The poster that changed my understanding of commercial art appeared one damp morning on the Boulevard de Clichy, pasted at a crooked angle to the zinc wall of a bar I passed each day on my way to the atelier. In the lithograph a woman held her glass at an impossible angle, her hair dissolving into tendrils of hyssop and wormwood that curled around the lettering like living script. I learned later it was the work of Privat-Livemont, and standing there in the gray drizzle I understood that illustration could aspire to something sacred.
The Lithographer's Table
The technique behind these posters was neither accidental nor merely decorative. Each color demanded its own limestone block, and the registration between passes required a precision that would humble any modern printer. That chartreuse green — the mineral yellow-green that makes absinthe posters instantly recognizable — was mixed from chrome yellow and Prussian blue.