Prior to the 18th century, artists rarely invited us into the inner world of children. This was because the idea of childhood, as we understand it today, didn’t take shape intellectually until the 1700s.
During this period, commonly referred to as the Age of Enlightenment, scholarly interest in early childhood development rose dramatically. In this spirit, Jean Siméon Chardin became the first “A-list” French painter to capture the thoughts and daily learning experiences of kids.
In Soap Bubbles, Chardin’s very first painting centered on childhood, he depicts two boys immersed in a playful experiment. “Come look,” says the older boy. He puts a straw to his mouth and blows a soap bubble that glistens with blue and white reflections. The younger boy eagerly peers over the stone window ledge.
In 17th-century Holland, an image like this typically served as a metaphor for the fragility of human life. However, Chardin rarely explores such heavy allegorical themes in his work.
Instead, he illustrates children learning about the world through direct engagement. How long will a bubble cling to a straw? As it grows larger and larger, will it burst upon the stone? Or catch a breeze and travel off?
If Soap Bubbles has an existential theme, I have a hunch it’s rooted in the quiet, scientific wonder of the children themselves.
Catching human nature in the act
In Girl with a Racquet, Chardin depicts a young Parisian in a full-skirted dress, her powdered hair tucked neatly under a lace bonnet. From her waist, a ribbon suspends a pair of sewing scissors and a pin cushion—objects that remind us of her expected domestic role.
Yet, she’s holding a racquet in one hand and a feathered shuttle in the other. Would she rather be outdoors participating in sports?
Actually, she’s just returning from a round of shuttlecock, an 18th-century precursor to badminton. How do I know? Her flushed cheeks and the white powder on her shoulder provide undeniable proof.
She pauses for a moment to rest one hand on a chair. What is going through her mind? Is she realizing that a woman might find as much joy and pleasure outside the home as within it?
This compelling painting was likely displayed at the Paris Salon of 1737. Some years later it was acquired by Catherine the Great, the spirited young woman who became empress of Russia in 1762.
All I have to do is dream
In one of Chardin’s most beloved paintings, Boy with a Spinning Top, a young boy is absorbed in his daydreams. “It is a masterpiece of freshness and innocence,” observed Pierre de Nolhac, former curator of the Palace of Versailles.
The composition centers on a recessed table top cluttered with books, paper, and ink. Each item has been painstakingly positioned to create the illusion of throwaway naturalness.
The boy is ignoring his books and the pencil holder that beckons to him from an open drawer. Homework can wait. A faint smile forms on his lips as he falls under the spell of the toy spinning in front of him.
For the first time perhaps in the entire history of painting, an artist, having set himself the task of depicting childhood, strives to comprehend it from within and to see it from its own point of view, making a special effort not to intrude in any way.
The canvas looks almost as if it were painted without the sitter’s knowledge, since nothing in the position he has adopted leads us to presume he is posing.
Art historian Renaud Temperini, “Chardin,” 1999
If this painting contains a message, perhaps it is “Watch, and let it be.” This sentiment echoes 18th-century philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who urged adults to nurture the natural inquisitiveness of children because it would cultivate a lifelong love of learning.
Elevating little moments
In The Young Schoolmistress, Chardin transform an often overlooked moment into a painting that embodies the spirit of The Enlightenment.
The scene depicts a fashionably dressed Parisian girl teaching the alphabet to her younger brother, using a large pin to carefully guide him through the letters. Their gestures and facial expressions convey the special bond that siblings have when it comes to sharing information.
The setting is remarkably spare, even for Chardin—ensuring nothing distracts from the quiet drama of learning.
I am convinced that true painters don’t finish their pictures, in the sense that their paintings are so overwrought that you can look at them close enough to rub your nose in them. The best pictures show to best effect from a certain distance.
Rembrandt staunchly persisted in this, no matter how much they made him suffer for it. In this respect, Chardin is as great as Rembrandt. I have often wished I knew something about the man.
Dutch painter Vincent Van Gogh, in a letter to his brother, 1885
He had a hat
While it may not be obvious at first glance, Chardin had a knack for portraying the minor domestic dramas of everyday life.
In The Governess, the story unfolds in the apartment of a well-to-do Parisian family. A well-dressed boy stands quietly with lowered eyes as his governess gently scolds him for playing instead of preparing for school. As she reprimands him, she brushes dirt off his three-cornered hat.
In this timeless scene, a palpable tension exists between the woman’s basket—which is overflowing with household tasks—and the toys left scattered across the floor. Is the boy truly sorry? Or will his feelings of regret fade quickly? Care to make a wager?
The Governess beautifully illustrates how Chardin integrates figures within an environment. He pushes the boy and the governess back from the picture plane, closing off the space behind them. This allows “air” to circulate around the figures, making it easier to unify all of the elements in the scene.
If it seems beautiful to look at, it is because Chardin found it beautiful to paint. And he found it beautiful to paint because he found it beautiful to look at.
French novelist Marcel Proust, Le Figaro littéraire, 1954
Mothers and daughters
In one of Chardin’s most elegant paintings, La Toilette du matin (Dressing for the day), a mother adjusts her daughter’s bonnet while the girl gazes at her reflection in a dressing table mirror.
Nothing could be more natural in effect nor more happily rendered than the action of the mother fitting a pin to her daughter’s kerchief.
More affecting still are the stirrings of a childish heart which the painter has cleverly expressed in the way the little girl throws a quick glance into the mirror, at once to satisfy her diminutive vanity and to see for herself whether her dear mother’s attentions have enhanced her beauty.
The Mercure de France arts magazine, 1741
Chardin cannot be imitated
Some painters don’t need a museum label to identify their work. Chardin is this kind of painter. Stroll through the 18th-century French galleries of any major museum and you’ll see what I mean. There is no one like him.
While contemporaries like Jean-Honoré Fragonard were praised for their titillating imagination, Chardin painted only what he could see. It sounds simple enough, but ask any artist about the challenge of elevating the everyday. As Denis Diderot, founder of the Encyclopédie, marveled: “Such magic cannot be fathomed.”
Admired by Cézanne for his fusion of power and simplicity, and emulated by Matisse for his tactile brushwork, Chardin is a pivotal figure in modern art. He is an early archetype of the artist whose work is a form of personal exploration, undertaken alone. To paint like Chardin, you have to be him.
Chardin has all the grace and refinement of the French 18th century, but he glosses over its hardships. His art was intended to please the eye. He avoided depicting the squalor of everyday life, not through prudery—far from it—but through good breeding.
The extraordinary thing is that he escapes these confines. Chardin is at the same time the most reserved and one of the most ambitious artists in the whole history of art.
Pierre Rosenberg, Honorary Director of the Musée du Louvre, 1999
