From the July/August 2023 issue of Apollo. Preview and subscribe here.
In 1924, the critic Gustave Geffroy recalled watching Claude Monet at work in London in 1900. Positioned by the Thames in early morning darkness, Monet peered through the fog, waiting for the opportune moment: ‘The waves of the Thames swelled, almost invisible in the fog. A boat passed like a ghost. The bridges were barely discernible in space; on them an almost imperceptible movement animated the thick fog […] Suddenly Claude Monet seized his palette and brushes. “The sun has returned”, he said, but at that moment he was the only one who knew it.’ A catalogue of fogs makes the London that Monet and Geffroy saw painterly: ‘Lemon yellow, thick and green like a pea soup, strewn with the colours of nasturtiums and hyacinths.’ What begins as invisibility, concealment, transforms for Geffroy over the course of this passage into a source of lucidity – a paradoxically clearer form of vision than might be possible without the haze. Seeing London rightly involves seeing what is at first ‘imperceptible’.
The fact that Firestone takes mists and fogs to be not just themes of the paintings with which he is fascinated, but also aspects of their technical achievement, allows for this flexible way of tracing similarity. This method is at times suggested by the artists he examines. Turner, for instance, once declared to John Ruskin that ‘atmosphere is my style’. For Firestone, such an intermingling of style and subject originates with Leonardo, who counselled that it was important to paint portraits ‘at twilight, or when there are clouds or mist’. But if there were no mists available, he advised that one might simply ‘pretend that there is some sort of mistiness or transparent cloud placed between the object and the sun’.
Firestone’s comfort with both literal and figurative fogs allows him to include works where there might seem, at first, to be none – Rocky Landscape (1830) by Carl Friedrich Lessing, for instance, or even Monet’s Water Lilies series – while finding thematic or aesthetic uses for obscurity. One of the attractions of mist lies in its capacity for connection, for rendering porous the usually hard outlines of things. Yet, working in this way also has its hazards, and Firestone occasionally risks abandoning scholarly precision in favour of suggestiveness and connection – all mists threaten to become one mist.
Shuttling between style and subject, however, can be Firestone’s most engaging critical tool, enabling him to hint at a relationship between Leonardo’s harmonising sfumato and Monet’s atmospheric enveloppe. If he stops short of settling what that relationship may be, this perhaps suits his theme.
Firestone can be at his most definitive about the meanings of mists when he turns to literature. At times, he resorts to variousness as an explanatory tactic: ‘The long association of vaporous atmosphere with the passage of time, the vagaries of memory and feelings of uncertainty, […] evil, presentiments of death, […] spiritual splendours and the terrors of the supernatural’, etc. At other points, he is a chronicler of more penetrating responses to haze, from William Wordsworth to Joseph Conrad to Oscar Wilde, who observed in ‘The Decay of Lying’ (1891) that ‘there may have been fogs for centuries in London. […] But no one saw them, and so we do not know anything about them. They did not exist till Art had invented them.’ For all his insouciance, Wilde sees that the mists that drift through the history of painting represent a crucial way in which artists have sought to shake landscape free of its inertness and make it meaningful. Firestone sees this too, and this book offers a valuable chronology of that attempt.
Mist and Fog in British and European Painting by Evan R. Firestone is published by Lund Humphries.
From the July/August 2023 issue of Apollo. Preview and subscribe here.