Friday, 19 November 1880

I had my Black singing teacher come to the atelier, where she sang for us for an hour instead of giving me my lesson at home. The gas is lit, and fifteen women, with Julian presiding, line up at the back of the atelier while Madame Ponce and her guitar climb onto the model stand amid a burst of applause. And if you think I am cheerful! Oh, bother!
Julian pulled my painting to pieces completely. It is badly drawn, the movement is cold, the tone is not true, and the effect is poorly understood. If that doesn’t make me happy! But I console myself a little by thinking that I knew it was not good, and so it hurts less. Ah! If I had thought it good and he had told me that, it would be terrible. But never mind!
I see what painting is, what a 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.