The Painting that Gave Bill Murray Hope

While promoting his 2014 film St. Vincent, Bill Murray was asked what he thought his life would have been like had he “not discovered art and creativity.”

Murray replied by recounting an experience on stage early in his career in Chicago. His acting was so bad, he said, that he left feeling defeated and suicidal. He walked around the city for a couple of hours looking for a reason to stay alive. And he found himself in front of the Art Institute of Chicago.

“I just walked in and there was a painting there and I don’t even know who painted it, but I think it’s called The Song of The Lark,” he said. “And it’s a woman working in a field, and there’s a sunrise behind her and I’ve always loved this painting:

and I thought, well look there, there’s a girl who doesn’t have a whole lot of prospects, but the sun’s coming up anyway. And she’s got another chance at it. And so I think that gave me some sort of feeling that I too am a person and get another chance every day the sun comes up.

The man who painted the work that restored Murray’s hope was one of the most celebrated artists in late 19th century France.

But Jules Breton also knew periods of feeling lost and alone.

The artist was born in 1847 in Courrières, a small village in the rural north countryside. His father supervised the workers of a wealthy landowner, which gave Breton a lifelong appreciation for people who worked the land.

His mother died when he was only four years old. Sent away to school at age 10, Breton misbehaved so much that his father decided to send him to a school in Douai, and there he received training in drawing and literature.

Later, Breton was befriended by a Belgian artist who recognized his talent. Breton moved to Belgium and trained under artists who grounded him in classical techniques and historical styles. He married, and within four years would enter the art world of Paris, where he would meet contemporary artists and further his artistic training.

But the years in Paris were difficult. Breton’s small town accent was a social barrier in Parisian society and Breton would later write that he felt “in the whirl of Paris, dazed and out of my element,” adding that his work “long suffered from this confusion.” He made connections, but said he had “no real friends” during this time. He missed the French countryside, and the political upheavals of the time perhaps converged with his artistic sensibilities, feeding a desire to represent poor peasants in his work.

Returning to rural Brittany, Breton chose to portray scenes of labor, liturgy and family life rather than portraits of the wealthy or moments of historical import.

He became a master of social realism and would call himself “the peasant who paints peasants.”

“Eschewing hunting scenes and manly exploits, he preferred quieter moments, most often depicting women,” notes Kat McDaniel. “He did not paint with a sexualized gaze, but with an honest regard and a desire to hint at feminine interior life.”

By the time Breton had spent nearly fifty years at his craft, wealthy collectors were clamoring to purchase his work. His fame spread, especially in the United States. The Song of the Lark was added to the Henry Field Memorial Collection at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1884.

At the time of Breton’s death in 1906, the style of social realism that had made Breton famous was losing favor with critics. Breton’s health was in decline as well.

After his passing, Breton’s work was underappreciated in the art world.

Nevertheless, in 1915, when Willa Cather had completed her second novel (which she had wanted to call “Artist’s Youth”) her publisher suggested The Song of the Lark as its title. The cover of the first edition featured an outline of the girl in Breton’s painting, holding a sickle, head lifted in wonder at the bird’s song.

And in 1934 when the Chicago Daily News conducted a poll for “the most beloved work of art in America,” The Song of the Lark turned out to be the people’s choice.

First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt said the painting was also a favorite of her own.

It’s not difficult to imagine why Depression-era Americans loved The Song of the Lark, or why Cather would admit that her publisher was right in connecting the painting to her book.

The novel, Cather wrote in a later preface, “set out to tell of an artist’s awakening and struggle; her floundering escape from a smug, domestic, self-satisfied provincial world of utter ignorance.”

Cather seems not entirely satisfied with the finished work, and considered Breton’s painting “second rate” as well. She may have found the painting overly sentimental, as many critics at the time did.

Fair enough. In time interest in Breton’s work revived.

“I have always had a passion for the Beautiful,” Breton once wrote:

I have always believed that the aim of art was to realize the expression of the Beautiful. I believe in the Beautiful – I feel it, I see it! If the man in me is often a pessimist, the artist, on the contrary, is pre-eminently an optimist.

Optimism doesn’t mean everything is rosy. It simply means that things can change. Acting in accord with that truth is the root of human resilience.

It’s enough for me to know how beloved Breton’s painting was for Americans living through the Depression’s destitution. And to think of the hope it gave Bill Murray–whose gift as an actor and comedian has cheered American hearts countless times–puts me in awe of the power of this painting.

The silent sunrise in The Song of the Lark speaks for itself.

It makes me want to step outside right now and listen to the trills of the house finches around my birdfeeder.

And maybe stream Groundhog Day tonight.

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You might also like Joy: God’s Utterly Uncontrollable Glimmer and The Blessing of Birding By Ear: Tips for Identifying Birds by their Song.

I stumbled on this painting and its reference to Bill Murray on Wrdstory, which features the backstories of many famous works of art. The quotes from Breton, in Jules Breton and the French Rural Tradition, are referenced in this essay, from which I drew much of the content of this post.

Restore your hope with seven minutes of music and Breton’s art here: