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Softness. But to look inside these limits is to rediscover a considerable painter. That his world was insulated, or his sexual politics Neanderthal, is not so important; an artist must be judged, to some degree, in terms of his aims. He wished to construct a universe of plea sure and relaxation — like Matisse's "armchair for tired businessmen," but more so — and in this he succeeded. He was the natural heir of the finest decorators of the 18th century, Fragonard and Boucher. "He who has not lived be fore the Revolution," said Metternich, "cannot know the sweetness of life," and Renoir's spiritual home was built before 1789. Almost from the start of his career, Renoir's technique and sense of construction were superb: witness the sober, Venetian expansiveness of his great tribute to Corot, Pont-des-Arts, circa 1868. Or the vigorous, limpid Still Life with Bouquet, 1871 , whose tones of gold, amber and black sum up his affinities with Impressionism — light caress ing every surface, revealing each nu ance of substance from the crackly parchment of the Japanese fan to the humid softness of the bouquet.
To call Renoir superficial is in some degree to miss the meaning of his art, for it is about surfaces. Smooth or fuzzy, rounded and fleshy or fruity, bathed in the crystalline light of Provencal sun or lapped by the amenable glow of gas light, his surfaces suggest a dense pro fusion of incident and reality that more modern eyes, intent only on structure, pass over and lose.