Write Like Monet

how the power of voice transcends mediums

Jun 10, 2023

I recently found myself in the backseat of a yellow cab, hurtling through the streets of New York City towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A few weeks prior, my brother had called me. “We’re going to New York for your birthday,” he told me over the phone (after he had already booked the tickets). “Get ready for a sibs trip!”Soon after, the eclectic heat and chaos of the city slid past the windows of our cab. In one single frame, I could spot graffiti on a brick wall, a hill littered with tombstones, and snake plants on someone’s kitchen counter. Life and death clustered so close together.

It was my first time at the MET, and simply entering the museum was an experience in itself. We climbed the grand marble steps, slick with rain, ducking beneath a bobbing blanket of multi-colored umbrellas while the bustling city streets continued their symphony behind us.

Dozens of people lined up at the doors of the museum. Art, in all of its various forms, is like the sun. It radiates with its own unique energy and heat and vivacity. And humans are like the soil, soaking it up, whether we understand it or not. We simply like the way art makes us feel. We want to be close to it, to bask in its glow.

When it comes to paintings and sculptures, I’m one of those people. I don’t know much about art, but I can wander through art museums for hours. They’re gentle, captivating, and timeless. A portal to another universe.

But one thing I do know about art is that I love Monet.

Upon entering the exhibit filled with Monet’s paintings, I became dandelion fluff on the breeze, pulled from one Monet to the next. His paintings gripped me. I’ve always been enthralled by his work, although I haven’t possessed the vocabulary to tell you why. Except, maybe now I do.

There in the museum, I was struck by the thought: I would like to write the way Monet paints.

Bouquet of Sunflowers, 1881

île aux Fleurs near Vétheuil, 1880

View of Vétheuil, 1880

The power of voice transcends mediums

That evening, I met up with some friends at a cozy wine bar in the city. As a group of creative writers, our conversation naturally leaned towards art, and when I told them about my revelation at the MET, they nodded in bewildered understanding. Although the phrase “I want to write like Monet paints” doesn’t make any rational sense, everyone knew exactly what I meant.

Without Monet saying a word, I can hear his voice clearly and emphatically through his paintings. He paints with delicious textures and surprising, specific pops of color. He paints with beauty and tension, boldness and softness, and the balance of the two always feels just right. He paints the mundane into something rare and delightful. Like a music producer masters an album, Monet mastered his paintings with an enchanting, ethereal aesthetic that transports you to a different place. A more beautiful place. Almost like a dream. A place that might not be literally true, but a reflection of the truth, like light refracting off the surface of water.

I want to write like Monet paints.

On a deeper level, Monet’s style is impressive not necessarily because of technique, but because of emotion. When gazing at any painting, you feel things – whether a sense of nostalgia, or awe, or a strange restlessness you can’t quite pinpoint. The same is true of watching an opera, or reading a novel. In painting, sculpting, writing, singing, or dancing, technique is simply a means to an end. Emotion is the destination. And when I look at a Monet, I feel a deep sense of tranquility and calm. There’s a richness to his work, a robust beauty that promises something deeper than just a painting of water lilies. It invites you to linger, to stay a while, to experience old things in a new way.

I want to write like Monet paints.

The power of voice transcends mediums. And as it turns out, this idea that makes no sense and all the sense in the world, didn’t begin with me.

The great chain of inspiration

When writing this essay, I stumbled upon a quote from Monet himself:

“I would like to paint the way a bird sings.”

It feels almost like a passing of the torch — from bird to Monet to me. Nothing tangible or concrete, but simply a deeper understanding of my own voice. And I’m certain this process has taken place hundreds of thousands of times among others. Despite the fact Monet had no idea how to sing, just like I have no idea how to properly wield a paintbrush, it was impossible for the beauty of birdsong not to seep into Monet’s craft. I feel the same way about his dreamy, Impressionist brushstrokes and my own writing.

It feels wonderful to be a continuation of this inspiration-chain, and I certainly hope I’m not the end. I think my job will be done when one day, an inner city school girl with worn out shoes and music in her soul declares, “I would like to dance the way Grace writes.”