Français
Last week, wanting to do a stupid test, I asked our chief secretary, Josette, what she thought of Corot.
She paused and whispered, in the manner of Lauren Bacall, “My little treasure, certainly you mean to ask about coral?”
Disgusted, I got quickly got dressed. That’s the way is with our little employees. (Poor France!)
Well, the Camille Corot in question, I confess that when I was younger it was grueling to look at his paintings. Ah! There’s no doubt that the paintings were “flawless”, what we vulgarly called “good paintings”.
The trees of his landscapes did not lack one leaf. That’s one of the reasons it made me scream with boredom. I considered them paintings for lethargic bourgeois afternoons. At that time what I wanted was brute force, dynamite in a tube, heroines in linseed oil, anarchy of the paintbrushes. Certainly not paintings of utter convention…
Until last night when, in the dust of my studio as I thumbed through old art books, I came upon this painting. And there I stayed, gaga.
The technique of Corot was dazzling, of course. But it was the economy of means that he used, it was practically “zen”. 
A little blue, white and dark green. That’s all. And everything came to life, as if by magic. The water of the river rushed by… I thought I was dreaming, so perfect was the illusion, so simply did the story come straight from the heart.
I rushed to send a copy of this masterpiece to my friends at le Mouching.
Cyril was the first to respond: “are there any bonefish in the river?”
The response of Jerome followed: “I don’t see anything rising. Is the river in the Ardeche?”
And a couple of minutes later Laurent: “ Should use a rod in plexiglas, number five silk!”
What can I say, I simply went to my bedroom, locked the door tight and polished off a bottle of Chivas Regal before dawn.