
Leda and the Swan
The swan nips her hand and Leda barely reacts. Cézanne cared about the planes of the body, not the story.

The swan nips her hand and Leda barely reacts. Cézanne cared about the planes of the body, not the story.

He stares out the window, she pokes the fire, and the dots are used here for boredom rather than sunlight.

Gondolas on water that has shattered into pink, blue and gold. Signac took the divisionist dot to the most painted view in Europe.

A family at breakfast, posed so stiffly in the glare that the comfortable room turns faintly airless. Every surface is built from dots.

A man and a white horse in a Tahitian grove, painted on Gauguin's first stay, flat and warm and looking for a paradise.

Provençal women at a hilltop well above a blue bay, the dots loosening into curves and the science giving way to pleasure.

Green and rose slopes flattened into bold shapes, with rather less interest in what the island actually looked like than in the color.

Signac moved to Saint-Tropez and pulled the rest of the Neo-Impressionists south. Seurat's tight dots have loosened into bigger, brighter tiles.

Four skulls stacked on a tabletop and lit straight on. Cézanne kept coming back to the skull in his last years, never this frontally.

Cézanne cared less who the man was than whether the head would hold together as structure, and the slight asymmetries keep it alive.

The hills buckle and heave in the same thick strokes he gave his skies, so that the rock ends up moving too.

He stands in bathing trunks with his hands on his hips, built out of planes and given the same weight as a mountain.

Seurat painted this to prove the dots could handle a nude, and hung his own Grande Jatte on the studio wall behind them.

A girl lies face down and frightened while a hooded figure sits behind her. Gauguin said his Tahitian companion was afraid of the dark.

The title comes from Baudelaire and the technique from Seurat, but the color is already heading somewhere neither of them went.

Van Gogh made the faces deliberately coarse and the browns deliberately muddy, wanting it clear that these people had dug the meal themselves.

He painted it for his brother's newborn son, named Vincent after him, and cropped the boughs against the sky like a Japanese print.

Gaslights along the Arles quay drop long quivering reflections into the water, the Great Bear overhead, a couple walking arm in arm below.

Three Breton women in white caps kneel at a wooden cross in an autumn field, everything flattened into blocks of color like stained glass.

One white iris stands alone among a whole bed of blue-violet ones, the blades twisting and crowding right up to the edge of the canvas.