Well, listen to me for a moment. People in this heartless world are always making such a fuss, shouting about “Art” and “Beauty” and “The Lofty Spirit” until their mouths go dry, and as a result, we can’t get a single moment of peace. No matter which way you turn, you’re greeted by heavy-handed signs boasting of “passion that coughs up blood” or “agony that carves out the soul.” Don’t you ever find yourself longing for something more—something like the feel of a lukewarm spring breeze, or the comforting scent of a well-worn pillow? Something carefree, yet quietly precious.
That is where Corot comes in. Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot. Even the name itself has a light, rolling sound to it, like a pebble tumbling down a path. When I gaze at this man’s paintings, I find myself completely forgetting the miserable excuses I had to make for my debts, the agony of the manuscript I can’t seem to finish, and all the vulgar trivialities of my daily life. Or rather, it’s not so much that I forget them, but that they dissolve into a silvery mist, until they seem like nothing more than charming, inconsequential little accidents.
To tell you the truth, Corot was a man who didn’t act “like an artist” at all. Nineteeth-century Paris was a place where everyone was bloodshot-eyed and desperate to become the standard-bearer of a new era, but he steered clear of all that clamor. He simply spent his time staring at trees in the morning fog or quiet stretches of water. Every landscape he painted is silvery-gray and hazy. It is as if you are looking at the world through the eyes of someone who has just woken up. Yet, within that “haziness,” the truth of peace lies hidden.
He was born into a very wealthy family and remained a stranger to financial hardship his entire life. Compared to the world’s unfortunate geniuses who produced masterpieces while gnawing on crusts of bread, he was far too blessed. Normally, this would be the recipe for a pretentious, spoiled brat, but Corot was different. He took that happiness and shared it ungrudgingly with those around him, as if he were handing out portions of a meal. If a fellow painter was in trouble, he would quietly slip them his wallet; if an old man couldn’t pay his rent, Corot would buy the house outright and give it to him as a gift. He was, quite literally, a walking charity.
That personality of his is reflected directly in his paintings. There isn’t a trace of intimidation in his work. There is no aggressive self-assertion, no powerful brushstrokes shouting “Look at me!” Instead, there is only a silvery wind blowing, willow leaves swaying, and nymphs dancing in a space somewhere between a dream and reality. For him, art was surely not a tool for expressing suffering, but a modest “gift” intended to bring happiness to himself and whoever happened to look at it.
We have a tendency to believe that intense colors and the collision of violent emotions are the only things that are “real.” However, when you stare intently at a Corot, you realize just how exhausting all that intensity is. Perhaps the things that truly matter do not reside within a scream, but within silence—and a silence that is faintly smiling, tucked away in those tranquil moments of time.
In his later years, Corot was affectionately called “Papa Corot” and was loved by everyone. It is said that as he lay dying, he murmured in a delirium, “How beautiful the landscape is today. I have never seen such a wonderful sky.” Even facing death, he affirmed the world. No grudges, no regrets, no vanity. He simply adored the light before his eyes. I believe this is the highest form of refinement a human being can achieve.
If you ever find yourself out of breath on the steep slope of life, quit trying to force your way to the summit. Run to a nearby museum instead and let yourself get lost in Corot’s silvery woods. There, you won’t find anyone to scold you or judge your worth. There is only a gentle mist to wrap around your shoulders, and you might hear Corot’s calm voice whispering in your ear, “Now, don’t be in such a hurry.” Just that is enough to make you feel like you can somehow keep on living through tomorrow. Perhaps art exists for the very purpose of affirming our “pathetic human weaknesses” after all.