Great is the variety in the different classes of men to be found in
picture galleries. First in importance stand the artists, oftentimes
oracular personages, dangerous of approach by outsiders having opinions
(_such_ must generally expect a direct snubbing, polite indifference, or
silent scorn), knowing much but not everything, no single one
infallible, highly honorable as members of a guild, secretive as doctors
or lawyers, chary of talking shop to the uninitiated, hardworking,
conscientious, half luring, half scoffing at the glorious visions of the
creative imagination granted them chiefly of all men, wonder workers,
world reformers, recorders of the past and prophets of the future,
comforters of prose-ridden humanity, stewards of some of God's best
gifts, openers of the gates of the beautiful, and hence ushers into the
vestibule of the glorious 'Land of the Hereafter.' May they _all_
remember their lofty calling, and never diminish their usefulness by
unworthy contests among themselves, or by sacrificing their own better
judgment to the exigencies of popular requirement!
Next in order come the connoisseurs. Unmistakably one is that young man
with near-sighted eyeglass, with Dundreary whiskers and jaunty air, who
talks of breadth, handling, foreshortening, perspective, etc.; who
perhaps quotes Ruskin, has seen galleries abroad, is devoted to _genre_
pictures, and, after rattling through an exhibition for a half hour,
pronounces definitely upon the merits of the entire collection, singly
and _en masse_.
Equally recognizable is the older picture-fancier. He talks, if
possible, even more learnedly, discoursing of balance, tone,
chiaroscuro; he despises innovations, judges in accordance with _names_;
is of course convinced the present can bear no comparison with the past;
will look through a whole gallery, and finally be captivated by some
well-executed conceit--a sun shining through a hole--three different
sorts of light, of fire, candle, and moon, mixed in with monstrous
shadows and commonplace figures--some meaningless countenance
surmounting a satin whose every shining thread is distinguishable, and
the pattern of whose lace trimming could be copied for a fashion plate;
he is, in short, a fussy, loud individual, with money to buy and some
out-of-the-way place to hang pictures.
Then there is the man who knows but one, or at most two or three
artists, and will look at the works of none other; who sees, as
travellers generally do, not that which _is_, but that which he had made
up his mind to see before he left his own threshold. There are those
attracted by nothing except brilliant color, and others who have heard
so much of the vulgarity of 'high lights' and gaudy hues, that they will
tolerate nothing but brown trees, russet grass, gray skies, slate rocks,
drab gowns, copper skins, and shadows so deep that the discovery of the
objects represented becomes a real game of 'hide and go seek.' There are
also the timidly modest, who, although aware of their own preferences,
are yet afraid to admire any new name until some recognized authority
has given permission. Another division of this class consists of those
who, knowing their own inability to draw or to color the simplest
object, hesitate to refuse admiration to any art production that is even
barely tolerable. Let us concede to this class our respect, as humility
is the only solid basis for any human acquirement.
We also find the pretty young lady, who says 'lovely,' 'charming,' or
'horrid,' 'abominable,' in a very attractive, but most indiscriminating
manner;--the individual who cares only for the design (to whom real
depth or pathos and affected prettiness are too often one and the same),
and the other, who looks only at the technical execution. Rare, indeed,
are the imaginative analysts who, while considering the design, can
comprehend its philosophy, tell why it pleases or displeases, why they
like or dislike; and still rarer are they who add to impartiality,
observation, common sense, imaginative perception, and analytic power, a
sufficiency of technical knowledge to render their criticism useful, not
only to outsiders, but even to artists themselves. Such a guide would
indeed be an invaluable companion in any gallery of art. In default of
him, let us do the best we can, and come to a consideration of some of
the works offered us in this, the thirty-ninth annual exhibition of the
National Academy of Design.
Before we begin, however, let us make a passing remark upon a custom
that seems lately to have come in vogue, namely, to publish in the daily
papers damaging criticisms upon pictures offered for sale at auction,
such criticisms generally appearing one, or at most two days before the
sale. The want of good taste, or even of abstract justice, in such a
proceeding, must be apparent to every one who will pause a moment to
consider. To compare small things with great, for the sake of
illustration, if our neighbor has made his purchase of spring drygoods,
and spreads them upon the counter of his store, we may or may not admire
his taste in the selection of patterns, but we surely should not think
ourselves called upon to rush to the newspapers and blazon forth an
opinion to his detriment, especially if our assertions were mere
guesses, perhaps even untrue, or if we were ourselves concerned in the
selling of similar wares. Among the public are many tastes to be
gratified, and each man can judge for himself of that which pleases him.
A case of impudent pretension or actual imposition will of course
require honest people to give in their testimony, but the facts adduced
in such a case must be susceptible of proof, and not mere matters of
individual taste or opinion; neither must they be advanced at so late an
hour as to render their refutation difficult, or indeed impossible. A
regular exhibition, such as that of the Academy, offers fair ground for
discussion, as all sides have a chance of obtaining a hearing; but even
there, the scales of justice should be nicely poised, and great care
taken that neither rashness, flippancy, nor prejudice be permitted any
share in their adjustment, and 'good will toward men' be the only extra
weight ever added to either side.
To begin with the landscapes, one of the most remarkable, and, to our
individual taste, the most attractive in the whole collection, is No.
147, 'The Woods and Fields in Autumn,' by Jervis McEntee, N. A. The fine
tree-drawing and the exquisite harmony of color in this poetic
representation of autumn scenery are worthy of _all praise_. The clouds
are gathering for dark winter days, a few pleasant hours are yet left to
the dying year, the atmosphere is saturated with moist exhalations, with
tender mists softening but not obscuring the beautiful forms of the
leafless trees and shrubs. The springs are filling, the low grounds
marshy, the leaves on the woodpaths crisp and of a golden brown. Far
away in the west is a band of gray light, that tells of clearer skies
and brighter seasons one day to come, of new hopes to dawn, when the
earth, and the soul, shall have been purified by adverse blasts, by the
baring of their nakedness to the unimpeded, searching light of heaven.
No. 124, 'The Wanderer,' is a picture of similar character by the same
skilful hand. Thoughtful, refined, and discriminating lovers of art
cannot fail to find instruction and delight in these noble conceptions,
and indeed it is chiefly in the possession of such persons that we find
the truthful, conscientious, tenderly conceived, and poetical pictures
of Jervis McEntee.
S. R. Gifford, N. A., exhibits two works, differing widely from each
other, but both worthy of his reputation. Let the names now longer and
more widely established in the estimation of the general public look to
their laurels, for here is one who is destined successfully to enter an
honorable contest for the possession of the very highest honors. Unity
of design, and warmth as well as vividness of light, positive
atmosphere, characterize the works of this artist, and render each one a
satisfactorily completed poem. No. 226, 'South Mountain, Catskills,'
presents a view doubtless well known to many of our readers. The
far-away horizon, the winding Hudson with its tiny sails, the square
dent where lies the lake in the Shawangunk range, the serrated ridges of
the lower hills, the smoke from the lowlands outside the Clove, the
shadowed, ridgy sides of the Round Top Mountain, the stunted pines of
the South Mountain, so characteristically represented, the great rock
overhanging the cliffs, and the whortleberry bushes and other low growth
clustering about its base--all speak to us unmistakably of that very
spot, and tell the story of the place as we scarcely thought it could
have been told, yet so simply, so naturally, that the art of the artist
is almost forgotten in actual enjoyment of the scene portrayed. No. 250,
'A Twilight in the Adirondacs,' glows with an intensity of light
suggestive of some secret art, and not of ordinary paint and canvas. A
few brilliant cloud-specks float in a golden sky, which is reflected
from the surface of a placid lake, high up among the hills, whose
haze-flooded and light-crowned tops fade away into the far distance. To
many this picture will prove more attractive than the view from the
South Mountain: perhaps it is our familiarity with and love for the
original of the last-mentioned view, which induce us to give to it our
personal preference.
No. 158, 'The Old Hunting Grounds,' is by W. Whittredge, N. A. It gives
a charming insight into the mysteries of the woods. The characteristic
white birches, with their reflection in the quiet pool, the dark trunk
and spreading branches of the great tree in the foreground, the tender
foliage, and soft, hazy gleams into the depths of the forest, afford the
materials for a delightful picture, the more precious in our sight that
it is so truly a representation of our native land, so thoroughly
American. The broken birch canoe adds to the beauty of nature a most
effective and pathetic touch, by briefly figuring the melancholy history
of a fast-departing race. Gone forever are the moccasoned feet that
pressed _that_ mossy soil, and the dusky forms that flitted to and fro
among the white trunks that catch and hold the light so lovingly. That
broken canoe has a stranger tale to tell than any ruined arch or fallen
column of the Old World: the one speaks of some empire passed away, the
other of the gradual extinction of an entire type of human beings, a
race of men who seem to have accomplished the work assigned them, and
who die rather than abandon their native instincts and habits of thought
and life. The fortunate possessor of the 'Old Hunting Grounds,' when
shut up within the confined streets and dreary walls of a city, need
only lift his eyes to the picture to dream dreams of the freshness and
freedom of the wild woods, of the scented breeze snuffed by the browsing
deer, of the rocking branches glimmering gold and green against the
clear summer sky. Mr. Whittredge's picture is suggestive and harmonious
as nature itself, and one could never weary of it, as one infallibly
must of weaker and more conventional productions, often highly prized by
frequenters of galleries.
No. 153, 'The Iron-Bound Coast of Maine,' by W. S. Haseltine, N. A., has
the freshness, brightness, and mistiness of such a shore. We have heard
Mr. Haseltine's rocks complained of as too yellow; but, in the absence
of knowledge, are content to presume he painted them as he saw them. The
action of the dashing surf in washing away the lower strata, and
strewing the beach with fragments, is one token, among many, of an
actual observation of facts.
No. 236, 'An Artist's Studio,' and No. 131, 'Christmas Eve,' are by J.
F. Weir. Both are well conceived and executed, the latter being
especially interesting. The old wall, the great bell, the moonlight, and
the elves set the fancy musing over many things in heaven and earth
rarely dreamed of in our philosophy.
No. 12, 'The Argument,' is one of W. H. Beard's excellent fables. The
attitudes of the two bears in discussion, of the sober-minded listener
leaning with crossed paws upon the tree, and of the self-sufficient old
fellow with his paw upon his breast, may read to many a good lesson,
especially during the coming Presidential struggle, when the charities
and _bienséances_ of life will doubtless be but too often outraged. We
have been surprised and pained to see attacks upon the works of this
gentleman, coming from opposite quarters, said strictures being, in our
opinion, unjust and uncalled for. If behind the animal form we see
proof of more than animal intellect, let us not quarrel with the
addition. It is an evil mind that will go out of its way to fasten evil
intentions upon the work of a man of genius. If human faults and follies
so ill beseem the brute creation, should not such representation render
us heartily ashamed of their existence among ourselves. Love and pity
for the animal world, and a proper holding up to ridicule and scorn of
the brutish propensities, too prominent, alas! in the composition of the
human race, have been the lessons taught us by all the works of this
artist we have thus far seen.
No. 204, 'Out All Night,' by J. H. Beard, is an excellent warning to
naughty puppies to keep good hours and shun bad company.
No. 114, 'A Buckwheat Field on Thomas Cole's Farm,' and No. 143, 'The
Catskills from the Village,' are by Thomas C. Farrer, a representative
of a school which professes to paint precisely what it sees. To
represent nature is the aim of all our best modern landscapists. Of
course, no painting can give all that is in any scene, but every painter
must select the means best adapted to convey the idea he has himself
received. Now, in the ultra ideal school (to use a slang word which we
detest) we recognize but little known to us in nature; and in the ultra
matter-of-fact (pre-Raphaelite) school of this country, we find the same
absence of abstract truth, together with a painful stiffness, and the
want of a sense for beauty. We are not sufficiently practical artists to
fathom the difficulty, but it seems to us to arise from the absence of
one of the most prominent elements of beauty and interest to be found in
the universe, namely, mystery. If, in the metaphysical world, with our
limited means, we attempt an _exhaustive_ explanation of any of the
attributes of the Infinite Being, the result must be unsatisfactory; we
will always feel that there is something beyond, which we have failed to
grasp, a something which makes our best effort appear shallow and crude.
Now, the material mystery of actual landscape arises from the presence
of an appreciable atmosphere, softening forms, etherealizing distances,
modifying color, and lending the glow of variously refracted light to
every object falling under its influence. In these pictures of Mr.
Farrer we fail to find any trace of atmosphere, and hence they strike us
as bald, hard, cold, and unnatural.
No. 213, 'The Awe and Mystery of Death,' by Eugene Benson, is an able
treatment of a repulsive subject. As we gaze, we cannot but admire the
genius that has so far overcome the intrinsic difficulties of the
situation; and, while congratulating the artist upon his success, must
add that the Victor Hugo style of morbid horrors, however popular in
some species of literature, can never, we hope, become so in the purer
domain of visible fine art.
No. 246, 'Portrait,' William O. Stone, N. A., is a charming portrayal of
a charming subject.
No. 283, 'A Child,' by George A. Baker, N. A., has lovely brown eyes,
and a beautiful, thoughtful expression.
No. 253, 'A Portrait,' by W. H. Furness, jr., strikes us as a picture
carefully disfigured. The _part_ in the hair is singularly continued in
the part between the wings of the golden butterfly ornamenting the head,
the eyes are just sufficiently turned aside to give them the appearance
of avoiding a direct gaze, and the tight-fitting gown is of white
_moiré_, a material of stiff texture and chaotic pattern. The shimmer of
waves in sun or moonlight is beautiful because restless, but the
watering of a silk is a rude attempt to fix the ever variable in form,
light, and color, and hence is always unsatisfactory.
We are glad to see that the women in our community are beginning to make
some serious efforts in the way of good painting. They are by nature
subtile colorists, and there is surely no reason why they should not
conquer form, attain to technical excellence, and be inspired by noble
ideas. They must remember that excellence is attainable solely through
hard study and patient assiduity, and small things must be well
accomplished before great ones can be expected to succeed. With the
general development of what we may call 'out-door' faculties, a taste
for mere sentimental prettiness will vanish, and a healthy vigor, united
to refined and acute perception, will, we hope, characterize the labors
of the rising aspirants to artistic honors.
No. 91, 'The Sword and the Wreath,' by Miss A. E. Rose, is a poetical
conception, beautifully elaborated. The flowers have no appearance of
having been copied from wax or colored stucco, but are faithful
representations of the actual, fragile, delicate texture of the lovely
children of the garden. The method of presentation suggests a memory of
La Farge, but Miss Rose is too talented and original ever to fall into
servile imitation.
No. 132, 'On the Kaaterskill Creek,' and No. 64, 'Head of the Catskill
Clove from the South Mountain,' are by Miss Edith W. Cook. The first
offers some fine delineations of foliage, intermingled hemlock, and
deciduous trees, and the latter is a spirited and truthful
representation of a beautiful bit of Catskill scenery. The Hunter and
Plattekill Mountains, Haines's Fall, the Clove Road and intervening
ravines, the winding woodpath, and burnt trees, are close records of
fact, set in a far-away sky and a real atmosphere.
Miss Virginia Granbery's 'Basket of Cherries' (No. 81) and
'Strawberries' (No. 73) are tempting specimens of fruit.
No. 202, 'The Seamstress,' by Miss C. W. Conant, gives proof of future
excellence in the truthful pathos of its conception and the energetic
rendering of the idea.
But our hour has come to an end, and we have only space left to mention
the names of Bierstadt, Constant Mayer, Hennessy, May, Durand, Griswold,
Suydam, Bradford, Brevoort, Cropsey, Colman, Cranch, De Haas, Hart,
Homer, Hubbard, Huntington, Vedder, and White, who are all
characteristically represented, and to counsel such of our readers as
are fortunate enough to have the opportunity, to go and see for
themselves. Americans are beginning to comprehend the full value of the
arts, and to appreciate their own artists accordingly.