Thoughts on Art and Autobiographical Memoirs of Giovanni Duprè — Background and Themes

A Sculptor's Conversational Voice

Duprè writes as if speaking to a friend across a studio table. His sentences often loop back on themselves, adding qualifications or comic asides. In the Angelini episode, he builds suspense through repetition—"I waited a good long time, and when he came out he said..."—then deflates it with a wry observation: "more or less forgetfulness in an artist means nothing—in fact it is a sort of sauce or dressing to an artist's character." This metaphor, drawn from the domestic sphere, is typical of Duprè's tendency to ground abstract ideas in concrete, everyday terms. He also uses direct address, apostrophizing the absent Angelini: "My dear colleague, this happened in the month of January 1853; see what a good memory I have." The effect is that of a monologue that expects a listener, even when the listener has failed to appear.

Pacing Through Anecdote and Reflection

The memoir's rhythm alternates between brisk narrative and meditative pause. Duprè recounts his Neapolitan walks and studio visits in a straightforward sequence—"In this manner the time passed by, alternating the long walks... with a little work and some artistic visits"—then slows to dwell on a single, frustrating encounter. The Angelini story occupies several pages, yet Duprè signals its insignificance even as he elaborates: "if I had not been a little tired, I should not even have thought of it." This self-conscious digression reveals a writer who values the texture of experience over strict chronology. Later, he shifts tone abruptly with a mock-legal coda: "Therefore let it be understood, that I did not take note of it, and don't remember it." Such shifts keep the prose lively, preventing the memoir from becoming a mere catalogue of works.

The Artist's Self-Portrait in Prose

Duprè's narrative choices paint a portrait of the artist as a man of principle and mild vanity. He notes his frugality—"I felt it my duty to economise for that good gentleman's purse"—and his sense of professional dignity: after being stood up, he writes on Angelini's door, "G. Duprè at home on such a day and such an hour." The gesture is both petty and playful, a retaliation that doubles as an invitation. Duprè also reveals his awareness of his own reputation: "Am I not also absent-minded?" he asks, before concluding that Angelini's behavior goes "beyond absent-mindedness." These details accumulate into a self-portrait that is candid but not confessional, humorous but not self-deprecating. The reader sees a sculptor who is as attentive to social dynamics as to marble, and who treats his own life as raw material for art.

Readers approaching this memoir should expect a narrative that moves by association rather than linear progression. Duprè's digressions are not flaws but features: they reveal how an artist's mind connects the trivial to the essential. Pay attention to the moments when he steps back from an anecdote to comment on its meaning—these are where his thoughts on art emerge most clearly. The translation by E. M. Peruzzi retains the flavor of Duprè's Italian, including his occasional shifts into Latin or mock-formal phrasing. For those interested in the intersection of artistic practice and daily life, this memoir offers a rare, unvarnished view.

Duprè’s unhurried digressions made me feel like I was sitting in his studio, watching clay take shape beneath his hands. That same gentle patience seems to linger in The History of Modern Painting, Volume 1 (of 4) Revised edition continued by the author to the end of the XIX century — Reading Companion, as if both authors simply wanted to talk about what they loved.