Few things reveal the inner life of artists more than where they choose to eat once they finally have a franc in their pockets. For the Impressionists, dining was never simply sustenance—it was strategy, camaraderie, theater, and the occasional act of defiance. Their restaurants tell the story of their rise: from noisy cafés of argument to polished dining rooms where turbot arrived under silver domes.

If you have ever walked into a fine restaurant and felt a little smaller, a little more aware of your posture, or a bit uncertain about your knife, you may be experiencing the long shadow of Louis XIV. The Sun King did not invent haute cuisine to delight the palate. He created a world in which eating was a political act. The food was beautiful, but the real purpose was control.

Not all generosity is institutional.
Most of it isn’t.

Most of it happens off the record, without witnesses, without announcements, without plaques. It moves quietly, passed hand to hand, story to story, like folklore.

Kenneth Noland bought materials for Jules Olitski when Olitski couldn’t afford them. Jasper Johns carried Roy Lichtenstein’s work to Leo Castelli when Lichtenstein couldn’t bring himself to do it himself. Agnes Martin slipped younger artists envelopes of cash in Taos—or simply showed up at their studios and gave them her full attention, maybe the rarest gift of all.

In my last post, I wrote about artists whose eyesight shaped their work—Monet, Degas, O’Keeffe, Chuck Close, and others. Their paintings bear the trace of cataracts, macular degeneration, blindness, or simply a different way of seeing. But sometimes words and canvases aren’t enough—we want to see these struggles brought to life. Luckily, filmmakers have been fascinated with the same question: what happens when an artist’s vision changes?

After my opening at the Soprafina Gallery in Boston several years ago, friends invited me to dinner with their friends—an oncologist and his wife. Over the meal he told me about his research. He had access to mountains of data collected from patients over many years, and he and his team were struggling to mine the information for patterns that might predict cancer.

Nick isn’t just any stone carver—he’s a third-generation master, leading The John Stevens Shop in Newport, Rhode Island. When you peel back the layers, though, what strikes me most isn’t his lineage—it’s his heart. He learned the trade from his father*, soaking up calligraphy and type design in Basel, then returned to reinvent what hand-lettered stone could be.

Nolde’s story warns that persecution alone does not equal resistance: an artist can be both victim and believer, oppressed by aesthetic policy yet thrilled by the ideology behind it. For museums and viewers, the question is not whether to hang his blazing reds and violets, but how—with letters, party documents, and wall texts that refuse the old romance of the misunderstood genius.

The story starts with a battered leather suitcase, the kind that creaks when you unlatch it. Inside are 769 sheets of cheap French drawing paper, layered like stage flats: gouache scenes, penciled dialogue, and musical notes scrawled in the margins. Together they form Leben? oder Theater?—Life? or Theatre?—the autobiographical epic Charlotte Salomon painted in hiding between 1940 and 1942.

The story of Japonism in France begins, unexpectedly, with the hum of Dutch trade ships. For over two centuries, while Japan remained closed to most foreign contact under the Tokugawa shogunate’s sakoku policy, a small Dutch trading post on the artificial island of Dejima in Nagasaki Bay served as the sole Western gateway to Japanese goods. Porcelain, lacquerware, and rare silks quietly flowed into Europe, but few could imagine that humble woodblock prints, used at times as wrapping paper to cushion these exports, would one day ignite an artistic revolution.

In dawn of the 20th century in France was marked by a vibrant and transformative artistic landscape, with the Impressionist movement having laid a fertile ground for the emergence of diverse modern art expressions.1 At the heart of this era stood Claude Monet, a foundational figure of Impressionism, celebrated for his profound ability to capture the subtle nuances of light and his dedication to exploring singular subjects through extensive series of paintings. Among his most iconic works are those depicting water lilies, a subject with which his name became intrinsically linked in the public consciousness.

Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849) stands as a titan in the world of art, his iconic woodblock print, "The Great Wave off Kanagawa," instantly recognizable across cultures and time.1 His career, spanning over eight decades, yielded thousands of paintings, prints, and book illustrations, showcasing his mastery of ukiyo-e and an insatiable artistic curiosity.1 Yet, a fascinating question arises when examining his work: how did European art influence Hokusai, an artist who lived during a period when Japan was largely closed off from the Western world?

In dawn of the 20th century in France was marked by a vibrant and transformative artistic landscape, with the Impressionist movement having laid a fertile ground for the emergence of diverse modern art expressions.1 At the heart of this era stood Claude Monet, a foundational figure of Impressionism, celebrated for his profound ability to capture the subtle nuances of light and his dedication to exploring singular subjects through extensive series of paintings. Among his most iconic works are those depicting water lilies, a subject with which his name became intrinsically linked in the public consciousness.

The mid-20th century witnessed a seismic shift in the landscape of American art, with the emergence of Abstract Expressionism marking a departure from European traditions and establishing New York as a new global art center. At the heart of this transformative period were two towering figures: Clement Greenberg, a highly influential art critic whose formalist aesthetic shaped the discourse around modern art, and Jackson Pollock, an artistic innovator who revolutionized painting with his energetic "drip" technique

A significant and often overlooked influence on Van Gogh was the vibrant world of Japanese art, specifically ukiyo-e woodblock prints. These prints, depicting everything from serene landscapes to dramatic kabuki actors, captivated Van Gogh and fundamentally altered his artistic trajectory.

Pierre Bonnard, a luminary of the late 19th and early 20th century art world, was deeply captivated by the aesthetics of Japonism, the Western fascination with Japanese art and culture. While many of his contemporaries explored the bold, graphic aspects of Japanese prints, Bonnard absorbed a more nuanced, intimate understanding of the style, weaving it seamlessly into his own unique artistic vision. His paintings and prints reveal a delicate dance with Japanese aesthetics, marked by specific and recurring elements.

Leslie Parke Sketchbooks from 1979 - 1986

I grew up with this Lalique vase in the entryway to our home. It was one of several pieces that my Grandmother bought in Paris in June of 1929. I know this because my father told me. The time of the purchase seemed significant as it was only a few months before THE CRASH. Later I discovered a receipt, which seems to be about the delivery of several other Lalique items — an ashtray, a box, and a perfume bottle — to her room at Hotel Crillon.

Hilma af Klint and Wassily Kandinsky, two influential artists of the early 20th century, shared a profound interest in the spiritual and abstract realms of art. While their paths diverged in many ways, their work was deeply intertwined by their explorations of spirituality, physics, and music.