Woman Impressionist: Berthe Morisot

Berthe Morisot ‘Self Portrait’ 1885. She was the one of the founders of the famous Impressionists art movement. Despite this, history has rewritten her out of many history books because she’s a woman.

I’ve got about 10 minutes before the dinner bell is called, and yet standing over the fireplace, throwing in the last of our letters, I feel as though time cannot touch this moment. Flames dancing in front of me, I long to paint their rapid strokes, the play of light and colour. And yet somehow I feel I won’t have to commit this to canvas for this scene to burn through my memory; the only place our love remains.

Oh, how I wish to capture the vivacity of life beyond. Have I not proven my worth twice fold? Although, I should have known from Father that “woman art”will only ever be considered a charming hobby. Always charming or flirtatious, never daring or brilliant, like Édouard Manet. I don’t think there has ever been a man who treated a woman as an equal and that’s all I would have asked for, for I know I’m worth as much as they.

So Manet asked me to pose for him, and how could I have said no? I’ll recall sometimes sitting before him as he darted across the canvas with such quick strokes of his brush it was almost as if he were fencing. His intelligent charm keeping me going through those long hours. His face is decidedly charming and pleases me immensely.

It was Father who encouraged us towards art, giving us lessons with Camille Corot from young. But “art is just but a hobby, Berthe,” he would say, “no need to start getting hysterical over it.” I was not hysterical, but passionate.

So I paint women and girls as individuals with idiosyncrasies. But then Édouard would tease, “It’s just a pity they’re not MEN.” And still, I cannot paint in cafes or parks or heaven forbid the brothels that my fellow gentlemen so frequently paint. All because I’m a woman .

So of course I always knew Edma was better than I. Our Father and tutors made it clear. It was for her that I kept painting. But then she gave it all up for stable marriage with a military officer. Oh God! I couldn’t bear it. I set to burning all those pieces. She’d left me and without my sister they were meaningless. Art became waste. Everything I did was a waste. I was a waste. How could I ever paint again? I was terrible. Foolish to think art was anything but a hobby .

So imagine my surprise when one of my pieces got accepted into the Salon. But, of course, it was overshadowed completely by Édouard’s scandalous Olympia. Why does he always take the spotlight?

It wasn’t until the easel he bought me that Christmas that I realised I loved him and he might feel for me also. And yet he was still married. How could I be so foolish? Flurried painting strokes followed; artworks full of frustrations of our forbidden love.

My father began to remark that I was in “DIRE need of a husband, poor girl.” So eventually I was persuaded to try look elsewhere. I really tried. I think. But how could I try give my heart away when it had already run into the arms of one who could never catch it ?

Still, he did anger me so. I was useless before his hand. Accepted by the Salon and yet slighted by all who passed. The only reason I got praise for my work was because we were all “so feminine” in our work, so at least as the “woman painter,” I was justified. “A hysterical outpouring of a deranged, uncontrolled mind,” the critics would say. It was agreed I was in “DIRE need of a husband.”

Of course, he went on to paint Eva Gonzales.

I was not beautiful and elegant. Nor did I have the figure of Eva. My eyes weren’t pretty, tranquil and blue, but harsh, dark and intense.

But why did he paint me like that? And so many times. I think maybe my ankles might have pleased him.

He told me “Berthe, you’re nearly 33 now. We need to restore your reputation and get you married.” By then the critics were truly ruining my name; so we agreed.

So he is as close as I can have him. Édouard is my brother in law now. So one must burn love letters.

[Dinner Bell Rings]

[Berthe throws the final letter into the fire, stands up straight and collects herself]

So that paper and ink is gone now and will be forgotten. My husband, Éugene Manét, even thinks painting is a profession. He even modelled for me; the only man I ever painted. We’re functional together. He gave me little Bibi, who’s my delight. I start teaching her to paint tomorrow. So I will teach her: women can paint too, husband or not.