1872
Finding a means
of obtaining blood meant I could focus on what brought me to Paris. Art was the heart and soul of the
city. Evening exhibitions enabled me to see the great artists of the time such
as Corot, Millet, and Rousseau. Several artists wanted me to pose for them, but
I declined all requests because I could not allow the existence of a dated
portrait of me. I became friendly with Manet, Monet, Renoir, and other young
Impressionists.
One night, I sat
at café talking with Claude Monet, whom I had met at a party after an
exhibition. He had difficulty selling his magnificent paintings.
“Nessa, it is
hard to pour your soul onto a canvas only to have it derided.”
“You are a
talented man. Surely people will buy your paintings.”
“It is not just
me. It is hard on my wife. She wears old clothes and wonders if anything will
ever change.”
I reached into
my purse and pulled out ten francs. “Here. Take this. Your family should not
suffer because the world is blind.”
He looked at the
money then pushed it back at me. “No. I cannot take money like a beggar.”
Though his lips were drawn, tears leaked out of his eyes.
“I am not giving
you anything. Consider it a loan. Give me any one of your paintings and you can
redeem it whenever you want.”
