Friday, 19 November 1880

I had my Black servant come to the studio, where she sang for us for an hour instead of giving me the lesson at home. The gas is lit and fifteen women presided over by Julian arrange themselves at the back of the studio while Madame Ponce and her guitar mount the model's platform amid a burst of applause. If you think I am gay! Ah, drat!
Julian tore apart my painting to the utmost degree. It is badly drawn, cold in movement, not true in tone, and poorly understood in effect. If with all that I am not pleased! But I console myself a little by thinking that I knew it was not good, and so it hurts less. Ah! If I found it good and he told me that — that would be terrible. But never mind!
I see what painting is, what life-size nude is.
Ah! I was counting on painting to get me out of this! Just you wait, old girl. I am constantly afraid of bursting into tears.