LONDON, May 30th, 1859.
—In the morning we went to the Exhibition, where there are not many beautiful pictures, and a host of glaring absurd Pre-Raphaelites, with every face bright pink, and every sky of lilac, tin leaves and grass like coarse stuffs, and a lunatic attempt to render every atom as it is, instead of as it looks. The result is like the sign of an inn ; a laboured and vulgar finish, with a dazzle of ill-assorted colours. Pah ! the refreshment of turning to Stanfield's fresh and living landscapes with soft blending light, and wet water.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
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