An undated handout photo, provided to the media on Wednesday, Nov. 19, 2008, shows a painting entitled ''Japanese Bridge at Giverny'' 1918-24, by Claude Monet

Why do people become painters? In two out of three cases, suspected the psychoanalyst Alfred Adler, to overcompensate for a congenital sight defect.

That's hard to prove. Yet there is no doubt that Claude Monet had serious eye problems in the last two decades of his life. The Musee Marmottan in Paris, which has the world's largest collection of his paintings, is raising the question: To what extent did those troubles shape his late work?

The museum, an elegant, sleepy mansion near the Bois de Boulogne, made headlines in 1985 when its greatest treasure –- Monet's ``Impression: Sunrise,'' the canvas that gave Impressionism its name -– was stolen. Five years later, the police found it in Corsica and returned it to its owner.

Because Monet remained faithful to the same themes -– riverscapes, snowy villages, harbors, haystacks, beaches –-it's easy to follow the development of his style. In the end, when he devoted most of his energy to the garden at Giverny, about 40 miles west of Paris, his work became almost abstract.

In 1911, the 71-year-old painter suddenly discovered that he was virtually blind in the right eye. In subsequent years, the sight in his left eye also deteriorated; he complained that he saw everything in a haze.

The doctors diagnosed cataracts in both eyes, yet Monet, fearing he would go completely blind, refused to have an operation. Only in 1923 did his friend, the former Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau, persuade him to consent.

Yellow Glasses

With the help of computer simulations, the show aims to demonstrate what the artist actually saw when he painted in his garden. You can also read the correspondence with his doctors and examine the yellow glasses he had to wear after the operation, the first of three.

The surgery saved Monet's eyesight, yet he wasn't happy. He couldn't see certain colors but continued to use them –-not unlike the deaf Ludwig van Beethoven who continued to write music -– only because he knew their spot on his palette.

When, after Monet's death in 1926, the fourth series of water lilies, his last work, was revealed to the public at the Paris Orangerie, the critics were aghast. Some spoke of ``artistic suicide''; one of them saw ``the Ophelia of painting'' float in the pond.

The wind changed after World War II when U.S. art historians, seeking ancestors of Abstract Expressionism, proclaimed Monet the first drip painter. Dealers, eager to market his estate including unfinished works, jumped on the bandwagon.

When London's Royal Academy presented Monet's late work in 1999, more than 800,000 visitors paid respects to the Grand Old Man of French painting who could do no wrong.

The show at the Musee Marmottan has the courage to deflate the hype. Comparing its 1918-19 versions of the Japanese bridge at Giverny, an appalling brew of nightmarish colors, with their wonderful 1899 predecessor, a loan from the Musee d'Orsay, you don't doubt for a second that what you see is a case for the ophthalmologist, not an artistic decision.