when monet stated nature isnt made of dots what painting style was he speaking of
Lichtenstein returned home to visit his dying father and was discharged from the Army with eligibility for the G.I. Bill.  He returned to studies in Ohio under the supervision of one of his teachers, Hoyt L. Sherman, who is widely regarded to have had a significant impact on his future work (Lichtenstein would later name a new studio he funded at OSU as the Hoyt L. Sherman Studio Art Center). 
Lichtenstein entered the graduate program at Ohio State and was hired as an art instructor, a post he held on and off for the next ten years. In 1949 Lichtenstein received a Master of Fine Arts degree from Ohio State University.
Dorothy Lichtenstein, the painter’s widow, says that with his dots her husband moved beyond the post-World War II abstract expressionists — Pollock with his drips, de Kooning with his brush sweeps — but he kept the past in his rearview mirror.
By changing a hue, widening a line, expanding the dots, Lichtenstein changed “tiny things that would help make an iconic image,” Cooper says. “An image that would stand up, would last on the wall, last in our memories.”
BALDESSARI: How about narrative with a smidge of lyricism?
BALDESSARI: Yes, I remember that.
As early as December 1961, Claes Oldenburg had opened his famous ”Store,” a rented storefront on Manhattan’s East 2d Street that was stocked with his sculptures ”Pie a la Mode,” ”Fur Jacket” and other replicas of merchandise. When Lichtenstein made his Castelli Gallery debut the following February, James Rosenquist -who had worked as a billboard painter throughout the 1950’s – had his first one-man show at Manhattan’s Green Gallery. That summer, Andy Warhol exhibited a set of 32 paintings of Campbell’s soup cans at the Ferus Gallery in Los Angeles.
But no sooner had Lichtenstein arrived outside Picasso’s studio on the Rue des Grands Augustins than he decided he couldn’t face him. ”I walked away after a while, thinking, ‘Why would Picasso want to see me?’ I had nothing to say, really, except that I admired his work. Why should I want to do that? Why should he want to do that?”
I chose and my world was shaken —
The next scene is a reception afterwards in the room where the Seurat painting hangs. This is a musical scene, incorporating singing, spoken dialogue, and underscoring, called “Putting It Together.” Much of this piece consists of cocktail chatter about George and his work (and, just for fun, a number of French words thrown in here and there). Appropriately, it is set to the same music as the gossip scenes from Act I, when the denizens of the park gossiped about Seurat. There’s a wonderful connection between the two Georges in this piece, because the melody set to the words, “putting it together” is the same melody (minus one note) that Seurat sings to the words, “finishing the hat.” They share the same creation music; significantly though, the 19th century George is actually creating the art while the 20th century George is working to finance it. Our century, Sondheim seems to say, has corrupted the artist and his art; the creation isn’t possible anymore without the schmoozing. And who better would know that than a Broadway composer and lyricist, who has spent a career going through the torture of backer’s auditions, New York Times reviews, and other fiscally necessary evils?