The literary ones always spoke of Argensola as a painter.

The painters recognized only his ability as a man of letters.

He was among those who used to come up to the studio of winter afternoons, attracted by the ruddy glow of the stove and the wines secretly provided by the mother, holding forth authoritatively before the often-renewed bottle and the box of cigars lying open on the table.

One night, he slept on the divan, as he had no regular quarters.
After that first night, he lived entirely in the studio.
Julio soon discovered in him an admirable reflex of his own personality.
He knew that Argensola had come third-class from Madrid with twenty francs in his pocket, in order to "capture glory," to use his own words.
Upon observing that the Spaniard was painting with as much difficulty as himself, with the same wooden and childish strokes, which are so characteristic of the make-believe artists and pot-boilers, the routine workers concerned themselves with color and other rank fads.

Argensola was a psychological artist, a painter of souls.