Direct PDF link for archiving.
PDF icon
Visiting Delaroche and Diaz with L'Illustration
by Rachel Esner

In 1896, the critic Henri Nocq wrote:

"In order to garner a more or less complete picture of an artist, his works, and his artistic direction, one must visit his studio. Not only does the oeuvre retain all its significance when viewed in the place where it was conceived and executed, there is also a striking resemblance between the artist and his studio; the dwelling itself permits one to make a thorough assessment of the man who occupies it."[1]

This statement sums up a notion that had been gaining currency since the advent of Romanticism in the 1820s and which found expression not only in the works of artists themselves—in their depictions of their studios and in self-portraits—but also in many forms of media with an even broader reach within the public domain. In fact, we can speak of the artist's studio becoming "mediatized" through its representation, during the course of the nineteenth century, in dozens of artist-novels and hundreds of caricatures on the subject published from the 1830s onward. These forms of dissemination of the image of the artist and his studio have been the subject of much art-historical investigation.[2] The reach of those print media, however, was fairly limited, certainly when compared to more "mass media" sources such as the illustrated press,[3] which, by contrast, has yet to be examined in depth. It was above all through the latter that the studio, supposedly the artist's private realm, increasingly became communal property.

But what exactly is the image of the artist's place of work these sources create? How was the space characterized and, especially, how was it understood to reflect, perhaps even to produce, the artist himself? These questions are central to this article,[4] which aims, through a close reading of both texts and images, to outline how the artist and his studio[5] were presented to a very particular audience; namely, the bourgeois readers of the widely circulated magazine L'Illustration. In my essay, I will focus on two articles from the first of the two illustrated "series" of visits to the artist's studio published by the journal[6]—the first of their kind in the popular press.[7] The visits undertaken by the writer and literary critic Augustin-Joseph du Pays were to Paul Delaroche in September 1850 and to Narcisse Diaz in March 1853. The accounts of these visits can be said to typify the conceptions of the studio that run throughout the series, and are thus illustrative of the image of art and artists that L'Illustration sought to convey. It is my contention that, in line with the magazine's overall ideology, the aim of this series was to promote an art that avoided the extremes of both Neo-classicism and Romanticism, but that nonetheless served a didactic aim, and an artist who was no longer an extravagant outsider but an upstanding member of society, with whom—although he always maintained a special status thanks to his abilities—L'Illustration's readers could identify.

L'Illustration was founded in 1843 as the French counterpart to the London Illustrated News.[8] From the outset, it staked a claim to high-mindedness, moderation, and impartiality in matters of both politics and culture. Although the editors were rather reserved toward the Revolution of 1848 and in the early years of the Second Empire, for a time, exhibited a somewhat obsequious attitude towards the new powers, in general their ideology seems to have been conservative republican. As in its politics, L'Illustration strove for temperance and balance in language and tone; the writing style was elevated and never strident.[9] Although reporting on the arts was not as important as commenting on current and market affairs, the journal did count several prominent art critics among its ranks, including Théophile Gautier and Paul Mantz.[10] The quality of the criticism was generally high and the editors seem to have taken the art world seriously. As far as taste was concerned, here too we can characterize the journal as moderate to conservative, as it favored artists of an academic bent. The painters and sculptors discussed were very much in the mainstream, and many could be considered the "official" artists of their time.[11]

L'Illustration was quite widely disseminated but rather expensive, meaning that from the beginning its audience belonged to a wealthy, mainly upper-class segment of society, those with enough time and education to read long articles and who were interested in "things of the world."[12] Like the journal itself, L'Illustration's readers were moderate in every way, with a particular dislike of extremes (especially the far left). Jean-Nöel Marchandiau describes them as firmly "center left, center, and center right." L'Illustration was the place for those cultured citizens, he writes, fleeing the "feverishness" of their time.[13] As David Kunzle points out, however, it was precisely this equability that made the magazine the perfect instrument for maintaining the status quo. Its reports and investigations, its political optimism and championing of the free market—always presented in a seemingly objective and neutral manner—appealed to its readership's desire for stability and at the same time served to reinforce their belief in the political and economic system of the moment.[14]

Although Du Pays's series only began in earnest in the 1850s, a kind of prolegomena was offered in advance of the Salon of 1844[15] in an article entitled "Visite aux ateliers." While the article is primarily a description of some of the pictures that were to appear in the show, two aspects are interesting and relevant to the series which followed, providing insight into the general attitude of L'Illustration toward art and the artist, and creating a basis for the image it would later construct for its bourgeois audience. The first is the critic's condemnation of both Ingres and Delaroche for not exhibiting at the Salon, turning their studios instead into exhibition spaces, which, however, were inaccessible to the general public. As far as the critic was concerned, this meant that these artists had "died,"[16] implying not only that in order for an artist to live he must allow the public access to his works, but, indeed, that the public has a certain right to see them. Later, Du Pays would write in reference to Delaroche: "Today, when, under the influence of our current political system, each one of us is more and more compelled to confront the question of publicity, even artists cannot avoid the consequences. . . . Those to whom nature has imparted a certain talent must account for it to all."[17] The second aspect is the vehement attack on those painters who appeared to produce solely for the market. Their aim, Du Pays writes, is to paint as many pictures as possible for the Salon, which, he implies, had degenerated into a kind of bazaar.[18] This, in the anonymous author's eyes, was as lamentable as the absence of Delaroche and Ingres. Here we already begin to see the outline of the praiseworthy painter: one who does his duty to the public by exhibiting, but who equally rejects the crass commercialism represented by the Salon.

Fig. 1, Paul Delaroche, The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, 1833. Oil on canvas. National Gallery, London.

Fig. 2, Narcisse Diaz de la Peña, Les folles filles, ca. 1844. Oil on canvas. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

In 1850, L'Illustration and Du Pays decided to take up the subject of the visit to the artist's studio in a more serious fashion, with a group of articles published over the course of several years. Among the artists called on were Delaroche (fig. 1) and Diaz, the latter better known in this period as a painter of fashionable fêtes galantes and allegorical subjects (fig. 2) than as a landscape painter. Their widely divergent styles and themes are characteristic of the series as a whole, whose subjects—the Dantan brothers, Delaroche, Calame, Bonheur, Delacroix, Giraud, Jollivet, and Diaz—can only be described as a motley crew. Although all were well known in their day, the critic's choice seems rather arbitrary, or perhaps better: eclectic. In fact, this eclecticism is programmatic and places the articles firmly within the framework of what would soon become the declared artistic ideology of the Second Empire.[19]

In the first article, Du Pays states that he will do everything in his power to both entertain and inform. His plan is to take his readers on a tour of the capital's studios in no particular order and with no preference for one type of artist over another. He will simply go where his luck takes him, since, when it comes to artists, "the inspiration of the moment is what counts."[20] Giving an overall characterization of how and where artists live and work, he notes—quite rightly—that they tend to congregate in the same neighborhoods, forming their own little colonies, each with its "free and independent outlook."[21] The studios, too, have a specific character, due, he writes, to the fact that most artists have no family to temper their eccentricities.[22] According to Du Pays, then, artists are a breed apart, autonomous, independent, and, generally speaking, unconventional.

Interestingly, there seems to be no particular (didactic) purpose to these visits; as already indicated, they were simply meant to be informative and entertaining—an approach typical of L'Illustration, which sought to distinguish itself from magazines like the Magasin pittoresque, which were designed to appeal to the lower middle classes.[23] There is even a suggestion that such visits might be possible for anyone, at least anyone with the freedom to undertake them: "Visiting the artist's studio is one of the most agreeable leisure pastimes offered to the curious in a great city."[24] As far as Du Pays is concerned, their primary aim is not so much to see the artist, or even to admire his works, but to have a look at the studio itself and, especially, to discover how it reflects the artist's personality. Such visits, he writes, "have a three-fold interest: after getting to know the artist himself, and after examining his works, his sketches, and his studies, one can enjoy looking around the interior . . . of the refuge he has chosen, which in its arrangement reflects his personality and his whimsical tastes."[25]

In line with their "entertaining" and "informative" character, most of Du Pays's articles exhibit a similar structure, employing various tropes in order to create as picturesque an image in words as in the accompanying engravings. One of the most interesting of these tropes revolves around the means by which the critic gains access to the studio. Several of the articles[26] begin by describing his arrival in a quiet, even isolated neighborhood; although the studio is located within the urban fabric, every effort is made to emphasize its "out-of-the-wayness" and distance from the everyday world. Once at the proper address, he is required to pass through a liminal space, such as a garden or forecourt, before being admitted to the studio. This transition—a kind of rite de passage—always contains some kind of surprise, something that turns the expectations of the critic on its head, often returning him with a slight shock back to the present.[27]

Du Pays's descriptions of the studios divides them into two basic kinds, the simple "working" studio and what we would now refer to as the "salon" studio,[28] characterized as its opposite. Each space reflects the personality of the artist who inhabits it, but also the kind of work he produces.[29] Each type of studio shares certain features, repeatedly described in the text and shown in the illustrations, which allow the reader to envisage a specific artist-type and to discern his (or her) character. To each of these types, the author attaches a certain (moral) value, which in turn reflects, determines, and confirms his and his readers' notions of art and the artist in general.

Fig. 3, The Studio of M. Delaroche. Engraving from L’Illustration, 14 September 1850, 165. Photograph courtesy of Special Collections, University Library, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam.

The studio of Delaroche (fig. 3) is presented as the epitome of the working studio, and the painter himself as the model of the working-studio artist. His workspace is characterized first and foremost by its physical sobriety, which Du Pays describes as puritain.[30] It has none of the exoticism or disarray found elsewhere, he writes, and contains only that which is strictly necessary for art-making: some casts, an easel, a ladder, a few studies on the wall and a large cheval glass for viewing his compositions in reverse. The only "luxury" is a piano, which once belonged to the painter's deceased wife.[31] The austerity Du Pays describes is underlined by the illustration, which shows us a light-filled room without a single creature comfort, with bare floors and even a cracked ceiling. The walls appear to be hung with nothing but the artist's own sketches and studies. Some of these are simply framed, but throughout there is a notable absence of finished pictures: all the works shown are demonstratively either in progress or are there to support production. A remarkable feature is the big canvas at the right, which seems much larger than one would expect of Delaroche.

Artistic labor is clearly the focus of Delaroche's studio: "Here, fantasy plays no role; this is the dominion of a serious and learned art, not an art of improvisation."[32] The pictures produced here, Du Pays implies, are carefully thought through, composed and executed with a steady hand and an equally steady mind. Hard work and dedication determine both the artist's life and his art, as is further highlighted in the biographical section of the text, where Du Pays is at pains to stress Delaroche's struggles with his critics. Although he does not approve of the strategy the artist has chosen to deal with his detractors—namely, his withdrawal from the Salon—he admires him for continuing to wholeheartedly pursue his vision.[33] This image of the painter as completely absorbed in his work is once again reinforced by the accompanying engraving, which shows Delaroche with his back to the viewer, contemplating his picture and his next brushstroke. Our presence as spectators is in no way acknowledged, creating an impression of the studio as an isolated and self-sufficient world.

This brings us to the issue of the relationship between the artist and his studio and society at large. Both the text and the illustration suggest that the painter cares little for his surroundings, inside or out; his studio is closed and private, and he seems to have no need of anything beyond it. If a connection to a world beyond the sphere of work is suggested, it is one that frames this world in such a way that it does not detract from, but rather reinforces, the image of the working-studio artist as dedicated to his métier and of sober character; as already noted, the only "extravagance" Delaroche's studio contains is a piano that belonged to his deceased wife, which, Du Pays writes, he keeps there as a means of preserving her memory.[34] The painter is thus not only a devoted artist, he is also a devoted husband, even when such devotion is no longer strictly necessary.

The artist of the working studio is thus characterized as a man who lives for his art, and who works incessantly and without distraction, totally uninterested in worldly matters. The severity of the space, where he is surrounded only by his work instruments and sketches (explicitly not finished works), reflects the artist's personality: sober, diligent, steadfast. Together, studio and character produce a kind of art that is meant to be taken seriously, that addresses itself more to the mind than to the senses, and to which the public should more often be exposed. This stereotype is reinforced by the examination of the other working studios and their artists in the series, which employ similar verbal and visual tropes.[35]

The articles that deal with the salon studio[36] trace a different kind of space and construct a very different kind of artist. If the main characteristic of the working studio is its sobriety and the main emphasis labor and the work of art, at the heart of the salon studio is abundance and a focus on the world beyond its walls. Much attention is paid in the texts and illustrations to the Henri IV-style furnishings, the trunks (bahuts) so beloved by the bohemians of 1830, the heavy carpets and curtains, the suits of armor, stuffed animals, and myriad bibelots—many purchased on their foreign travels—with which these artists surround themselves. The artists' accoutrements are never mentioned in the texts, and few beyond the obligatory palette and brush or sculptor's trestle are shown in the illustrations. The pictures on the walls are not studies but finished works, whereby it is not always clear whether they are the work of the artist himself, his friends, or his predecessors. In any case, they are demonstratively on display and not part of a working process. The salon studio, one might say, is the studio of pure spectacle.

Perhaps the most telling description of the salon studio and the type of artist who inhabits it is found in Du Pays's article on Narcisse Diaz.[37] This article also provides a glimpse of the critic's real opinion of such studios and their painters. It is essentially a diatribe against Romantic and colorist tendencies in contemporary French painting, and the author condemns Diaz above all for having abandoned the first principles of art—line and drawing—with the result that his pictures are nothing but lurid fantasies, mensonges, as he calls them.[38] A feeling for color is a natural gift, and a colorist like Diaz works merely intuitively, an approach which the critic clearly despises.[39] Such work has nothing to do with art, he writes, but enjoys enormous popularity with the public, whose taste it has corrupted to such an extent that it has changed the very nature of French painting. While he freely admits that Classicism, too, has become decadent and conventionalized, now that the public has rejected firm contours in favor of vague forms, artists do nothing but sketch their dreams, using a vivid palette to ensure that their pictures will be as seductive (and thus commercially successful) as possible.

Fig. 4, The Studio of M. Diaz. Engraving from L’Illustration, 19 March 1853, 185. Photograph courtesy of Special Collections, University Library, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam.

In fact, Du Pays does not describe Diaz's studio at all—having used up his word quota with his tirade, as he himself remarks.[40] The accompanying engraving (fig. 4), however, is telling, although one might add that for all Du Pays's vehemence, the space is not nearly as bohemian, Orientalizing, or dissolute as one might expect. What we see is a typical salon studio, containing a mélange of medieval and "exotic" objects and bric-a-brac. Most of the pictures on the wall are framed—no sign of a study or sketch is to be seen—an indication of the studio's "showroom" character. Most important for the viewer's impression of the studio and of the artist, however, is the fact that the room is full of people: a model with an assistant, and a number of the painter's admirers. Three of these have gathered around the easel, which sports a framed painting depicting the very model seated at the right.[41] Two of the men gaze intently at the picture, one holding something that looks like an optical instrument, while the third checks the likeness by comparing the painted woman with the live one in front of him. The outstretched arm of the man in the center invites us, the viewers, to do the same, thus incorporating us into the studio to the same degree that we were excluded from it in the image of Delaroche.[42] A fourth man ignores the art all together and is shown enjoying a smoke in a comfortable armchair. The painter himself, still with his palette[43] and maulstick in hand, has retreated behind the easel, leaving his work to the connoisseurs—the public whom it was clearly painted to please. This studio, then, is a place of sociability rather than hard work, the painter is a kind of impresario, and his art is made to be exhibited and consumed, thereby—at least in Du Pays's eyes—exerting a corrupting influence on its audience. The combination of words and image support this reading, although it is difficult to say whether the message would have been so clear to Du Pays's original readers, who may well have simply seen it as an amusing vignette, confirming their view of artists as a generally sociable, if slightly louche, lot.

The artist who inhabits the salon studio is not an assiduous and thoughtful laborer, but rather a "man of the world," who seemingly has no need to work in order to be successful and whose pictures are created spontaneously and instinctively. He is more interested in his possessions than his tools. His studio is full of objets d'art and collectibles, implying time and money for collecting. In such a studio and for such an artist it is his network of friends and patrons that count, not his family ties. Here, everything is spectacle: the studio and its products—framed and ready for purchase—are spread out before our eyes. The artist with this type of studio is a social man, and the kind of work he produces is an art for display: sensual, colorful, exotic, perhaps even a little corrupt and corrupting. Once again, though, studio, man, and work both resemble and produce one another.

Just as there are two types of studios, for Du Pays there also seem, then, to be two kinds of artists and, finally, two sorts of art. We can discern a number of rhetorical contrasts that allow us to build a general picture of L'Illustration's image of art and the artist: solitary vs. social; bourgeois vs. bohemian; learned vs. intuitive; linear vs. coloristic; didactic vs. commercial. Although in general the descriptions seem not to sanction one category in particular, Du Pays's condemnation of Diaz and his praise for Delaroche may indicate a slight preference for the "hard-working" sort. This may also explain why he so much regrets Delaroche's withdrawal from the Salon: because he is absent (together with Ingres), a sensual, Romantic art synonymous with spectacle and commercialism had been able to conquer the French art world. His admiration for the diligent artist is thus equally a plea for a return to a kind of art that can fulfill a noble purpose.

This subtle privileging of the conscientious painter over the seemingly more superficial one is of course also interesting in terms of the audience to whom these articles were addressed. The artist of the working studio was a type to whom L'Illustration's readers could relate; perhaps somewhat unconventional but nonetheless a man of character: upright, industrious, family-oriented. He was dedicated to his métier and produced works that were easily understood but not overtly commercial—works that were good for morality, "safe" in terms of style and subject matter. His opposite number may no longer have been the full-fledged bohemian of the 1830s and 40s (with its implications of radicalness not only in art but in politics as well), but he was still an exotic species, almost a celebrity. He was a man whom readers might either disdain or admire for his materialism and success, but always from afar. In this sense, L'Illustration can be said to have contributed to the ongoing mystification of the artist, but also, and perhaps more importantly, to his normalization. This lies very much in line with the journal's general striving to promote stability and moderation in all areas of life in the wake of the upheavals—both social and artistic—of the previous decades. The form of mediatization of the image of the artist found in L'Illustration may thus be somewhat different from that of the novel or caricature, which tend to characterize the studio as an exotic locale and the artist as more or less an outsider. Further research into the image of the artist in the popular (illustrated) press will, however, be needed to gauge to what extent the picture presented in the pages of L'Illustration is anomalous or representative.


The author would like to thank Patricia Mainardi and Clotilde Roth-Meyer for their help and advice on the research for this paper.

Translations are the author's own.

[1] "En de nombreuses visites aux peintres et aux sculpteurs les plus différents, j'ai eu fréquemment l'occasion de constater qu'il faut, pour avoir une idée à peu près complète d'un artiste, de ses œuvres, de ses tendances, visiter son atelier. Ce n'est pas seulement que les œuvres, dans l'endroit même où elles furent conçues et réalisées, gardent intacte toute leur signification; mais il y a entre un artiste et son atelier une ressemblance frappante; le logis permet de formuler, sur celui qui l'occupe, un jugement assez complet, et de prévoir le genre de réponse promise à l'interwiew [sic]." Henri Nocq, Tendances nouvelles: Enquête sur l'évolution des industries d'art (Paris: Floury, 1896), 11. Nocq wrote his comments following a visit to the decorative artist Eugène Grasset. Interestingly, he describes Grasset's studio, personality, and œuvre in much the same terms as Du Pays, forty years earlier, had described Paul Delaroche (see below), indicating that not only the idea of the studio as a reflection of the artist who inhabits it, but also the highly rhetorical language used to discuss the concept remained the same over the years.

[2] On the artist-novel see, among others, Natalie Heinich, "Artistes dans la fiction: Quatre générations," in Künstlerbilder – Images de l'artiste: Colloque du Comité International d'Histoire de l'Art, Université de Lausanne, 9-12 juin 1994, ed. Pascal Griener and Peter J. Schneemann (Bern, Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, New York, Paris, and Vienna: Peter Lang, 1998), 205–20; Joy Newton, "The Atelier Novel: Painters as Fictions," in Impressions of French Modernity: Art and Literature in France, 18501900, ed. Richard Hobbs (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1998), 173–89; and Philippe Hamon, "Le Topos de l'atelier," in L'Artiste en représentation - Actes du colloque Paris III. Boulogne, ed. René Démoris (Paris: Editions Desjonquères, 1993), 125–44. On the caricatures see in particular Annette Wohlgemuth, Honoré Daumier: Kunst im Spiegel der Karikatur von 1830 bis 1870 (Frankfurt am Main, New York, Paris, and Vienna: Peter Lang, 1996).

[3] One should, however, use the words "mass media" with caution when discussing the 1850s and 60s, which witnessed only the beginning of this phenomenon. For an overview of the development of the media in relation to the art world see Petra Ten-Doesschate Chu, The Most Arrogant Man in France: Gustave Courbet and the Nineteenth-Century Media Culture (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2007), 5–16.

[4] This article is part of a larger investigation into the image of the artist's studio in the French popular (illustrated) press from the 1850s to the end of the 1880s.

[5] In keeping with Du Pays's articles which, with one exception—Rosa Bonheur (May 1852)—deal exclusively with male artists, I have chosen to employ the masculine pronoun throughout the following text.

[6] Du Pays's "series" (one must use the term loosely here) was published over the course of seven years in the 1850s and included visits to the sculptor Antoine-Laurent Dantan (Dantan ainé, May 1850); the genre- and portrait painter Pierre-François-Eugène Giraud (July 1850), famous for his depictions of Spain and Morocco; Paul Delaroche (September 1850); the history- and genre painter Pierre-Jules Jollivet (November 1850), also renowned for his Spanish genre subjects; the Swiss landscape painter Alexandre Calame (January 1851); Rosa Bonheur (May 1852); Eugène Delacroix (September 1852); Narcisse Diaz (March 1853); and the sculptor-caricaturist Jean-Pierre Dantan (Dantan jeune, May 1857). The second series, written by the collector and chronicler Paul Eudel, appeared from January to July 1886 and covered visits to the still-life and animal painter Philippe Rousseau (March 6); Camille Bernier, a specialist in Breton genre subjects (20 March); Jean-Léon Gérôme (April 17); William Bouguereau (24 April); the battle painter Edouard Detaille (May 22); the Orientalist Benjamin Constant (12 June); and the society portraitist Carolus-Duran (July 3).

[7] In the 1850s, the French art world's then most important magazine, L'Artiste, also undertook a similar series of visits to the studios of well-known painters of the day. Written by various authors and published under the heading "Intérieurs d'ateliers," these articles—unlike their counterparts in L'Illustration—are almost solely dedicated to discussions of works of art, with little or no attention paid to the studio itself, and are not illustrated. My thanks to Clotilde Roth-Meyer for bringing these essays to my attention; they will be the subject of a separate study by the author within the framework of the aforementioned research project.

[8] On the illustrated press in general see Jean Watelet, La Presse illustrée en France, 1814-1914, 4 vols. (Lille: Atelier National de Reproduction des Thèses, 1998); and Jean-Pierre Bacot, La Presse illustrée au XIXe siècle: Une Histoire oubliée (Limoges: PULIM, 2005). On L'Illustration specifically see David Kunzle, "'L'Illustration,' Journal universel, 1843-53: Le premier magazine illustré en France; Affirmation du pouvoir de la bourgeoisie," Nouvelles de l'estampe 43 (January-February 1963), 8–19; Jean-Nöel Marchandiau, L'Illustration (1943-1944). La Vie et la mort d'un journal (Toulouse: Privat, 1987); Krishnâ Renou, Journal universel, L'Illustration: Un siècle de vie française, exh. cat. (Paris: Musée Carnavalet, 1987); and Karine Taveaux-Grandpierre and Michel Durampart, "Un nouveau mode de la presse nouvelliste: L'Illustration," Communication & Langages, no. 157 (September 2008), 21–31. With special thanks to Patricia Mainardi for the references to Watelet and Marchandiau.

[9] Marchandiau, L'Illustration (1943-1944), 295.

[10] Watelet, La Presse illustrée, 3:26.

[11] Ibid., 25.

[12] The journal's print-run in the period in which Du Pays's articles appeared was approximately 25,000. This is not a huge number, certainly when compared to newspapers and other, less expensive illustrated magazines such as the Magasin pittoresque, but it remained consistent over many years, indicating that L'Illustration had a loyal readership, the large majority of whom were subscribers; Marchandiau, L'Illustration (1943-1944), 27.

[13] Ibid., 298.

[14] Kunzle, "L'Illustration," 11.

[15] "Salon de 1844. Visite dans les ateliers," L'Illustration, March 1844, 3–5. The article is unsigned, but given that some of the attitudes expressed are repeated in later articles, in particular in the visit to Delaroche's studio, it seems likely that it, too, was written by Du Pays.

[16] "Pour les Salons de 1844 et des années suivantes, ces deux grands artistes ne doivent pas être comptés comme absents, ils sont morts, morts, en vérité! Donc, les regrets sont superflus; les espérances de les admirer encore sont illusoires; il ne nous reste plus, à leur égard, qu'à chercher tous les moyens possibles de consolation." Ibid., 4.

[17] "De nos jours, où sous l'influence de nos mœurs politiques, chacun tour à tour est de plus en plus appelé à affronter la publicité, l'artiste qui en vit, dont elle est l'atmosphère naturelle, ne peut pas impunément sortir de ce milieu . . . .Ceux à qui la nature a départi le talent en doivent compte à tous." A.-J. Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Delaroche," L'Illustration, September 14, 1850, 165.

[18] "Salon de 1844. Visite dans les ateliers," 4. On the notion of the Salon as "bazaar" see Patricia Mainardi, The End of the Salon: Art and the State in the Early Third Republic (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 9–35.

[19] See Patricia Mainardi, Art and Politics of the Second Empire: The Universal Expositions of 1855 and 1867 (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1987), especially chapter 8, "Critical Theories: The Apotheosis of Eclecticism," 66–72.

[20] A.-J. Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Dantan ainé", L'Illustration, May 11, 1850, 294.

[21] Ibid.

[22] Ibid.

[23] Bacot, La Presse illustrée, 57.

[24] "Les visites aux ateliers des artistes sont une des plus agréables distractions offertes aux loisirs curieux d'une grande ville." A.-J. Du Pays, "Atelier de Dantan jeune," L'Illustration, May 30, 1857, 347.

[25] "Elles présentent un triple intérêt: outre la connaissance de l'artiste lui-même, et après l'examen de ses ouvrages, des ses ébauches, des ses études, on aime encore à fouiller du regard l'intérieur . . . de la retraite qu'il s'est choisie, et dans l'arrangement de laquelle se reflètent son individualité et ses goûts capricieux." Ibid.

[26] Du Pays, "Dantan ainé," 294; Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Eugène Giraud," L'Illustration, July 6, 1850, 29; and Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Rosa Bonheur," L'Illustration, May 1, 1852, 283.

[27] The most intriguing of these transportations occurs in the visit to Giraud. Upon entering the house, Du Pays believes himself to be in the retreat of "un philosophe ami de la solitude" or "pieux cénobite," only to discover once he arrives at the studio itself—filled with pipe smoke, that most contemporary and potent signifier of Bohemia—"[l]a retraite où nous sommes introduits n’est donc ni un oratoire ni un repaire de sorcellerie, c’est un atelier, c’est la demeure d’un artiste et c’est sa fantaisie, son goût d’antiquaire qui a créé . . . cette représentation si exacte d’une chambre et d’un ameublement du seizième siècle qui nous illusionnait tout à l’heure." Du Pays, "Eugène Giraud," 29.

[28] These do not, however, appear to be the pure "show" studios we know from later in the century. As no mention is made in the articles of a separate working space, it seems safe to assume that the artists Du Pays visited did in fact execute their pictures there; despite their salon-like appearance, then, they are still in some sense places of work, although, as we will see, Du Pays emphasizes their social character and little labor is actually shown being done in them.

[29] An exception is the studio of Delacroix. Given the painter's rebellious reputation and sensuous art, Du Pays is surprised to discover that his workspace is not some kind of fantastic palace but rather "un simple atelier de travail. Si l'imagination, prenant les devants, y a rêvé tout un monde de riches dépouilles, de costumes, d'armures, de curiosités de tout genre empruntées à l'Orient et au moyen âge, elle en est pour ses frais." A.-J. Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Delacroix," L'Illustration, September 25, 1852, 205–7, at 205.

[30] A.-J. Du Pays, "Delaroche," 164.

[31] Ibid.

[32] "Ici rien n'est donné à la libre fantaisie; c'est le domaine de l'art cherché, étudié, et non de l'art improvisé." Ibid., 165.

[33] Ibid.

[34] Ibid., 164.

[35] See A.-J. Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Calame," L'Illustration, January 17 and 24, 1851, 43–46; Du Pays, "Rosa Bonheur," 283–84; and Du Pays, "Eugène Delacroix," 205–7.

[36] In addition to the article on Diaz discussed below, see for the "salon" studio: Du Pays, "Dantan ainé," 293–94; Du Pays, "Eugène Giraud," 29–30; Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Jollivet," L'Illustration, November 8 and 15, 1850, 301–2; and Du Pays, "Dantan jeune," 347–50.

[37] A.-J. Du Pays, "Visite aux ateliers: Diaz," L'Illustration, March 19, 1853, 185–86.

[38] Ibid., 185.

[39] Ibid., 186.

[40] Ibid.

[41] This is a strange anomaly, as the frame implies the work is finished, while the presence of the model indicates the opposite. This makes it seem quite likely that the image, although certainly based on a sketch done in situ—as was the journal's normal procedure—is as much a product of fantasy as something the draftsman actually witnessed. On the production of illustrations for L'Ilustration see, among others, Krishnâ Renou, preface to Journal universel, n.p.

[42] We might think here in terms of Michael Fried's notions of "absorption" and "theatricality," as first discussed in his seminal publication Absorption and Theatricality: Painting and Beholder in the Age of Diderot (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1980).

[43] In fact, this type of palette later became known as a palette Diaz. It is extremely heavy, so one can hardly imagine the painter posing with it for very long. With thanks again to Clotilde Roth-Meyer for noting this detail in the engraving.