At the end of September, Tom & I drove to Les Collettes, the estate where Pierre-Auguste Renoir lived for the last dozen or so years of his life. A 3-hour drive from our rented apartment in Arles, it is located up a narrow, winding road in the town of Cagnes-sur-Mer, near Antibes on the French Riviera. Wedges & swaths of the Mediterranean Sea can be spied from the highest reaches of the extensive property, which is lush with olive, citrus & palm trees. Apparently Renoir moved here in the hope that the southern climate would ease his severe rheumatoid arthritis, but it’s hard to imagine that being surrounded by all of the beauty of Les Collettes wouldn’t have lifted his spirits as well.
On the second floor of the house is Renoir’s Grand Atelier (large studio), a truly large room with hardwood floors & pale yellow walls. A fireplace is at one end & a huge window at the other. In the middle is Renoir’s easel with his wooden wheelchair rolled up to it. The wicker back of the wheelchair has a sizeable hole in it. Of course, we don’t know exactly what caused it – general wear-&-tear, careless handling, mildew? – but I like to think it was Renoir’s long hours behind the brush.
And speaking of Renoir’s paintbrush: It is time to retire the somewhat sinister notion that someone had to tie it to his hand in order for him to work. In reality, the strips of cloth that can occasionally be seen in photos of an aged Renoir at work were actually there to prevent skin irritation. While it is true that someone was needed to place the brush in his hand, Renoir was always able to hold it & propel it himself.
Our journey to Les Collettes was something of a pilgrimage for me, a way of paying homage to the artist whose work has thrilled my soul for so many decades: His juicy, sumptuous reds & blues, his lilting brushstrokes, the way he renders a white dress or tablecloth with every color imaginable but you can still tell it’s white… Then there are the specific paintings I never tire of looking at, such as Luncheon of the Boating Party or the still life of strawberries in a fluted dish that I got to “visit” again in August at L’Orangerie in Paris.
For me the biggest take-away from an experience like this is a fresh infusion of inspiration. In the past week, I haven’t stopped thinking of Renoir & that wheelchair pulled up to the easel, paintbox to the right, palette to the left. No doubt I will carry a mental image of Renoir’s studio at Les Collettes with me when I return to my studio a couple of weeks from now. And whenever my attention span flags or my right shoulder begins to cramp or I feel stymied on a section of my painting, I will call up the image of Renoir sitting in his wheelchair, paintbrush in his hand, busily wearing a hole in the wicker.