The Daughters of Catulle Mendès

Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s *The Daughters of Catulle Mendès* (1888) exemplifies the artist’s late-career shift toward a more polished, almost classical approach to Impressionist portraiture. While earlier works like *Dance at Le Moulin de la Galette* (1876) reveled in the spontaneity of crowded scenes, here Renoir focuses on the quiet intimacy of familial bonds. The three daughters—Claudine, Helyonne, and Huguette—are rendered with a softness that borders on the saccharine, their flushed cheeks and flowing dresses bathed in the artist’s signature diffused light. Yet there’s a curious tension beneath the surface; the composition feels staged, almost uncomfortably so, as if Renoir couldn’t quite reconcile his instinct for naturalism with the demands of bourgeois portraiture. The background dissolves into loose brushwork, but the girls’ poses are rigid, their gazes directed just past the viewer—a weirdly artificial touch for a painter who usually excelled at capturing unguarded moments.
The painting’s mood belongs to that peculiar late-19th-century intersection of domestic opulence and repressed emotion. Imagine it hanging in a dimly lit parlor where the wallpaper’s floral pattern has faded from decades of sunlight, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and dried lavender. It’s a space that demands decorum but betrays its weariness—much like the Mendès family itself, whose literary salon was a hub of Parisian avant-garde culture yet fraught with private scandals. Renoir’s treatment of fabric here is virtuosic, if a bit overbearing; the ribbons and lace threaten to overwhelm the sitters, as though their identities are being swallowed by the very trappings of their privilege. Compare this to John Singer Sargent’s *The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit* (1882), where the children’s psychological presence dominates the space. Renoir, by contrast, lets the décor do half the talking—which, come to think of it, might explain why this painting feels less immediate than his earlier, grittier work.
Geographically untethered—the setting could be a suburban garden or a studio mock-up—the painting’s power lies in its unresolved contradictions. The girls are both individuals and types, their faces echoing Renoir’s broader fascination with youthful femininity while hinting at distinct personalities. Claudine’s wary expression, Helyonne’s absent-minded smile, Huguette’s tentative grip on her sister’s arm: these details suggest a narrative Renoir refuses to develop, leaving the viewer to navigate the gap between sentiment and scrutiny. It’s a far cry from the uncomplicated joy of *The Swing* (1876), and all the more intriguing for it. The work’s current private collection status feels oddly appropriate; this isn’t a manifesto, just a lingering, slightly awkward conversation between artist and patron.