花瓶中的玫瑰与郁金香

By the winter of 1883 Manet could barely stand. The illness in his legs, a late stage of syphilis called tabes, had closed down the big public pictures, and within months it would kill him at 51. Friends came to his rooms carrying flowers, and when he had the strength he set a vase on a table beside him and painted what was there. This is one of about 16 small bouquets he made that way in his last year. There is no ambition of a Salon in it, only fast, sure brushwork on a handful of roses and tulips in glass, put down by a man working within arm's reach of his own bed.