ABSTRACT
In his Salon of 1767, Diderot, under the briefest of titles—“Small, Very Small Ruin”—embarks upon an extended description of a painting by Hubert Robert. These are just the first sentences of a skilful verbal sketch that takes its reader through every imaginable visual detail of the work:
To the right, the sloping roof of a shed set against a wall. Beneath this shed covered with straw, barrels, some of them evidently full and on their sides, others empty and upright. Above the roof, the remainder of the wall, damaged and covered with parasitic plants. To the extreme left, at the top of this wall, a bit of a columned balustrade in ruins. 1
And in this vein he continues, as though conjuring it into being himself, designating for each element its rightful place: “On the balustrade a pot of flowers.” Or: “To the extreme left, the door of a house; within the house, leaning on the lower half of the door, a woman observing the activity in the street” (201). At first sight, so to speak, a comprehensive word-picture emerges of Robert's painting.