It seems that once I start writing, I can’t stop, or I end up counting the threads on the tatami mat without getting a single line done. Today, I decided to write about Auguste Renoir, the man who manipulates those colors that seem to be the epitome of happiness. However, it feels a bit presumptuous for a man like me, who seems to be wrestling with my own shadow at the bottom of a dark cellar, to talk about a painter who depicts women with such sun-drenched, rosy cheeks.
Every time I look at a Renoir painting, I am overcome with an indescribable shame. It’s not because he’s a bad painter; quite the opposite. It’s because he so completely affirms “life” in this world. My own writing is like desperately trying to erase the scent of death, only to end up masking the stench of decay with perfume, but his paintings possess an audacious vitality that transforms even the shadow of death into a slumber in the sunlight. He supposedly said that paintings must be fun, beautiful, and lovely. Oh, what terrifying words. I could never say such a thing, not even if my mouth were to split open. For me, expression has always been like a razor held to my throat, and I could never bring myself to sell off my happiness.
He was afflicted with rheumatism, and continued to paint even with his brush tied to his hand. Such obsession. The world romanticizes it as “passion for art,” but I know better. It was not something as simple as passion. It must have been like a curse for a man who could only keep himself grounded in this world by painting. He tried to cover up the terror of his own body disintegrating with those overflowing colors. The fresh, vibrant skin of the girls he painted—wasn’t that a maddening obsession with the youth he himself was losing?
I imagine myself standing before his “Bal du Moulin de la Galette.” There, light and shadow dance, and people simply revel in the present moment. No one thinks that they might hang themselves tomorrow. That carefree attitude is dazzling to me, and above all, I envy it terribly. I cannot enter that circle of happiness. I can only stand at the entrance, staring at my muddy shoes, grappling with how misfit I am.
The flowers Renoir paints seem to breathe life into them. But I know that behind the beauty of those flowers lies the unbearable physical pain he must have endured. He never mixed a single drop of his suffering into his paint. This was less a matter of nobility and more a kind of stubbornness. He took revenge on the fate that oppressed him with the weapon of “beauty.” To depict misfortune as misfortune is the work of a second-rate artist like myself. He dissolved all of his misfortune into happiness.
Sometimes I wonder: What if I had the same sense of color as him? What if the words I wrote emitted such a warm light? Perhaps then I could have lived more in harmony with others. But all I have in my hands is black ink and cold despair. Renoir’s paintings whisper to me, “Live.” It’s less encouragement and more a cruel command. It’s as if he’s saying, “Even a man like you is not allowed to give up and die in despair, because this world is full of such beauty.”
He tried to paint roses until the very end. It is said that on his deathbed, he said, “I’m finally beginning to understand something.” What exactly was that “something”? I doubt I could ever find the answer, even if I spent my whole life trying. I am simply bewildered, my own tainted soul illuminated by the overwhelmingly vivid red of the roses he painted.
Ultimately, I may love Renoir, and at the same time, hate him. The heavenly scenes he depicted only make the hell I inhabit even darker. Yet, I will still open his art books. And I will seek fleeting solace in the glorious moments depicted there, moments that will never return. Oh God, just a little bit, would you grant me some of that innocent affirmation of life that Renoir possessed?
Renoir. To me, that name sounds like the name of the most distant star. Today, once again, I am in my dark room, chasing the light of that star, unable to write a single line of manuscript, simply waiting for dawn. I am a failure. But even to the eyes of a failure like me, Renoir’s light is so beautiful, so painful, that it remains seared into my memory.
If I had encountered Renoir on a Parisian street corner during his time, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to exchange a single word, and would have simply fled like a frightened rabbit. If I were to be met with his large, all-encompassing gaze, my petty self-consciousness would vanish like spring snow. For me, that is more terrifying than death. For a person who clings to their own misfortune, there is no more cruel violence than the presentation of absolute happiness.
Nevertheless, Renoir’s paintings continue to be loved all over the world. Perhaps it is because, deep down, everyone longs for the “lost paradise” he depicted. People try to replenish the hearts worn down by the ravages of daily life with the layers of paint in his works. I am no exception. Readers who frown upon my writing will surely smile gently when they see a Renoir painting. When I consider that contrast, I lose all confidence in my own existence.
But I must write. Just as Renoir continued to hold his brush with motionless fingers, I too must continue to hold my pen with trembling fingers. If he painted light, I will paint the deepest shadows that light casts. That is my own way of showing respect to this great giant, and also my rebellion.
Outside, the birds have already begun to sing. Dawn is breaking. The light that Renoir loved will begin to illuminate the world once again. I close the curtains and, alone in this dimly lit room, savor the lingering images of the colors he left behind. My story is not yet over. Even though I may not reach the same happiness as him, I believe there must be a truth that can only be seen in this darkness.
Renoir, were you truly happy? Did those women with rosy cheeks you painted really smile so beautifully? Or was it all just your kind lie? I want to believe that lie. If that lie can make this hopeless reality just a little bit more bearable, then I want to give your lie a heartfelt round of applause.
Reading this essay I’ve written, I feel a shame so profound it makes me want to die. I have no right to speak of Renoir. Yet, I couldn’t help but write. I was simply deeply, deeply moved, as a human being, by the fact that such a dazzling presence truly existed on this earth.
Now, I must put down my pen. Writing any more will only expose my own ugliness. A beautiful silence, like that in a Renoir painting, is most fitting for me now. I quietly close my eyes, feeling the faint, yet distinct, echoes of the flickering sunlight filtering through the trees and the girls’ laughter behind my eyelids.