"The noise level in the Académie Julian is always at a constant rumble: the scraping of benches on the floor as the artists jockey for a better view of the model, the lively banter of dozens of young men in three or four different languages, the swish and dab of brushes against canvas. The air in the studio is warm and full of the mingled scents of linseed oil and turpentine, damp wool jackets and the smoke from pipes and cigarettes. In one corner Frank Benson concentrates on putting the finishing touches to a portrait of the model, a gaunt old man. Wiping his brush on his smock, he waves to his friend, Joseph Lindon Smith, and they race down three flights of stairs to breathe the fresh air. That evening, over a meager meal in their fourth-floor rooms on Paris’s Right Bank, the two make plans to get out of the city for a weekend."〔