But as I learned by trying to copy Monet’s paintings, that idea is completely mistaken (Colorplate 2). It is not possible to reproduce the effect of a Monet painting by jousting mechanically with the canvas, jabbing a dot of paint here and planting another one there, until the surface is uniformly puckered in Monet’s signature texture. A painter who does that will end up with a picture that looks soft and uninteresting, with a dull pattern of swirling circles like the ones left by some electric rug cleaners. A brush that’s loaded with paint and then pushed onto the canvas makes a circle, more or less, but Monet’s pictures do not have any circles in them. There is only one slightly rounded mark in this detail from one of his garden paintings—the blue patch at the lower right—and it’s rectangular, not circular at all. [The painting below is a different one.]
Nor does it help to make the usual sideways swipes at the canvas, because then the picture turns into a rainstorm of oval droplets, all falling in one direction. Some second–rate painters of Monet’s generation tried to paint that way, and the result is pictures that have a windswept effect, as if they were greasy surfaces smeared by a cleaning cloth. (Sassetta’s Madonna has the windswept effect in miniature, since he painted by slight flexes of his thumb and index finger, each time bringing the brush a few millimeters down and to the left.) But Monet’s pictures have no direction: they are perfectly balanced, and marks go in all directions equally. Would it be possible to tell which way is up in this detail? It is omnidirectional, with no sign of the diagonal fall of brushmarks that is the sure sign of an ordinary painter. To a nonpainter, it may sound like an easy matter to make marks in all directions: after all, an artist could try painting with both hands, or experiment with rotating the canvas. But getting real directionlessness is immensely difficult: repeated gestures naturally fall into line with one another, and artists have to work hard against their own anatomy to make sure that one kind of mark does not overwhelm the others.
Not all painters want the effect Monet achieved: many prefer the energy that directed brushstrokes give, and they work with the marks as Sassetta did, leading them up and down figures, and around contours. Painters who prefer to hide the signs of their brushwork normally do so by smearing their brushstrokes into uniform areas, or else miniaturizing their brushstrokes so they fall below the threshold of normal vision. (Sassetta almost does that: in the original, the Madonna’s head is quite small.) But for Monet and other Impressionists those strategies wouldn’t have seemed right. They wanted something painterly, where the brushmarks show, and they wanted a more exacting lack of directional motion, something like the inhuman stasis that nature itself seems to have. A distant landscape might shimmer and sparkle in the sunlight, but it will not show any sign of running diagonally up or down. It merely exists: it’s not going anywhere, it doesn’t move from place to place. To achieve stasis in a painting, it turns out that it is not enough to make marks equally in all orientations as if they were scattered matchsticks. Such a painting will be a flurry of criss–crossing lines. To do what Monet did in this painting, it is necessary to make marks that have no set orientation and no uniform shape, so they can never congregate into herds and begin to march up and down like Seurat’s dots sometimes do. Each mark has to be different from each other mark: if one slants downward, the next has to go up. If one is straight, the next must be arcuate. Lancet strokes must follow rounded ones, zig–zags must be cut across by ellipses, thickened strokes must be gouged by thin scrapes. Any pattern has to be defeated before it grows large enough to be seen by a casual eye.
And even this is too simple. An ordinary square inch in a Monet painting is a chaos, a scruffy mess of shapeless glints and tangles. His marks are so irregular, and so varied, and there are so many of them, that it is commonly impossible to tell how the surface was laid down. There is a zoo of marks in this detail that defy any simple description. At the top right is a bizarre boat– shaped trough, made by gouging wet paint with the brush handle, and then pulling back in perfect symmetry. A pool of Yellow Ochre has been dropped just to its left, and it ran slightly over the lip of the trough before it congealed. To the left of that, a streak of Vermilion or Indian Red comes down, leaving an irregular trail over a layer of Cerulean Blue and Lead White. The Japanese call this technique “flying white,” because a partly dry inkbrush will leave flashes of white as it drags across the silk. In the West there is no such poetic name, and drybrush technique is normally just called scumbling (a word that can mean many other things as well). At the far upper left, some Ochre has just barely skimmed the surface of the canvas, depositing little yellow buds at each intersection of the weave. None of those marks have names: they are all irregular and none is like any other. And there are even more unclassifiable examples even in this little detail: a double, snaking mark of deep Ultramarine Blue enters the scene at the left center, scratches and skims its way to the right, skips a few centimeters, and then hooks left and doubles back. It’s a scumbled stroke, not a continuous brushstroke but a trail of shimmering vertical marks, like specters walking in a parade.
This reminded me of a paper: "Rhythmic Brushstrokes Distinguish van Gogh from His Contemporaries: Findings via Automated Brushstroke Extraction"
To me Monet's work has a "persistence of vision" quality; maybe he travelled around the light in the scene working one color at a time. As he discovered new color in one place he might look for it in another, alternating back to previous brushes as detail required. As the position of the sun changed, so too would the hue of some points.