the same series), or a number of drawings,
for example, and interpret these small slices of his oeuvre in isolation. This inclination
is understandable, for Seurat’s body of work can seem disparate, even disjointed. There
appears to be little in common between his placid, mostly figureless seascapes of northern
France, his images of urban nighttime entertainments, and his drawings, say, of his mother
and aunt sewing or reading alone at home. Here, I argue that there is in fact a very clear set
of concerns underpinning Seurat’s diverse body of work, and that each part of his œuvre is
best and most fully understood in relation to the other parts.
I propose that the varied images that Seurat produced constitute a sustained investiga-
tion into contrasting kinds of visual engagement with the outside world, and an analysis of
the opposite modes of being that these distinct types of visual experiences elicit in us. Seurat’s
series of seascapes, for example, explore vision as a way of learning about the external world,
and they demonstrate how vision, in conjunction with bodily movement, enables us to
perceive three-dimensionality and navigate our surroundings. Seurat’s practice of painting
objects and sites from related vantage points in his seascape series is a re-creation, I argue, of
the way that we learn to make cognitive sense of our environment, as posited by one of the
most important scientists of the nineteenth century, Hermann von Helmholtz. Helmholtz’s
writings on the physiology of vision provided Seurat with a model for understanding the
sensory and cognitive processes that enable us to comprehend the objects and spaces in the
world around us. For Helmholtz, as well as for the many psychologists, philosophers, and
scientists who were engaged in the study of visual perception in the nineteenth century, an
understanding of vision was intimately tied to an understanding of the nature and limits of
human knowledge more broadly. And so too, I show in this book, it was for Seurat.
Contrasted with this epistemological notion of visual experience, some of Seurat’s
figural paintings and drawings explore a very different definition of vision, in which sight
induces the diminishment of one’s rational faculties and produces a sense of cognitive
disorientation. In pictures of popular entertainments such as the circus, a sideshow, and
a dance hall, Seurat depicts phenomena and experiences that address their audiences
visually in order to confound and enthrall them. Unlike the more active, sensorially and
corporeally engaged mode of being that is demonstrated in his seascapes, Seurat’s pictures
of audiences taking in different kinds of performances foreground a more disengaged type
of vision, depicting spectators passively consuming the spectacle in front of them. To seek
knowledge or pleasure, to produce or to consume, to be oriented or overwhelmed—these
are the different modes of being and states of mind that Seurat’s wide-ranging body of
pictures explores.
Understanding Seurat’s body of work as a meditation on different models of
vision—knowledge-driven versus entertainment-seeking, active versus passive, grounding
2 introduction
versus disorienting—reveals close connections among parts of Seurat’s œuvre that have
tended to be treated separately. Rather than focus primarily on either the form or the con-
tent of Seurat’s pictures, that is, on his artistic practice, his interest in science and color
theory, and his pointillism, on the one hand, or on the social significance of the subjects of
his figure paintings, on the other, I argue that Seurat’s sustained consideration of different
kinds of visual experience and their representation in pictures underpins both his style and
his choice of subjects. A fundamental part of my interpretive approach is to look closely
and for a long time at both the form and the content of each of Seurat’s paintings, subject-
ing his pictures to a kind of scrutiny that many of them have not yet received but that they
very much reward. Throughout the book, I also insist on the importance of analyzing his
pictures in the context of the larger series or exhibition grouping to which they belong.
Accordingly, I look closely at relationships between and among his pictures that Seurat
created when it came time to put them on view, taking some of my interpretive cues from
the artist’s exhibition choices.
Seurat’s pictures not only demonstrate an abiding interest in the various ways, and
the various ends to which, we engage visually with the world, but they also reveal the
artist’s meditation on questions that are fundamentally pictorial in nature, particularly
regarding the history and conventions of illusionism. Indeed, there is a rich self-reflexivity
to many of Seurat’s key works, manifest, for example, in his representations of pictures
within pictures and in his inclusion of motifs such as mirrors and curtains, all of which
have long been used by some artists to evoke a variety of pictorially self-referential con-
cerns, as I argue Seurat employs them to do. Relatedly, flatness has long been discussed as a
defining feature of later nineteenth-century French painting, and I analyze the remarkable
and innovative ways that Seurat grappled with the issue of pictorial depth in his work.
Indeed, certain central features of his œuvre, such as his practice of painting his frames
and adding painted borders to the edges of his pictures, as well as his particular model of
the seascape series, take on clearer meaning when they are understood as reflections of
his interest in the perception and representation of three-dimensionality. These and other
aspects of his œuvre are part of Seurat’s exploration of the illusionistic possibilities and
limits of pictures, and they demonstrate his interest in devising new ways to re-create the
spatial fullness of the real world in his work.
This book begins with an analysis of Seurat’s seascape series, which were among his
most widely praised pictures but which have received relatively little scholarly attention. My
first chapter is focused on these understudied groups of works and offers the most in-depth
discussion of them to date. My treatment of the seascapes rests on a close examination of
these paintings both individually and as a series, working to uncover the nature of the rela-
tionships between the paintings in each series and the particular serial logic that subtends
these groupings. I describe the ways that Seurat’s seascapes constitute an inquiry into how
vision and bodily movement enable us to make sense of the external world and into the
possibilities and limits of pictorial representation for reconstituting our perception of our
surroundings. In this chapter I explain the relevance of Helmholtz’s theories of perception
3 introduction
to Seurat’s work, which I elaborate on in subsequent chapters. More specifically, Seurat’s
practice of painting overlapping views of these sites reflects Helmholtz’s theories about how
we learn to comprehend and successfully navigate our environment, issues that are also
evoked by the motifs that dominate these pictures. In all these ways, Seurat’s seascape series
constitute a compelling investigation into how we come to understand the world around us
and into the ways pictures can convey the fullness of that world to their viewers.
The second chapter shifts to Seurat’s figural paintings, focusing closely on A Sunday
on the Grande Jatte—1884 (Un Dimanche à la Grande Jatte—1884) and Poseuses, as well as A
Bathing Place, Asnières (Une baignade, Asnières) and related, smaller paintings, analyzing
them in the context of his concerns regarding visual experience and its translation into
pictorial form. I understand the Grande Jatte less in relation to the social activities and sta-
tus of the represented figures, which has been the focus of many previous interpretations,
and more as a critical reflection on the traditions of the tableau and of pictorial illusion-
ism. In this experimental picture, Seurat systematically dissects and also partially rejects
some of the key conventions of ambitious figural painting, such as linear perspective, the
deployment of the language of the body to convey narrative, and the unity, autonomy,
and complete legibility of the composition. In the Grande Jatte, Seurat also makes evident
the particular definition of vision that underpins the paradigm of the tableau, and he puts
forward an alternative model of sight and of painting that foregrounds the corporeal and
physiological determinants of sight. As such, the Grande Jatte is an important exploratory
work in Seurat’s œuvre, rather than being emblematic of the artist’s larger œuvre, which
is how this iconic painting has tended to be treated. Seurat’s next figural painting, Poseuses,
manifests the artist’s commitment to a specifically physiological definition of vision.
Accordingly, I discuss the many ways that the picture’s structure and subject matter artic-
ulate the various contingencies of visual experience, with Seurat analyzing how painting
can acknowledge and address itself to a physiologically defined viewer. Both the Grande
Jatte and Poseuses reflect the artist’s continued interest in how depth is perceived and pic-
torially represented and in devising new ways of conveying the illusion of three-dimen-
sionality in a flat picture. The chapter concludes with an analysis of Seurat’s well-known
but little-understood practice of painting the frames and edges of many of his pictures. I
interpret these painted frames and borders as another manifestation of his concerns about
the nature and limits of pictorial illusionism and his desire to invent new techniques for
conveying the illusion of spatial recession.
The third chapter is devoted to Seurat’s three paintings of popular entertain-
ments—Parade, Chahut, and Circus—and a fourth figural painting that has been somewhat
overlooked by scholars, Young Woman Powdering Herself. I situate these works within the
broader context of Seurat’s interest in the different states of mind that are induced by
various kinds of visual experience. If, in his seascapes and earlier figural works, Seurat
demonstrates an active visual and corporeal engagement with his surroundings neces-
sary for deciphering the outside world, the model of vision and experience on view in his
4 introduction
images of entertainments is precisely the opposite: passive rather than active, and one in
which spectators have been entranced, seduced, or stupefied. In these later figural works,
vision serves not to inform and orient, but rather to confound one’s rational faculties. Far
from being straightforward condemnations of these entertainments, however, Seurat’s
images acknowledge their seductive appeal, the artist exploring through the paintings’
form and content a more desire- or pleasure-driven mode of looking and being.
Chapter 4 situates Seurat’s work in drawing as complementary to the perceptual,
conceptual, and representational terms of the paintings, in which the relationship between
the sight and touch of the artist, the viewer, and the depicted subjects of the drawings
comes to the fore. And, as with his paintings, so too do many of Seurat’s drawings, both
individually and as part of larger exhibition groupings, define different modes of visually
and cognitively experiencing the world. Thus, across his œuvre, Seurat contrasts a pro-
ductive mode that entails continuous sensory, cognitive, and corporeal engagement, and
a more passive mode in which we derive pleasure from being overwhelmed and unable to
make full cognitive sense of our visual experiences. But if Seurat’s drawings register some
of the same concerns regarding the diversity of visual experiences that one encounters,
they also represent certain countercurrents to aspects of his painted work. In the draw-
ings, the color and opticality of his paintings give way to a darker, more monochromatic,
and more tactile realm of perception and representation. I close this chapter by addressing
the prevalence of the motif of light across Seurat’s body of work, arguing that it serves as
a unifying thread that ties together the distinct parts of his œuvre. It seems that, for the
artist, light had the potential to create either one of the opposing modes of experience that
he investigates in his pictures, informing, guiding, and orienting a viewer, or, conversely,
dazzling, disorientating, and blinding him or her.
My book concludes with a postscript about Seurat’s picture of the Eiffel Tower, one
of the first paintings of the iconic monument. I discuss this work as concluding evidence
of Seurat’s commitment to the representation of different and new modes of visual expe-
rience in the late nineteenth century. The discussion of the Eiffel Tower in the postscript
functions as a complementary bookend to my analysis of Seurat’s many images of light-
houses in the first chapter and identifies the many connections between these two kinds of
structures. Bringing together these seemingly unrelated motifs and these discrete parts of
Seurat’s œuvre is intended to illustrate my broader argument that the meaning of Seurat’s
pictures emerges more clearly or shifts in crucial ways when they are seen in the context
of his larger body of work. Doing so helps to expose the set of concerns that underpins
Seurat’s diverse kinds of images and unites his pictures into a conceptually consistent,
complex œuvre.
5 introduction
1 Seeing in Series
Last week, when I was at Dieppe . . . I was thinking of him, as I always do when
I’m at the sea.
8 seeing in series
coast of northern France, specifically its ports, and his repertoire of images of the vessels,
architecture, and navigational mechanisms that define those sites, first took shape years
earlier, before he was a professional artist. In 1879, at the age of nineteen and after having
completed one year of schooling at the École des Beaux-Arts, Seurat left Paris to fulfill
a year of military service. Although this period in Seurat’s life is never discussed at any
length, the artist’s experiences during that time relate directly to the body of seascapes that
he would begin to produce in the mid-1880s. Seurat carried out his year of service in the
Nineteenth Line Infantry Regiment, which since the early 1870s was garrisoned in Brest,
on the northwestern coast of Brittany. Since the seventeenth century, Brest had served as
one of France’s largest and most important naval ports and, as one mid-nineteenth-cen-
tury history of the city put it, “one isn’t able to separate the life of the port and the navy
from the city, because the one is the life, the soul of the other.”4 Immersed in such an envi-
ronment for an extended period of time, Seurat no doubt learned a great deal that year
about the world of ports and maritime navigation.
Seurat kept a sketchbook while in Brest, but it has not survived intact. Most of its
contents, except for individual sheets that have appeared over the past several decades on
the art market, are unknown. Gustave Coquiot, Seurat’s first biographer, apparently saw
this sketchbook and describes its contents in his 1924 book on the artist. From Coquiot we
learn that during his time in Brest, Seurat “developed a liking for the sea and for boats of
all sizes” and that “he would draw in numerous notebooks, taking great care in depicting
boat riggings, docks, smokestacks, anchors, masts, and moorings.” Thus, Seurat’s interest
in the representation of the ports, the sea, and the vessels that moved between one and
the other seems to have had its roots in his year in Brest. Coquiot also writes that Seurat
spent his temporary leaves that year “roaming the length of the Channel,” visiting a variety
of locales along France’s northern coast, many of them ports.5 Indeed, it was during these
travels that Seurat first discovered some of the ports that he would visit again in the mid
and late 1880s and explore in greater depth in his series of seascapes.
One of the sites that Coquiot tells us Seurat became enamored with during his year
of service was Grandcamp, a small village to which he returned in the summer of 1885,
where he produced his first seascape series. Located on the coast of lower Normandy,
Grandcamp was predominantly a fishing village with a small port and very small tourist
population in the summer months. Seurat produced five paintings of different sites along
the shoreline of Grandcamp and the surrounding area (see figs. 1–5). Seurat’s Grandcamp
series is in fact an anomaly within his seascape practice, insofar as the connections among
the paintings are much more tenuous than in his subsequent series. Nevertheless, this first
series has a good deal in common with his later seascapes with respect to the concerns
at work in these images. Although each of the Grandcamp paintings portrays a different
aspect of the town and coastline, one notices that the works share similar compositional
features when looked at as a group. In all five paintings the meeting of sea and sky at the
horizon line plays a central role. Indeed, this is the single unifying element of this series
9 seeing in series
FIGURE 1 of spare works, other than their general locale. Focusing on the horizon line running
Georges Seurat, Boats, 1885. Oil on from one side of the painting to the other, the tension between the confines of the edges
canvas, 253/4 × 321/8 in. (65.5 × 81.5
of the easel painting and the seeming infinity of sea and sky comes to the fore, evoking an
cm). Private collection.
awareness of the limits of what any single canvas can represent. These pictures also bring
to the fore the possibilities and limitations of vision, for the horizon signifies the furthest
reaches but also the boundaries of visual perception, the line beyond which one cannot see.
Once these issues of pictorial and visual finitude come into focus, one becomes more
attuned to the other aspects of the series that address the conditions of visual perception
and its representation. Boats (Bateaux) (fig. 1), for example, is perhaps the sparest of the
Grandcamp paintings, constituted by roughly equal horizontal bands of brown, green,
and light blue representing the land, sea, and sky.6 This simple tripartite composition is
matched by three almost identical boats situated in the foreground, middle ground, and
background of the painting. It is precisely the simplicity of the composition that gives it the
feeling of a demonstration or exercise, in which the three boats make plain the simple truth
that the same object becomes less and less visible as it recedes into the distance, and that the
physical position of the object in space—diagonal, perpendicular, or parallel to the picture
plane and the viewer—determines what we can and cannot see of it. The painting is also
a demonstration of some of the ways that painting is able to convey the illusion of three-
dimensionality, namely, through the use of foreshortening and by scaling objects to give
10 seeing in series
FIGURE 2 the impression that they lie at different distances from the viewer. The representation of
Georges Seurat, The Fort Samson what appears to be the same boat in space from three different angles not only conveys the
(Grandcamp), 1885. Oil on canvas,
three-dimensionality of that object in the real world, it also communicates that the funda-
255/8 × 321/8 in. (65 × 81.5 cm).
Hermitage, St. Petersburg.
mental challenge of painting is to re-create this solidity and sense of depth on a flat surface.
Seurat’s demonstration of the conditions and limits of visual perception and its rep-
resentation in Boats is further manifested by the boat in the foreground whose mast touches
the top border of the painting. The contact between this boat and the edge of the picture
plane hints at the visual limitations of proximity and is mirrored, at the other extreme, by
the tiny white triangle in the far left of the painting along the horizon, situated too far away
for the viewer to decipher with certainty. That which is too near may be just as difficult to
see as that which is too far away, and there is no ideal position that offers full visual com-
prehension of the observed scene. Rather, each vantage point provides and denies access to
different aspects of one’s surroundings, with each view supplementing the others.
Like Boats, the compositions of the other pictures in the series, such as The Fort
Samson (Grandcamp), The Roadstead at Grandcamp (La rade de Grandcamp), Grandcamp
(Evening) (Grandcamp [soir] ), also highlight the tension between the expanse of land, sea,
and sky and the edges of the painting that fragment and frame these expanses (figs. 2, 3,
and 5). In The Roadstead, Seurat emphasizes the lateral limits of the visual and pictorial
field by focusing on the numerous boats on the water that have just entered or are about
11 seeing in series
FIGURE 3
Georges Seurat, The Roadstead at
Grandcamp, 1885. Oil on canvas,
255/8 × 317/8 in. (65 × 80 cm). Private
collection.
FIGURE 4
Georges Seurat, The Bec du Hoc
(Grandcamp), 1885. Oil on canvas,
251/2 × 321/8 in. (64.8 × 81.6 cm). Tate
Gallery, London.
FIGURE 5 to drift out of the field of vision and beyond the confines of the picture. The Bec du Hoc
Georges Seurat, Grandcamp (Grandcamp), which portrays a prominent rock formation that juts out from the coastal
(Evening), 1885. Oil on canvas, 26 ×
cliffs that surround the town of Grandcamp, is the only work in the series to present the
321/2 in. (66.2 × 82.4 cm). The
viewer with a dramatic vista (fig. 4). This particular site offers an especially unencumbered
Museum of Modern Art, New York.
Estate of John Hay Whitney view of the sea and the surrounding coastline, which is likely why it appealed to Seurat.
(285.1983). But the allure of the vista is undercut by an awareness of the limitations of what any sin-
gle painting can represent of this expansive view. The Grandcamp series as a whole, then,
constitutes Seurat’s preliminary investigations into the limits of vision from any single
vantage point, and the representational limitations of the single easel painting.
Seurat’s next seascape painting campaign, which he undertook in Honfleur in the
summer of 1886, resulted in a more intertwined set of images (see figs. 6–8, 11–14). Honfleur
is a port town located on the western side of the mouth of the Seine; it was the only coastal
town Seurat painted that was a somewhat popular destination for artists and tourists. The
seven Honfleur paintings depict a series of views of the entry to the port, its interior basins,
its lighthouses, its jetties, and the surrounding coastline. As one tries to articulate what
these images are about, to locate where their meaning may lie, one also finds oneself real-
izing what these images are clearly not about. One important exclusion is that of human
figures from all seven paintings, which not only discourages an anecdotal interpretation of
these pictures but also situates Seurat as their protagonist, foregrounding his experiences
13 seeing in series
FIGURE 6 of these sites. Relatedly, although the day-to-day comings and goings of the ships—and the
Georges Seurat, Entrance to the navigation aids and port infrastructure that this maritime traffic relies on—are clearly very
Port of Honfleur, 1886. Oil on can-
engaging for the artist, the socioeconomic aspects of these phenomena do not seem to be
vas, 213/8 × 255/8 in. (54.3 × 65.1 cm).
The Barnes Foundation,
of much interest to him. Other important absences from most of the Honfleur paintings
Philadelphia, BF942. are the ephemeral effects of light or weather on the scene, which were so prominently
featured in many Impressionist landscapes. And just as the aim of representing an instant
of perception ostensibly necessitated (at least the appearance of) an abbreviated method of
paint application in Impressionist pictures, conversely, Seurat’s careful, pointillist or semi-
pointillist method of brushwork in the Honfleur paintings conveys that these works are not
about the hasty recording of transient effects.
It is imperative that these works be studied not only individually, but also in the
context of one another, for it is only when they are viewed together that the logic of the
series emerges. Crucially, when the Honfleur paintings are looked at as a group, several
overlaps and repetitions from one picture to another come into view. In Entrance to the
Port of Honeur (Entrée du port d’Honeur) Seurat shows us the two jetties that frame
the entryway of the port, each of which culminates in a small lighthouse (fig. 6). These
small lighthouses, often referred to as harbor lights or feux de port, served to mark the
entrance to a port and to convey information about water levels. On the right of the
14 seeing in series
FIGURE 7 painting is the eastern jetty of Honfleur, at the end of which stood not only a harbor
Georges Seurat, Tip of the Jetty of light but also a tide signal. A common feature of port entrances, tide signals communi-
Honfleur, 1886. Oil on canvas, 18 ×
cated information about the movement of the tides and the height of the water above
217/12 in. (46 × 55 cm). Kröller-
Müller Museum, Otterlo.
two meters by displaying various combinations of balls and flags hoisted on a cross-
shaped mast. At the far left of the picture, in the middle ground, we see the end of the
western jetty, its harbor light just barely visible from where Seurat was standing at the
tip of what was called the jetée du transit, facing the two longer jetties. The subject of Tip
of the Jetty of Honeur (Bout de la jetée d’Honeur) (fig. 7) is the same western jetty and
harbor light in the far left of Entrance to the Port, now seen from a much closer vantage
point, which was the tip of the seawall that encloses the bassin de retenue.7 This same
small lighthouse and jetty make their appearance in a third Honfleur painting, The
Hospice and Lighthouse of Honeur (L’hospice et le phare d’Honeur) (fig. 8). Here we see the
largest of Honfleur’s three lighthouses (usually referred to as the “lighthouse of the hos-
pice” or the “lighthouse of the hospital”) in the middle ground and, to its left and in the
far distance, the western jetty and its harbor light. In other words, Seurat shows us the
same lighthouse and jetty from afar, from close up, and from the side, three images con-
stituting three overlapping views, produced by the artist taking up a series of different
vantage points in space.
15 seeing in series
FIGURE 8
Georges Seurat, The Hospice and
Lighthouse of Honfleur, 1886. Oil
on canvas, 261/4 × 321/4 in. (66.7 ×
81.9 cm). National Gallery of Art,
Washington, D.C. Collection of Mr.
and Mrs. Paul Mellon (1983.1.33).
FIGURE 9
Photograph of the western jetty of
Honfleur, c. 1900.
FIGURE 10 Seurat’s particular interest in the western jetty of Honfleur is not an arbitrary one.
Georges Seurat, Harbor Light at On the contrary, its prominence in this series evokes the multiple views of one’s sur-
Honfleur, 1886. Conté crayon
roundings that one accumulates by walking from one vantage point to another, precisely
heightened with gouache on laid
paper, 91/2 × 121/8 in. (24.1 × 30.8
the process Seurat followed to produce this series of pictures. The functional purposes
cm). The Metropolitan Museum of of jetties were to direct currents, protect the harbor, help maintain water depth, and, in
Art, New York. Robert Lehman general, facilitate the movement of vessels in and out of the port. But over the course of
Collection, 1975 (1975.1.705). the nineteenth century they began to enjoy great popularity as promenades from which
to take in different vistas of the surrounding sea and coast.8 Late nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century photographs of Honfleur (fig. 9) testify to the popularity of promenad-
ing on the jetty, as do contemporary travel guides. One such guide, written by a woman
named Madame de Lalaing, is a five-volume series entitled Les Côtes de la France, pub-
lished between 1886 and 1890. Part travel diary, part guidebook, Lalaing’s work gives a
first-person account of travels with her family along the northern coast of France; in the
sections on her visits to Le Havre and Honfleur, the jetties take pride of place. Just before
leaving Le Havre for the short steamer ride to Honfleur, she and her family “went to say
our goodbyes to our dear jetty.” After arriving in Honfleur, the very first attraction they
visit is the western jetty. “From the tip of this jetty, which is very beautiful and which
stretches far into the sea, one enjoys a magnificent view. Opposite is the mouth of the
Seine, Le Havre, and the lighthouses of La Hève; to the right, the jetty and the lighthouse
of the east; to the left, the lighthouse of the hospital. We remained quite a long time on the
jetty, finding it difficult to tear ourselves away from the charm of the sight.”9 Given that
each of Seurat’s seascape series (with the exception of the Grandcamp group) is structured
17 seeing in series
FIGURE 11 around the artist’s accumulation of related views of the site from different vantage points,
Georges Seurat, Mouth of the Seine, his highlighting of the jetty, with its evocation of an ambulatory spectator, is more signifi-
Evening, 1886. Oil on canvas, with
cant than it might initially seem. Likewise, the tide signal and lighthouses that figure so
painted wood frame, 303/4 × 37 in.
(78.3 × 94 cm) including frame. The
prominently in Seurat’s paintings of Honfleur as well as in the few drawings he produced
Museum of Modern Art, New York. of the site (one of which features a harbor light illuminated at night) all directly bear on
Gift of Mrs. David M. Levy. the subject of the spatial navigation of one’s surroundings (fig. 10).
Seurat’s other Honfleur paintings also portray spatially overlapping sites and con-
tain motific repetitions, thereby elaborating on the project of representing the same spaces
and objects from different points of view. Mouth of the Seine, Evening (Embouchure de la
Seine, soir) and The Shore at Bas Butin (La grève du Bas Butin) (figs. 11, 12) both depict scenes
of Honfleur’s coast as it meets the open sea. The two pictures look like mirror images of
each other, each portraying a section of the Honfleur shore marked by series of wooden
posts (most likely breakwaters of some kind), with the land taking up opposite corners. As
such, they seem to represent either identical or closely overlapping parts of the site seen
from inverse perspectives. In a letter that Seurat wrote from Honfleur to Paul Signac, he
grouped these two pictures together, an indication that they might indeed constitute a
related pair.10 The two Honfleur paintings that depict the interior of the port, The Maria,
Honeur (fig. 13) and Corner of a Basin, Honeur (Coin d’un bassin, Honeur) (fig. 14), display
18 seeing in series
FIGURE 12 the same kind of mirrored similarity to one another as the Mouth of the Seine and Shore
Georges Seurat, The Shore at Bas at Bas Butin pair. That is to say, the two paintings of a ship docked in a basin could easily
Butin, 1886. Oil on canvas, 263/8 ×
be assumed to represent the same ship seen from inverse viewing positions, such that the
307/8 in. (67 × 78 cm). Musée des
Beaux-Arts, Tournai.
dock appears on the right side of The Maria and on the left side of Corner of a Basin. While
some evidence suggests that the latter painting depicts a ship located in a different basin
than the one shown in The Maria (which was the name of a ship that would regularly dock
in the Honfleur port), the similarity between the two paintings nevertheless suggests—and
I would argue that Seurat intended it this way—that these works depict the same ship
painted from opposite perspectives. And, to bring my analysis of the series full circle, the
vantage point taken up by Seurat to paint Entrance to the Port, which was the tip of the jetée
du transit facing the sea, is the exact same one he assumes when painting The Maria, but
now facing the opposite direction, toward the interior basins and with his back to the sea.
Studying the individual paintings within the context of the other works, the viewer comes
to understand how these images constitute a series, and how the series came about, with
the artist walking from site to site within the more general locale, painting overlapping
views from these related but distinct vantage points.
How might we glean the meaning of Seurat’s series strategy? That is, in what
terms should we understand the motivation for and significance of Seurat’s rendering
19 seeing in series
FIGURE 13 of interrelated views of the site, and his foregrounding of his own mobility in relation to
Georges Seurat, The Maria, these sights and spaces? For it is these perambulations, I argue, and the collection of views
Honfleur, 1886. Oil on canvas, 207/8
of the same objects and spaces from different vantage points, as much as the actual coasts
× 25 in. (53 × 63.5 cm). National
Museum, Prague.
and ports that he depicts, that are the subject of his series. I propose that Seurat’s practice
of producing related views of these sites is a demonstration of how we make sense of the
world around us, as put forward by one of the nineteenth century’s most important sci-
entists of vision, Hermann von Helmholtz. Helmholtz was a towering figure in the field
of nineteenth-century physiological optics, and it is his writings on visual perception,
especially spatial perception and the discrepancies between our perception of the external
world and our perception of pictures of the world, that I want to draw from in order to
interpret not only Seurat’s series of seascape paintings but also other parts of his œuvre
over the course of this book.
In the existing scholarship on Seurat, Helmholtz is usually only briefly mentioned,
if at all, and the few discussions of the relationship between Helmholtz’s writings and
Seurat’s work are limited to the scientist’s theories of color perception. Almost nowhere
in the secondary literature on Seurat are Helmholtz’s writings on other aspects of visual
and sensory perception, such as spatial perception, discussed, but his work on these
issues, I insist, had a profound and visible impact on Seurat’s pictures. Indeed, Seurat cited
20 seeing in series
FIGURE 14 Helmholtz as one of a handful of figures whose writings influenced his work, and Paul
Georges Seurat, Corner of a Basin, Signac confirmed Seurat’s interest in Helmholtz in his 1899 book on Neo-Impressionism,
Honfleur, 1886. Oil on canvas, 311/4
among other places.11 Helmholtz’s landmark Treatise on Physiological Optics, published
× 242/3 in. (79.5 × 63 cm). Kröller-
Müller Museum, Otterlo.
in Germany between 1856 and 1867, was translated into French in 1867, and other lec-
tures and essays by Helmholtz were also available in French translation. Furthermore,
Helmholtz’s research on perception was widely accessible in France in Seurat’s time
through the work of French scholars. Hippolyte Taine, one of the most well-known intel-
lectuals in France of the later nineteenth century, cites Helmholtz’s writings on perception
and cognition in his major work on psychology De l’Intelligence, published in 1870 and
21 seeing in series
reissued in subsequent editions during the 1870s and 1880s. Among other sections,
Helmholtz’s ideas are discussed at length in the portions of Taine’s book that address the
acquisition of spatial perception, with Helmholtz serving as one of Taine’s main sources.
Likewise, Théodule Ribot, an eminent French psychologist and philosopher of the period,
devoted considerable attention to Helmholtz’s theories of depth perception in his 1879
book La Psychologie allemande contemporaine. Helmholtz’s writings and ideas were also
frequently featured in Revue philosophique de la France et de l’étranger, the journal that Ribot
founded in 1876. This is to name just a few of the prominent scientists and intellectu-
als disseminating Helmholtz’s work in France in the last few decades of the nineteenth
century.12
One of the central issues that Helmholtz explored in his research on optics that I
want to focus on here concerned the mechanisms by which sensory perception produces
the impression of space and solidity in the external world. The perceived epistemological
importance of understanding depth perception was made clear by Helmholtz when he
wrote, “the explanation of the Perception of Solidity or Depth in the field of vision has
for many years become the field of much investigation and no little controversy. And no
wonder, for we have already learned enough to see that the questions which have here to
be decided are of fundamental importance, not only for the physiology of sight, but for a
correct understanding of the true nature and limits of human knowledge generally.” In his
Treatise on Physiological Optics, as well as in other writings, Helmholtz analyzed the means
by which we learn to make various kinds of spatial determinations, the most important
being binocular vision and the movements of the eye(s), head, and body. In the case of
binocular vision, the difference between the impressions received by each eye occupying
a slightly different location in space is called “binocular disparity.” This disparity, or the
difference between the impressions of a single moving eye, enables us to cognitively con-
struct a sense of distance and three-dimensionality.13 In the case of the movements of the
body in space, the changes that occur in our visual perception as our physical location
changes in relation to the object of sight, called “motion parallax,” also provide the brain
with cues to calculate distance, spatial location, and solidity. In short, it is by comparing
different views of the same object from different points in space—through stationary
binocular vision, the movement of a single eye, the movements of the eyes and the head,
and especially the movements of the body—that we are able to make spatial sense of
our surroundings.
But how exactly do multiple flat visual impressions of a scene give us a sensation
of its three-dimensionality, given that these retinal impressions are, of course, two-di-
mensional? Or, as Helmholtz put it, how is it that “instead of the two plane retinal images,
we find that the actual impression on our mind is a solid image of three dimensions?”14
Helmholtz posited that our sense of depth is produced not in the eye per se, but rather
in the brain, which associates these multiple flat retinal images with memories of pre-
vious tactile and bodily experiences. That is, the perception of three-dimensionality is
22 seeing in series
acquired through a process of experimentation, by which we repeatedly move our bodies
and engage haptically with surrounding objects, while simultaneously receiving a series
of visual and ocular-motor sensations. Those sensations become cues or “signs” for the
sensation of three-dimensionality that we experience by means of touch and bodily
movement. Eventually, we begin to unconsciously associate our visual sensations with
the memory of previous corresponding tactile and bodily movements, thereby cognitively
attributing three-dimensionality to the visual world as we perceive it.
As an illustration, Helmholtz describes the way a child learns to correlate visual
sensations with three-dimensionality through continual sensory and corporeal interac-
tion with surrounding objects. “The essential thing in this process,” he writes, “is just this
principle of experimentation. Spontaneously and by our own power, we vary some of
the conditions under which the object has been perceived. . . . In fact we see children also
experimenting with objects in this way. They turn them constantly round and round, and
touch them with the hands and the mouth, doing the same things over and over again
day after day with the same objects, until their forms are impressed upon them; in other
words, until they get the various visual and tactile impressions made by observing and
feeling the same object on various sides.”15 In this way, the child learns how various visual
impressions of the object correlate with his or her tactile and bodily sensations of that
object’s three-dimensionality. Similarly, the movements of our own body in space, and
our corresponding visual impressions of this corporeal movement, enable us to eventually
identify certain visual impressions as cues for spatial extension, distance, relative location
in space, and so on. “Once we know by means of touch what relation in space and what
movement is,” Helmholtz wrote, “we can further learn what changes in the impressions
on the eye correspond to the voluntary movements of a hand which we can see.” As such,
three-dimensionality can never be directly perceived by the eye; it is only through the
acquisition of a set of correspondences between optical impressions and tactile and bodily
experiences that we learn to attribute depth and solidity to the visual world. Crucially,
Helmholtz repeatedly stressed in his writings that this kind of active sensory and bodily
engagement with the external world necessary for comprehending our surroundings is not
limited to infancy or childhood. Throughout our life, we are constantly, if unconsciously,
conducting experiments that test or confirm the laws we have developed to correlate
our sensations to particular conditions in the outside world. As Helmholtz wrote, “the
correspondence, therefore, between the external world and the perceptions of sight rests,
either in whole or in part, upon the same foundation as all our knowledge of the actual
world—on experience, and on constant verication of its accuracy by experiments which we
perform with every movement of our body.”16
In De l’Intelligence, Hippolyte Taine identifies precisely these processes as consti-
tuting the crux of how we learn to perceive depth in our surroundings, and he turns
to Helmholtz to provide the gloss. “I leave further explanation to treatises on optics
and physiology, in which will be found the enumeration and explanation of all optical
23 seeing in series
judgments and errors,” Taine writes in the conclusion of an extensive discussion of spatial
perception and of the means by which we make cognitive sense of our visual sensations.
He continues: “They are the subject matter of a whole science, but are reduced to one prin-
ciple. ‘By experience,’ says Helmholtz, ‘we can evidently learn what other sensations of the
sight or other senses an object we see will excite in us, if we advance our eyes or body, if
we look at the object from different directions, if we feel it, etc. . . . The perception of the
body [i.e., the object being perceived] includes all the distinct possible group of sensations
which the body when looked at, touched, and experimented on in various ways, can excite
in us.’”17 Such was how Taine, via Helmholtz, summarized the coordination of the senses,
body, and mind necessary for our comprehension of the three-dimensional world.
Before addressing the relevance of Helmholtz’s theories to Seurat’s seascape paint-
ings, it is important to first point out that Helmholtz himself discussed at length the rela-
tionship between our visual perception of the external world and our experiences looking
at pictorial representations of the world. One of the fundamental discrepancies between
the two, according to Helmholtz, is that the most important means by which we perceive
depth in our surroundings, namely binocular vision and the movement of the body in
space, are inoperable as depth-cue providers when we are looking at a picture; a single,
static, two-dimensional representation of a scene or object can never offer us the multiple,
distinct views of the same scene that binocular vision and movement in space produce.
“Apart from the fact that any movement of the observer, whereby his eyes change position,
will produce displacements of the visual image, different when he stands before objects
from those when he stands before the image, I could speak of only one eye for which
equality of impression [between looking at the external world and looking at a painting]
is to be established. We, however, see the world with two eyes, which occupy somewhat
different positions in space, and which therefore show us two different perspective views
of objects before us.”18 In other words, when looking at a picture, both the left and the
right eye perceive the same image, rather than the two slightly different views of the real
scene perceived in binocular vision. Consequently, a painted scene cannot provide us with
the binocular disparity that normally sustains the perception of depth and solidity. Indeed,
this lack of binocular disparity tells us that a painting is flat. Likewise, the various visual
cues for distance and relations in space that we perceive through changes in our physical
position are also not available when looking at a painting. A painted representation of a
scene remains unchanging, regardless of the different vantage points we might take up. To
illustrate the latter point, Helmholtz offers the following example:
Suppose, for instance, that a person is standing still in a thick woods, where it is
impossible for him to distinguish, except vaguely and roughly, in the mass of foli-
age and branches all around him what belongs to what tree and what to another, or
how far apart the separate trees are, etc. But the moment he begins to move forward,
everything disentangles itself, and immediately he gets an apperception of the material
24 seeing in series
contents of the woods and their relations to each other in space. The direct impres-
sion on the sense of vision produced by these apparent relative motions of the various
trunks, branches and leaves of the trees of the actual woods will necessarily be entirely
different from that which could be obtained from a painting of this forest, no matter
how perfect it is. In going past a flat canvas with a picture on it, the apparent positions
of all parts of it with respect to each other remain the same all over the field of view.
A part of the painting which represents more remote objects moves with respect to
the observer exactly in the same way as an adjacent part on which a nearer object is
portrayed. All that a painting can ever do is to represent the view of a scene as it looks
from some single fixed point of view.
Looking at a painting of a scene is thus akin to looking at the actual scene with a station-
ary, monocular gaze, rather than with a binocular gaze and a mobile head and body. The
only exception that Helmholtz repeatedly cited when discussing the differences between
looking at a scene in the world and looking at a flat picture were stereoscopic images.
Here the viewer looks simultaneously at two pictures that reproduce the slight disparity
between the two views of a scene perceived in binocular vision, resulting in a powerful
illusion of three-dimensionality.19
I want to posit Seurat’s seascapes as an extended reconstitution and illustration of
the process by which we visually and corporeally engage with the external world in order
to make cognitive sense of it. More specifically, Seurat’s practice of walking around these
sites and depicting the same or contiguous parts of the site from different positions in
space makes manifest the contingency of cognition on our movement through space and
on our accumulation of different views of the same objects or spaces. Seurat’s seascapes
thus show the viewer how vision and bodily movement help us make sense of, orient our-
selves within, and navigate our environment. Furthermore, Seurat’s depiction of differ-
ent views of a site within a single series is aimed at both illustrating and partially, if only
metaphorically, overcoming the fundamental discrepancy between our perception of the
external world and its representation in a single, static, two-dimensional painting. As such,
these seascape series constitute a remarkable response to the long-standing question of
how a flat painting can give the viewer access to the depth and three-dimensionality of the
real world. Rather than just employing some of the tools of traditional illusionism, Seurat
reconstitutes the movement of the eyes and body around the site, imaging the successive
visual perceptions we acquire through binocular vision and movement in space. The series
as a whole thus conveys a sense of the three-dimensionality and spatial fullness of the real
world that cannot be conveyed by a single, static impression from any one point of view.
In this light, the largely overlooked definition of painting that Seurat allegedly
proffered to Gustave Kahn, the Symbolist poet and leading Neo-Impressionist supporter,
takes on much more specific meaning. Painting, Seurat supposedly said to Kahn, is “the art
of hollowing out a surface,” that is, the art of creating a sense of depth on a flat canvas.20
25 seeing in series
When considered in relation to Seurat’s interest in vision and in the ways that pictures
might re-create our visual experience of the external world, especially our perception of
space, this seemingly broad definition of painting suddenly gives a much more precise
indication of Seurat’s priorities. Furthermore, we can now read this comment as referring
not only to conventions and devices, such as linear perspective, that were traditionally
used to create the illusion of pictorial depth, but also to Seurat’s efforts to devise new
ways to reconstruct the three-dimensionality of the world in pictures, such as offering the
viewer multiple static views of the same objects and spaces in his seascape series.
It is in the context of Seurat’s sustained interest in how we successfully situate
ourselves within and navigate our surroundings that we should also interpret the pre-
dominance of certain motifs in the Honfleur pictures, as well as in his subsequent series.
The three lighthouses of Honfleur, for example, have everything to do with vision, and
with how information that is visually perceived can be used for spatial orientation and
navigation. The tremendous growth in maritime traffic during the nineteenth century,
along with an increase in the size and speed of ships, led France to develop and implement
an ambitious system of maritime beaconage, as well as modernize and enlarge many of
its ports. It did so, in part, through the construction of a comprehensive system of light-
houses, tide signals, buoys, beacons, semaphores, harbor lights, and various other kinds
of visual signaling mechanisms. Over the course of the century, France became the world
leader in the design, production, and sale of lighthouse apparatus and other maritime
signaling devices. Lighthouses were considered feats of nineteenth-century engineering
and design, as evidenced by the fact that lighthouses and other maritime signaling devices
were the subjects of regular concours or competitions for architecture students at the
École des Beaux-Arts throughout the nineteenth century.21 Of course, lighthouses were
also at the forefront of nineteenth-century optics, and some of the leading figures in that
field, such as Augustin Fresnel in France and David Brewster in Scotland, to cite just two
examples, were engaged in research on lighthouse illumination. Lighthouses were also
closely connected to developments in lighting technologies for much of the nineteenth
century; during precisely the same period that Seurat was producing his seascapes, French
lighthouses were undergoing key technological changes as they were being converted to
electricity. And, of course, questions regarding the conditions and limits of visibility, that
is, at what distances and under what conditions different kinds of lights, of various colors,
and of various intensities, were visible by navigators on the water, were absolutely central
to the research, design, and construction of the many kinds of beacons that Seurat depicts.
To give just one example, in Tip of the Jetty of Honeur (see fig. 7), Seurat depicts not only
the harbor light at the end of the jetty, but also the foghorn that had been installed to com-
municate with navigators when visibility was too poor for the lighthouse to be of use (fig.
15). The foghorn is a motif that thus explicitly addresses the conditions and limits of vision
as a means of helping us make sense of our surroundings. The prevalence of these motifs
in Seurat’s seascapes should be understood as a manifestation of the artist’s avid interest in
26 seeing in series
FIGURE 15 nineteenth-century advances in optics, in the various contingencies of sight, and in visual
Photograph of the harbor light and experience as a means of understanding and situating ourselves within our environment.
foghorn at the end of the western
Indeed, Seurat’s representation of multiple signaling structures within the same
jetty, Honfleur, n.d.
image and his accumulation of views of these structures from different vantage points
in his series recall the way that maritime navigators would visually align or triangulate
these same kinds of landmarks in order to identify their position in space and chart their
course. That is to say, landmarks such as lighthouses, signal masts, harbor lights, and so on
were important for navigators not only in isolation as spatial markers and for the infor-
mation that they conveyed through their flags, flashing lights, and the like, but they were
also useful when seen in relation to each other. Just as many of Seurat’s seascape pictures
image more than one of these structures and map their spatial relationship to one another,
so too did maritime navigators determine their locations and routes based in part on the
relationships between and among these landmarks. As such, both individually and as a
series, Seurat’s seascapes reconstitute an essential navigational practice that enabled one
to determine one’s position in space by looking at multiple beacons from single and multi-
ple points of view.22
To understand Seurat’s series as an investigation into how vision enables us to make
sense of the world around us greatly helps to clarify the particular model of vision with
which he was working, as does looking at the series in the context of Helmholtz’s writ-
ings. It is a model that contrasts in fundamental ways with the one that dominated the
discourse on Impressionism, and it is these crucial differences, as well as the distinctions
between the series practices of Seurat and Monet, that I want to lay out. To begin, viewing
Seurat’s seascapes in relation to Helmholtz underscores the importance of the cognitive
aspect of visual perception to the artist’s work. As Helmholtz repeatedly stressed, our
27 seeing in series
sense of distance, location in space, solidity, and so on, are the products of mental acts,
rather than of purely sensory information.23 Seurat’s seascape practice thus foregrounds
the relationship between sensation and cognition, and, in so doing, constitutes a medita-
tion not only on how we see but also on how we comprehend the external world. Seurat’s
seascapes should thus be seen as an epistemological inquiry into how vision enables us to
decipher the objects and spaces around us. Furthermore, Seurat’s seascape paintings make
evident the contingency of cognition on our continual and active sensory and corporeal
engagement with our environment. Accordingly, the seascape pictures situate perception
and cognition as taking place within expanded spatial and temporal parameters; it is when
the observer moves in and through space, carefully observing each part of the site from
different points of view and over time, that vision yields the fullest comprehension of the
outside world. Attentive and extended observation is also the mode of looking required
for understanding the relationship between and among the paintings in a single series.
Slowly, the viewer works through each image in relation to the others, gradually recog-
nizing the spatial overlaps and motific repetitions by means of a sustained study of the
canvases both individually and as a group.24
In all of these ways, Seurat’s concept of visual experience and its representation in
pictures is antithetical to the one that prevailed in the discourse on Impressionism and to
the notion of vision and painting that is manifest in Monet’s series practice. Indeed, the
specific logic of Seurat’s seascape series emerges even more clearly when one compares
these paintings to the work of Claude Monet. Considered by many at the time to be the
premier modern landscape painter, Monet also adopted the series as his main mode of
landscape production. But even though Monet is often considered the father of the land-
scape series, his own series practice and that of Seurat were developing almost simulta-
neously. The few art historians who have written about Seurat’s seascapes have tended to
rely rather heavily, if usually implicitly, on Monet’s model of the series, leading some to
hypothesize, for example, that the individual pictures in Seurat’s series represent the site
at different times of day. But a comparison of Monet’s and Seurat’s series makes plain the
two artists’ quite distinct conceptions of landscape painting, premised on very different
concepts of vision and its pictorial representation.
I first want to contextualize each artist’s serial practice within the discourse sur-
rounding Impressionism that developed during the 1870s and that culminated in Monet’s
landscape series of the 1880s and after, and within and against which Seurat situated his
own work. It has long been commonplace to understand Impressionism in terms of the
artists’ attempt to represent ephemeral effects in the external world and their individ-
ual visual experiences of these effects. Likewise, the supposed rapidity of their methods
of picture-making has long been understood as aimed at capturing a fleeting instant
of visual experience in paint. What has been somewhat less explicit in the literature on
Impressionism is the specific model of visual experience that the artists developed and pic-
tured in their works. That is, the Impressionists’ emphasis on ephemeral elements in the
28 seeing in series
external world and on the constant flux of visual perception posited a definition of visual
experience as constituted by a series of fragments or cuts from a larger spatial and tempo-
ral continuum. For example, one of the features that the diverse kinds of images produced
by different Impressionists had in common was the absence of conventional composi-
tional principles, so that the images would seem precisely like partial glimpses of a larger
scene. This impression was created by means of various compositional techniques such as
eliminating a central and single point of focus, displacing key elements of the scene from
the center to the edges of the picture, conspicuously cropping parts of the depicted scene
at the edges of the canvas or paper, and representing the subjects from askew or somehow
unconventional angles. All of these techniques were employed, paradoxically, to give the
impression of an absence of composition, that is, to convey a sense of the immediacy of
visual experience and its representation in pictures, and to indicate that the images were
fragments of a larger scene perceived at a brief instant in time. In short, Impressionist
pictures often appear to be spatial and temporal cuts or fragments, although the temporal
parameters of vision tended to dominate the discourse on Impressionism. Each image—be
it one of Renoir’s scenes of bourgeois sociability, Degas’s renderings of the minute ges-
tures and dance maneuvers of his ballerinas, or Monet’s landscape images of the flicker of
sunlight, shadows, and reflections on the surface of water—was understood to be the rep-
resentation of fleeting phenomena, the impression that a portion of a scene made on the
individual artist at a particular moment in time.
Even a cursory glance at the criticism on Monet, as well as at writings by the artist,
reveal the importance of a fragmented notion of time and vision to his work. Over and
over again in letters to Alice Hoschedé, to sympathetic critics such as Gustave Geffroy and
Octave Mirbeau, or to Paul Durand-Ruel, Monet writes of his continuous attempts to fix
the instantaneous on canvas, to recapture in paint what his eyes perceived during a brief
interval of time: “In short,” Monet wrote to Geffroy in 1889, “by force of transformations
I am following nature without being able to seize her; and then this river that falls, rises
again, one day green, then yellow, now dry, and which tomorrow will be a torrent.” The
multiple temporal markers—“then,” “again,” “one day,” “now,” “tomorrow”—that Monet uses
to structure his account of viewing and painting the landscape suggest that he understood
visual experience as constituted by a series of temporally brief fragments. The rise and fall
of the river, the colored reflections on the surface of the water, the atmospheric conditions
in the landscape, as well as Monet’s perceptions of these external phenomena, all undergo
rapid and significant changes in his account. The model of vision that Monet articulates
here and elsewhere closely aligns with discussions of Impressionism by many contempo-
rary critics. The notion that Monet’s paintings constitute cuts in time (and, more implicitly,
in space as well) is astutely articulated, for example, in the following critical assessment of
his work from 1889: “Claude Monet, in effect, is not content to look at things in the exten-
sion of the landscape, he looks at them in time; he sees them enliven the hours that slip
away, and what he paints are not only corners of nature, but instants of nature, if I may
29 seeing in series
express myself thus.” And it is precisely as representations of instants of visual percep-
tion that Félix Fénéon, among others, characterized Impressionist pictures, writing that
“their landscapes were corners of nature seen with a rapid glance, as if through a suddenly
opened and closed porthole,” that is, impressions perceived in the blink of an eye.25
As intimated in his letter to Geffroy, Monet’s pursuit of ephemeral optical effects in
his work entailed a great deal of frustration for the artist. Some of his other letters from
the 1880s and 1890s communicate even more directly the sense of disappointment and
failure that accompanied his attempts to represent transient visual experiences in paint.
Often, Monet would blame his perceived lack of success on the mutability of weather and
light conditions. But one also finds in his letters an acknowledgment of the near impos-
sibility of rendering “finished” paintings of fleeting perceptions, due to the discrepancy
between the supposed instant of perception and the lengthier time of pictorial execution.
In the letter to Geffroy quoted above, Monet stated that he was able to visually perceive
or “follow” the constant flux of the appearance of the landscape, but was unsuccessful
in his attempts to represent or “seize” a visual cut from this ceaseless stream of optical
impressions. Importantly, Monet’s dismay had only to do with the difficulties of repre-
senting these fragments of perception, not with the ostensible flux and instability of visual
experience per se, a flux that he, in fact, seemed to embrace. That is, in his writings, Monet
repeatedly distinguished between the act of seeing the constantly changing landscape,
always rendered in positive terms, and that of painting it, which was a constant battle. “I
have again taken up things impossible to do,” Monet writes in another letter to Geffroy
from 1890. “Water with grasses that undulate in the depths . . . it is admirable to see, but it
is enough to drive one mad to wish to do it.”26 In this letter and in others, Monet articu-
lates an opposition between the experience of “seeing” the rapidly changing scene, which
he characterized as “admirable,” and the “impossibility” of “do[ing] it,” that is, representing
his fleeting perceptions in paint. This opposition between the pleasure of looking at the
ever-changing landscape and the agony of pictorially reproducing it indicates that Monet’s
anxiety was not in any way epistemological. In other words, he was not concerned that the
unstable nature of vision prevented him from understanding the world, but rather that it
was so difficult to represent the evanescent in a pictorially satisfactory way.
To go further, Monet’s notion of visual experience as an instantaneous phenom-
enon implicitly severs it from any cognitive processes, a crucial difference between his
conception of sight and that of Seurat. The following reminiscence by the American
painter Lilla Cabot Perry, in which she recounts the advice given to her by Monet when
she visited him in 1889, succinctly illustrates this point: “When you go out to paint,” Monet
instructs her, “try to forget what objects you have before you—a tree, a house, a field, or
whatever. Merely think, here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak
of yellow, and paint it just as it looks to you, until it gives your own naive impression of
the scene before you.” According to this account, Monet himself characterized his notion
of vision, in which the external world is reduced to a flat, chromatic array, as “naive,” that
30 seeing in series
FIGURE 16 is, a pre- or even anti-cognitive notion of visual perception that could hardly be further
Claude Monet, Regatta at from Seurat’s model of vision.27 Monet’s Regatta at Argenteuil (fig. 16) could be understood
Argenteuil, c. 1872. Oil on canvas,
as a kind of demonstration of the deliberately naive vision that he advised Cabot Perry to
187/8 × 291/2 in. (48 × 75 cm). Musée
d’Orsay, Paris.
pursue. Not only are the houses, trees, and sailboats above the waterline represented with
just a few strokes of quickly applied paint, but Monet completely abstracts these objects in
their reflections on the surface of the water. Cabot Perry goes on to write that Monet “said
he wished he had been born blind and then had suddenly gained his sight so that he could
have begun to paint in this way without knowing what the objects were that he saw before
him.” This passage makes absolutely clear that Monet’s notion of painting was grounded in
the representation of visual sensation divorced from cognition and, thus, was disengaged
from any kind of inquiry into how we come to know the external world.28
The difficulty of producing aesthetically satisfactory paintings based on his “naive”
vision not only instilled a sense of frustration in the artist, but also had long been the
grounds for critics’ condemnation of Impressionism. The supposed rapidity and spon-
taneity of Impressionist procedures necessary for representing a momentary impression
sur le motif, without preparatory works, opened the Impressionists to the charge that
their paintings were pictorially incomplete or aesthetically insufficient. As Steven Levine
has discussed in his thorough study of Monet’s critical reception, “underlying the con-
troversy [surrounding Monet’s work] was the persistent question as to whether Monet’s
pictures, allegedly observed and recorded directly from nature, constituted fully realized
paintings, i.e., tableaux, rather than mere études, pochades, ébauches, morceaux, or any of the
other designations employed to diminish, if only semantically, the stature of the artist’s
achievement.” The derogatory characterization of Monet’s pictures as morceaux or études
31 seeing in series
was meant to imply their incompleteness or insufficiency, in contrast to the visual and
aesthetic totality of a tableau.29 Monet’s concept of painting as a representation of frag-
ments of perceptual experience thus carried with it the danger that his paintings were also
aesthetic fragments rather than fully realized wholes. The notion that each image repre-
sented a unique set of effects in the external world and a single instant of vision, combined
with Monet’s concerns about the pictorial insufficiency of any single work, directly paved
the way for the development of his series practice. If the Impressionist aesthetic of the
morceau or étude rendered the production of a tableau impossible, then perhaps groups
of works could substitute for the single masterpiece. Although Monet’s most well-known
series are his Haystacks, Poplars, Rouen Cathedral, and Water Lilies, throughout the 1880s
Monet devoted most of his attention to producing series of seascapes. With the exception
of the Water Lilies, his 1880s seascape campaigns constitute the most prolific serial work of
his entire career.
The first pictures that Monet executed of the same motif and then exhibited as a
group were his 1876–1877 paintings of the Saint-Lazare train station, seven of which were
shown in the third Impressionist exhibition, and which were referred to by several critics
as “series.” This series would actually prove to be somewhat anomalous within Monet’s
œuvre, in that the Gare Saint-Lazare paintings incorporate a larger than usual number of
variables, such as the artist’s viewing position as he moves in and around the station, the
transient atmospheric elements of smoke, steam, and light, the comings and goings of the
trains, and so on. But as Monet’s series practice developed, the variable of his own physical
position in relation to the depicted scene was minimized and, in some cases, eliminated
altogether. Indeed, in series such as his 1881 paintings of Fécamp, the 1882 paintings from
Pourville, Varengeville, and Dieppe, the paintings of Étretat from 1883 and 1885–86, and
the 1886 works of Belle-Île (to name only his major 1880s campaigns near France’s north-
ern and western coasts), and then in his Poplars, Haystacks, and Rouen Cathedral series of
the 1890s, the motif appears to be very similar, in some cases almost identical, from one
painting to the next. Color becomes the key variable within each series, the chromatic
variations signifying internal changes in the artist’s perception of the motif, external
changes in time of day, season, or atmospheric conditions (which were often highlighted
in the titles of the works), or the interaction between changing internal and external phe-
nomena. In this way the supposedly incomplete single painting was supplemented and
made whole by the production of series of paintings. Importantly, the sense of totality or
fullness produced by Monet’s series is primarily aesthetic in nature, rather than an attempt
to render a “truth” about the motif or to somehow enhance our knowledge of it through
multiple renderings in paint. An 1892 letter from Octave Mirbeau to Monet describing
the critic’s reaction to the Poplars series exhibition at the Durand-Ruel Gallery articulates
this desired effect of aesthetic totality: “It is an absolutely admirable work, this series, one
work, in which you again renew yourself by craft and sensation and where you attain the
absolute beauty of grand decoration. I experienced there complete joys, and emotion I
32 seeing in series
cannot render.” According to Mirbeau, the series is actually “one work,” each individual
painting subsumed within the larger whole; his characterization of the series as possessing
“the absolute beauty of grand decoration,” one that produces “complete joys” in the viewer,
conveys a sense of aesthetic wholeness that has little to do with the depicted motif.30
For both Monet and Seurat, then, the status of vision and of painting as a fragment
was central to their series production. And yet, within this shared concern, Seurat’s work
should be understood as more anti- than Neo-Impressionist. His anti-Impressionism
is evident in his deep engagement with the cognitive dimensions of perception, in his
attempt to supersede the epistemological limits of the single perceptual impression, and
in his notion of vision as taking place within extended, rather than fragmented or com-
pressed, temporal and spatial parameters. Relatedly, Seurat’s sustained visual and corpo-
real interaction with the sites that he depicts contrasts quite starkly with Monet’s more
spectatorial relationship to the landscapes that he represents. Seurat’s mode of productive
sensory, cognitive, and bodily engagement also offers an alternative model of perambu-
lation to the one that looms so large in discussions of later nineteenth-century France,
namely, the deliberately aimless, undirected gaze and movement of the flâneur.31
Despite the fundamental differences between the series of Monet and Seurat, they
nevertheless shared one important attribute, that is, very specific exhibition requirements.
The desire on the part of both artists to exhibit their series as series necessitated exhibition
venues outside of the Salon or even the Impressionist exhibitions. The private galleries of
Paul Durand-Ruel and Georges Petit allowed Monet to mount one-man shows or to partic-
ipate in very small group exhibitions, both of which gave him the opportunity to show his
series in their entireties. Seurat had a different venue that enabled him to exhibit each sea-
scape series as a group and to show them alongside his figural paintings and drawings—the
Salon des Artistes Indépendants. The two founding tenets of the Salon des Indépendants,
organized by the Société des Artistes Indépendants, which had formed in 1884, were the
absence of a selection committee and the eschewing of awards—“No jury, no prizes” was
its famous motto. Any artist who paid the requisite fee was allowed to exhibit his or her
work in the annual Salon des Indépendants. A third feature of the newly founded exhibi-
tion forum was also widely touted, namely, that each participant could exhibit up to ten
works at a time. The importance of the relationship between and among an artist’s individ-
ual works, and the notion that the meaning of any single work derived at least in part from
the larger exhibition grouping to which it belonged, were thus embedded in the founding
principles of the Société. Nothing could be further from the tradition of the Salon, which
encouraged the production of single, grand paintings that were meant to stand on their
own; although the jury might select more than one painting by the same artist for exhibi-
tion, the artist had no control over which or how many of the works would be shown (nor
over how their works would be hung); each work, therefore, needed to be autonomous and
self-contained, a single masterpiece impressive enough to attract the approval of the jury,
and one whose meaning was not reliant on other pictures in the artist’s œuvre.
33 seeing in series
The possibilities opened to artists by the Indépendants’ generous exhibition policy
were widely acknowledged by both artists and critics. Marcel Fouquier wrote, for exam-
ple, “The considerable number of works shown is explained by the fact that the rules only
limit the number of entries per artist to ten. One could not be more hospitable. . . . This
system of rules can be of service to artists of talent, who desire to show the public and the
critics a series of works executed with the same spirit or, on the contrary, ones that pres-
ent curious contrasts in their execution.” Fouquier’s language in this passage is important,
for he uses the term “series” to refer to the group of works submitted by an artist to the
exhibition, suggesting that the exhibition policy itself puts a new stress on the connections
between and among the works shown by any single artist. Another critic’s description of
the Indépendants’ exhibitions very aptly characterizes the importance of this venue for
artists such as Seurat: “There are those who, feeling that they cannot be judged on one
or two canvases admitted into the Salon, turn to the Indépendents where the number of
entries is unlimited, to show works of an ensemble, to show series of studies, that would
be a shame to disperse.”32
For the most part, critics did write about Seurat’s seascape series as groups of pic-
tures, characterizing them as études, vues, or coins, terms that, furthermore, ground the
pictures in the artist’s direct visual experience of the sites. Claims of Seurat’s visual atten-
tiveness and fidelity to appearances were quite common in the contemporary criticism
on these paintings, as well as in later art historical interpretations.33 For example, Émile
Verhaeren wrote that Seurat’s artistic practice was structured around the completion of “a
large canvas in winter . . . and then, in summer, to wash his eyes of the days in the studio
and to translate as exactly as possible the vivid light, with all its nuances. An existence
divided into two, by art itself.” The critic Roger Marx wrote of how “Seurat succeeds very
well in giving in his [landscape] studies the idea of the sight that he has before his eyes,”
while Jules Christophe praised Seurat’s “very accurate views of the sea.” One anonymous
critic, describing the contents of Seurat’s studio, astutely characterized his seascapes as
“the studies brought back from a stay by the sea or in the country—a stay not of rest and
vacation, but of relentless work and documentary stockpiling.”34 Although the author of this
passage is unknown, the fact that he visited Seurat’s studio indicates that it was someone
close to the artist. As such, the terms he used to describe Seurat’s seascape pictures might
well have been inflected by the artist’s own comments. For this last critic, then, Seurat’s
seascapes were not only rooted in direct observation, but were about his visual relation-
ship to the sites he depicted. Seurat’s 1890 letter to the writer Maurice Beaubourg, long
believed by scholars to have been unsent by the artist—although clear evidence exists to
the contrary—is instructive to consult in this regard (see fig 43). Seurat listed his seascapes
not by individual title, but rather as études, more specifically, études faites à Honeur, études
faites aux Crotoy, and so on.35 Rather than identifying these pictures as preparatory works,
which they obviously were not, Seurat’s designation of them as études infuses each picture
with a sense of the partial and the contingent and thereby subtly conveys their status as
34 seeing in series
FIGURE 17 parts of a larger series. The use of the term étude also very much grounds the images in the
Photograph of the entrance to the artist’s observations of the locale. Seurat’s own characterization of his seascape pictures,
port of Honfleur showing the east-
then, explicitly frames them in relation to his direct visual experience of these sites and
ern and western jetties, the harbor
lights, and the tide signal, n.d.
underscores the dependence of the meaning of any single work on the series as a whole.
Photographs of the sites in Honfleur that Seurat painted from the same period (figs.
FIGURE 18 17, 18) confirm the artist’s fidelity to appearances and to visual incident in his pictures, as
Photograph of the lighthouse of
does a close examination of individual works. That is, the particular model of attentive
the hospital and the western jetty
of Honfleur, n.d. and active visual engagement that Seurat puts forward in his seascape series is manifest
not only in their group logic, but also in the individual canvases. One can see in a painting
such as Hospice and Lighthouse (see fig. 8) a commitment to the representation of numerous
visual details in the scene: the exact structure of the lighthouse, the precise roofline, win-
dows, gables, and chimneys of the mariners’ hospice on the right, the spokes of the broken
wheel on the far right closer to the foreground, the delicate wooden slats of the jetty in the
distance, and so on. These details situate the painting as an exercise in careful and pro-
longed visual study of one’s environment. In some cases, Seurat’s inclusion of details also
acts as a kind of test of his (and his viewer’s) comprehension of the identity of these vari-
ous objects. In the foreground of The Maria (see fig. 13), for example, the black anchor post,
or bollard, to which the ship is tied is represented with enough clarity to make its function
and identity easily discernible. Directly behind this bollard is an identical post, situated
further away from the viewer and thus depicted in much less detail. Would we be able to
identify the object further back in space without seeing the one in front of it and inferring
that the two objects are the same? That is, despite the lesser amount of visual information
provided to us, can we still recognize the object, based on our association of this form
with the object in the foreground? The same question presents itself in relation to the two
lampposts lined up just behind the bollards, one situated a bit further back than the other.
The one closer to the foreground is fairly easily recognizable, and it enables the viewer to
identify the much less clearly rendered object behind it. Seurat thus employs various ele-
ments in the scene to explore the relationship between perception and cognition, giving
35 seeing in series
the viewer varying levels of visual information or cues to test one’s discernment of these
objects. The specificity of Seurat’s representations of certain parts of Honfleur is all the
more noticeable in comparison with the sea and sky in these pictures, the aspects of the
site that extend far beyond the edges of the canvas. These parts of the paintings are gen-
erally uninflected by any visual detail, as if to emphasize that they can never be visually
grasped or pictorially represented in their entirety.
It is in terms of testing the limits of our visual reach that Seurat’s rendering of
objects in the far background, close to the horizon, takes on new import. As I’ve already
argued, Seurat’s attention to the horizon line is consistent throughout his seascape
series. But his interest in that which lies just in front of it, at the edges of perceptibility, is
also noteworthy. In Hospice and Lighthouse, we see two lighthouses juxtaposed with one
another; one of them is well within our visual grasp, the particulars of the structure easily
perceptible, while the other one, in the background, is much less visible and almost blurs
into the coastal landscape in the far distance. Likewise, the main motifs of Mouth of the
Seine, Evening (see fig. 11) are the rows of wooden breakwaters on the beach, almost the
only details in an otherwise very spare representation of shore, sea, and sky. These posts,
rendered as thick and weighty in the immediate foreground, lose some of their substan-
tiality and visual distinctness in the middle distance. Parallel and close to the horizon
line, a row of similar vertical shapes appears, just at the boundary of perceptibility and
on the verge of disappearing altogether from sight. Mouth of the Seine, Evening is also one
of only three paintings in Seurat’s body of seascapes in which he foregrounds ephemeral
atmospheric conditions, the other two being Grandcamp (Evening) (1885) (see fig. 5) and
The Channel of Gravelines, An Evening (1890) (see fig. 41). As all three represent twilight or
nighttime scenes, it would seem that Seurat’s interest lies not in fleeting effects in general,
but rather and more specifically in the contingency of vision on light, exploring the lim-
ited visibility that results from the gradual dwindling of light at nightfall.
One Honfleur painting uniquely manifests Seurat’s interest in the cognitive aspect
of visual experience and the notion that vision is more a mental act of decipherment than
a purely sensory experience through the inclusion of language in the represented scene.
The Maria (see fig. 13) exemplifies Seurat’s studied attention to the world of visual inci-
dent, in this case, the various parts of the ship and surrounding basin. If we look closely
and for a long time at the work, we will eventually notice the signage that runs along the
top of the white, flat-roofed building in the far background. Its faint letters exist on the
border between perceptibility and imperceptibility, but if one persists in attempting to
decipher these marks, one may finally be able to figure out that the sign says “Honfleur
& Londres via Southhampton.” I would argue that this sign, and the viewer’s struggle
to make the marks cohere into legible letters and words, function as an example and a
symbol of the cognitive component of visual experience, in which mental comprehen-
sion, rather than mere sensation, is the goal. Here Seurat presents vision in unmistakably
epistemological terms, as certain phenomena must be seen with enough clarity to cohere
36 seeing in series
as comprehensible signs. One might even see an analogy being posited here between our
visual perception of the world and our understanding of language. Indeed, Helmholtz
repeatedly compared our visual impressions to linguistic signs, arguing that both had an
arbitrary relationship to their referents in the real world and that the meaning of both was
learned rather than innate.36
The testing that Seurat performs in these pictures pertains to the conditions and
limits not only of perception, but also of representation. That is, Seurat’s rendering of
various objects in the represented scenes explores the different levels and kinds of sig-
nifying cues necessary to make these objects recognizable to the viewer. One has no
difficulty making out the blue and red flags on the right side of The Maria, for example,
but the flag in the background in the far left of the image is barely identifiable, composed
of just enough paint marks to make the object register as a flag. The famous point of
Neo-Impressionism (although Seurat’s works are not actually composed solely of dots of
pigment) thus serves as a unit not only of visual sensation but also of signification, with
different numbers and combinations of dots representing a flag, a sailboat in the far dis-
tance, and so on.37 Again and again, the perceptibility and legibility of certain elements
within Seurat’s seascapes are not presented as a given. Rather, different parts of the scene
are depicted with varying levels of detail and clarity, deliberately situated within, just at
the threshold of, or beyond our visual and cognitive reach.
Seurat’s attention to visual detail in his seascapes, in conjunction with his supple-
menting of individual views through the production of series of pictures, successfully
reconciles two long-standing, competing aims in the landscape painting tradition: adher-
ence to visual observation and the creation of a sense of visual, as well as aesthetic, total-
ity. Earlier in this chapter, I discussed Monet’s concerns about the aesthetic or pictorial
sufficiency of his individual paintings, rooted in critiques of his pictures as mere études
or morceaux, rather than fully realized tableaux—critiques that he responded to with the
production of series of paintings. Seurat, too, seems to have taken these kinds of distinc-
tions seriously, characterizing his seascape paintings in one of the drafts of his letter to
Beaubourg as “études de paysage” and his figural paintings as “grandes toiles.” His practice
of producing series of seascapes could thus also be seen as an attempt, in part, to over-
come not only the limits of vision from any single, stationary vantage point, but also the
pictorial or aesthetic limitations of the single landscape painting. Another way to put it
would be that the series format allowed Seurat to reconcile fidelity to his visual observa-
tions with the desire to produce a sense of pictorial totality. Indeed, landscape artists had
long been aware of a fundamental tension within the landscape painting project between
creating a picture of a particular landscape scene and achieving a sense of aesthetic, tem-
poral, and spatial autonomy and self-sufficiency in the picture. The tradition of ideal land-
scape painting, exemplified by the work of Claude Lorrain and Nicolas Poussin, followed
an aesthetic in which real elements of the landscape were arranged and supplemented
according to the rational principles of order, harmony, and, of course, linear perspective,
37 seeing in series
thereby producing a well-ordered tableau. The lateral expansion of the horizon was
counteracted by a variety of pictorial devices, such as linear perspective, that pulled the
viewer’s eye back into pictorial space, and by various foreground elements that guided
the viewer’s gaze away from the edges of the painting and toward its center. This tension
between the landscape site painted mimetically as a fragment or supplemented and syn-
thesized into a fully realized tableau is discussed by Poussin in his famous letter to Sublet
de Noyers. Poussin here uses the terms “aspect” and “prospect” to designate these two
distinct conceptions of seeing and representing the landscape: “One must understand . . .
that there are two manners of viewing objects, one by seeing them simply, and the other
by considering them with attention. To see simply is nothing other than to receive natu-
rally in the eye the form and the appearance of the thing seen. But to see an object with
consideration, that is beyond the simple and natural reception of the form in the eye, one
seeks with a particular application the means to understand well this same object: further-
more one can say that the simple aspect is a natural operation, and that which I name the
prospect is an office of reason that depends on three things: knowledge of the eye, of the
visual ray, and the distance from the eye to the object.”38 For Poussin, the aspect signified
a mode of looking and painting that contented itself with the reproduction of the visual
appearance of the world; the prospect represented the world as ordered and perfected
by the artist, most explicitly through the use of central point perspective (with which the
term “prospect” shares its etymology). The former lacks composition, selection, and order-
ing, and is essentially a transcription of one’s visual perception onto canvas. In short, it is a
morceau or étude, while the prospect is the autonomous tableau.
The inherently finite nature of the canvas and of the landscape view presented
on it was signified by the frame of the picture, which, in a tableau, had to be naturalized
through a variety of means. Pierre-Henri de Valenciennes, a painter who published a
highly influential treatise on landscape painting in 1799 entitled Éléments de perspective pra-
tique, commented on the impossibility of encompassing the vastness of the landscape itself
within the physical means of the easel painting. He wrote, “an ordinary landscape painting
cannot perfectly reveal the whole position of a site, because the space that it represents is
circumscribed by a frame.”39 The frame, as the most visible manifestation of the limits of
the canvas, emphasizes the fact that the depicted landscape scene is inevitably a fragment
of a larger whole. Even though the nineteenth century marked the period in which, at least
in France, realism came to triumph over the ideal landscape, the discourse on painting
as a totality versus a fragment, phrased as the difference between a tableau or œuvre and
a morceau or étude, remained very much alive throughout much of the century. Many
landscape artists during this time struggled to reconcile fidelity to their perception with
the compositional and aesthetic demands of the tableau, seeking to represent some kind of
spatial or visual totality within the limited parameters of the easel painting.
Panorama painting, which was born at the very end of the eighteenth century and
which died at the very end of the nineteenth century, fulfilled the competing demands of
38 seeing in series
FIGURE 19 specificity of locale and a frameless spatial and visual totality. The term “panorama” was
Panorama Rotunda in the Place a neologism invented to describe circular paintings that reproduced 360-degree views of
d’Austerlitz, Paris. Published in
cityscapes, landscapes, battle scenes, and so on. Comprising the Greek words pan, mean-
Nouvelles Annales de la
Construction, N. 329, May 1882.
ing “all,” and horama, meaning “view,” the term itself underscores the fact that seemingly
Bibliothèque nationale de France. unbounded visibility was central to the appeal of this new type of pictorial phenomenon.
Invented in Scotland in 1787 by Robert Barker and brought to France in 1799, the first
panorama exhibited in Paris depicted a view of the city from the top of the dome of the
Tuileries Palace. The advertisements all around Paris announced that “the panorama, or
picture without a frame, representing a superb View of Paris and Its Environs seen from the
top of the Tuileries Palace, is open daily at the new rotunda.”40 The claim of the absence of
a frame was actually only half-true. While panorama paintings expanded laterally in a full
circle, the canvas did have top and bottom edges, but the design of the exhibition space
prevented the viewer from seeing them (fig. 19). Visitors entered the circular panorama
building and proceeded through a darkened hallway, giving them time to disassociate
themselves from the outside world in order to heighten the illusionism of the painted
scene. They would emerge onto a circular viewing platform in the exhibition room, sur-
rounded on all sides by the painting (fig. 20). A railing around the platform determined
how close visitors could come to the painting and was placed such that viewers were
unable to see the bottom edge of the picture. Furthermore, a kind of umbrella that hung
above the platform hid from view the top edge of the canvas and the source of the room’s
light, which was a series of skylights near the roof of the rotunda. Thus, as far as the vis-
itor could tell, the panorama was indeed a painting without borders, showing an endless
horizon that a single easel painting could never encompass.
Other than having the freedom to select the vantage point from which the scene was
depicted and viewed (a “single” vantage point that nevertheless far exceeded what could
actually be perceived in the real world from any individual viewing position), the pan-
orama painter was obligated to paint every aspect of the scene as “accurately” as possible
and to place the various aspects of the scene in their “correct” spatial relationships to one
another. Indeed, the pleasure of the panorama experience consisted of walking around the
39 seeing in series
FIGURE 20 platform and taking in the various parts of the expansive scene, all of which were joined
Wood engraving by C. V. Nielsen of in a single visual and spatial continuum. The desire for a representation that exceeded
Panorama of Constantinople by
the limits of ordinary vision from any one vantage point, both laterally and toward the
Jules-Arsène Garnier, published in
Illustreret Tidende, volume 24, no.
horizon, was fully satisfied by the panorama, which offered a “faithful reproduction of the
1205, October 29, 1882, p. 55. The appearance of a site viewed from all angles and as far as the eye can see.”41
Royal Library, Copenhagen. The interest in panorama paintings steadily declined throughout Europe toward the
middle of the nineteenth century, but they experienced a tremendous revival in France
and Germany in the last third of the century, when they enjoyed greater popularity than
ever before. A panorama of the Siege of Paris was so widely visited during the 1878 Paris
Universal Exposition that a number of new companies were founded immediately after-
ward to capitalize on the panorama’s resurgence. The decade of the 1880s marked the peak
of the panorama revival in Paris. An 1884 Parisian guidebook exclaimed, “in the last few
years, there has been a perfect eruption of panoramas in every quarter of Paris.” Over the
course of the decade, several new panorama rotundas were built, and the 1889 Universal
Exposition in Paris offered visitors no less than seven different panoramas to enjoy. And,
of course, the centerpiece of the 1889 Exposition, the Eiffel Tower, offered visitors actual
panoramic views of Paris from its viewing platforms. Seurat produced one of the very first
paintings of the tower the year of the Exposition.42
The late nineteenth-century ubiquity of panorama paintings in Paris has import-
ant and thus far overlooked connections with some of the preoccupations manifest in
Seurat’s seascape series. As we have seen, Seurat, too, was fundamentally concerned with
the limitations of any single view of one’s surroundings, and sought to compensate for
them through the production of series of paintings. The notion of the panorama painting
40 seeing in series
as integrating multiple viewing positions into a single canvas had been addressed by
Étienne-Jean Delécluze, the prominent art theorist and critic, in his 1828 Précis d’un traité
de peinture: “The continuity of the apparent horizon line,” Delécluze writes, “is the main
thing that distinguishes the panorama painting from the framed painting. All we see in the
latter is the portion of the horizontal line that is embraced by the angle of vision; more-
over, there is only ever one vantage-point. With the panorama, whose surface is circular,
we proceed from angle of vision to angle of vision—in other words, from vantage-point to
vantage-point. As the spectator takes his gaze from one side to the other, his eyes, through
the proliferation of vantage-points, are subjected one after another to the optical phenom-
ena that belong to each angle of vision.” In addition, both Seurat’s series and panoramas
encouraged their viewers to work through the spatial relations between the different sites
in the picture (and, in Seurat’s case, among the sites represented in the multiple pictures of
a given series). As one visitor to a panorama of London wrote: “I would be charged with
exaggeration if I said that he who has seen the panorama of London has gone to London.
But it would not be false to say that he who has seen the panorama of London will be able
to find his bearings in London.”43 Lastly, the panorama, like Seurat’s series, was premised
on a notion of vision as characterized by spatial and temporal extension. Transient visual
effects such as time of day, weather, or movement were excluded by the panorama. Indeed,
one of the main complaints about panoramas was the absence of a sense of movement and
time from the pictures, and out of this criticism was likely born the diorama.
The basic principle behind the diorama was the use of intricate lighting techniques
to create the illusion of changes in light and movement on a two-dimensional surface.
Although it had its roots in various eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century pictorial
phenomena, it was Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre who, in the early 1820s, invented what
was called the diorama. Like the panorama, dioramas were exhibited in specially designed
structures in which visitors traveled through a dark hallway to reach the viewing area. But
unlike the panorama, which was designed for visitors to wander around the platform and
take in different parts of the painted scene, the viewing space of the diorama was designed
like a theater, with benches, boxes, and seats that kept viewers in one place for the dura-
tion of the show. The diorama was framed by a stage-like opening that hid the edges of
the picture and helped to establish an illusion of great distance between the image and the
spectators. The picture itself was made of semi-transparent canvas that was illuminated
in various ways to create the impression of changes of weather and light and, later, move-
ment (figs. 21, 22).
Daguerre opened the first diorama in Paris on July 11, 1822, displaying two pictures,
one a Swiss mountain scene and the other a chapel in Canterbury Cathedral, each one
measuring about seventy by forty-five feet. Viewers watched as lighting effects produced
the illusion of the rising and setting of the sun in the landscape over a period of about
fifteen minutes, at which point the seating area pivoted and viewers found themselves
41 seeing in series
FIGURE 21 facing the diorama of the cathedral interior. The basic appeal of the diorama experience
Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre, was the illusion of the compressed passage of time by means of changes in lighting on a
Diorama of an Alpine Scene, n.d.
static, two-dimensional surface. This illusion, and the popularity of the diorama, increased
Harry Ransom Center, The
University of Texas at Austin.
with Daguerre’s invention of what was called the “double-effect” diorama, which created
Gernsheim Collection. the impression not only of changing light but also of movement. Through scenes painted
on both the back and front of the canvas that were strategically and variably illuminated
FIGURE 22
by means of a series of lights, screens, and filters, the double-effect diorama offered the
Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre,
Diorama of an Alpine Scene II, n.d. viewer images, for example, of the interior of a church not only undergoing different
Harry Ransom Center, The levels of illumination, but filling with worshippers who seated themselves in the pews,
University of Texas at Austin. observed midnight service, and then departed from the church.44
Gernsheim Collection.
The panorama and the diorama are often closely associated as two nineteenth-cen-
tury popular pictorial entertainments, both of which drew large numbers of visitors eager
to experience new forms of pictorial illusionism. But the two kinds of pictures embody
quite different models of visual experience. While the panorama emphasized vision in
relation to spatial extension and conveyed a sense of temporal continuity through the
exclusion of ephemeral effects, the diorama compressed time and defined vision as deter-
mined by a series of rapid changes in the external world. Indeed, the primacy in certain
diorama pictures of changes in time of day, weather, and seasons closely parallels the
interests of the Impressionist landscape painters. A description of Daguerre’s Swiss moun-
tainscape diorama underscores this similarity: “The most striking effect is the change of
light. From a calm, soft, delicious, serene day in summer, the horizon gradually changes,
becoming more and more overcast, until a darkness, not the effect of night, but evidently
of an approaching storm—a murky, tempestuous blackness—discolors every object. . . .
This change in light upon the lake (which occupies a considerable portion of the picture) is
very beautifully contrived. The warm reflection of the sunny sky recedes by degrees, and
42 seeing in series
the advancing dark shadow runs across the water—chasing, as it were, the former bright
effect before it.” And one visitor’s description of Daguerre’s Holyrood Chapel diorama
highlights the centrality of the representation of evanescent optical effects to this new
kind of picture: “If this be a painting, however exquisite, it still is something more; for the
elements have their motions, though the objects they illuminate are fixed.”45 So too, in
many Impressionist pictures, was the principal focus on these ephemeral “elements” in the
landscape, more than the fixed “objects they illuminate.”
The fact that Monet, late in his career, installed continuous panels of Water Lilies
in a circular exhibition space as a bequest to the French state may seem to contradict
my claim that his notion of vision is fundamentally not panoramic. And indeed, the
late Water Lilies installation in the Orangerie does constitute a significant departure
from Monet’s earlier paradigm of the representation of temporal and spatial fragments
of visual perception in his easel paintings. Writing in 1910 about his interest in creat-
ing this kind of installation, Monet stated: “I was tempted to use the water lily theme
to decorate a drawing room: carried around the walls, drawing them into its unity, it
would have produced an illusion of a whole without end, of a wave without a horizon
and without a shore.”46 Certainly, Monet’s plan for a circular arrangement of paintings
that enclosed the viewer on all sides mimics the format of a panorama painting. But
the scene depicted in Monet’s painting, as described by him in the letter, departs in key
respects from panorama pictures; instead of offering the viewer a vista that stretches
back in space as far as the eye could see, Monet’s paintings depict the opposite, that is, a
telescoped, close-up view of the surface of water. These pictures would, Monet specified,
be “without a horizon and without a shore,” that is, without the markers that not only
indicate spatial recession but that help viewers situate themselves in space in relation to
the painted site.
Turning back to Seurat’s seascapes, one of the central features of the post-Grand-
camp series—and a crucial difference between his series and panorama pictures—is their
foregrounding of the artist’s movement in space and the multiplicity of distinct, noncon-
tiguous viewpoints that result from these perambulations. Although each panorama has a
viewing platform at the center (around which the painting is arranged) and the viewer is
encouraged to wander from place to place on the platform, the point of view represented
in the painting is essentially consistent. In other words, the panorama greatly expands the
visual reach of a single viewing position, while Seurat’s series, through a constantly shift-
ing point of view, enhance our understanding of a particular site by representing it from
multiple perspectives in space. Seurat’s series thus convey a sense of the three-dimension-
ality of a site in a way that is distinct from the spatial illusionism not only of panorama
paintings, but of post-Renaissance painting more generally. Instead, Seurat uses the series
format to explore wholly new means to assert the solidity and depth of the external world
on a flat, painted surface.47
43 seeing in series
The summer of 1887 was the only one between 1885 and his death in the spring of
1891 that Seurat stayed in Paris for the duration, but the following summer he resumed
his seascape series practice. Port-en-Bessin was a small fishing village and port that was
mentioned only in passing, if at all, in contemporary tourist guides of Normandy and
northern France. Seurat produced six paintings of Port-en-Bessin’s interior basins, outer
harbor, jetties, semaphore, and surrounding sea and cliffs and, like the Honfleur series,
each picture of Port-en-Bessin depicts a part of the larger site that is visible in at least one
other painting in the series. As one can see in an aerial photograph of Port-en-Bessin, the
site consisted, in part, of two long curving jetties that create an outer harbor (fig. 23). The
platform next to the entrance to the two interior basins that protrudes slightly into the
outer harbor, called the Quai de l’épi, was the site of the fish market that appears in two of
Seurat’s Port-en-Bessin pictures but that was destroyed before this photograph was taken.
The passage from the outer harbor to the first interior basin was traversed by a small
rotating bridge that also appears in two of Seurat’s paintings of the site.
In Port-en-Bessin, The Jetties (Port-en-Bessin, Les jetées), Seurat depicts the tips of the
two jetties from a vantage point inside the harbor and looking out toward the sea, show-
ing a few boats about to enter or exit the protected waters of the harbor and many other
vessels out on the English Channel (fig. 24). Port-en-Bessin, A Sunday (Port-en-Bessin, Un
dimanche), as one can see in a photograph of that portion of the site, is set in the first of
two interior basins, with the tips of the jetties that were the focus of the previous painting
now much less visible and in the far background of the picture (figs. 25, 26). Immediately in
front of the jetties is the movable bridge that traverses the entrance to the basins, marked
by a series of short black dashes. This bridge is seen much more clearly and from a more
proximate vantage point in Port-en-Bessin, The Bridge and the Quays (Port-en-Bessin, Le pont
et les quais), Seurat having positioned himself near the entrance to the basins, looking west
toward the fish market and the cliffs in the distance (figs. 27, 28). These very same cliffs are
FIGURE 23
Aerial view of Port-en-Bessin,
post–World War II.
44 seeing in series
FIGURE 24 shown from a closer perspective in The Grues and the Percée (fig. 29), and they also serve
Georges Seurat, Port-en-Bessin, as the vantage point for Port-en-Bessin, Outer Harbor (High Tide) (Port-en-Bessin, L’avant-
The Jetties, 1888. Oil on canvas,
port [marée haute] ) (figs. 30, 31).48 In the latter painting, Seurat depicts the fish market and
215/8 × 255/8 in. (54.9 × 65.1 cm). The
Museum of Modern Art, New York.
the buildings around the entrance to the basins from a viewing position that is precisely
Lillie P. Bliss Collection, 1934 inverse to the one he took up in The Bridge and the Quays, looking east instead of west.
(126.1934). And, finally, in Port-en-Bessin, Outer Harbor (Low Tide) (Port-en-Bessin, L’avant-port [marée
basse] ), Seurat turns his back to the sea and depicts the entrance to the basins in the mid-
dle-right of the painting and the tip of the eastern jetty in the picture’s far left (fig. 32).
In addition to presenting a collection of overlapping views of the same parts of the
site from different points in space, some of the other key characteristics of the Honfleur
series are also found in Seurat’s Port-en-Bessin paintings. Once again, Seurat is partic-
ularly attentive to the site’s jetties, which were crucial for navigation in and out of the
port, and which also served as promenades that enabled the accumulation of views of
one’s surroundings.49 The jetties also allude to Seurat’s own perambulations around the
site and to the series of pictures that resulted from them, as well as to the importance of
visual engagement and bodily movement for making sense of our environment. As in his
1886 series, Seurat widely varies the range and amount of visual information in the Port-
en-Bessin series, thereby testing the artist’s representational capacities and the viewer’s
45 seeing in series
FIGURE 25 BELOW FIGURE 26
Georges Seurat, Port-en- Photograph of an interior
Bessin, A Sunday, 1888. Oil basin looking out toward
on canvas, 26 × 321/4 in. the jetties, Port-en-Bessin,
(66 × 82 cm). Kröller-Müller n.d.
Museum, Otterlo.
FIGURE 27 FIGURE 28
Georges Seurat, Port-en-Bessin, Photograph of the entrance to the
The Bridge and the Quays, 1888. Oil interior basins, looking west, Port-
on canvas, 26 × 323/4 in. (66 × 83.2 en-Bessin, n.d.
cm). Minneapolis Institute of Arts.
The William Hood Dunwoody Fund
(55.38).
FIGURE 29
Georges Seurat, The Grues and
the Percée, 1888. Oil on canvas,
255/8 × 317/8 in. (65.1 × 80.9 cm).
National Gallery of Art, Washing-
ton, D.C. Gift of the W. Averell
Harriman Foundation in memory
of Marie N. Harriman (1972.9.21).
FIGURE 30 FIGURE 31
Georges Seurat, Port-en-Bessin, Photograph of the outer harbor
Outer Harbor (High Tide), 1888. seen from the cliffs to the west of
Oil on canvas, 263/8 × 321/4 in. (67 × the port, Port-en-Bessin, n.d.
82 cm). Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
FIGURE 32 powers of decipherment, as well as conceding that certain phenomena exceed one’s visual
Georges Seurat, Port-en-Bessin, and representational grasp. Indeed, while images such as Outer Harbor (High Tide) and
Outer Harbor (Low Tide), 1888. Oil
The Bridge and the Quays are constituted by an abundance of visual detail, the spareness
on canvas, 213/8 × 261/4 in. (54.3 ×
66.7 cm). Saint Louis Art Museum.
of The Jetties and The Grues and the Percée speaks to the limits of perception and picto-
Museum purchase (4:1934). rial representation.
Like his previous series, the Port-en-Bessin pictures put forward a notion of visual
experience as taking place within temporally extended parameters. As such, they serve
as further examples of the fundamental differences between Seurat’s model of vision
and its representation and the Impressionists’ interest in representing the perceptual
instant. In fact, many critics defined Neo-Impressionism primarily as a rejection of the
Impressionists’ embrace of the instantaneous and the ephemeral, and of their osten-
sibly hasty methods of paint application. Gustave Kahn distinguished the two groups
from one another by writing that “Pissarro, Seurat, Signac . . . are particularly fond of
calm countrysides, less troubled waters, and wanted to give landscape not only its hour,
whatever that may be, but its silhouette of the entire day.” Another supporter of the
Neo-Impressionists articulated their difference from the Impressionists in similar terms
when he wrote that, “the word neo-impressionist bothers us. It is only chronologically
meaningful. . . . But nothing is less successful for characterizing the patient, thoughtful,
48 seeing in series
sure art of Seurat or Signac, than this word: impressionist, which rather implies the
suddenness of vision, the seizing of the fugitive in nature, the fixing of a moment of
movement or light and also chance.”50 This critic’s juxtaposition of the “suddenness” of
Impressionist vision with the Neo-Impressionists’ “patient” art is important, and other
critics also noted the dilation of time with regard to the scenes that Seurat depicts, his
mode of looking at the sites, and the experience of viewing Seurat’s seascapes. Compare
the foregoing description of Impressionist vision to the following statement about
Seurat’s Port-en-Bessin series written by Octave Maus, cofounder of the influential jour-
nal L’Art moderne and secretary of the Belgian exhibition group Les XX, in whose shows
Seurat regularly participated: “Six paintings executed in Port-en-Bessin, the harvest of
last summer. . . . The eye rejoices in following, with the artist, the rectilinear quays, the
jetties, the bridges, breakwaters, dominated by the grassy mass of the cliffs, in probing the
depths of the green waters marbled by the fugitive shadows of the clouds, in measuring
the height of the lighthouses, searching the distant horizon of the sea. More than any of
the other canvases, A Sunday attracts: it is the recorded impression of captured repose,
in the fort decorated with flags, the solitude of the quays, and the pleasure of a peaceful
day.”51 Maus’s characterization of the seascapes as full of “repose” and “peace,” descrip-
tions that suggest the exclusion of momentary effects in favor of stasis and stability, are
typical of the critics’ reactions to Seurat’s seascapes. In addition, Maus described the
way the paintings reenact Seurat’s visual experience of the site, the viewer’s “eye, fol-
low[ing], with the artist,” the structures that make up the port and the elements of the
surrounding landscape in the individual images and in the series as a whole. This mode
of observation is not the Impressionists’ purely sensory blink of an eye, but rather one
that, according to Maus, “probes,” “measures,” and “searches” the site in question, system-
atically studying it part by part. And for all the rhetoric of Neo-Impressionist painting as
primarily concerned with color, that is, with the surface of things, Maus astutely char-
acterizes Seurat’s analytical gaze as one that reaches beneath surfaces and far out onto
the horizon, as one that explores heights and depths. It is, in short, a gaze that expands
in space and time, and one that actively investigates the external world in order to make
sense of it.
Seurat’s demonstrably active visual and corporeal engagement with the depicted
sites is absolutely in keeping with Helmholtz’s assertions of the necessity of our con-
tinuous visual observation of and physical contact with our surroundings. “Ordinarily,”
Helmholtz wrote, “we see with both eyes at the same time, turning them in the head first
one way and then the other, and likewise from time to time changing the position in
space not of the head only but of the whole body. Thus, we are in the habit of letting our
eyes roam about, xating first on one point and then another of the object in front of us.”
Furthermore, and crucially, Helmholtz repeatedly juxtaposed passive visual spectator-
ship with active visual engagement, insisting that it is the latter mode of perception that
enables us to make cognitive sense of our sensory impressions:
49 seeing in series
We are not simply passive to the impressions that are urged on us, but we observe. That
is, we adjust our organs in those conditions that enable them to distinguish the im-
pressions most accurately. Thus, in considering an involved object, we accommodate
both our eyes as well as we can, and turn them so as to focus steadily the precise point
on which our attention is fixed . . . and then we let our eyes traverse all the noteworthy
points of the object one after another. . . . But if, from necessity or purpose, we employ
a different mode of looking at objects, that is, if we view them merely indirectly or
without focusing both eyes on them, or without surveying them all over . . . then we
shall not be able to have as accurate apperceptions as when the eyes are used in the
normal fashion.
Likewise, Helmholtz stressed the importance of our repeated physical engagement with
the objects and spaces of perception for learning to making sense of them: “The tests we
employ by voluntary movements of the body are of the greatest importance in strength-
ening our conviction of the correctness of the perceptions of our senses. And thus, as
contrasted with purely passive observations, the same sort of firmer conviction arises as is
derived by the process of experiment in scientific investigations.”52
As Octave Maus suggested, the Port-en-Bessin paintings reward those viewers
who “probe” and “search” them carefully and slowly. In fact, the basic strategy of Seurat’s
seascape series, namely, the representation of certain parts of a given site from different
perspectives, only becomes clear if one looks closely and attentively at the paintings. Part
of the function of the repetition of key motifs in each series—the lighthouse, jetties, harbor
lights, and tide signal of Honfleur, the jetties and semaphore of Port-en-Bessin—is to enable
the viewer to reconstruct the spatial relationships between and among the various scenes
depicted in the series, and thus to integrate the individual pictures into a coherent whole.
Furthermore, as I argued in relation to the Honfleur pictures, many of the individual sea-
scape paintings in the 1888 series contain visual details that require extended attention in
order to be noticed and then deciphered. Port-en-Bessin, A Sunday (see fig. 25), for example,
is composed with a geometric clarity that makes the painting initially seem rather easily
legible. It is only the viewer who lingers in front of the picture who might eventually see
the tiny human figures that Seurat has included in various parts of the scene. They come
into view, for example, immediately in front of the bridge in the center background of the
painting, just to the left of the opening between the two jetties. Another solitary figure
emerges directly beneath the white sign that protrudes from the side of the building on
the left-hand side of the work. Slowly, one begins to pick out other, nearly imperceptible
forms that may or may not represent figures. Sustained visual attention is rewarded, but it
is sometimes not enough to determine the identity of every object and detail, no matter the
effort expended.
A similar testing of the range and limits of vision is evident in Seurat’s other Port-
en-Bessin paintings, such as Outer Harbor (High Tide) (see fig. 30). The longer one studies
50 seeing in series
the picture, the more details one is able to make out, discovering numerous elements that
Seurat situates at the boundary of legibility. The figures near the fish market and the open-
ing to the inner harbor appear as mere clusters of dots, and the white sails of the boats in
the distance along the horizon almost blend into the clouds just above them. Conversely,
Seurat carefully delineates the individual blades of grass in the very near foreground of
the picture, illustrating the fact that relative spatial proximity rather than absolute size
often determines the perceptibility of objects in the world around us. In this case, figures
and boats are reduced to specks while single blades of grass are clearly visible. The scene
that we examine from a distance and from above in Outer Harbor (High Tide) is depicted
from much closer range in The Bridge and the Quays (see fig. 27). The formerly almost
imperceptible figures are here transformed into man, woman, and child, their individual
sex and postures now easily identifiable. The entrance to the basin and the surrounding
buildings come into much sharper focus, and the blades of grass on the distant cliffs that
were so distinct in the previous painting are now just part of a broad mass of greenery in
the far background. This pair of pictures makes clear the limitations of any single
vantage point for making sense of our surroundings, and illustrates that sustained
engagement must continually be undertaken in order to decipher our environ-
ment as fully as possible.
Outer Harbor (High Tide) offers yet another example of Seurat’s keen interest
in navigational aids that employ visually communicated codes, which I propose
are symbols for the artist’s epistemologically oriented definition of visual expe-
rience. If one looks closely at the painting, one is able to make out the tide signal
near the entrance to the basin, a motif that Seurat also took up in his previous
series (and that will appear in a subsequent series as well). The light flag with a
dark cross that is seen atop a tall mast is part of a universal tide signal code that
relates information to navigators about the changing tides and water levels by
displaying different combinations of balls and flags (fig. 33). As the tide signal chart
indicates, the flag in Outer Harbor (High Tide) visually communicates that which
Seurat’s title conveys by verbal means, namely, that the artist has depicted the port
at high tide.
FIGURE 33 Another important optical signaling device, the semaphore of Port-en-Bessin (fig. 34),
Chart of Tide Signals. is visible on the distant cliffs of The Bridge and the Quays and is shown from a much closer
vantage point in the upper left corner of The Grues and the Percée (see fig. 29). The only
other element besides the semaphore in the latter painting, a remarkably spare composi-
tion, is a ship in the distance, far out on the water. As such, the very subject of The Grues
and the Percée seems to be the visual communication between semaphore and vessel, with
Seurat showing us both the sender and receiver of the visual signals used by each. Like
his interest in tide signals, Seurat’s focus on the semaphore of Port-en-Bessin should be
understood in the context of his broader engagement with the ways that vision enables us
to decipher, orient ourselves within, and navigate the world around us. Like lighthouses,
51 seeing in series
harbor lights, and tide signals, semaphores—literally, sign bearers—are navigational aids
that communicate information by means of visual signals. Installed along France’s coast-
line during the nineteenth century and manned by operators who constantly surveyed the
horizon, coastal semaphores came to serve a variety of purposes. Consisting of a mast and
three movable arms, the positions of which corresponded to established signal codes (fig.
35), as well as variously shaped flags, semaphores could transmit a variety of information to
navigators, such as meteorological conditions, navigational dangers, the position of enemy
vessels, and so on. These optical telegraphs were supplemented with electrical telegraphy
in the mid-nineteenth century, situating them within a wider network of information and
communication. Semaphores could receive electrical telegraphs and then translate the
messages into visual form for navigators or passengers on the water, or they could receive
visual signals from vessels and forward them via electrical telegraphy. Ships corresponded
with semaphore operators by displaying specific combinations of flags and pennants,
another visual signaling system that relied on a universally understood code. Thus, sema-
phores have a great deal in common with the other navigational aids that Seurat depicts
in his seascapes, with one writer even referring to semaphores as “lighthouses of thought”
and “intelligent towers.”53 All of the beacons that Seurat depicts connect directly with issues
concerning the conditions and limits of vision, and all of them associate vision with the
acquisition of knowledge of one’s environment. These motifs thus exemplify the central
idea at work in Seurat’s seascapes, namely, that vision is not a purely sensory phenomenon
but, rather, is fundamentally tied to cognition, and is a key means for us to learn about and
find our way in the world around us.
One central aspect of the ports that evokes not only the issues of visibility and invis-
ibility more generally but also the relationship between time and vision is the tides. While
two of Seurat’s Port-en-Bessin pictures, Outer Harbor (High Tide) and Outer Harbor (Low
Tide), directly address the subject of the tide cycles, tides are in fact the implicit subject of
many of Seurat’s seascape pictures, insofar as they dictate the movement of vessels into
and out of the ports and, thus, structure the very rhythm of port life. These two 1888 pic-
tures render the entrance to the port at high and low tides, and thus foreground the effects
of the tidal cycles both on the appearance of the port and on the movement of ships in and
out of the harbor. Outer Harbor (Low Tide) depicts that which is visible when the waters
recede at low tide, the lower half of the jetty in the far left of the work, which is sometimes
submerged underwater, shown to be much darker than the top half, which is always above
the water. The two paintings constitute yet another way that Seurat uses the series format
to acknowledge and supplement the limits of sight and representation, each depicting that
which cannot be seen in the other work and offering views of the scene that can only be
grasped over the course of a day.
More broadly speaking, Seurat’s pictorial engagement with the temporal dimen-
sion of visual experience is especially explicit in his 1888 series. By referencing parts of a
single tide cycle in this series, Seurat identifies one way of measuring or dividing time, by
52 seeing in series
FIGURE 34 means of the rotation of the earth on its axis. In addition, the tides subtly evoke an even
Photograph of the semaphore of larger sense of cosmic time and space, in which the movements and positions of the sun
Port-en-Bessin, c. 1908.
and earth determine the changing levels of the tide, thereby imbuing the paintings with
FIGURE 35 a slower and even more expansive sense of spatiality and temporality. This evocation of
Chart of Semaphore Signal Code. tidal time based on the earth’s position contrasts with Port-en-Bessin, A Sunday (see fig. 25),
which references time as structured by the seven-day calendar. Indeed, the issue of how
time was measured was a particularly pressing one not only in France but throughout
Europe and the United States during the 1880s. In 1884 an international conference in
Washington, D.C. established standard universal time, with Greenwich, England, desig-
nated as the prime meridian. It took many years, however, to implement an international
time zone system based on countries’ longitudinal distances from Greenwich, and France
was one of the last European countries to participate. In the meantime, there was a great
deal of debate in France about how time should be kept, and timekeeping there was a dis-
jointed, chaotic affair. Throughout the 1880s, a variety of ways for measuring time were
still in use, including local or sundial time, Paris mean time, and the time kept by the rail-
road companies, a heterogeneity that led one writer in 1888 to describe France as a “chro-
nometric tower of Babel.” This same writer, advocating the adoption of Paris mean time
as the standard throughout France, lamented that “the absence of a national time obscures
the notion of time itself.”54 One can imagine that the intense debates about time measure-
ment in France in the 1880s did the opposite, that is, made the notion of time itself all the
more present, thus serving as a broader context for Seurat’s evocations of different means
of dividing time in his series. And, of course, long before debates about standard universal
53 seeing in series
FIGURE 36 time arose, the issue of the various methods for keeping time, and the discrepancies in
Georges Seurat, Le Crotoy how time was kept from locale to locale, had been of crucial importance to navigators and
(Upstream), 1889. Oil on canvas,
to places such as ports. Seurat’s portscapes, then, produced during a period when interest
273/4 × 311/8 in. (70.5 × 86.7 cm);
framed, 387/8 × 451/8 in. (98.7 ×
in time measurement was especially pronounced, are doubly connected to questions sur-
114.6 cm). Detroit Institute of Arts. rounding the division of time and the calendar. Finally, the many references and allusions
Bequest of Robert H. Tannahill to various kinds of time found throughout Seurat’s seascapes are, I would argue, a clear
(70.183). rejoinder to the claim by some scholars that Seurat’s pictures evince a sense of timeless-
ness. Rather than exclude time from his pictures, Seurat instead cultivates a sense of the
dilation or extension of time, that is, a sense of the slower passage of time that is quite
distinct from timelessness.
Seurat’s next seascape campaign in the summer of 1889 took him to Le Crotoy, a
very small port town on the north coast of France close to the Belgian border. The stay
resulted in only two paintings, both of which he exhibited in the Salon des Indépendants
the following September (figs. 36, 37). Seurat’s limited artistic output that summer has typ-
ically been attributed to the news that his companion, Madeleine Knoblock, was pregnant,
causing him to cut his coastal sojourn short and return to Paris. But in fact there is good
reason to believe his modest production that summer was planned, an accommodation
made to the unusually small venue in which the fall 1889 Salon des Indépendants was held.
54 seeing in series
FIGURE 37 Although the Salon normally allowed each artist to exhibit up to ten works—a generous
Georges Seurat, Le Crotoy allotment that Seurat took full advantage of by showing the maximum number of works
(Downstream), 1889. Oil on canvas,
in almost every exhibition—for some reason the Société rented a much smaller site for
273/4 × 341/8 in. (70.5 × 86.5 cm).
Private collection.
their fall 1889 exhibition and was thus forced to drastically limit the number of exhibited
works. Seurat himself was on an organizing committee of the Société and personally
advocated limiting each artist to only two submissions for the 1889 exhibition.55 The small
size of Seurat’s Le Crotoy series was thus most likely due to these temporary exhibition
limitations. If so, it serves as a clear indication of the inseparable relationship between
Seurat’s production and exhibition decisions.
Despite the reduced size of the Le Crotoy series, the two paintings nevertheless con-
form to the same general logic that governed Seurat’s other seascape groupings. Indeed,
the titles given to the two pictures, Le Crotoy (Upstream) (Le Crotoy [amont]) and Le Crotoy
(Downstream) (Le Crotoy [aval]), announce that the works represent geographically com-
plementary parts of the site. As such, the Le Crotoy pair represents a continuation of his
practice of portraying the same general site from various related vantage points, although
in abbreviated form. Going further, the very fact that Seurat worked to produce supple-
mentary views even with the limited number of canvases he was able to exhibit that year
reveals the centrality of this strategy to the artist’s seascape painting practice.
55 seeing in series
As in some of his previous seascapes, Seurat creates a clear juxtaposition in both Le
Crotoy pictures between a detailed rendering of the finite parts of the scene, specifically
the cluster of buildings in each image, and a highly simplified rendering of the shore, sea,
and sky. In fact, this contrast is particularly dramatic in the 1889 pair and has become, in
a sense, the subject of the paintings. While the buildings that appear in each picture were
clearly subject to careful visual analysis on the part of the artist, the shore and sea are
stripped of almost all detail. As such, Seurat emphasizes the distinction between elements
that are graspable in their entirety and those that aren’t, producing a marked contrast
between visual incident and emptiness. But, again, this contrast was also present in some
of Seurat’s previous seascape paintings, and it corresponds to two prevalent and seemingly
contradictory critical interpretations of Seurat’s landscapes as attempting to convey accu-
racy of observation on the one hand and a sense of infinite expansion on the other. As I’ve
discussed, many critics described the seascapes with such terms as vues or aspects, thereby
rooting these pictures in Seurat’s visual experience of the sites. Ernest Hoschedé, for
example, in reference to the Grandcamp and Honfleur series, wrote that Seurat’s “Vision
and his landscapes are works of refinement.” This line of interpretation is consistent with
comments such as those by Marcel Fouquier that “Seurat has a lively and subtle vision of
landscape, of the sea especially,” and Huysmans’s that Seurat’s seascapes “reveal a very per-
sonal and very accurate grasp of nature.” Similarly, another critic noted, “I saw, last year,
at the Salon des Indépendants . . . landscapes surprising in their accuracy . . . painted by
Seurat.”56 By contrast, other critics characterized Seurat’s seascapes as trying to evoke that
which evades or exceeds one’s visual grasp. For example, Paul Adam described Seurat’s
Grandcamp paintings as conveying “the sensation of visual emptiness in the expanses of
atmosphere” in which “the gaze plunges, dives in, infinitely.” Evocations of expansion and
infinitude are found repeatedly in the criticism on his seascapes, as when Gustave Kahn,
writing in 1887, exclaimed that the Honfleur seascapes evoke the “ends of the earth and
sea, one doesn’t know where!” or when Marcel Fouquier commented that one of Seurat’s
Grandcamp paintings shows “the depth of the sea, nuanced and without limits.” Both
views of Seurat’s seascapes are equally appropriate, as these works simultaneously con-
vey a visual specificity and aim to underscore and test the limits of visual perception and
representation. A few very astute critics, in fact, noted both these features of the seascape
pictures. Émile Verhaeren, for one, wrote that The Bec du Hoc (Grandcamp) and Hospice and
Lighthouse of Honeur “are simultaneously detailed and vast,” while Jules Christophe, writ-
ing on the Honfleur series, characterized the group as “six aspects, six views, giving, with
the maximum of possible intensity, the impression of the great oceanic tank, hypnotizing
and infinite.” Christophe, thus, understood that each painting represents the larger site
from a specific point of view, and that the series also evokes the limits of sight and that
which lies beyond perceptibility.57
For what would be the last seascape series that Seurat produced before he died,
the artist chose Gravelines, a town on the north coast of France located about thirty
56 seeing in series
FIGURE 38 kilometers from the Belgian border. The four pictures in the series focus on the channel
Georges Seurat, The Channel of of Gravelines that connects the harbor and the town to the English Channel and North
Gravelines, Petit Fort Philippe, 1890.
Sea, lined on either side by two small hamlets, called the Grand Fort Philippe, on the west
Oil on canvas, 287/8 × 361/2 in (73.3 ×
92.7 cm). Indianapolis Museum of
side of the channel, and the Petit Fort Philippe, on the east side (see figs. 38–41).58 The
Art. Gift of Mrs. James W. Fesler in logic that joins together these four pictures is identical to that of his previous series, with
memory of Daniel W. and Elizabeth the four images depicting overlapping views of the site from discrete vantage points. The
C. Marmon (45.195). Channel of Gravelines, Petit Fort Philippe (fig. 38) represents the view seen when standing
on Grand Fort Philippe, looking across the channel and facing inland toward the harbor,
with the landmark lighthouse in the top left corner of the painting. To paint The Channel
of Gravelines, Grand Fort Philippe (fig. 39), Seurat crossed the narrow channel to Petit Fort
Philippe and depicted more or less the exact spot that served as his vantage point in the
previous work, with the tide signal in the middle distance serving as the focal point of
the picture. The Channel of Gravelines, Direction of the Sea (fig. 40) shows both sides of the
channel and looks out toward the sea, with the lighthouse of Petit Fort Philippe visible in
the upper right part of the painting and the tide signal faintly visible on the very far left.
Just below the tide signal and much more visible in the middle ground is another kind
of navigation aid, a channel marker that indicates the depth of the water (these markers
dotted the Gravelines channel and can also be seen, but just barely so, in Petit Fort Philippe).
Staying on the Petit Fort Philippe side of the channel, Seurat shifted his viewpoint toward
57 seeing in series
FIGURE 39 the English Channel for The Channel of Gravelines, An Evening (Le chenal de Gravelines, un
Georges Seurat, The Channel of soir) (fig. 41), which depicts the same tide signal seen in Grand Fort Philippe and Direction
Gravelines, Grand Fort Philippe,
of the Sea. Of all of Seurat’s seascape series, then, the Gravelines group most concisely
1890. Oil on canvas, 255/8 × 317/8 in.
(65 × 81 cm). National Gallery,
illustrates the key features of his seascape project, with Seurat walking from one vantage
London. Bought with the aid of a point to another, closely observing and then painting the same objects and spaces from
grant from the Heritage Lottery related points in space. And here, too, instruments of navigation and spatial orientation
Fund, 1995 (NG6554). are the focus of Seurat’s interest. The lighthouse and tide signal are the central markers
around which Seurat’s movements—and, of course, those of the ships entering and exiting
the port—are oriented, and serve as the main motifs around which this pictorial series
is structured.
Seurat’s sustained attention to lighthouses and other beacons throughout his sea-
scape painting project is significant, in part, because it helps to give us a different and
richer understanding of his well-known interest in light, which I will elaborate on in
subsequent chapters. Scholars have long situated Seurat’s interest in light in relation to
color theory, specifically, the difference in the luminosity of mixtures of colored pigments
versus those of colored light. But Seurat’s interest in light should also be seen within
the context of a broader investigation into the cognitive components of vision, and into
sight as a means for us to gain knowledge about the world around us. Art historians
have also tended to foreground the artist’s treatment of natural light in their discussion
58 seeing in series
FIGURE 40
Georges Seurat, The Channel of
Gravelines, Direction of the Sea,
1890. Oil on canvas, 30 × 361/4 in.
(73.5 × 92.3 cm). Kröller-Müller
Museum, Otterlo.
FIGURE 41
Georges Seurat, The Channel of
Gravelines, An Evening, 1890. Oil on
canvas, 253/4 × 321/4 in. (65.4 × 81.9
cm). The Museum of Modern Art,
New York. Gift of Mr. and Mrs.
William A. M. Burden.
of his seascapes. The kind of light that seemed to most engage Seurat, however, is not
atmospheric natural light and its ephemeral qualities, but the artificial illumination of
structures such as lighthouses and harbor lights (as well as semaphores, jetties, and tide
signals, which were also sometimes illuminated). These motifs not only tie the theme of
light to issues of decipherment and navigation, but they also directly evoke the issue of the
limits of vision. Indeed, the distance from which the lights of different lighthouses were
visible was basic information that was often included in even brief descriptions of them
in tourist guides, and of course in navigation manuals. The limits of visibility also played
a central role in determining the placement, size, and source of illumination of harbor
lights and lighthouses; the desire to increase the distance at which these beacons were
visible motivated many of the advances in the design of lighthouse apparatus during the
nineteenth century. In this context, the lighthouse of Gravelines had specific significance
in the history of lighthouse illumination. In the early nineteenth century, Augustin Fresnel
developed what would come to be known as the Fresnel lens, an apparatus consisting of a
combination of redesigned lenses and prisms that could produce a dramatically brighter
light than had previously been possible. The Fresnel lens constituted a breakthrough in
navigational technology not only in France but throughout the world, and the importance
of his invention was such that every lighthouse in France displayed a bust of Fresnel over
its entrance. The first lighthouse of significant size to use the Fresnel lens was the one at
Gravelines. But beyond the particular importance of the Gravelines lighthouse, Seurat’s
lighthouses are both instruments and symbols of visual orientation, tools to help one
make spatial sense of the world and to find one’s place in it. As such, they evoke both the
literal and figurative meanings of illumination.59 And these landmarks have a key orienting
function for the viewer of Seurat’s paintings as well, who uses them and the other naviga-
tional markers in the works to understand the relationships between and among the indi-
vidual pictures in a given series and to organize them, and the sites that they depict, into
a coherent whole. Given Seurat’s significant and sustained engagement across his body of
seascape paintings with the motif of lighthouses and similar structures, the Cubist artist
and writer André Lhote’s characterization of him as “one of the lighthouses that guide this
young generation” in his 1922 book on Seurat was an especially fitting one.60
I want to close this chapter by returning to a picture from the 1888 series, Port-en-
Bessin, The Bridge and the Quays (see fig. 27), a work that communicates the centrality of
epistemologically oriented visual experience to Seurat’s seascape series project through
the relatively prominent inclusion of human figures, an anomaly within Seurat’s body
of seascapes. The absence of recognizable figures in the other seascape paintings was, I
argued, intended to position Seurat as the main protagonist of these landscapes, and to
encourage the viewer to identify with his experience of the sites. But in Bridge and the
Quays, we clearly see a man and a woman in profile, each one walking alone toward the
inner harbor, both with gazes directed toward the ground. In between these two figures
stands a small child, facing us and looking at something in our direction. Although this
60 seeing in series
is the only such figure in Seurat’s body of seascapes, the motif of the child who intently
looks out at something is also found in A Sunday on the Grande Jatte—1884 (Un Dimanche
à la Grande Jatte—1884) (see fig. 42), where the outward-looking child is positioned almost
at the very center of the large composition.61 What sense might we make of these pictures
of children looking directly at something or someone in the viewer’s space? At least part
of their meaning takes clearer form if one understands them, and Seurat’s body of work
more broadly, as a sustained meditation on the ways that we gradually and continually
learn to make sense of our environment. I propose that these outward-staring children are
meant to convey the basic but crucial fact that our visual perception and comprehension
of our surroundings are precisely a learned process, one that is developed and refined over
time, in infancy and childhood, but also beyond. If Seurat emptied his other seascapes
of recognizable figures to prevent our identification with them, then perhaps the child
in Bridge and the Quays is the rare figure with whom Seurat wanted us to align ourselves.
This child is Seurat’s learner, evoking the inextricable link between looking and learning,
between seeing and knowing, and reminding us of the importance of our constant sensory
and bodily interaction with our environment for making continued sense of the world
around us.
61 seeing in series
2 Figuring Out Vision
If, in the Grande-Jatte of M. Seurat, one considers, for example, a square decimeter
covered with a uniform tone, one finds all the constituent elements on each centime-
ter of this area, in a swirling mixture of small spots. . . . These colors, isolated on the
canvas, recompose on the retina. One has therefore not a mix of colored pigment, but
a mix of colored light.
—Félix Fénéon, June 1886
The Grande Jatte is painted with a primitive naiveté and honesty. In front of it, it is of
the Gothics that one thinks.
—Émile Verhaeren, February 1887
When A Sunday on the Grande Jatte—1884 (Un Dimanche à la Grande Jatte—1884) was exhib-
ited by Seurat in 1886 and 1887, it was understood by many critics within two seemingly
unrelated interpretive frameworks (fig. 42). A number of critics focused on the artist’s
pointillist method of paint application, that is, on the ostensibly countless small touches of
paint, the “swirling mixture of small spots,” as Félix Fénéon put it, that appeared to cover
the surface of the enormous canvas. Fénéon’s essay, published only a few weeks after the
Grande Jatte made its debut at the eighth and final Impressionist exhibition, was instru-
mental in situating Seurat’s technique, and the picture more broadly, in close relation to
nineteenth-century optics and color theory. In so doing, it helped to set the stage for other
contemporary and subsequent understandings of the picture as centrally engaged with
the issue of visual perception. The second, almost equally prominent strain of interpreta-
tion focused on Seurat’s supposedly stylized rendering of the figures, which many critics
explained by linking the painting to various pre-Renaissance pictorial traditions and
styles. Critics repeatedly referenced Egyptian and Gothic art, for example, and employed
terms such as “hieratic” and “primitive” in order to draw attention to what they thought
were the most salient features of Seurat’s picture.
These two interpretive positions have been kept separate from one another in sub-
DETAIL OF FIGURE 47 sequent analyses of the painting and its critical reception, and understandably so, for they
FIGURE 42
Georges Seurat, A Sunday on the
Grande Jatte—1884, 1884–86. Oil on
canvas, 813/4 × 1211/4 in. (207.5 ×
308.1 cm). The Art Institute of
Chicago. Helen Birch Bartlett
Memorial Collection (1926.224).
seem to lead to unrelated conclusions about where the meaning of the Grande Jatte lies and
about the set of concerns that motivated its production. In this chapter, I want to com-
plicate but also reconcile these two ways of understanding the painting, by articulating a
number of interests on the artist’s part that join together both of these interpretive empha-
ses and that help make fuller sense of this complex, still enigmatic picture. I will argue that
the Grande Jatte represents a crucial, exploratory work for the artist, in which he methodi-
cally pulls apart some of the key conventions and illusionistic strategies of the multifigural
tableau. An important part of this dissection entails an exposition of the model of vision
that was implicitly posited by the tableau, as well as an exploration by Seurat of how large-
scale figural painting might respond to nineteenth-century developments in the science
of vision.
Critics who privileged Seurat’s pointillist brushwork and, by extension, his engage-
ment with nineteenth-century color and optical theory, were right to highlight the
importance of theories of vision to the Grande Jatte. Nevertheless, in order to more fully
understand the significance of pointillism in this picture and the models of visual percep-
tion that are at work in it, one must, I think, keep in mind a crucial but often overlooked
fact: the pointillist paint marks are actually a scattered layer of dots that were added to a
largely completed composition during a distinct, second stage of production that began in
the fall of 1885. Seurat’s repainting of parts of the Grande Jatte is indicative, I want to stress,
of the artist’s consideration of different definitions of vision during the almost two-year
period that he worked on the picture. By positioning the painting as an exploratory and
evolving work, my interpretation goes against the prevailing tendency to treat the Grande
Jatte as a paradigmatic pointillist work that is emblematic of or able to stand in for Seurat’s
œuvre as a whole.1 Despite how difficult it can be to put aside what we think we know
about this iconic painting, it rewards being looked at closely and anew, not only in terms
of how we understand Seurat’s style but also with regard to certain aspects of its subject
matter. Doing so, and studying the painting in relation to the other works alongside of
which it was shown and that immediately preceded and followed it, will help make clear
the ways in which the Grande Jatte is a complex, evolving meditation on different concepts
of vision, on the history and definition of the classical tableau, and on various methods
and models of pictorial illusionism.
Appearing for the first time at the eighth and final Impressionist exhibition in May
of 1886, the Grande Jatte was clearly a work in dialogue with the Impressionists’ many
renderings of modern figures taking their leisure in suburban settings. The casual comings
and goings of figures in Impressionist images functioned as a corollary both to the ephem-
erality of optical and atmospheric effects that interested artists such as Monet and to the
artists’ seemingly rapid methods of pictorial production. Modern life, visual perception,
and modern painting were all constituted as improvisational and ever changing. But while
the general subject matter of the Grande Jatte falls within the domain of Impressionist
imagery, many other aspects of the painting, from its composition and spatial structure,
FIGURE 45 in time. Émile Verhaeren, in a typically insightful comment, also interpreted the Grande
Croqueton (Study for A Sunday on Jatte as the product of Seurat’s multiple visits to the locale when he wrote, “the gestures of
the Grande Jatte—1884), c. 1884.
the promeneurs, their groupings, their comings and goings, are essential. The entire work
Oil on wood, 61/8 × 93/4 in. (15.6 ×
24.8 cm). Albright-Knox Art Gallery,
presents itself as the result of numerous periodic observations.”2
Buffalo, NY. Gift of A. Conger In fact, the Grande Jatte was literally a synthesis or composite of Seurat’s repeated
Goodyear, 1949. observations of the island, accumulated over the course of many visits and recorded in
numerous preparatory images. While most of the Impressionists rejected the distinc-
tion between sketch and finished work, with the final picture constituting an ostensibly
FIGURE 46 immediate transcription of the artist’s visual experience of the motif, Seurat, by contrast,
Croqueton (Study for A Sunday on produced a significant number of preparatory paintings and drawings for the Grande Jatte.
the Grande Jatte—1884), c. 1884–85.
Among these were painted sketches of individuals or groups of figures on the Grande Jatte
Oil on wood, 61/4 × 97/8 in. (16 × 25
cm). National Gallery, London.
that were produced on small wooden panels measuring about six by nine inches and that
Presented by Heinz Berggruen, were referred to by Seurat as croquetons (figs. 44–46). The term is one that he seems to have
1995 (NG6556). invented, but it is also related to the common term croquis, that is, a sketch constituting the
artist’s first, quick notations of the motif.3 In the first few years of his career, Seurat some-
times exhibited these croquetons alongside his finished paintings. Their diminutive size
and sketchy appearance announced their sur le motif production, and their placement next
to his finished paintings communicated Seurat’s adherence to the distinction between an
FIGURE 48
Georges Seurat, Landscape—The
Island of the Grande Jatte, 1884.
Conté crayon, 161/4 × 243/4 in. (42.2
× 62.8 cm). British Museum,
London.
FIGURE 49 in how the different parts of that composition have traditionally been made to spatially
Georges Seurat, A Sunday on and narratively cohere; it is these issues that I will argue constitute the conceptual core of
the Grande Jatte —1884 (detail
this painting.
of fig. 42).
Seurat’s interest in the representation of space in the Grande Jatte is manifest not
only in his depopulated renderings of the site, but also in the complex spatial structure
of the 1886 painting. One important feature of the Grande Jatte that has received little
in-depth commentary is Seurat’s use of linear perspective as the painting’s basic com-
positional armature. The left edge of the island and the line of trees along the riverbank
function as orthogonals that converge toward the center of the island as they recede in
illusionistic depth. On the right side of the picture, the cluster of tree trunks in the middle
ground work in concert with the trees along the water’s edge to help lead the viewer’s
eye back in space and toward a kind of vanishing point that is marked by a couple stroll-
ing into the distance, their backs turned to the viewer. In addition, the many figures that
populate the island are systematically, almost self-consciously, scaled according to their
imagined distance from a viewer standing in front of the painting. And, as if to underscore
that the Grande Jatte is an examination of the conventions for creating a coherent spatial
order in a flat picture, Seurat juxtaposes the life-size couple in profile in the immediate
foreground with an identical but much smaller couple in the background, turning them
90 degrees in space so that their backs are to us and placing them at the furthest imagined
distance from the viewer, just in front of the vanishing point (fig. 49).5
Linear perspective had, of course, served as a cornerstone of pictorial illusion-
ism since the Renaissance, and it continued to be an important part of the training that
students received at the École des Beaux-Arts well into the nineteenth century. Much
of Charles Blanc’s renowned Grammaire des arts du dessin, first published in 1867, which
we know was closely read by Seurat and which can be taken to reflect some of the main
Under a blazing summer sky, in full daylight, the radiating Seine, the smart villas on
the opposite bank, the small steamboats, sails, the joyous skiffs winding their way on
the river, and, on a path, close to us, many a promeneur, many a flâneur sprawled on
the grass or idly fishing, young girls, a wet nurse, an old Dantesque grandmother in a
bonnet, a sprawled boater, smoking his pipe without refinement, whose light pants are
entirely devoured at the bottom by an implacable sun, a dark purple little dog, a red
butterfly, a young mother and her little daughter in white with a salmon-colored belt,
two Saint-cyriens [i.e., soldiers], more young girls one of whom has a bouquet, a child
with red hair and a blue dress, a couple with a maid carrying a baby, and, on the far
right, the hieratic and scandalous couple, a young elegant giving his arm to his dandy
companion who is holding a yellow, purple, and ultramarine monkey on a leash.15
For these critics, then, it was impossible to take in the picture in a metaphorical single
glance, one of the defining traits of the classical tableau. Instead, the Grande Jatte elicits a
FIGURE 68
Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres,
Grande Odalisque, 1814. Oil on can-
vas, 353/4 × 633/4 in. (91 × 162 cm).
Musée du Louvre, Paris.
Poseuses to these other images and to expose another facet of Seurat’s exploration of the
various conditions that shape what and how we see (and how artists picture what they see).
Rather than argue that Seurat was citing, quoting, or even referencing these other images
in any kind of conventional way, I propose that these other images unavoidably inflected
Seurat’s visual experience of the world and his representations of those experiences in his
pictures. In the case of Ingres, the painter was not only a central figure in nineteenth-
century art history, broadly speaking, but was part of Seurat’s formative artistic training,
since Seurat’s teacher at the École des Beaux-Arts was a student of Ingres.46 Poseuses, thus,
suggests that the visual world, at least Seurat’s visual world, was made up not only of the
FIGURE 75
Georges Seurat, Man Leaning on a
Parapet, 1879–81. Oil on wood,
65/8 × 5 in. (16.8 × 12.7 cm). Private
collection.
When the painting was finished, it was necessary to frame it. Seurat despised the deco-
ration of the gold frame. . . . The white frame of thick stripes that he had at first adopt-
ed quickly disgusted him. It was a barrier placed around the painting, an interruption.
It did not isolate, but rather broke it, ripping in a quick blow the concord of harmonics
that continued the harmonic theme of the principal motif in the background and in
the corners. He tried to guard against this drawback by trimming the canvas with a
border that repeated in methodical touches the tones of the painting, then he painted
his frame, and yet he judged it unsatisfactory. But what could he do? In a sense, he was
detaching a part from the larger whole, he was cutting it arbitrarily. This caused him
pain, since he was in his essence profoundly logical, and the demands of art took pre-
cedence for him over all the truths of the craft. So what? A painting is a painting! But it
is also a cut of nature.53
Kahn’s explanation of Seurat’s painted frames is somewhat opaque at points, but it seems
clear that Seurat was frustrated by the way that the white frame “interrupted” his com-
positions, serving as such a substantial “barrier” that disrupted one’s visual experience of
the work. Kahn suggests that Seurat’s decision to paint his frames and add borders was
motivated by a desire to reduce the dissonance between frame and picture, an attempt to
harmonize or integrate the two more seamlessly. This interpretation accords with critic
Jules Christophe’s assertion that Seurat used “a painted frame . . . to isolate, to annihilate,
the material envelope of wood that encloses [the paintings].”54 According to Kahn and
Christophe, Seurat’s painted frames and borders were meant to diminish the presence of
the frame, to make it disappear, in a sense, in order to mitigate the disruption created by
the difference between frame and picture.
According to Kahn, this integration of the frame and the painting seems to have
had significant consequences for the very definition or model of painting that Seurat’s
work adhered to, alluded to at the end of the lengthy passage quoted above. There Kahn
posits an important opposition between the notion that “a painting is a painting” versus a
painting being “a cut of nature,” suggesting that Seurat’s frames and borders were either
the cause or the result of a shift in pictorial paradigms, a shift about which Seurat was
conflicted. It’s not clear from Kahn’s account whether the painted frames and borders
were an attempt to restore a sense of illusionism or whether they had brought about its
perceived loss, and perhaps this ambiguity is precisely the point, because Seurat’s painted
frames and borders do both. That is, by painting a border on the edges of the canvas,
Seurat emphasizes the flatness of the picture, even though the painted border was also
meant (at least according to Matisse) to create a sense of depth. In this way, depth is both
established and renounced. And so the “pain” that Kahn refers to may well have stemmed
from the fact that the painted borders and frames undermined the status of Seurat’s paint-
ing as “a cut of nature,” that is, compromised a certain kind of illusionism in the picture (a
pain that either Kahn or Seurat himself tried to counteract with the reassuring assertion
Now, presented with the flowing atmospheric river of phenomena, the artist is com-
pelled to build a dam around a pictorial subject if he is to capture it. In practicing his
craft, the painter starts out with a canvas, square or rectangular. When he has filled
it, what becomes of the rays which his creation casts onto the world outside the pic-
ture? Above all, what becomes of the tonal relationships which a logical orchestrator
of color has placed on his canvas and which can be extended beyond the canvas? The
past and the present give the painter the simplest advice. He is to stop brutally short
by cutting off the picture edges clearly within a frame. A shifting vision is imprisoned
with hard gold lines. . . . To solve this insoluble difficulty, Seurat conceived his painted
frame, with which he surprised his colleagues as much as Mallarmé astonished the
poets when he declared that since a collection of poems is made up of unrelated pieces,
it is improper to give them the continuous appearance of a book, and that it is prefera-
ble to enclose them as unbound sheets in a box, which could be of splendid workman-
ship. Thus Seurat continued his harmonies onto the wooden border of his picture. . . .
It always seemed to him that, try as conscientiously as he might, he was still brutally
ripping an episode out of context, tearing a page of art out of life.56
In this passage, Kahn indicates that Seurat’s painted frames were an attempt to mitigate
the sense of fragmentation created by the conventional frame in order to maintain the
mobility of what he calls “shifting vision.” And, indeed, by painting his frames and add-
ing borders, Seurat somewhat obscures the boundaries of his pictures and enables the
possibility of visual “exten[sion] beyond the canvas.” In addition, it seems that Seurat was
attempting to bestow some kind of autonomy to each canvas, just as, according to Kahn,
Mallarmé left the individual pages of his poems unbound, to indicate that each page was
If the objects had simply been passed in review before our eyes by some foreign force
without our being able to do anything about them, probably we should never have
found our way amid such an optical phantasmagoria.
—Hermann von Helmholtz, Treatise on Physiological Optics, 1867
Her legs were bent, swinging, beating the air, threatening hats, leading all eyes to look
under her skirt; these thieving looks pursuing there the much hoped-for but always
fleeting slit in her embroidered pantalons. And all around her, this incessant state of
tension of the eyes drives the men crazy.
—Eugène Rodrigues, description of a chahut dance, 1892
Hanging alongside Poseuses in the 1888 Indépendants exhibition was Parade de cirque, a
painting of performers and spectators outside of a circus at an itinerant fair in Paris that
signaled an important shift in the direction that Seurat’s figural paintings would take
from then on (fig. 76). Parade marks Seurat’s first painted foray into the world of popular
Parisian entertainments and their audiences, and he ended up devoting all but one of his
subsequent figural paintings to this subject. After Parade came Chahut, an image of can-
can dancers on a stage surrounded by spectators, and Circus, which depicts a variety of
circus performers and their audience (figs. 77, 78). Circus was hanging in the Salon des
Indépendants of 1891 when Seurat suddenly died of an infection in late March of that year.
Art historians have tended to view these later images as being consistent with the artist’s
earlier representations of leisure-taking in A Bathing Place, Asnières and A Sunday on the
Grande Jatte —1884, all of them manifestations of Seurat’s interest in the subject of leisure
and entertainment. But I think it’s more productive to treat these later figural paintings as
a distinct category of works, one in which Seurat explores the world of popular entertain-
ments and, more specifically, analyzes the kinds of effects that these performances had on
their audiences. When Parade was first exhibited, it was shown alongside four drawings
by Seurat of café-concert performers and spectators, as if to make clear to viewers his
DETAIL OF FIGURE 76 interest in these kinds of spaces and experiences (see figs. 128–131). In addition to sharing
FIGURE 76 similar subject matter, Parade, Chahut, and Circus all engage in some way with the same
Georges Seurat, Parade de cirque, types of image. In place of the art historical references of the Grande Jatte and Poseuses,
1887–88. Oil on canvas, 391/4 × 59
Seurat’s later figural pictures evoke the popular imagery of advertisements of various
in. (99.7 × 149.9 cm). The Metro-
politan Museum of Art, New York.
kinds. Lastly, these three pictures have a more strained relationship to the conventions of
Bequest of Stephen C. Clark, 1960 illusionism than his earlier figural paintings. It is in part for this reason that all three have
(61.101.17). a somewhat parodic or dreamlike appearance. These qualities constitute the defining fea-
tures of these three pictures and of his other figural work from this period, Young Woman
OPPOSITE FIGURE 77
Georges Seurat, Chahut, 1889–90. Powdering Herself ( Jeune femme se poudrant) (fig. 88), but they are not characteristic of
Oil on canvas, 671/2 × 551/4 in. Seurat’s previous figural paintings. As such, these pictures need to be viewed as a distinct
(171.5 × 140.5 cm). Kröller-Müller group, one that is in direct dialogue with his earlier figural works but that is not seam-
Museum, Otterlo.
lessly continuous with them.
Indeed, when works such as Chahut and Circus were exhibited, they were under-
stood by some critics in terms of Seurat’s turn away from perception-based naturalism.
To give just one example, Jules Antoine wrote that “the Poseuses, with drawing that is
deliberately naive, was exhibited at the Indépendants in 1887, [and] is still a work of strug-
gle more interesting for the effort it represents than for the result obtained. Since then,
FIGURE 81
Photograph of the exterior of the
Cirque Corvi, early twentieth
century.
conveying this depth in pictorial form. Lacking almost any sense of spatial recession, the
composition is instead arranged entirely laterally, isolating one of the spatial modalities of
the Grande Jatte and rendering the entire scene as an alluring but partially indecipherable
flat screen. There is a second, much more subtle kind of spatial compression that Seurat
seems to have enacted, though it’s difficult to be certain of it. Some images of the site, such
as the advertisement for the attraction as well as a drawing that Seurat exhibited in 1886
(fig. 82), seem to show a gap between the top of the spectators’ heads and the performance
taking place above them. In Parade, Seurat slightly compressed the height of the scene and
made performers and spectators overlap a bit, in order, I would suggest, to foreground
FIGURE 87
Photograph of La Goulue’s fair-
ground booth at the Foire du Trône
with works by Toulouse-Lautrec,
published in Le Figaro illustré, no.
145 (April 1902). Département des
Imprimés, Bibliothèque nationale
de France (fol. Lc13 9ter, 13, 1902).
But where Parade and most of Seurat’s other late figural paintings differ in crucial
respects from the entertainments depicted therein and from Wagner’s performances is
in the paintings’ self-reflexivity, which functions, in part, to elicit a much more cogni-
tively engaged, self-conscious mode of looking from Seurat’s viewers. Indeed, multiple
aspects of Parade that have been little discussed speak directly to the nature and functions
of pictorial illusionism, revealing a self-referentiality to the work that merits careful
elaboration. To begin with, the entire left half of the background of Parade consists of a
The painter’s hand is useless, trickery is impossible. . . . Let the hand be numb, but let
the eye be agile, perceptive, and knowing.
—Félix Fénéon, 1886
Of the more than two hundred surviving drawings that Seurat produced over the course
of his career, two are of visual artists at work: one is of his friend Edmond Aman-Jean,
which was shown in the Salon of 1883, and the other is of an unidentified artist, perhaps
Seurat himself, which was never exhibited and is now referred to as Painter at Work (figs.
95, 96).1 I begin with these two drawings not just because they are the only renderings by
Seurat of the act of artistic production, but also because they manifest many of the qual-
ities and concerns that define his larger body of drawings. Like a significant portion of
Seurat’s work in this medium, both drawings are of single figures. With the objects of their
attention inaccessible to us, our focus is held by the figures themselves and, more specifi-
cally, by the postures, movements, and gestures required by the activity at hand. And in
both pictures, the relationship between the work of the eye and the hand immediately
comes to the fore. In the portrait of Aman-Jean, sight and touch work in close coordi-
nation, the gentle curve of the figure’s back as he leans in to look at his canvas rhyming
with the diagonal of the artist’s hand. In Painter at Work, the artist’s arm and hand reach
forward toward his picture, while his head and shoulders are pulled back from it. The
relationship between the sight and touch of the artist is thus presented somewhat opposi-
tionally in the second drawing, with the proximity required by the hand to make its marks
at odds with the distance required by the gaze to take in the picture. The slight torque in
the figure’s posture speaks not only to the importance of the physical position of the body
in relation to the object of sight for perception more generally; the forward-backward
split between the artist’s hands and gaze also reflects the distinct vantage points required
for looking at Neo-Impressionist painting, which was supposed to occur, at least partially,
at a distance, and for producing the paintings, which demanded proximity.
In both drawings, a distinct sense of spatial intimacy is evoked, through not only the
DETAIL OF FIGURE 131 confined nature of the depicted spaces but also the proximate relationship of each artist
FIGURE 95 to the object of his attention. The artists’ nearness to their pictures mirrors that of Seurat
Georges Seurat, Aman-Jean, 1882– as he worked on the drawings, as well as that of the viewer looking at these works. Unlike
83. Conté crayon, 241/2 × 1811/16 in.
Neo-Impressionist painting, the small scale of Seurat’s drawings—most of them measure
(62.2 × 47.5 cm). The Metropolitan
Museum of Art, New York. Bequest
about nine by twelve inches—necessitates that they be looked at from very close up. And
of Stephen C. Clark, 1960 many of their features not only pull us in but also slow down our viewing process, imbu-
(61.101.16). ing the world depicted in the drawings and our viewing experience of them with a sense
of temporal dilation. Thus, the sustained attention of the two depicted artists to their
FIGURE 96
Georges Seurat, Painter at Work, work reflects our own study of Seurat’s drawings as we work (often slowly) to make out
c. 1884. Conté crayon on tan laid the represented scene amidst the dense layer of black crayon marks on white paper.
paper, sheet (irregular): 121/4 × 91/8 Like almost all of Seurat’s work in this medium, both drawings were produced
in. (31.1 × 23.2 cm). The Philadel-
with conté crayon, though his factural style is distinct in the two images. The portrait of
phia Museum of Art. A. E. Gallatin
Aman-Jean is more finely finished, the individual strokes of crayon blended together into a
Collection, 1952 (1952–61–118).
smooth and uniform surface, while the heavy scrawl of Painter at Work gives a less precise
rendering of its subject. The abundance of seemingly fervently applied strokes in Painter
at Work and Seurat’s preference for delineating tonal masses rather than contours force
the viewer to linger in front of the picture in order to decipher the forms that seem to only
ever partially cohere within the field of crayon. The rich conté crayon, the highly textured
FIGURE 100
Georges Seurat, The Veil, c. 1883.
Conté crayon, 123/8 × 91/2 in. (31.5 ×
24.2 cm). Musée du Louvre, Paris.
FIGURE 101
Georges Seurat, Skirt (Study for A
Sunday on the Grande Jatte—1884),
1885. Conté crayon, 113/4 × 63/4 in.
(30 × 17 cm). Musée Picasso, Paris.
FIGURE 103
Georges Seurat, Woman Opening
Parasol, 1884–86. Conté crayon on
Michallet paper, 121/2 × 93/4 in. (31.7
× 24.7 cm). Kunstmuseum Basel.
Kupferstichkabinett (1978.194).
FIGURE 108
Georges Seurat, Paul Alexis. Conté
crayon, 117/8 × 91/8 in. (30 × 23 cm).
Location unknown. Reproduced in
La vie moderne, June 17, 1888;
Bibliothèque nationale de France.
FIGURE 112
Georges Seurat, Anaïs Faivre
Haumonté on Her Deathbed, 1887.
Conté crayon and gouache on
paper, 9 × 13 in. (23 × 33 cm).
Musée d’Orsay, Paris.
the scene of quiet conversation among the small group of figures depicted in Condolences
stands in contrast to the absence of social interaction in the Grande Jatte, alongside of
which Condolences was exhibited. The drawing also manifests a much more immediate
mode of execution than the pointillist paintings that hung right next to it. Perhaps his
drawings do indeed reveal a glimpse of “a Seurat too little known.”
Seurat’s depiction of familial loss includes another even more intimate drawing,
one of his aunt on her deathbed that he gave to her children after she died (fig. 112). She
was Seurat’s maternal aunt, and she had spent a great deal of time in the Seurat household
when the artist was growing up. She and Seurat’s mother were extremely close, and his
aunt came to live with them after the death of her husband. In the drawing, her head is
turned toward Seurat as he draws her for what was likely the last time, though her face
is partially elided, perhaps in order to give the sitter a measure of privacy, or perhaps an
indication of the emotional difficulty of executing this portrait. The room is bathed in can-
dlelight, the white flames highlighted with touches of white gouache. The themes of light
and darkness, the perceptible and the imperceptible, and light and matter that permeate
Seurat’s drawings here take on distinctly metaphysical meaning. But if the candles and
cross represent spiritual forms of consolation in this deathbed scene, Seurat’s delineation
of the way his aunt’s head sinks into the large pillows beneath it and of the thick folds of
the blanket that covers her conveys a specifically somatic kind of comfort.
Images of Seurat’s immediate family also include drawings of a man presumed to be
his father, quite distinct from the manner and style in which he depicted his mother. Man
Dining (Dîneur), which Seurat exhibited in the 1888 Salon des Indépendants, is ostensibly a
portrait of his father during a meal, though the face of the subject is indicated by only the
barest of details (fig. 113). Instead, Seurat represents his father by emphasizing the physical
mass and weight of his body in space. The drawing presents eating as the consummate
corporeal activity and is thus another example of Seurat’s emphasis on the physicality
of everyday activities. This work is one of the few that Seurat signed, and he did so in a
manner that exactly matches the loose scrawl of the drawing itself. The aligning of his sig-
nature with the graphic marks representing the figure associates the activities of the sitter
and the artist (just as the much more neatly printed signature at the bottom edge of Paul
Alexis’s portrait aligns drawing with the act of writing) and, thus, again underscores the
physical aspects of his own drawing practice.
As with his small painted sketches on wood, Seurat would sometimes give his draw-
ings to family, friends, colleagues, and supportive critics. It seems likely, for example, that
Joris-Karl Huysmans, whose ownership of Condolences was indicated in the catalogue of
the 1886 Impressionist exhibition, and writer Robert Caze, whose possession of a draw-
ing called The Fair Performer (La banquiste) (see fig. 126) was also listed in that catalogue,
acquired the drawings as gifts rather than through purchase.30 Portraits by Seurat of those
close to him were certainly given as gifts: Seurat’s portrait of Aman-Jean was given to the
sitter after it was exhibited in the Salon; his rendering of his aunt on her deathbed was
FIGURE 115
Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre,
detail of Boulevard du Temple,
1838. Bayerisches National-
museum, Munich.
FIGURE 120
Georges Seurat, Study for A Bathing
Place, Asnières, 1883. Conté crayon
on paper, 91/2 × 113/4 in. (24.1 × 29.8
cm). Private collection.
FIGURE 121 second drawing, the pose seems to have been the same, but Seurat takes up a much closer
Georges Seurat, Study for A Bathing vantage point, such that the figure’s lower leg and a bit of thigh take up the entire space of
Place, Asnières, 1883. Conté crayon,
the drawing. Again, a fragment replaces the totality of the body, which is defined as much
97/8 × 121/4 in. (24.7 × 31.2 cm). Musée
du Louvre, Paris (RF29539).
by the way that light falls across its surface as by its contours, eliciting something akin to a
visual caress from the viewer. The drawing of the boy’s lower leg also constitutes an inter-
esting deviation from the Academic practice of drawing after plaster casts of sculptural
fragments, as Seurat himself did when he was an art student. This practice was intended to
develop the students’ understanding of the idealized human body of antique sculpture and,
more generally, to help students gain proficiency in rendering contour and volume. But,
in his focus on skin and surface rather than on volume and edge, Seurat takes his distance
here from the concept of drawing and of the body at work in Academic practice. These
same themes play out in other preparatory drawings for Bathing, including one depicting
the figure in the water with his back to us and another of the figure with his legs dangling
over the edge of the riverbank (figs. 124 and 125). The different points of view presented
in the two drawings seem to be the result of Seurat himself moving around the figure in
his studio, taking up multiple, successive vantage points at different distances from the
subject. Again, the clearly articulated contours of the whole figure seen in the first drawing
are largely supplanted in the second drawing by a focus on the surface of the skin on his
back, the artist positioned much closer to the sitter and thus representing only a section
FIGURE 123
Georges Seurat, Study for A Bathing
Place, Asnières, 1883. Conté crayon,
91/8 × 113/4 in. (23 × 30 cm). National-
museum, Stockholm.
FIGURE 124 of the larger whole. And here, too, as the hand of the artist both works the surface of the
Georges Seurat, Study for A Bathing paper and seems to run over the back of the model, touch is rendered as a supplement to
Place, Asnières, 1883. Conté crayon
and an interruption of a purely visual comprehension of the figure’s form.
on cream paper, 121/2 × 97/8 in. (31.7
× 24.7 cm). National Galleries of
Having thus far analyzed the drawings from the perspective of their shared formal
Scotland, Edinburgh (D 5110; and thematic features, I want to turn now to Seurat’s exhibition practices and strate-
19740). gies as they pertain to this part of his œuvre. As I argued in relation to Seurat’s figural
paintings, so too does the significance of some of his drawings only fully emerge when
FIGURE 125
Georges Seurat, Study for A Bathing they are considered in the context of their exhibition counterparts. For example, the
Place, Asnières, 1883. Conté crayon three drawings that Seurat chose to show in the 1886 Impressionist exhibition, The Fair
on paper, 125/8 × 95/8 (32 × 24.5 cm). Performer (La banquiste) (fig. 126), Parade, and Condolences (see figs. 82 and 111), manifest the
Private collection.
same juxtaposition of private, intimate realms with public anonymity that we saw in the
pairing of Poseuses and Parade, and of Young Woman Powdering Herself and Chahut. In Fair
Performer, we see a lone female performer at an itinerant fair, leaning against a wall next
to a seated ticket seller. Seurat depicts her either before or in between performances, with
her head bent down, her arms folded close to the body, her costume partially covered by
a black robe, and no audience members or ticket buyers in sight. In short, she is shown
withdrawn into herself rather than entertaining an audience through her gestures and
movements. Seurat’s drawing reminds one of Degas’s similar practice of representing
FIGURE 134
Georges Seurat, At the Concert
Parisien, 1887–88. Conté crayon
heightened with white chalk,
123/8 × 91/4 in. (31.4 × 23.6 cm). The
Cleveland Museum of Art. Leonard
C. Hanna, Jr. Fund (1958.344).
FIGURE 135 spectators in his café-concert drawings illustrates precisely the kind of deadening passiv-
Georges Seurat, Eden Concert, ity that Kahn decried in his essay. And, to make the point even more clearly, Seurat exhib-
1887. Black and blue chalk, white
ited these drawings with images of solitary figures sensorily and cognitively engaged in
and pink gouache, pencil and
brown ink on paper, 121/4 × 91/2 in.
small, specific activities and experiences.
(31.3 × 24 cm). Van Gogh Museum, The three drawings that Seurat exhibited in the 1889 exhibition of Les XX in
Amsterdam. Vincent van Gogh Brussels, At the Concert Européen, At the Gaîté Rochechouart (both exhibited the previous
Foundation (d692V/1962). year), and Paul Alexis (see fig. 108), reenact the contrast not only between Seurat’s private
world of friends and family and the public, anonymous space of the café-concert, but
also between figures defined by mental and physical engagement and ones who assume a
passive, spectatorial relationship to their surroundings. Another, complementary inter-
pretation begins to emerge when this 1889 trio of drawings is considered relationally: one
sees a juxtaposition between the solitary nature and space of artistic production, demon-
strated in the portrait of Alexis engrossed in the act of writing, and the public nature and
spaces of reception and exhibition, when one stands before an audience and, so to speak,
performs for the public. Indeed, Seurat’s painted sketches of his friend Aman-Jean as
Pierrot (see fig. 94) are evidence of his meditation on the notion of the artist as a public
entertainer. The 1889 trio, then, might productively be understood not only as images of
Gripping the rail in my hand, / stunned, drunk with fresh air, / I climbed, like a
spider, / in the immense iron web / . . . Here I was able to see, covering leagues, /
Paris, its towers, its dome of gold, / the circle of blue hills, / and in the distance . . .
more, more!
—François Coppée, “Sur la Tour Eiffel (Deuxième Plateau)”
An object when we look at it, it becomes a lookout in its turn when we visit it. . . .
The Tower is an object which sees, a glance which is seen. . . . It is a complete object
which has, if one may say so, both sexes of sight.
—Roland Barthes, “The Eiffel Tower”
It is the experience of climbing up the Eiffel Tower and viewing the expansive vista
around him that the writer François Coppée described with such seeming enthusiasm in
the excerpt of the poem quoted above. And it is with a discussion of Seurat’s 1889 painted
panel of the Eiffel Tower, the ways that it constitutes an exception within his œuvre but
also manifests the same interests as many of his other pictures, that I want to conclude
my study of Seurat (fig. 137). Measuring only about nine by six inches, the painting is nev-
ertheless one of Seurat’s most widely known images, most likely due to the iconic status
of the tower and to the fact that Seurat was one of the first well-known artists to depict
this quintessential symbol of modern Paris. Its exceptional status within his body of work
lies, in part, in the fact that it falls outside the genre categories of landscape and figure that
structured almost all of Seurat’s work in painting, being neither a toile de lutte nor an étude
de paysage, as Seurat put it in his letter to Beaubourg. As such, the picture is a fitting sub-
ject for a postscript to a series of chapters structured around the basic categories of genre
and medium that defined almost all of Seurat’s artistic output. The Eiffel Tower picture
also stands as an exception to Seurat’s other painted works insofar as it was neither (as far
as we know) a preparatory work for a finished painting, unlike his croquetons for Bathing
and the Grande Jatte, nor ever publicly exhibited as a finished painting. It thus maintains a
rather ambiguous state between sketch and finished picture, a distinction that Seurat quite
FIGURE 137
Georges Seurat, Eiffel Tower,
1889. Oil on wood panel, 91/2 ×
6 in. (24.1 × 15.2 cm). The Fine
Arts Museums of San Francisco.
Museum purchase, William H.
Noble Bequest Fund (1979.48).
firmly adhered to in the rest of his body of work. In these various ways, the painting of the
Eiffel Tower helps us to see Seurat’s œuvre and his ways of working more clearly, since the
picture is something of the exception that proves the rule.
In other crucial respects, however, this image is closely connected to many of the
key issues that I have argued were central to Seurat’s body of work, namely, his investiga-
tion of different forms of visual experience in the late nineteenth century and the distinct
modes of being that they can elicit. As the excerpt from Coppée’s poem makes clear, the
Eiffel Tower was not just a feat of modern engineering, but was a response to an intense
desire for different ways of visually taking in one’s environment. If the popularity of pan-
orama paintings peaked in Paris in the 1880s, then it is only fitting that that decade was
capped by the construction of the Eiffel Tower, which offered panorama-like vistas from
its multiple viewing platforms. Just as the very first panorama exhibited in Paris at the
beginning of the century depicted the city of Paris itself, by the end of the same century,
people were able to truly experience the city as a panorama, not by means of a painting
on canvas but by ascending the tower and enjoying a seemingly unencumbered bird’s-eye
view of the city. And indeed, the views from the tower’s platforms were frequently anal-
ogized to panorama paintings, not only by Coppée, but also by other contemporary writ-
ers, as well as by Roland Barthes in his remarkable essay on the tower, also quoted at the
beginning of this postscript.1
In his text, Barthes describes the ways in which the Eiffel Tower exceeded panora-
mas insofar as the tower is both the subject and the object of sight, that which sees and
that which is seen, “a complete object which has . . . both sexes of sight,” as he put it. One
could say, then, that the Eiffel Tower made not only Paris but also vision itself perceptible
in new ways. And it is in this context that Seurat’s painted sketch of the tower is so in
keeping with the rest of his body of work, for the tower directly evokes the possibilities,
conditions, and limits of one’s visual experience of one’s surroundings. Furthermore, and
as Barthes elaborates, the particular kind of looking elicited by the tower is a deciphering
gaze, one that actively seeks to make sense of the spatial relationships between and among
the different parts of the city that one sees. For this reason too, Seurat’s interest in the
Eiffel Tower is not surprising, given how profoundly engaged he was with the cognitive
dimensions of perception in much of his work. According to Barthes, the tower not only
offers the pleasurable experience of the endless vista (“nothing happier than a lofty out-
look,” he writes parenthetically), but it also transforms Paris into “an intelligible object.”
That is, the views from the tower provoke visitors to search for, identify, recognize, group,
and so on, the various parts of Paris spread out before them, to engage in what Barthes
calls the activity of “decipherment.”2 Like in some of Seurat’s pictures, so too does the
kind of visual observation encouraged by the tower take place, according to Barthes, in
relation to temporal extension, leading one to imagine the city’s development and trans-
formation over the previous centuries. Understood in these ways, the model of vision
199 postscript
evoked by the Eiffel Tower closely recalls the one illustrated in and elicited by
Seurat’s seascape series and some of his other works, where sustained visual
and mental engagement is required to make sense of the scene and its picto-
rial representation.
Over the course of the book I have also argued, however, that Seurat’s
work consistently foregrounds the corporeality of the viewer, exploring the
ways in which vision is both activated by but also confined to the body and its
particular physical location in space. The Eiffel Tower, by contrast, suspends
visitors in the air and thus frees them from the same kind of confinement to
a specific point in space. Here, too, Coppée’s poem might have something to
tell us about Seurat’s Eiffel Tower picture, and about the limitations, paradox-
ically, of the tower’s detached, distant, all-encompassing view. Looking from
the tower to “the bottom of the chasm,” Coppée wrote, “the City neither moved
me nor charmed me. It is an immobile scale-model, it is a dreary panorama.”3
Perhaps so too for Seurat, as he depicted the tower from the bottom looking
up, his placement on the ground underscored by the thickness of marks that
constitute the lowest part of the tower in his picture, and by the gradual attenu-
ation of marks and the tower’s solidity as it rises higher and higher up. The very
top of Seurat’s tower evaporates into the sky, a reflection, no doubt, of the fact
that the tower was not yet completed when he produced this picture. But this
absence of a peak might also signify that the views from the top of the tower,
like the vast expanses of sky and sea in his seascapes, are beyond what the eye,
body, and mind can grasp, and beyond what any single picture can represent.
In this small picture, and in many of Seurat’s other images, Seurat situated
himself firmly on the ground, inserted within and among the objects and spaces
of perception.
As I discussed at the end of the previous chapter, Seurat’s œuvre man-
FIGURE 138 ifests a sustained interest in various instruments and devices of illumination and in the
Jules Bourdais, Design for a kinds of visual experiences that these different forms of illumination can evoke. Seurat’s
monumental lighthouse for Paris,
painting of the Eiffel Tower can, I think, be understood as another expression of this inter-
November 1881. Watercolor, pencil
on tracing paper, 233/4 × 83/4 in.
est. Indeed, the tower was, among other things, a monument to the city’s fascination with
(60.2 × 22.3 cm). Musée d’Orsay, light and to advances in lighting technology that developed throughout the nineteenth
Paris. century. In addition to the powerful electric light placed atop the tower and the slowly
moving red, white, and blue lights that lit up its summit, two roving beams of electric light
were projected from its apex onto various monuments around the city. On the evening
of its inauguration, the tower was illuminated by no less than ten thousand gas lamps.
Another finalist in the competition that was ultimately won by Gustave Eiffel and his
tower was a project called the Sun Tower (fig. 138). Its design is a testament to the interest
in new lighting mechanisms and in the ways that light could reshape one’s experiences
of one’s surroundings—an interest that gripped Paris at the end of the century. The Sun
200 postscript
Tower was designed to house a museum of electricity, as well as to carry out scientific
experiments and to have a viewing platform for visitors to take in the city. But one of the
main purposes of the 360-meter masonry tower was to illuminate the entire city through
a complex system of mirrors that would direct light down to the ground, enabling anyone
to read a newspaper outside at night anywhere in Paris. Ultimately, the Eiffel Tower was
chosen over the Sun Tower, in part because it was feared that the light of the latter would
have a blinding rather than illuminating effect, thereby succinctly exemplifying the distinct
kinds of experience that illumination at the end of the nineteenth century could offer: to
enhance perception or diminish it, to orient or dazzle.4
The Eiffel Tower shared several features with the Sun Tower, and both structures
had a good deal in common with lighthouses, upon which one might argue they were
modeled. In fact, similarities and comparisons between the Eiffel Tower and lighthouses
abound, which is less surprising than it might initially seem, given the many, relatively
overlooked connections between Eiffel or his engineering firm and lighthouse design. As
early as 1868, for example, Eiffel and a partner were granted a patent for improvements in
the design of metal lighthouse towers and lanterns that were meant to combat condensa-
tion, corrosion, and certain structural vulnerabilities.5 Furthermore, the 1884 patent given
to Eiffel and two others for a three-hundred-meter tower that would ultimately result in
the Eiffel Tower identified “optical signaling” as one of its potential uses, thereby explicitly
aligning it with lighthouses and other such visual signaling structures. Subsequent presen-
tations and writings by Eiffel and others promoting the tower repeatedly reiterated optical
signaling and optical telegraphy as two of its possible functions.6 Eiffel and his engineering
company had also long been involved in the design of iron lighthouses, all located abroad,
some of which bear a close resemblance to the tower, such as the one completed in 1886
in Valassaaret, Finland, and an undated design for another lighthouse (figs. 139, 140). And,
of course, the Statue of Liberty, designed in 1886 by Eiffel’s company, not only originated
in a design by his partner Auguste Bartholdi for a lighthouse (hence the torch that she
holds aloft), but also functioned as a lighthouse until the early twentieth century and was,
accordingly, under the control of the United States Lighthouse Board.
Furthermore, the Eiffel Tower itself was repeatedly compared to a lighthouse,
and the lantern at its summit was commonly referred to as a phare or lanterne du phare,
including by Eiffel himself. One issue of the weekly publication for the 1889 Universal
Exposition that featured the top of the Eiffel Tower on its cover identified it with a caption
that read: “The Electric Lighthouse of the Eiffel Tower” (fig. 141), and the accompanying
article reaffirmed the connection between the tower and lighthouses: “The electric light
installed in the rotunda located at the summit of the Eiffel Tower is the same as the most
powerful lighthouses that are placed on the coasts of France.”7 Edmond de Goncourt
wrote more than once in his journal about the tower in the last year of its construction,
commenting in one of these entries that “the Eiffel Tower has the effect of a lighthouse
that was left on the earth by a generation that has disappeared.” And, in Eiffel’s 1902
201 postscript
LEFT FIGURE 139
Lighthouse in Valassaaret, Finland
designed by Gustave Eiffel’s engi-
neering company in 1886.
FIGURE 141
Cover of L’Exposition de Paris de
1889, June 1, 1889.
book on the tower, he quotes the following statement by a visitor to the 1900 Universal
Exposition: “Just as a seaman who is approaching land tries to discover a lighthouse, the
eyes of pilgrims look for the Eiffel Tower, the lighthouse of the civilization of Paris.”8
Interestingly, before the construction of the Eiffel Tower, the Champs de Mars had been
the site of regular experiments that were conducted from the nearby Lighthouse Depot,
which housed the Commission on Lighthouses that oversaw France’s entire network of
maritime signaling. Numerous experiments concerning the visibility of various kinds
of lights and lenses under different atmospheric conditions were conducted using the
lighthouse lantern atop the Depot as seen from the Champs de Mars.9 Located on the
Trocadero hill, the site of the Depot was chosen precisely for its proximity to the Champs
de Mars, its darkness at night used as a stand-in for that of the French coast. And, once
built, the Eiffel Tower was used in experiments related to lighthouse illumination that
continued to be run by the Commission on Lighthouses.
The many connections between lighthouses and the Eiffel Tower are yet another
reason why a postscript on Seurat’s picture of the monument is a fitting conclusion to a
book that opens with his seascape paintings of lighthouses and other kinds of optical sig-
naling structures. Both the tower and lighthouses were feats of modern engineering, and
both embodied a notion of light and sight as serving to enhance one’s knowledge about
one’s environment, with Eiffel and other supporters of the project touting the many sci-
entific and technological uses for the tower.10 And yet the Eiffel Tower, and the Universal
Exposition of which it was a part, also served as sheer entertainment for the millions of
people that experienced them. Indeed, in the later nineteenth century, the rhetoric sur-
rounding the world’s fairs underwent a discernible change, from an emphasis on their
didactic purpose to one on their entertainment value, and the focus shifted from the dis-
play of useful tools and machines to objects of consumer culture. This larger change was
embodied in the Eiffel Tower itself; for all the elevated rhetoric about the various ways it
could advance scientific and technological knowledge, it was, above all, a monument that
dazzled and thrilled the crowd.11 The tower, then, elicited the two modes of being that
Seurat explored so devotedly throughout his body of work, two ways of looking at and
experiencing the world that were brought together in this single structure and in this sin-
gle painted panel.
203 postscript
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notes
Note: Page numbers in italic type 79–80, 80 (detail), 82, 113, 118, 121, Café Singer, 180
indicate illustrations. 123, 183, 185, 214n16 Carriage Driver, 165, 166
Baudelaire, Charles, 209n31 Caze, Robert, 177
Adam, Paul, 56, 84–85, 208n27, Bayreuth, opera in, 126–30, 127, Cézanne, Paul, 208n27, 217n44
213n5, 220n6 128, 195 Chahut, 4–5, 113–14, 115, 116, 123,
Adorno, Theodor, 129 beaconage. See lighthouses; mari- 125, 135, 137–38, 141–47, 149, 187,
advertisements, 114, 118, 118–19, 132, time signaling technology 205n6, 219n61, 220n8, 224n56
134, 137, 137–38, 143–44 Beaubourg, Maurice, 34, 37, 66, 66, chahut (dance), 141–43, 147, 223n48
Ajalbert, Jean, 66, 76, 143 73, 100, 196–97, 209n32, 210n35 The Channel of Gravelines, An
Alexandre, Arsène, 96, 145, 175, The Bec du Hoc (Grandcamp), 12, 13, Evening, 36, 57–58, 59
219n57 56, 205n2 The Channel of Gravelines, Direction
Alexis, Paul, 145. See also Paul Alexis binocular vision/disparity, 22, of the Sea, 57–58, 59, 60
Allard, Émile, 207n21 24–25, 74, 75, 206n19, 207n23 The Channel of Gravelines, Grand
Aman-Jean, 155–58, 156, 162, 172, Blanc, Charles, 213n6; Grammaire Fort Philippe, 57, 58
175, 177 des arts du dessin, 70–72, 83, The Channel of Gravelines, Petit Fort
Aman-Jean as Pierrot, 153, 153, 194 207n20, 221n19. See also Musée Philippe, 57, 57–58, 60
Anaïs Faivre Haumonté on Her des copies, Paris Chéret, Jules, 137–38, 143–44
Deathbed, 176, 177–78 Bloch, Ernst, 215n25 Chevreul, Michel-Eugène, 90–91,
Angrand, Charles, 7, 172 Boats, 10, 10–11 110, 216n36
Antoine, Jules, 7, 114, 116, 137, 175 Bonnard, Pierre, 223n43 child, motif of, 60–61, 74, 214n11
art history. See pictorial conven- borders of art works. See frames, Christophe, Jules, 34, 56, 76, 108,
tions and the history of art borders, and edges 173, 219n3
The Artist’s Mother, 181, 182 Botticelli, Sandro, Allegory of Circus, 4–5, 113–14, 116, 117, 123, 125,
Asnières, 79. See also A Bathing Spring, 95 (detail). See also Three 137–38, 143–44, 148–53, 219n61
Place, Asnières Graces Cirque Corvi, 116, 118–20, 118, 119,
At the Concert Européen, 113, 190, Bourdais, Jules, Design for a monu- 124–25, 129, 131–32, 134. See also
190–92, 194–95 mental lighthouse for Paris, 200, Parade; Parade de cirque; Sketch of
At the Concert Parisien, 192, 193 200–201 the Entrance to the Cirque Corvi
At the Divan Japonais, 113, 190–91, 191 Brecht, Bertolt, 129 Cirque Fernando, 149, 152, 223n48,
At the Gaîté Rochechouart, 113, 190, Brest, 9 223n55. See also Circus
190–91, 194–95 Brewster, David, 26 cognition: 2–5, 20–25, 27–28, 30–31,
The Bridge of Courbevoie, 80, 82, 33, 35–37, 43, 45, 49–53, 58, 60–61,
Balzac, Honoré de, La Peau de cha- 105, 106 68, 71–72, 74–76, 78, 80, 82, 87,
grin, 147–48, 223n47 92, 94, 96–98, 118, 120–25, 127–
Barthes, Roland, 197, 199, 211n47, Cabot Perry, Lilla, 30–31 29, 134–35, 138, 141–44, 147–49,
224n56 café-concert, 113, 146, 180, 190–96, 152–53, 163, 165, 167–73, 192, 194,
Bartholdi, Auguste, 201 223n48, 224n56. See also popular 199–200, 207n23, 208n28
A Bathing Place, Asnières, 4, 73, 79, entertainments coin, 34, 94
colored chalk, 195–96 desire: advertising and, 134, 137–38, Entrance to the Port of Honeur, 14, 219n60; of the Grande Jatte,
color perception, 8, 20, 58, 63, 65, 143–44; in Balzac’s La Peau de 14–15, 19, 35 73, 77, 79, 102; Greenberg on,
74, 89–92, 196, 215n30, 216n34. chagrin, 147–48; chahut (dance) ephemeral effects. See transient 105; Kahn on, 106, 108–10; of
See also optical mixture; and, 142–43; in Joze’s L’Homme à effects landscape paintings, 38, 41, 105;
Chevreul, Michel-Eugène; femmes, 146–47; Seurat’s paint- étude/morceau, 31–32, 34–35, 37–38, Matisse on, 104–5, 125; origins
complementary colors ings and, 5, 123, 134–35, 137–39, 67–68, 96–97, 100, 197 of Seurat’s experimentation
complementary colors, 90–91, 141–43, 145; vision and, 123, 135, 141 exhibition practices and group- with, 102–3; and panoramas,
110, 125–26, 218n57. See also diorama, 41–43, 211n47 ings: of Seurat, 3, 7–8, 33–34, 39–41; of Parade de cirque, 125,
Chevreul, Michel-Eugène disorientation, 2–5, 123, 127, 129, 134, 49, 54–55, 67, 80, 101, 113, 116, 133, 220n8; Pissarro on 217n48; of
Condolences, 175, 176, 177, 187–89 142, 147, 196. See also cognition; 135, 141, 157–59, 172, 177, 187–96, Poseuses, 96–97, 102–4, 217n48;
conté crayon, 156–58, 162–64, 167, hypnotization; reason, defiance 209n32, 212n55, 224n1, 225n30; of seascapes, 10–11, 13, 36; sig-
180, 195 of; unintelligibility, of visual of Monet, 32–33, 43. See also natures on, 110–11; and spatial
Coppée, François, 197, 199, 200, experience frames, borders, and edges illusionism, 104–6, 108–10, 125,
225n3 drawings, 5, 155–96; after plaster 129; staging of Wagnerian opera
Coquiot, Gustave, 9 casts, 185; critical reception of, fair, itinerant/fairground, 129, compared to, 126–29; value con-
Corner of a Basin, Honeur, 18–19, 157–58, 162, 164, 175, 180, 225n34; 133, 187–88. See also Foire du trast in, 125–27, 129, 220n8; of
21, 94 execution of, 156–57, 161–64, 167, Trône/Foire au pain d’épice Young Woman Powdering Herself,
cover of L’Exposition de Paris de 1889, 170, 177, 180, 183, 185, 195; exhi- (Gingerbread Fair) 140–41
201, 202 bition of, 5, 157–59, 168, 175, 177, The Fair Performer, 177, 187–88, 188 Fresnel, Augustin, 26, 60
croqueton, 67, 177–78, 197 182, 187–88, 190, 194, 196, 224n1, Fénéon, Félix, 196, 214n16, 215n28;
Croqueton (Study for A Sunday on 225n30; frames, borders, and on the Grande Jatte, 1, 63, Galerie Bernheim-Jeune, 104–5
the Grande Jatte—1884) (Albright- edges of, 157, 169, 177; interpreta- 75, 172; Henry and, 144; on Gampenrieder, Karl, At the Circus,
Knox Art Gallery), 67, 67 tions of, 2, 158–59; intimacy and Impressionism, 30, 211n50; 150, 150–52
Croqueton (Study for A Sunday on size of, 155–56, 161–62, 175, 177– Matisse and, 105; on Monet, Garnier, Jules-Arsène, Panorama of
the Grande Jatte—1884) (Musée 79; light and dark in, 5, 157–58, 207n25, 211n46; on pointillism/ Constantinople, 39, 40
d’Orsay), 67, 67 163–64, 168, 171, 177, 181–83, 195– Neo-Impressionist painting, 1, Geffroy, Gustave, 29–30, 64
Croqueton (Study for A Sunday on 96; of manual activities, 155–56, 89–90, 155, 159–61, 172–73; on Germain, Alphonse, 175, 212n56
the Grande Jatte—1884) (National 165–73; materials of, 156–57, 163, Parade de cirque, 219n3; on sea- Gillot paper, 180
Gallery, London), 67, 67 165, 180, 195–96; paintings com- scapes, 145; on Seurat’s frames Gingerbread Fair. See Foire du
croquis, 213n3 pared to, 2, 5, 156–59, 161–63, 173, and borders, 110, 217n49, 218n54, Trône/Foire au pain d’épice
Cross, Henri-Edmond, 7 175, 177, 183; photographs com- 218n57, 219n59 Goncourt, Edmond de, 201
curtain, motif of, 3, 135, 149–53 pared to, 179–82; pointillism and, flâneur, 33, 209n31 gouache, 177, 195–96
158, 161–62, 173, 177; preparatory, flatness, of images. See space, rep- Grandcamp, 9–13, 36, 56, 87
Daguerre, Louis-Jacques-Mandé, 183–87, 225n33; representation resentation of Grandcamp (Evening), 11, 13, 36
41–43; Boulevard du Temple, 179 of space in, 155, 182–83; time and Foire du Trône/Foire au pain Grande Jatte. See A Sunday on the
(detail), 179–80; Diorama of an temporality in, 156, 168, 179; titles d’épice (Gingerbread Fair), 113, Grande Jatte—1884
Alpine Scene, 42; Diorama of an of, 224n1; vision and, 155–59, 161, 116, 124, 130, 131. See also Cirque Gravelines, 36, 56–60, 209n33
Alpine Scene II, 42 163–65, 167–72, 181, 183, 187, 196 Corvi Greenberg, Clement, 105
David, Jacques-Louis, 214n8; Oath Duchamp, Marcel, 173 foreshortening. See pictorial Grey Weather on the Grande Jatte,
of the Horatii, 72, 72–73, 213n8, Durand-Ruel, Paul, 29, 32–33 illusionism 105, 107
214n22 The Fort Samson (Grandcamp), 11, The Grues and the Percée, 45, 47, 48,
Degas, Edgar, 29, 84, 187–88; Café- École des Beaux-Arts, 9, 26, 70, 99, 11, 205n2 51, 211n48
Concert, 191, 193; Café-Concert at 165, 213n6, 214n8, 217n46 Fouquier, Marcel, 34, 56, 92
the Ambassadeurs, 191, 192; Dance Eden Concert, 194, 195 frames, borders, and edges, 3–4, Hanslick, Eduard, 127
Rehearsal on the Stage, 188, 189 edges of art works. See frames, bor- 101–11; of A Bathing Place, Harbor Light at Honeur, 17, 18, 196
Delécluze, Étienne-Jean, 41 ders, and edges Asnières, 79; complementary Haumonté, Paul, 222n31
Denis, Maurice, Spots of Sunlight on Egyptian art, 63, 84–85 colors on, 218n57; of the draw- Helmholtz, Hermann von, 2–4, 113,
the Terrace, 214n11 Eiffel, Gustave, 200–201, 203 ings, 157, 169, 177; and femi- 206n11; on active vs. passive
depth. See space, perception of; Eiffel Tower, 5, 40, 197–203, 211n47 nine accoutrements, 217n49; perception, 49–50, 121–22;
space, representation of; picto- Eiel Tower, 5, 40, 197, 198, 199–200, Fénéon on 110, 217n49, 218n54, on color perception, 20, 89,
rial illusionism 203 218n57, 219n59; functions of, 91, 215n30; dissemination in
Desclozeaux, Jules, 160 Embroidery, 168, 168, 170–71, 181 106, 108–10, 218n54, 219n59, France of work of, 21–24,
228 index
206n12, 206n18; language individuality, of artistic style, 89–91, 120, 126–27, 134, 143, 157, Musée des copies, Paris, 213n6
and vision compared by, 37; 160–61, 173–75, 224n13 163–64, 170–71, 177, 181–82, mystification, 124, 127–29, 133. See
“On the Relation of Optics to Ingres, Jean-Auguste-Dominique, 195–96, 200–201 also cognition; hypnotization;
Painting,” 74–76, 91; and phan- 98–99, 214n8, 217n45, 217n46; lighthouses, 1, 5, 14–15, 17–18, 26, reason, defiance of; unintelligi-
tasmagoria, 113, 121–22, 129; Grande Odalisque, 98, 99; The 27, 35, 52, 57–58, 60, 195–96, 200, bility, of visual experience
on pictorial representation, Source, 98, 99, 217n45; The 201, 202, 203. See also maritime
24–25, 74–76, 91; on spatial Valpinçon Bather, 98, 99 signaling technology navigation, maritime, 9, 26–27, 45,
perception, 20–25, 27–28, itinerant fair. See Foire du Trône/ linear perspective, 4, 26, 37–38, 51–54, 58–60, 203. See also mari-
49–50, 74–76, 87, 97, 121–22, 172, Foire au pain d’épice 70–75, 92–94, 131, 133–34, 140, time signaling technology
207n23; Treatise on Physiological 207n20, 213n5. See also pictorial Neo-Impressionism: conception
Optics, 21 Japanese art, 141 illusionism; space, representa- vs. execution in, 172–73; critical
Hennequin, Émile, 83, 89, 92 jetties, 1, 14–15, 16, 17–18, 27, 35, 44, tion of reception of, 48–49, 66, 120,
Henry, Charles, 135, 144–45 44, 45, 46, 52, 211n49 Lorrain, Claude, 37, 221n19 159–62, 172–74, 211n50, 216n32;
High C, 113, 154 (detail), 190–92, 191 Joze, Victor, 223n43; L’Homme à frames and, 218n57; perceived
Hildebrand, Adolf von, 208n27 femmes, 111, 145–47, 223n44, Mallarmé, Stéphane, 109 impersonality of, 160–61, 173–75;
history of art. See pictorial conven- 223n45 Man Dining, 177, 178, 190 Joze and, 145; and optical theory,
tions and the history of art Manet, Édouard, 221n25; Nana, 139 86–92; relationship of sight
history painting. See tableau Kahn, Gustave: on drawings, 158, Man Leaning on a Parapet, 105, 107 and touch in, 92, 155, 159–61, 163,
L’Homme à femmes, 111, 145–146, 146 175, 180, 225n34; and the Grande Man Polishing Shoes, 165, 166, 179–80 172–73. See also pointillism
Honfleur, 13–19, 16, 26, 27, 35, 35–37 Jatte, 85; Henry and, 144; on The Maria, Honeur, 18–19, 20, Nielsen, C. V., wood engraving
horizon: in seascapes, 9–11, 36, 49; Neo-Impressionism, 48; obit- 35–37; artist’s signature in, 111; of Garnier’s Panorama of
in painting, 36, 41, 43, 71–72; in uary by, 158, 174; on Parade de text in, 36–37, 111 Constantinople, 39, 40
panoramas, 39–41 cirque, 131, 219n3; on popular maritime signaling technology, 5, Nietzsche, Friedrich, 129
Horkheimer, Max, 129 entertainments, 122–23, 149, 14–15, 18, 26–27, 51–52, 57–58, 60, Nineteenth Line Infantry
The Hospice and Lighthouse of 192, 194; on Poseuses, 216n43; 195–96, 201, 203, 207n21. See also Regiment, 9, 205n4
Honeur, x (detail), 1, 15, 16, 17–18, on seascapes, 56; on Seurat’s lighthouses Nordau, Max, 129
35–36, 56 appearance and biography, 174; Marx, Roger, 34, 162
House Painter, 165, 166, 167 and Seurat’s definition of paint- Matisse, Henri, 104–5, 125, 217n50 Oath of the Horatii. See David,
Huysmans, Joris-Karl, 56, 177 ing, 25; on Seurat’s frames and Maus, Octave, 49–50 Jacques-Louis
hypnotization, 122, 124, 127–129, borders, 106, 108–10, 125 Maxwell, James Clerk, 89 On the Balcony, 162, 162, 182
142, 149, 192. See also cognition; Knoblock, Madeleine, 54, 135–37, Michallet paper, 163 opera, 126–29, 127, 128, 195
disorientation; reason, defiance 174, 222n28, 223n45 Mirbeau, Octave, 29, 32–33 optical mixture, 58, 63, 86, 88–89,
of; unintelligibility, of visual mirrors, motif of, 3, 135, 139, 141, 159–60, 215n30
experience Laforgue, Jules, 217n49 149–52, 222n32, 223n55 optics. See color perception; mar-
La Goulue, 130, 131, 223n48 Molyneux, William, and itime signaling technology;
illusionism. See pictorial illusion- Landscape—The Island of the Grande Molyneux’s problem, 208n28 vision
ism; space, representation of Jatte (conté crayon), 68, 69 Monet, Claude, 27–33, 37, 43, 224n9;
Impressionism: compositional Landscape—The Island of the Grande Gare Saint-Lazare, 32; Poplars, Painter at Work, 155–57, 156
techniques of, 29; critical Jatte (oil), 68, 69, 85 32; Regatta at Argenteuil, 31, 31; panorama paintings, 38–43, 199,
reception of 31–32, 160, 208n27; landscape painting tradition, 37–38, Water Lilies, 32, 43; exhibition 211n46, 211n47, 223n50
dioramas compared to, 42–43; 105, 125, 221n19 practices, 33, 43; and vision, Panorama Rotunda in the Place
figures in works of, 65; model Le Crotoy, 54–56 28–31, 33, 208n28. See also d’Austerlitz, Paris in Nouvelles
of vision underlying, 27–29, Le Crotoy (Downstream), 34, 54–56, Impressionism Annales de la Construction, 39, 39
68; Seurat’s work or Neo- 55, 111, 145, 218n54 Moore, George, 161 Parade (conté crayon), 119–20, 120
Impressionism in relation to, 14, Le Crotoy (Upstream), 34, 54, 54–56, Moored Boats and Trees, 104, 104–5, Parade de cirque, 4–5, 112 (detail),
27–28, 33, 48–49, 65–68; Signac 102, 111, 145, 218n54 125, 217n50 113–14, 114, 116, 118–25, 130–135;
on procedures of, 159–60; Legrand, Louis, 142, 223n44 morceau. See étude/morceau border of, 125, 220n8; critical
transient effects in, 14, 28–30, Lehmann, Henri, 214n8, 217n46 Moréas, Jean, 220n6 reception of, 120, 131, 219n3;
32, 42–43, 48–49, 65–66. See also Le Roux, Hugues, 129 Morisot, Berthe, Young Woman exhibition of, 113, 116, 157, 187,
Monet; Degas Les Grues, 211n48 Powdering Herself, 139 190; model of vision underlying,
incomprehensibility. See unintelli- Lhote, André, 60 motion parallax, 22 121–25, 134, 219n5; nocturnal
gibility, of visual experience light, 5, 14, 36, 42–43, 58, 60, 86, Mouth of the Seine, Evening, 18, 18, 36 setting of, 120; and pictorial
229 index
illusionism, 130–35; Poseuses and, as metaphor for painting, 100–01, 133–34, 140; spatial perception, 1–4, 8, 10–11, 13,
116, 133–34, 187; and realism, 105–6, 109, 134, 140–41, 151; and structure of, 92–93, 97–98, 109; 25–28, 33–37, 43, 45, 49–52, 56,
131; representation of paintings Young Woman Powdering Herself, studio setting of, 87–88, 96, 101; 58, 60–61, 80, 87, 91, 123; of Port-
in, 130–34; spatial structure of, 140–41. See also space, represen- relationship between sight and en-Bessin, 44–54, 60–61; and
118–20, 129, 131–34, 219n5; and tation of touch in, 97–98; Three Graces Poseuses, 94, 96, 100–101; text
spectatorship, 116, 120, 122; title Piero della Francesca, 85 and, 95–96; title of, 96, 205n6 in, 36–37; and time, 28, 33, 41,
of, 205n6 Pissarro, Camille, 92, 161, 217n48, posters. See advertisements; Chéret, 48–49, 52–54, 68. See also series
parergon, 219n60 224n9 Jules The Seine at Courbevoie, 80, 81,
Parrhasius, 151 Pointe de la Percée, 211n48 Potin, Félix, 137 82, 123
Paul Alexis, 169, 169–70, 175, 177–78, pointillism: criticism and scholar- Poussin, Nicolas, 37–38, 213n8 self-reflexivity, 3; Circus and, 135,
194–96. See also Alexis, Paul ship on, 1, 3, 8, 63, 65–66, 86–90, Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre, 85 149–53; of drawings, 163–65,
Paul Signac, 178, 196, 196. See also 158–61, 173–74, 224n11; drawings 167, 169–70, 177, 183, 194–95; the
Signac, Paul and, 158, 177; and frames and Reading, 182, 182–83, 190 Grande Jatte and, 74, 82, 86–87;
Petit, Georges, 33 borders, 102, 105; in the Grande reason, defiance of, 2, 5, 123–24, Parade de cirque and, 130–35,
phantasmagoria, 86, 113, 121–22, 129, Jatte, 63, 65, 86–87; perceived 128–129, 133, 139, 141–42, 149, 153 140; Poseuses and, 87–88, 92–95,
221n20 impersonality of, 160–61, 173–74; Renaissance art, 63, 70, 84–85, 133, 100–01, 133–34, 140; seascapes
Phidias, 85 in Poseuses, 87–88, 102; and 213n6, 215n22, 223n47 and, 17–18, 25–26, 45, 82; Seine
photography, 179–82 signification, 37; and theories of repoussoir, 105, 125, 129, 151, 221n19. at Courbevoie and, 82, 123; of
Picasso, Pablo, 95, 216n44 vision, 1, 8, 65, 86–92 See also pictorial illusionism trompe l’oeil painting, 132–33;
pictorial conventions and the popular entertainments: Kahn’s Reynaud, Léonce, 207n21 Young Woman Powdering Herself
history of art: Circus and, criticism of, 122–23; visual and Ribot, Théodule, 22 and, 135, 139–41. See also pictorial
150–52; the Grande Jatte and, 4, mental experiences offered by, 2, The Roadstead at Grandcamp, 11, conventions and the history
65, 68, 70, 72–74, 76, 79, 82–87; 4–5, 113, 116, 120–25, 129, 142–43, 12, 13 of art
landscape painting and, 37–38, 147, 149, 152–53, 191–92, 194; Rodrigues, Eugène, Cours de danse semaphores, 51–52, 53. See also mari-
105; late figural works and, 114; world’s fairs as, 203; See also fair, n de siècle, 113, 142–43 time navigation technology
Poseuses and, 95–100; seascapes itinerant; café-concert Rood, Ogden, Modern Chromatics, Semper, Gottfried, 128
and, 26, 100; and spatial repre- Port-en-Bessin, 44, 44, 45, 51–52, 89 series, 7–61; and exhibition practic-
sentation, 125; window as met- 46, 47, 53 Rubens, Peter Paul, The Three es, 7, 33–34, 55; of Grandcamp,
aphor for painting, 105–6, 134, Port-en-Bessin, A Sunday, 44, 46, Graces, 95. See also Three Graces 9–13, 56, 87; of Gravelines,
140, 151. See also self-reflexivity; 49–50, 53 56–60; of Honfleur, 1, 13–19,
tableau; pictorial illusionism Port-en-Bessin, Outer Harbor (High Salon, 33–34, 155, 168 26–27, 34–37, 56; integrity of,
pictorial depth. See space, represen- Tide), 6 (detail), 45, 47, 48, 50–52, Salon des Artistes Indépendants, 3, 7, 9; of Le Crotoy, 54–56;
tation of; pictorial illusionism 102 33–34, 54–55, 68, 79, 110, 113, 135, logic of, 1, 3, 7–10, 14, 28, 55,
pictorial illusionism, 3–4; Circus Port-en-Bessin, Outer Harbor (Low 141, 148, 157, 177, 182, 190, 196 57; Monet’s work in, 27–28,
and, 150–52; of dioramas, 41–43; Tide), 45, 48, 52 seascapes: café-concert pictures 32–33, 208n30; and panorama
and drawings, 163, 165, 183; and Port-en-Bessin, The Jetties, 44–45, compared to, 195–96; criti- paintings, 40–41, 43; of Port-
foreshortening, 10–11, 77, 120, 45, 48 cism and scholarship on, 2, en-Bessin, 44–54; and spatial
133, 140; frames, borders, and Port-en-Bessin, The Bridge and the 7–8, 34, 48–50, 56, 59–60, 145, illusionism, 25–26, 43, 71, 91. See
edges and, 101, 104–6, 108–11, Quays, 44–45, 46, 48, 51, 60–61 157, 162, 209n33; compared to also seascapes
129, 219n59; the Grande Jatte and, Poseuses, ii (detail), 4, 88, 87–104, figural paintings, 100–01, 121, Seurat, Georges, life of: artistic
4, 65, 68, 70–76, 82–86, 92–94, 98 (detail); critical reception 123; figures’ role in, 2, 8, 13–14, training, 9, 99, 165, 185, 214n8;
213n5; Helmholtz on optics and, of, 97, 114, 217n45; exhibition 50–51, 60–61; of Grandcamp, aunt, 175, 176, 177–78; as basis for
74–76, 91; linear perspective of, 101, 102, 113, 116, 133, 157, 187, 9–13, 36, 56, 87; the Grande Jatte character in L’Homme à femmes,
and, 70–71, 74; of panoramas, 190; frame, borders, and edges compared to, 68, 71, 80, 82, 87, 145–47, 223n45; biographical
39; Parade de cirque and, 114, 120, of, 96–97, 102–4, 109, 217n48; 100–101, 123; of Gravelines, 36, accounts of, 9, 174–75, 223n45;
125, 130–34; pointillism and, the Grande Jatte reprised in, 87, 56–60; of Honfleur, 1, 13–19, father, 177, 178, 190; Madeleine
91–92; Poseuses and, 94–95; and 92–98, 100–102, 104; model of 26–27, 34–37, 56, 94, 111, 196; Knoblock, 54, 135, 136, 137, 174,
repoussoir, 105, 125, 129, 151, vision underlying, 87–88, 92–96, of Le Crotoy, 34, 54–56, 111, 223n45; military service, 9; moth-
221n19; seascapes and, 10–11, 123; Parade de cirque and, 113, 116, 145, 218n54; locations for, 8–9; er, 137, 168, 168, 170, 170–72, 175,
25–26, 43; Seurat’s definition of 133–34, 187; as representation Monet’s series of, 32; and nav- 177–78, 181, 182, 190; obituaries, 7,
painting and, 25–26; and trompe of the artist’s oeuvre, 100–101; igation, 9, 14–15, 17–18, 26–27, 83, 100, 126, 148, 157–58, 174–75,
l’oeil, 132–33, 151; and window self-reflexivity of, 87–88, 92–95, 45, 51–52, 54, 57–58, 60; and 206n20, 220n8; uncle, 222n31
230 index
Seurat, Georges, oeuvre of: cohe- Jatte and, 4, 68, 70–76, 82–86, 86, 177; exploratory nature of, 76–77; in Impressionism, 29–30,
siveness of, 2–3, 5, 100–101; 92–94, 213n5; Parade de cirque 4, 65, 86–87; figures in, 61, 63, 33, 42–43; measurement of,
treatment of frames, borders, and, 114, 116, 118–21, 125, 131–34; 65, 68, 70, 73–76, 78, 80, 82–87; 53–54; in Neo-Impressionism,
and edges in, 101–11; and artist’s Poseuses and, 92–94, 96–98, 103, in relation to Impressionism, 48–49; panoramas and, 41; pho-
definition of painting, 25–26, 109, 131, 133–34; in seascapes, 65–68; interpretations of, 4, tography and, 179–80; Poseuses
206n20; painted over self-por- 2–4, 11, 25–26, 43, 71, 82, 91; 63, 65, 68, 73–74, 78, 80, 82, 85, and, 96; in seascapes, 28, 33,
trait in, 140–41; signatures in, Seurat’s definition of painting 113; Landscape—The Island of the 48–49, 52–54; and standard uni-
110–11, 169–70, 177. See also exhi- and 25–26; Seurat’s exploration Grande Jatte in relation to, 68; versal time, 53
bition practices and groupings of different techniques for, reprised in Poseuses, 87, 92–95, Tip of the Jetty of Honeur, 15, 15,
The Shore at Bas Butin, 18–19, 19 3–4, 25–26, 43, 71, 73–74, 91, 97–98, 100–102, 104; revision of, 26, 205n7
Signac, Paul: diagram by, 80, 82, 101–110, 125, 129, 131–132, 151; 65, 86–87; seascapes compared touch: sight in relation to, 5, 92, 155,
82; and Gampenrieder’s At the Young Woman Powdering Herself to, 68, 71, 80, 82, 87, 100–101, 123; 157–60, 163, 165, 167–71, 187; and
Circus, 150; on the Grande Jatte, and, 114, 116, 135, 138–141. See also Seine at Courbevoie in relation spatial perception, 22–24, 92,
72, 80, 82, 82; on Seurat’s inter- space, perception of; pictorial to, 80, 82, 123; representation 97–98. See also space, percep-
est in Helmholtz, 21, 206n11; illusionism of space in, 68, 70–76, 80, 82, tion of; vision
Henry and, 144; Seurat’s letter spectacles. See popular 85–86, 92–94, 213n5; conven- Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri de, 130,
to, 18; Matisse and, 105; on entertainments tions of tableau in relation to, 4, 131, 223n43
Neo-Impressionism, 159–61, 173, Statue of Liberty, 201 65, 68, 71–74, 76–77, 79, 82–86; transient effects, 14, 28–32, 36,
218n57; portrait of, 178, 196, 196; stereoscopic images, 25, 206n19 technique and working process 41–43, 48–49, 60, 65–66
on Turner, 224n9. See also Paul Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières for, 63, 65–68, 85–87; time and, trompe l’oeil, 132–33, 151. See also
Signac (Fondation Beyeler), 183, 184 66–68, 76–77; title of, 66, 68, 80, pictorial illusionism
signatures, 110–11, 169–70, 177 Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières 87; and vision, 1, 4, 63, 65–66, 68,
simultaneous contrast, 90–91, (Musée du Louvre), 183, 185 71–78, 80, 82, 86–87, 123 unintelligibility, of visual expe-
216n34. See also color perception Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières Sun Tower, 200, 200–201 rience, 36, 50–51, 77–78, 116,
Sketch of the Entrance to the Cirque (National Galleries of Scotland), 120–24, 132, 139, 149, 152–53, 163,
Corvi, 130, 131 185, 187 tableau: autonomy of, 82, 96–97; 165, 221n24
Skirt (Study for A Sunday on the Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières étude/morceau vs., 31–32, Universal Exposition: of 1878, 40;
Grande Jatte–1884), 165, 165, 183 (Nationalmuseum, Stockholm), 37–38, 67–68, 96–97; figures of 1889, 40, 201, 203; of 1900,
Société des Artistes Indépendants, 183, 185, 186 in, 82–84; frames of, 109; the 203
33–34, 55, 68. See also Salon des Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières Grande Jatte in relation to, 4, 65,
Artistes Indépendants (private collections), 183, 184, 67–68, 72–74, 76–77, 79, 82–86; Valenciennes, Pierre-Henri de, 38
space, perception of: binocular 185, 187, 187 Impressionist works compared van de Velde, Henry, 126, 161, 220n8
vision and, 22, 24–25, 74–75, Study for A Bathing Place, Asnières to, 31–32; intelligibility of, 73, 76; vantage point: for A Bathing Place,
207n23; bodily movement (Yale University Art Gallery), and landscape painting, 37–38, Asnières, 80, 82, 123; Circus and,
and, 2–3, 22–25, 28, 33, 45, 50, 183, 185, 186 105; and linear perspective, 149; and drawings, 156, 162, 183,
75, 80, 82, 96–97, 121–23, 200; Study for Parade de cirque, 124, 125 71–72, 74; Poseuses in relation to, 185, 191; and Eiel Tower, 199–
Helmholtz’s theories on, 2, 4, Study for Poseuses (Musée d’Orsay), 93–94, 96–97, 101; vantage point 200; the Grande Jatte and, 71–76,
20–25, 27–28, 49–50, 74–76, 97, 102–3, 103 and, 74, 80, 93–94 78, 80, 82, 82, 123; and Neo-
121–123, 172; seascapes and, 2–4, Study for Poseuses (private collec- Taine, Hippolyte, 21–24 Impressionist painting, 155, 160,
8, 10–11, 25–28, 43, 45, 49–50, 58, tion), 102, 102–3 telegraphy. See semaphores 224n11; panoramas and, 39–41,
61, 80; Taine on, 21–24; vantage A Sunday on the Grande Jatte—1884, temporality. See time and 43; Poseuses and, 93–96, 101; and
points and, 2, 20, 22–25, 27–28, 63–87, 64, 70 (detail), 77 (detail), temporality seascapes, 1, 2, 11, 13, 15, 17–20,
49–50, 75–76. See also space, 78 (details), 85 (detail), 86 text, in Seurat’s paintings, 36–37, 111 25–28, 43–45, 55, 57–58, 87, 101,
representation of; vision (details), 87 (detail); A Bathing Three Graces, 95, 95–96, 98 123; and perception of space, 2,
space, representation of: in Chahut, Place, Asnières in relation to, 73, tides, 45, 52–53 20, 22–25, 27–28, 49–50, 75–76;
114, 116, 142; Circus and, 114, 116, 79–80, 82, 121, 123, 214n16; bor- tide signals, 15, 18, 26, 35, 50, 51, 51, for Seine at Courbevoie, 80,
149–52; conventions of, 3–4, der, frame, and edges of, 73, 77, 57–58. See also maritime naviga- 82, 123
10–11, 26, 65, 70–72, 74–75, 85, 79, 102; child in, 61, 74; critical tion technology The Veil, 164, 165
105, 120, 125, 131–133, 140, 151; in reception of, 1, 63, 65–67, 75–76, time and temporality: Barthes Verhaeren, Émile: on Chéret, 137;
drawings, 155, 182–83; frames, 83–86, 212n1; David’s Oath of on, 199, 224n56; dioramas and, on frames and borders, 126;
borders, and edges and, 104–6, the Horatii compared to, 72; 41–43; drawings and, 156, 168, on the Grande Jatte, 63, 67,
108–10, 125, 129; the Grande exhibition of, 63, 65–67, 80, 82, 179; Grande Jatte and, 66–68, 83–85; on late figural works,
231 index
116; obituary by, 83, 100, 126; seascapes and, 1–4, 8, 10–11, 13,
on seascapes, 7, 56; on Seurat’s 25–28, 33–37, 43, 45, 49–52, 56, 58,
practice, 34, 100 60–61, 80, 87, 91, 123; and time,
View through a Balcony Railing, 28–30, 33, 41–42, 48–49, 52–53,
163–64, 164, 182–83 66, 68, 76–77, 156, 168, 180, 199;
Vignier, Charles, 84 touch in relation to, 5, 22–24,
Les XX (Les Vingt), 49, 194 92, 97–98, 155, 159–61, 163, 165,
vision: active vs. passive, 2, 4–5, 167–173, 187, 207n24, 208n28;
49–50, 121–23, 130, 135, 152–53, Young Woman Powdering Herself
172, 194; in Balzac’s La Peau and, 4–5, 135, 137–39, 141; See also
de chagrin, 148; binocular, 22, space, perception of
24–25, 74–76, 207n23; Chahut
and, 2, 4–5, 116, 123, 135, 138, Wagner, Richard, 126–30, 195
141–44, 222n36; Circus and, 2, window: as metaphor for paint-
4–5, 116, 123, 138, 149, 151–53; and ing, 105–6, 109, 134, 140–41, 151;
cognition, 2–5, 20–28, 30–31, as motif, 116, 118, 131, 134–35,
33, 35–37, 43, 49–52, 58, 60–61, 163–64, 182–83
71–72, 74–76, 77–78, 80, 82, Woman in a Carriage, 162, 162–63
87, 92–94, 97–98, 116, 120–24, Woman Opening Parasol, 165, 166
134–35, 139–41, 143, 149, 152–53, Woman Reading by Lamplight, 170,
165, 168–72, 194, 196, 199–200, 170–71, 181
206n15, 207n23, 208n27, 208n28; Woman Sewing, 167, 167–68
desire and, 5, 123–24, 134–35, Woman with Black Bow, 178, 179
137–39, 141–44, 147–48, 153; women, clothing or accessories of,
different models of in Seurat’s 94, 97–98, 104, 165, 179, 216n43,
work, 1–5, 65, 74, 86–87, 116, 217n49
123; drawings and, 5, 155–59, 161, Wyzewa, Téodor de, 157
163–65, 167–72, 181, 183, 187, 196;
the Grande Jatte and, 1, 4, 61, Young, Thomas, 89
63, 65–67, 71–78, 80, 82, 86–87, Young Woman, 171, 171–72, 190
123; Helmholtz’s theories of, 2, Young Woman Powdering Herself,
20–25, 27–28, 37, 49–50, 74–76, 4–5, 135–42, 136, 138 (detail), 140
91, 97, 121–122, 129; Impressionist (detail), 144–45, 187, 217n49;
model of, 14, 28–33, 48–49, 66, advertisements and, 114, 137–138;
68, 208n27; linear perspective artist’s signature on, 111; frame
and, 71–72, 74–75, 92–94; mon- and border of, 125; painted-over
ocular, 25, 71–75, 82; and Neo- self-portrait in, 140–41; repre-
Impressionism, 1, 37, 48–49, sentation of space in, 114, 116,
86, 89–92, 159–60, 172–74, 135, 138–141
215n29, 216n36; Parade and,
4–5, 116, 120–25, 129–30, 132–35; Zeuxis, 151
Poseuses and, 4, 88, 92–100, 123; Zola, Émile, L’Oeuvre, 216n32
232 index
illustration credits
Postscript
© Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (fig. 137); Musée
d’Orsay, Paris/Photo: Hervé Lewandowski © RMN-
Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY (fig. 138); Collection of
the author (fig. 139); Photo: Héritiers de Mr Kleitz © École
nationale des ponts et chaussées (fig. 140); Collection of
the author (fig. 141)