The Second Empire
marks the French economy’s entrance into its second industrial
revolution. Brought on by a thoroughgoing reform of the financial
tools entrepreneurs had at their disposal for investment, this
metamorphosis was accompanied by an unprecedented movement of
capitalization and by an exceptional boom in the stock market.
As Alexandre Dumas fils wrote, the French Bourse was
to the Second Empire what “the cathedral was to the Middle
Ages,” dedicated to a new God of whom Parisians were the
fervent worshipers. This financial fever quickly caught hold of
the art market, which, barely recovered from the serious economic
crisis it had undergone during the Second Republic, became in
turn a “speculator’s Eldorado.”(1) “One
no longer gathers a collection in order to have it, to enjoy it
. . . but in order to sell it and to make some money off of it,”
as the critic Paul Lacroix complained in 1861.(2) The work of
art was no longer anything but a commodity, a good investment,
whose exchange value triumphed over its use value, the literary
critic Émile Montégut worried in the Revue des
Deux Mondes : “We have yet to calculate what disorders
occur in public taste and in the general intelligence of a society
when there no longer exists any proportionality between the intrinsic
value and the commercial value of art objects.”(3)
In turn, the Salon of Living Artists was beginning to look more
and more like a “frame fair,” lining up works like
so many commodities for sale. Its presentation in the French Palace
of Industry built for the Universal Exhibition of 1855, and no
longer in a palace of fine arts worthy of that name, was perceived
as “a sort of deadly omen, a fatal sign of the successful
preeminence of industry over art.”(4) While some critics
resigned themselves to speaking “the language of [their]
time : debit and credit--product and consumption,”(5) others
militated in favor “of an anti-stock-exchange movement”
that “alone can . . . save the little bit of literature
and journalism properly speaking that . . . still remains.”(6)
“Owning is Nothing, Enjoyment is Everything”(7)
answered to this call at the start of the 1860s to oppose the
commercialization of art, the fetishization of the work, and the
artist’s exploitation on the market. (8) In reaction to
the consumerism that was then transforming Western culture, a
certain form of Romanticism in the experience of art had a resurgence
that privileged the use value of works in the Stendhalian spirit
of “enjoyment of the beautiful.” Some cultural
practices that had pretty much disappeared since the fall of the
July Monarchy were then making a resurgence in cultivated society,
such as the performance of tableaux vivants and the renting
out of art works. But it was above all through paying exhibitions
that some were going to seek to emancipate the work from its commodity-based
logic by championing it as a work to be seen and no longer as
a work to be sold. While entry to museums in France was going
to remain free of charge until 1922, the idea of making people
pay for access to exhibitions became predominant starting in 1857,
the date when the Salon des Artistes definitively became
a paying exhibition. The idea of making people pay for the use
of an object rather than for the object itself was presented at
the time as an alternative to the market economy, and it spread
rather symptomatically throughout society as an illustration of
the scruples society was feeling about converting over to a pure
market economy. It was not up to the Bourse which did not give
in to this use-based economy. During this same year of 1857, paying
turnstiles [tourniquets payants] were installed at the
entrance to the stock-market building in order to limit the flow
of curiosity-seekers who came there as one went to a show and
in order to contain the speculative contagion that was ruining
poor people who were caught up in the hunt for easy money. A critic
ironically observed that “the modern financial system is
bound to be reformed by the turnstile.”(9)
“Pay Per View”
The idea of making
one “pay to see” or “pay per view” was,
however, not entirely new. In 1799, Jacques-Louis David was the
first to experiment with this idea when he exhibited his Sabine
Women in a room at the Louvre. David was inspired by the
lucrative English model of paying exhibitions. Wishing to give
to the arts the means to “enjoy a noble independence of
mind,”(10) he claimed then the power to offer to the public’s
view a work that, without this, would become “the conquest
of a rich man” who, jealous of “his exclusive property,”
would prevent the rest of society from seeing it. The ambition
of such an experiment, which was as economic as it was social,
was nevertheless ill perceived by the critics. The latter firmly
condemned the “sordid venality” of the numerous artists
who imitated David. Painters then abandoned the idea of being
remunerated by the showing of their labor and limited themselves
to being a part of a market economy subject to sales and orders.
behind the paying exhibition did not disappear for all that. Exhibitions
of painting organized for charitable ends gradually accustomed
“the public to pay to see painting,”(11) especially
after 1846 when Baron Taylor’s association of painters,
sculptors, engravers, and architects inaugurated a series of paying
exhibitions in the galleries of the Bazar Bonne-Nouvelle in order
to fill its relief coffers. This pecuniary principle was soon
going to be picked up by the French Government, which, little
by little, made people pay for access to the Salon. It was under
the Second Republic, and principally for budgetary reasons tied
to the economic crisis, that a first paying day was instituted.
Soon there would be two of them, in 1852, three in 1853, and finally
six in 1855 for the Universal Exhibition,(12) after which time
this measure became the rule. In none of these instances was it
a matter of paying back directly and equitably to the artists
a portion of the proceeds collected on the exhibition of their
work. On the contrary, starting in 1857 the Government decided
to devote the full take from admissions to the acquisition of
works exhibited at the Salon, a measure designed to enrich the
national collections and to encourage the market in art. Gustave
Courbet was the first to champion the rights that artists might
expect from these new arrangements. As early as 1853, he demanded
from the Government a portion of the proceeds from the Exhibition,
thinking that it was in the main his pictures that had attracted
visitors to the Salon and had given rise to the most reviews in
the Press.(13) Two years later, at the margins of the Universal
Exhibition, he retried David’s experiment from a half century
earlier when presenting a retrospective exhibition of his work
that the public was invited to visit for a franc a head. The success
of this show, in which the pictures were as much for sale as to
be seen, was nevertheless more critical than financial, thus leaving
Courbet skeptical about the idea of a paying exhibition. Instead,
he preferred a more complex commercial strategy, both market-oriented
Louis Martinet and the French National Society of the
Fine Arts (1862-1865)
It was only at
the turn of the 1860s that the principle of the paying exhibition
was really tested by the artist Louis Martinet (1814-1895). who
had the idea of offering artists an alternative to a more and
more prescriptive art market. Of a Romantic cast of mind, this
former student of Baron Gros occupied an ideal position in order
to observe the evolution of the art milieu after the Revolution
of 1848. A member of the team of inspectors in charge of organizing
the Salon of Living Artists beginning in 1849, he was a privileged
witness to the institutional, economic, and social reforms briefly
tested during the Second Republic. Ousted from a fine-arts administration
that had become more and more sectarian starting in 1855, he then
became aware of the impasse in which artists found themselves,
caught as they were between an academic system in complete decay
and a purely speculative market still incapable of supporting
artistic creation. Turning toward Baron Taylor’s association,
he encouraged the latter to organize exhibitions, notably the
retrospective one of the work of Ary Scheffer presented in 1859
in the galleries built for the occasion in the gardens of the
Marquis of Hertford, on 26 Boulevard des Italiens. This was the
place with which Martinet, then nearly fifty years old, was going
to associate his name by opening there a “permanent exhibition”
that would welcome until 1865 all the main artists of the nineteenth
century, from Ingres to Manet, passing by way of Delacroix, Corot,
Rousseau, Millet, Courbet, Whistler, Puvis de Chavannes, Carpeaux,
and so on. Making the most of the new liberal winds blowing through
the Empire starting in 1860, this Republican in his head and Orleanist
in his heart whose ideas, like some of his friendships, brought
him close to Saint-Simonian circles was going to use this location
to try to invent a new form of commerce between artists
and society. The inspiration was decidedly Romantic.
His primary ambition
when he inaugurated his exhibition in February 1861 was “to
teach artists to do business themselves,”(14) leaving to
the State the responsibility to decorate public monuments and
support major painting efforts. Adopting very liberal, free-market,
even industrialist points of view,(15) Martinet was at the same
time a fierce opponent of the market’s exploitation of the
artist. Whereas it “always seemed [to him] that the words
art and speculation were mortal enemies,”(16)
he intended “to be the first private enterprise in France
to be able, with absolute independence, to serve gratis
as an intermediary between artists and amateurs.”(17) As
Edmond About wrote, it was a matter of creating a “market
of a new kind”(18) in which the producer and the buyer would
be able to deal with each other through an administrative intermediary.
The latter would obtain no right to exhibit the work in question
nor would he collect any commission, as posted in the regulations
of the permanent exhibition, which limited its resources to the
payment each visitor made upon entering.
Royalties in Painting
free-market conception of Martinet’s business enterprise
was to take a still more radical turn as the debate on royalties
[le droit d’auteur] again took front stage in France.
In the extension of the Brussels International Congress of 1858
devoted to the question of artistic property, a new congress,
as reported with great interest by the Courrier artistique,
was organized during the international exhibition at Antwerp during
the Summer of 1861. Shortly thereafter, in January 1862, the French
Government created a national commission charged with reflecting
upon the improvements to be made in property-rights legislation.
Martinet, like the artistic class as a whole, took part in this
reflection in his review. He opted for the very liberal, free-market
ideas expressed by Jules Hetzel, publishing excerpts from Hetzel’s
writings that recognized the right of artists, or their beneficiaries,
to retain ownership of the work in perpetuity. His ardor in the
defense of this point of view led him to the idea, “so simple
and so natural that it should have been expressed long ago,”(19)
of remunerating artists through royalties, as writers and composers
are. This discovery coincided with a trip to England in which
he participated as member of the French Commission for the Universal
Exhibition of 1862. Very impressed by the power of the principle
of association long practiced by the English people, particularly
within their Art Unions, he realized how much, “in the arts
especially, the spirit of association can change everything.”(20)
It was therefore
with the aid of the law of association, “which has been
eternal since the time of the family . . . until that of the nation,”(21)
that Martinet was going to try to invent a new art economy that
would federate artists within a French National Society of the
Fine Arts. Its “principle is that of royalties in painting--the
legitimate and equitable profit the artist should be able to draw
from the exhibition of his work.”(22) Created in the Spring
of 1862, the Society was presided over by Théophile Gautier
and quickly rallied nearly two-hundred artists who would then
be joined by about fifty amateur members. His principal goal was
to organize an annual exhibition of previously unseen works from
the members, to tour this exhibition in various French départements
and abroad, and to share whatever profits were made.
after another appeared in the columns of the Courrier artistique
to defend the idea of a business enterprise that would not be
afraid of being accused of “utopianism,” as P.-C.
Parent wrote, stating that it could very well be “the fortune
of the Society.”(23) It was Francisque Sarcey, the famous
publiciste of Opinion nationale, a daily whose Saint-Simonian
sympathies were well established, who delivered the longest and
most vigorous defense of the French National Society of the Fine
Arts’ project. In his view, “the painters are still
in the bad old days of 1788. They make a picture, sell it, and
make another one, and so on and so forth. Not one of them has
imagined that he could do so without alienating ownership of his
picture, thereby drawing an annual income.” (24) He then
enjoined the artist to make his own revolution and to address
himself in the following way “to the thousands of men who
make up the public”: “I have just completed a work;
you claim that your eyes delight in it; so be it, but I deduct
a certain amount for your curiosity. My picture is a form of capital;
I have the right to expect a certain income therefrom, without
for all that being obliged to divest myself of the capital. I
want to enter into the spirit of the new society, which is democratic,
and to carry out, to my benefit, the revolution writers and composers,
as far as they are concerned, have already made.”(25)
For Sarcey, it
was a matter of “harmonizing with the democratic form of
our society the industrial conditions of painting and sculpture,”
and “it is the association alone, the ultimate form of democracy,
that can democratize art.”(26)
The Salon intime
The project defended
by the French National Society of the Fine Arts went well beyond
a simple reform of the status of the artist, for it also aspired
to effect a social reform of art. But the “democratization
of art,” as understood by Sarcey, had nothing to do with
the one that Courbet was defending at the same time in a manifesto
published on the occasion of the Antwerp Congress of 1861.(27)
The ideology defended on the Boulevard des Italiens was not aesthetic
but, rather, economic. By 1861, democracy had long ago made its
entrance onto the artistic scene. The Salon had become “a
veritable Babel of art [wherein] all languages, all styles, all
techniques . . . were thrown together and collided against each
other”; this was the triumph of an individualism “in
which everyone [no longer] depended upon anyone but himself.”(28)
It was against this individualism that Martinet’s willfully
eclectic project stood up. In his view, his salons were to constitute
in the proper sense of the term a society--an artistic club
as it was called by Sarcey, who saw therein a form of democratic
resurgence of the aristocratic salons of old. One only had to
pay one’s dues in order to join a community of artists and
amateurs who were intent on sharing, during the course of “intimate
evenings,” a collective experience of art. Gautier went
so far as to propose imitating the habits of the “Fridayans,”
an artistic community he had discovered in Saint Petersburg that
met on Friday evenings to paint or draw collectively around a
table and then sell these works for the benefit of their society.
let up in his efforts to make his gallery convivial, transforming
it into a hall capable of accommodating concerts, equipping it
with boudoirs, smoking rooms, a lecture hall, and a billiard room.
Critics poked fun and asked if one day there might not be a bit
of cooking thrown in there, too. This was also the reproach of
some painter members, like Théodore Rousseau, who took
a dim view of this multidisciplinary drift :
Last year, I told Martinet that he would end up making us run
a café, and it seems to me that we’ve reached that
point. Here we have painting with music and hot toddies. We will
have dancing and flowers; perhaps we will be able to inscribe
on our banner: “Here the five senses are enchanted.”(29)
And yet that was
what Martinet had in mind: to appeal to the senses, to stimulate
their connections, and to achieve in the end a sort of Romantic
totality on the level of feeling or sentiment. This was the ultimately
avowed goal of the concerts organized in the exhibition rooms,
whose ambition was to arrive at the fusion of these two arts that
are so well made to cohabit. . . . Look at a Corot, for example,
while listening to a Mendelssohn elegy, and the painter will no
longer be a mystery to you. Thus would Diaz be complemented by
Monpou, Delacroix by Berlioz, Marilhat by Félicien David,
Raphael by Mozart, Michelangelo by Beethoven, and so on.(30)
place given to sentiment in Martinet’s project follows logically
from the principle of the paying exhibition in that the exhibition
space itself becomes the site of artistic experience. The exhibition
takes on the value of a work. Critics at the time readily compared
the art of hanging an exhibition to that of the jeweler who needs
to know how to use “the law of contrasts”(31) in order
to set precious stones together to the best effect. It was to
this end that Martinet applied himself, with a view of decoration
that was opposed in this respect to the utilitarian logic presiding
over the hanging of paintings in Parisian museums and at the Salon
of Living Artists, the later having ended up hanging artists alphabetically.
His “intimate Salon,” as Zacharie Astruc called it,(32)
“in which no canvas made one blink or drew one’s eye,”
“undeniably [bore] the cachet of a harmony that was as soothing
as it was powerful, grabbing hold of the spectator with an impression
In Dressing Gown and Slippers
As sensible as
it might seem, Martinet’s business undertaking was a resounding
failure that latest only a few months. As he would himself write
to the Count of Nieuwerkerke, he had launched himself into a “purely
artistic work” and not an “industrial” one.(34)
The project of paying exhibitions quickly fell through when faced
with the individualism of member-artists who did not respect their
promises to send a previously unseen work to the show. The Society’s
economic fragility obliged Martinet to continue to sell works
even while he invented the most tortuous lottery mechanisms possible
to avoid this inevitability. But at this time near the end of
the Second Empire, it was utopian to seek to escape from the overall
economy of an increasingly capitalist society that was fetishizing
the commodity idea as denounced by Marx in Capital. The
fate of the turnstiles at the Brongniart Palace (the Bourse) offers
edifying testimony of this state of affairs. Their existence did
not last any longer than the exhibition galleries on the Boulevard
des Italiens. Eliminated by the French Government on January 1,
1862, they were repurchased at a modest price by their manufacturer
who “counted on carving them up into little fetishes to
be worn as bracelets [that] stock traders, who are naturally superstitious,
will pay for . . . at a good price,” as Le Charivari
reported in a farcical tone.(35)
At the end of
the Second Empire, the desire for an intimate relationship with
a work became such that it necessarily had to pass by way of a
form of appropriation, whether it was a matter of the original
or of its reproduction. As Walter Benjamin wrote, “the domestic
realm becomes the true asylum of art” in the nineteenth
century, and it is in this space “that it falls to the collector
to undertake the Sisyphean task of removing from things, because
he possesses them, their commodity character.”(36) As testimony
to this, let us listen to a visitor to an exhibition of painting
similar to the one on the Boulevard des Italiens, organized in
conjunction with the Circle of the Rue de Choiseul. Seduced at
first by the “carefully prepared temperature,” the
thick carpets, the deep sofas, and the exquisitely hung works,
the visitor finds himself dreaming of “dispossessing these
gentlemen of the Circle and of appropriating everything for himself,
the gallery and the outlying buildings, the carpets, manservants,
and pictures.” A bit further on, he continues by confiding
to the reader that he “does indeed find, and this may be
said without joking, that it is impossible to have absolute enjoyment
of a picture unless it belongs to you, at least to live in its
company, to see it from all its angles and at each hour of the
day. Each canvas demands a sort of apprenticeship, an initiation
that can occur only in the silence of one’s home, in dressing
gown and slippers.”(37)
Despite the comfort,
refinement, and friendly atmosphere offered by the galleries on
the Boulevard des Italiens, the public of the Second Empire was
not ready to “pay to view” exhibitions of modern art
that it could henceforth visit for free on the premisses of art
dealers like Goupil or Durand-Ruel--who, in turn, began to organize
“intimate exhibitions” of their own following the
model of the paying exhibitions. If one is going to pay to live
through a sense-filled experience, it is strong sensations and
the most lively emotions that the public will seek out in exchange
for a few coins. Even more than the modern art galleries, it was
ultimately places of entertainment and distraction that were to
be the Boulevard des Italiens’ main competitors. Whether
it was a matter of panoramas, theaters, or other types of opera,
which underwent a considerable degree of development at the end
of the Second Empire, the “paying spectacle” was ultimately
going to win out over the “paying exhibition.” The
public’s five senses were much more intensely enchanted
there than in Martinet’s galleries. In the 1860s, while
Charles Garnier was pursuing the construction of his new opera
house a few meters away from the Boulevard des Italiens, the public’s
comfort was becoming a major preoccupation for all theater managers.
For, it was the public that was paying ; it was its opinion that
thenceforth prevailed in the construction of new halls, as against
that of the architects. This form of “clientelism,”
which is subject to the pleasure of the spectator, expressed the
simultaneous emergence of the market economy and the leisure society.
This is the meaning of an 1863 cartoon illustrating the modern
comforts found in the new theaters, which thenceforth offered
to the public “ample seating with a pillow for each arm,
a warmer for each foot, an adjustable opera-glass holder, a movable
multispeed fan, a stand to lay down one’s copy of L’Entracte,
a peg for one’s hat, and another for one’s umbrella.”
But that is a comfort that is coined, as the image’s caption
underscores in conclusion : “Let us praise the Lyric Theater’s
ceiling decoration : the architect knew how to symbolize thereon
his era : in the center, an enormous hundred cent coin, dated
1862, completely surrounded by rays of light with the following
words : In Hoc Signo Vinces.” In this sign you
shall conquer. . . . It is this financial and public triumph that
was to await Louis Martinet when, after having closed his exhibition
in 1865, he transformed his gallery to make it into a Theater
of Parisian Fantasias.
Burty, “L'Hôtel des ventes et le commerce des tableaux,”
Paris Guide par les principaux écrivains et artistes de
la France (Paris: Librairie internationale, 1867), vol. 2, La
Vie, p. 953.
2. Anatole de Montaiglon, “L’art
et les artistes en 1860,” Annuaire des artistes et des amateurs
(Paris, 1861), p.72.
3. Emile Montégut, “De quelques
erreurs du goût contemporain en matière d'art,”
Revue des Deux Mondes, July 1, 1861.
4. A. J. Du Pays, “Exposition des ouvrages
des artistes vivants au Palais de l'Industrie,” L'Illustration,
June 20 1857, p. 387.
5. L. Saint-François, “L'exposition
permanente,” l'Artiste, June 1, 1860. pp. 221-22.
6. Arnould Fremy, “Un mouvement anti-boursier,”
Le Charivari, January 8, 1857.
7. Stendhal, De l’amour (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion,
1967. p. 122.
8. The decorative and industrial forms of art
were at this same time being encouraged as alternatives to the
singularity of the original work of art.
9. Clément Caraguel, “Péages
et tourniquets,” Le Charivari, January 6, 1857.
10. Jacques-Louis David, Le tableau des Sabines,
suivi de Note sur la nudité de mes héros (La Rochelle:
Rumeurs des Ages, 1997), pp. 7-17.
11. Delacroix to Soulier, April 21, 1826, Correspondance
générale d'Eugène Delacroix (Paris,
1936), vol. 1, pp. 178-179, quoted by Jon Whiteley, “Exhibitions
of Contemporary Painting in London and Paris 1760-1860,”
Saloni, Gallerie, musei loro influenza sullo sviluppo dell'arte
dei secoli XIX e XX (Acts of the Twenty-Fourth International
Art History Congress, Bologna), September 1979.
12. See Patricia Mainardi, Art and Politics
of the Second Empire (New Haven and London: Yale University
Press, 1989), pp. 44-46.
13. “I reminded him also that he owed me
15,000 francs for the entrance fees they had collected with my
pictures from previous exhibitions, that the employees had assured
me that individually they had brought in 200 people a day to stand
in front of my Bathers. To which he responded with the
following assinity: that these people did not go in in order to
admire this painting. It was easy for me to respond, in objecting
to his personal opinion and telling him that the question did
not lie there, that whether for criticism or for admiration, the
truth was that they had received the entrance fees and that half
of the reviews concerned my pictures” (Gustave Courbet to
Alfred Bruyas, October [?] 1853, Correspondance de Courbet,
ed. Petra ten-Doesschate Chu (Paris: Flammarion, 1996), pp. 107-09.
14. Introduction to the Catalogue of the Exhibition
of the French National Society of the Fine Arts (Paris: Impr.
J. Claye, February 1864).
15. “Let the State, abdicating to the benefit
of industry, leave to the business enterprise alone the right
to spread art,” Henri Boisseaux wrote in the Courrier
artistique, “Etude sur la situation des compositeurs
français (deuxième article),” Le Courrier
artistique, February 1, 1863.
16. Louis Martinet, “L'exposition permanente
du Boulevard des Italiens,” Le Courrier artistique,
August 1, 1861.
17. Louis Martinet, “Aux artistes et aux
amateurs,” Le Courrier artistique, June 15, 1861.
18. Edmond About, Le Courrier artistique,
July 1, 1861.
19. Louis Martinet, “Des droits d'auteurs
en peinture,” Le Courrier artistique, February15,
20. Louis Martinet, “De l'association dans
les arts,” Le Courrier artistique, December 1,
1861. We know the impact the discovery of Trade Unions had on
the French labor and workers’ movement during this Exhibition.
Without making Martinet into the Henry Tolain of the art world,
it is fitting to underscore the importance the discovery of Art
Unions (private societies of amateurs who organized exhibitions
and lotteries) had for the development of his business enterprise.
He makes several references to these Art Unions.
21. Louis Martinet, “De l'association dans
les arts II,” Le Courrier artistique, December
22. Louis Martinet, Le Courrier artistique,
March 15, 1862.
23. P.-C. Parent, “La Société
nationale des Beaux-arts,” Le Courrier artistique,
December 6, 1863.
24. Francisque Sarcey, “Petite chronique,”
Le Courrier artistique, February 14, 1864.
25. Francisque Sarcey, “Petite chronique,”
Le Courrier artistique, February 28, 1864.
27. There, Courbet declared that “realism
is, by essence, the democratic art” (quoted by Marie-Thérèse
de Forges, in Gustave Courbet [Paris: Éditions
des musées nationaux, 1977], p. 36).
28. E.D. Dupays, L'illustration, May
29. Letter from Théodore Rousseau to Théophile
Gautier, Feburary 3, 1864. Correspondence of Théodore Rousseau,
BSb22L121, Department of Graphic Arts, Louvre Museum, Paris.
30. Le Courrier Artistique, April 15,
1863, p. 4.
31. R. de Mercy, “Quelques observations
sur les expositions officielles,” Le Courrier artistique,
February 15, 1863.
32. Zacharie Astruc, Le Salon intime
(Paris: Poulet-Malassis, 1860).
33. Albert de la Fizelière, “Exposition
de tableaux modernes tirés de collections d'amateurs,”
L'Artiste, March 1, 1860.
34. Rapport de Louis Martinet au
comte de Nieuwerkerke, October 14, 1864, Z61, French National
Society of the Fine Arts, French National Museums Archives, Paris.
35. Castorine, “La semaine de la Bourse,”
Le Charivari, February 17, 1862.
36. Walter Benjamin, Paris, capitale du XIXème
siècle (Paris: Editions Allia, 2003), p. 26.
37. “L’Exposition de tableaux du
cercle de la rue de Choiseul,” La vie parisienne,
January 1864, pp. 124-26.
38. “THE ARCHITECTS: Really, the public
is too educated; now it gives the orders. It’s a shame,
we’ve never seen that before. THE PUBLIC (to itself while
leaving): Since I’m the one who pays, I really have the
right to voice my opinion” (in J. Denizet, “A propos
des salles de spectacles,” Le Charivari, March
ALTICK, Richard. The Shows of London.
Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1978.
BAETENS, Jan. Ed. Le combat du droit d'auteur.
Anthologie historique. Paris: Les Impressions nouvelles,
BENJAMIN, Walter. Paris, Capitale du XIXème
siècle. Paris: Éditions. Allia, 2003.
CHAUDONNERET, Marie-Claude. L'Etat et les
artistes, de la Restauration à la monarchie de Juillet
(1815-1833). Paris: Flammarion, 1999.
COURBET, Gustave. Correspondance de Courbet.
Petra Ten-Doesschate Chu. Ed. Paris: Flammarion, 1996.
DAVID, Jacques-Louis. Le tableau des Sabines.
La Rochelle: Rumeurs des âges, 1997.
FOUCART, Bruno. Ed. Le Baron Taylor, l'association
des artistes et l'exposition du Bazar Bonne-Nouvelle en 1846.
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1 Honoré Daumier, “Monsieur Prudhomme dedicating
his son to the worship of the Parisians’ new God, Le
Charivari, February 2, 1857.
2 Cham, “The turnstile closing the stock market to the
big capitalists,” Le Charivari, January 4,
3 --Get going, come on now, get out of there, there’s
a lot of people waiting to get in.
--How’s that? But I want to enjoy my turnstile, since
I paid twenty cents to get in. I’ve only been here
five minutes and you want me to leave already!
Cham, “A walk in the salon,” Le Charivari,
May 15, 1859.
4 --Sir, I’d like to buy some stock.
--Madame is mistaken, this is an art exhibition here!
--But sir, there’s a turnstile at the door!
Cham, “A walk in the salon,” Le Charivari,
May 15, 1859..
5 --But that’s awful! I paid twenty cents to see this
exhibition and neither Pils nor Madame Brown nor Messonnier
is here! . . . Give me back ten cents!
“The 1863 Exhibition photographed by Cham,”
Le Charivari, May 10, 1863.
6 --You’re just going in and out . . . and you call
that making money?
--But of course! . . . No more turnstiles! . . . Consequently,
I earn a franc every time I enter! . . . I’ve already
made fifty francs today in this way! . . .
Cham, “You’re just going in and out . . . and
you call that making money? . . . ,” Le Charivari,
December 2, 1862.
7 “The new theaters,” La Vie Parisienne,
1863, p. 5.