The Bridge at Labastide du Vert in Spring 1911

Henri Martin built this bridge with paint; dabs and dashes of light describe a place, maybe a memory of springtime. I wonder how long he sat here, or if he sat here at all? I can see him squinting, trying to capture the way light hits the water, the bridge's stone. He’s not trying to get it exactly right, but to give the feeling of it. Isn’t that always the struggle? The real versus the felt. The surface is alive with these little strokes, like he’s knitting the scene together. Yellows, greens, blues—broken color that shimmers, vibrates. His dots are like the Impressionists, but I see something else too. The guy’s got a system, but he's letting feeling lead the way. Painting is like that. You start with an idea, a technique, but if you're lucky, the painting takes over. It tells you what it needs, where it wants to go. Painters are always talking to each other, across time and space. We steal, borrow, argue, and build on what came before. Each painting a record of that conversation.