I, Claude Monet

I was born in 1840 in Paris,

but raised in Le Havre.

I was born unruly.

Even as a very small child, I could not accept rules.

School seemed to me like a prison,

and I couldn't bear being locked indoors for four hours a day.

In Le Havre, when I was around 15 years old,

I began to earn a reputation as a caricaturist.

I became known throughout the town.

I charged between 10 and 20 francs for my portraits

and signed them with my second name, Oscar.

It was at the picture framer's that I often exhibited my caricatures.

There, I also met Eugène Boudin.

At Boudin's suggestion,

I agreed to go out and paint with him in the open air.

I became fascinated by his quick sketches,

born of what I call immediacy.

For me, it was like the removal of a veil.

I understood, I grasped, what painting could be.

My destiny as a painter opened up before me.

One day, Boudin said to me,

"You're talented. Your sketches are excellent."

"You're not going to leave it at that."

"Learn to draw well."

I took his advice.

Paris, 19th of May, 1859.

My dear Boudin, I have to tell you

of all the fine paintings I'm seeing in Paris.

The Troyons are superb.

The Daubignys are beautiful.

And there are some nice Corots, too.

And how's this for a good bit of news? Before I left Le Havre,

I was given an introduction to meet Troyon. I duly went.

I showed him two of my still lifes.

His comment was, "Well, my dear chap,

your colour's OK, the effect is correct."

"However, you must get down to some serious study,

for this is all very fine, but it comes very easily to you;

that's something you never lose."

"If you want my advice,

and want to take up art seriously,

begin by joining a studio

which specialises in figure painting;

an académie."

Take heed and you'll see I'm not wrong."

"Draw with all your might."

"You can never learn too much."

Honfleur, 15th of July, 1864.

Every day I discover more and more beautiful things.

My head is bursting.

I want to paint it all.

It really is appallingly difficult to do something

that is complete in every respect.

I think most people are content with mere approximations.

Well, I intend to battle on, scrape off and start again.

Since one can do something if one can see and understand it.

And when I look at nature, I feel...

I feel as if I'll be able to paint it all,

capture everything,

and then it vanishes, once you're working.

All this proves

that you must think of nothing else.

It's on the strength

of observation and reflection that one finds a way.

We must dig and delve unceasingly.

I'm working hard.

I'm quite content,

although what I'm doing is far from being as I should like.

I must tell you that I'm sending my flower picture

to the Rouen exhibition.

There are some really beautiful flowers out at this time.

Sadly, I've got so much to do on my outdoor studies

that I dare not start on any more.

Though I'd love to paint those gorgeous daisies.

Paris, 22nd of May, 1866.

I'm happier than ever.

I'm working non-stop and my courage is as high it has ever been.

My Woman in a Green Dress was accepted by the annual Salon

and that success led to my selling several paintings.

I've made 800 francs.

I hope, when I have contracts with more dealers,

it'll be better still.

Paris, 20th of May, 1867.

My dear Bazille, Manet's opening is in two days,

and he's in a frightful state.

Courbet opens a week today.

Can you imagine, he's inviting every artist in Paris to the opening?

He's sending 3,000 invitations, and on top of that,

every artist also gets a copy of his catalogue.

Renoir and I are still working on our views of Paris.

25th of June, 1867.

My dear Bazille, what a pitiful situation this is.

My poor Camille, she is so kind, a really good lass.

I'm writing to ask you

to send whatever you can,

since, although I'm getting along well with my relations,

they've warned me that, yes, I can stay here as long as I like,

but if I need money, I have to earn it.

On the 25th of July,

Camille's baby, our baby, is due.

I'm going to Paris where I'll be for 10 or 15 days

and I'll need money for a lot of things.

Do try and send me a little more, if only 100 or 150 francs?

Please bear it in mind.

Without it, I'll be in a very awkward position.

12th of August, 1867.

Once again I've had to reach out to people I barely know

and receive snubs from them.

I'm going through the most terrible torments.

I had to come back here

not to upset the family,

and also because I didn't have enough money to stay in Paris

while Camille was in labour.

She has given birth

to a big and beautiful boy, and...

..I don't know how,

I feel that I love him.

And it pains me to think of his mother having nothing to eat.

I was able to borrow the bare minimum for the birth and my return here,

but now, both she and I are totally without money.

29th of June, 1868.

I must have undoubtedly been born under an unlucky star.

I've just been turned out, without a shirt on my back,

from the inn where I was staying.

I have found somewhere safe in the country

for Camille and my poor little Jean to stay for a few days.

As for myself, I leave this evening for Le Havre.

My family refuse to help me any more.

I don't know where I'll sleep tomorrow.

I was so upset yesterday

that I was stupid enough to hurl myself into the water.

Fortunately no harm was done.

December, 1868.

I'm in Étretat. I'm very happy, very delighted.

I'm setting to like a fighting cockerel,

for I'm surrounded here by everything I love.

I go into the country, which is so lovely here

that I perhaps find it even more lovely in the winter than in the summer.

And naturally, I'm working all the time,

and I think this year I'm going to do some serious things.

In the evening, I come home to my little cottage

to find a good fire and a dear little family.

If only you could see how the little lad is now.

How lovely it is to watch this creature grow.

I am enjoying the most perfect tranquillity.

Argenteuil, 28th of June, 1875.

My dear Manet, it's getting more and more difficult.

Not a penny left since the day before yesterday

and no more credit at the butcher's or the baker's.

Even though I believe in the future,

you can see that the present is very hard indeed.

You couldn't possibly send me a 20 franc note

by return of post, could you?

That would help me for a quarter of an hour at least.

25th of July, 1876.

The creditors are proving impossible to deal with,

and short of a sudden appearance on the scene of wealthy art patrons,

we are going to be turned out of this... this dear little house...

..where I led a simple life

and was able to work so well.

I do not know what will become of us.

I had so much fire in me and so many plans.

15th of January, 1878.

In two days, we must leave Argenteuil,

and to do that, I must pay my debts.

30th of March, 1878.

My wife has just had another baby

and I find myself penniless and unable to pay for the medical care

that both mother and child must have.

I have pitched up on the banks of the Seine at Vétheuil,

in a ravishing place.

I am once again a man of the country,

and I shall only go to Paris

on those occasions when I need to sell my pictures.

10th of March, 1879.

I'm absolutely sickened with and demoralised by

this life I've been leading for so long.

When you reach my age, 38,

there is nothing more to look forward to.

Unhappy we are, unhappy we will continue to be.

14th of May, 1879.

My dear Monsieur Hoschedé, I must accept the hard fact

that I cannot hope to earn enough money from my paintings

to pay for our life at Vétheuil.

We can't be very good company for you and your wife Alice.

Myself more and more embittered, and my wife nearly always sick.

I believed I could create dreams of work and happiness here.

I am now utterly without hope...

..and see everything at its blackest and worst.

Dear Monsieur de Bellio,

for a long time I have been hoping for better days ahead, but alas,

I believe the time has come for me to abandon all hope.

My poor wife is in increasing pain

and I cannot imagine that she could be any weaker than she is now.

Not only does she not have the strength to stand up or walk one step,

but she cannot hold down the slightest bit of nourishment,

although she has an appetite.

One has to be at her bedside continually

attending to her smallest wish, in hope of relieving her suffering.

And the saddest thing is that we cannot always satisfy