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At the same time many of his canvasses give the impression of having been executed in a spirit of sheer audacity.

To be sure, there is a rhythm and swing to some of his moving figures that is delightful, delightful in the elemental simplicity of the drawing and the seemingly—but only seemingly—naive coloring.

Yet even with these canvases there is often the feeling, “With so much skill, why did he not do better?”—a feeling of disappointment, of dissatisfaction.

One is disposed to agree with the opinion that Matisse’s “true gifts are those of address, of souplesse, of quick assimilation, of limited but easily acquired knowledge—essentially feminine gifts.”[A]

“On a beaucoup vanté le goût d’Henri Matisse. Il n’est pas niable, mais d’une qualité secondaire. C’est le goût d’une modiste; son amour de la conleur vaut un amour du chiffon.”

He lives in a simple country house in a suburb out of Paris. His studio is painted white, within and without, with immense windows.[27]

I found not a long-haired, slovenly-dressed, eccentric man, as I had imagined, but a fresh, healthy, robust, blonde gentleman, who looked even more German than French, and whose simple and unaffected cordiality put me directly at my ease.