To paint the atmosphere, it is necessary that the sea, the sky, the earth, and those who live below and in it, have a mouth of the atmosphere. Men must also feel it; Let them feel that their faces, their clothes, their hats, their silhouettes, are made, defeated, redone, in a word compounds, by the time it does. In September 1895, Eugène Boudin was in Deauville, in Calvados. His merchant, Paul Durand-Ruel, writes to him that he expects heaps of him “Beautiful things” And that he sold a lot of others, especially to the Americans. But Boudin, who painted the Marines that month in Fécamp, in Seine-Maritime that month, and in its good and ungrateful city of Le Havre, complains about the lights and the evolution of the boats. Son of a sailor and a cleaning lady, he is 71 years old. He is at the top of an art that anticipated and accompanied, on his aisles, without drum or trumpet, the luminous impressionist equipped.
On September 29, he wrote to a friend that he fell “In a series of misty days: an absolute absence of clouds, a sky always relentlessly blue or in a pale tone … I could not draw the slightest party for the object that concerns us and come back without having marinated … And then the desolation of the moment for the poor marine painter is the D
