Later the art jury will sit on them. The art jury will discuss tone and
modelling, rhythm and chiaroscuro and perspective. And in the light of
these discussions and decisions the art jury will sort out the
masterpieces that are to be hung in the Chicago artists' exhibition and
the masterpieces that are not to be hung.
Right now, however, Louis and Mike are unwrapping them. Every day between
nine and five Louis and Mike assemble in the basement of the Art
Institute. The masterpieces arrive by the bushel, the truckload, the
basketful. Louis unwraps them. Mike stacks them up. Louis then calls off
their names and the names of geniuses responsible for them. Mike writes
this vital information down in a book.
* * * * *
Art is a contagious business. Perfectly normal and marvelously
wholesome-minded people are as likely to succumb to it as anybody else. It
is significant that the Purity League meeting in the city a few weeks ago
discussed the dangers which lay in exposing even decent, law-abiding
people to art, any kind of art.
The insidious influence of art cannot, as a matter of fact, be
exaggerated. I personally know of a number of very fine and highly
respected citizens who have been lured away from their very business by
art.
However, this is no place to sound the alarm. I will some day talk on the
subject before the Rotary Club. To return to Louis and Mike. After Mike
writes the vital information down in a book Louis carts the canvas over to
a truck and it is ready for the jury room.
When they started on the job Louis and Mike were frankly indifferent. They
might just as well have been unwrapping herring cases. And they were
exceedingly efficient. They unwrapped them and catalogued them as fast as
they came.
In three days, however, the workmanlike morale with which Louis and Mike
started on the job has been undermined. They have grown more leisurely.
They no longer bundle the pictures around like herring cases. Instead they
look at them, try them this way and that way until they find out which way
is right side up. Then they pass judgment.
Louis unwraps them. I was standing by in the basement with Bert Elliott,
who has submitted a modernistic picture of Michigan Avenue, the Wrigley
Building and the sky, called "Up, Straight and Across."
"'The Home of the Muskrat,'" Louis called. Mike wrote it down. "Wanna look
at it, Mike?"
"Yeah, let's see." Time out for critical inspection. "Say, this guy never
saw a muskrat house. That ain't the way."
"'Isle of Dreams,'" called Louis. "Hm! You can't tell which is right side
up. I guess it goes like this."
"No. The other," said Mike. "Try it on its side. There, I told you so.
'Isle of Dreams.' I don't see no isle."
"Here's a cuckoo," called Louis, suddenly. "'Mist.'"
"What?"
"'Mist,' it says, only 'Mist,' Mike. I'll say he missed. It ain't no
picture at all. That's a swell idee. Draw a picture in a fog and have the
fog so heavy you can't see nothing, then you don't have to put any picture
in. Can you beat it?"
"Go on. Try another."
"All right. Here's one. 'The Faithful Friend.' Now there's what I call a
picture. I knowed a guy who owned a dog that looked just like this. A
setter or something."
"Go on. That ain't a setter. It's a spaniel."
"You're cuckoo, Mike. Tell me it's a spaniel! Let's put it up ahead. It's
probably one of the prize winners. Here's a daffy one. 'At Play.' What's
at play? I don't see nothin' at play. Take a look, Mike."
"It's a sea picture. There's the sea, the gray part."
"You're nuts. Hennessey has a sea picture over the bar with some gals on
the rocks. You know the one I mean. And if this is a sea picture I'm a
orang-outang."
"Well, Louis, it's probably a different sea. Can you imagine anybody
sending a thing like that in? It ain't hardly worth the work of unwrapping
it. Hurry up, Louis, we're way behind."
"Well, take this, then. 'Children of the Ice.' Hm, I don't see no kids. I
suppose this stuff here is the ice. But where's the kids?"
"He probably means the birds over there, Louis."
"If he means the birds why don't he say birds instead of children? Why
don't he say 'birds of the ice'? What's the sense of saying 'children of
the ice' when he means birds?"
"Go on, Louis. Don't argue with me. Hurry up."
"Here's some photographs."
"Them ain't photographs, you nut. They're portraits."
"Well, they look almost as good as photographs. 'My Favorite Pupil.' It's
pretty good, Mike. See, there's the violin. He's a violin pupil. You can
tell. Got it?"
"Yeah. Bring on the next."
* * * * *
A silence came over Louis. He stood for several minutes staring at
something.
"Hurry up," called Mike. "It's getting late."
"This is a mistake," called Louis. "Here's one that's a mistake."
"How come, Louis?"
"Well, look at it. You can see for yourself. The guy made a mistake."
"What does it read on the back? Hurry, we can't waste no more time."
"It reads 'Up, Down and Across' or something. It's a mistake though."
Louis remained eyeing the canvas raptly. "It ain't finished, Mike. We
ought to send it back."
"Let's see, Louis." Time out for critical inspection. "You're right. It is
a mistake. 'Up, Down and Across,' you said. Well, we'll let it ride. It's
not our fault. What's the name of the guy?"
"Bert Elliott," called Louis. A laugh followed. Louis turned to me and my
friend.
"You see this?" he said. "I get it now. That's the Wrigley Building over
there. What do you know about that?"
Louis seized his sides and doubled up. Mr. Elliott, beside me, cleared his
throat and glanced apprehensively at his canvas.
"I'll say it's the first one he laughed at," said Mr. Elliott, pensively.
"He didn't laugh at any of the others. Look, he's still looking at it.
That's longer than he looked at any of the others."
"All right, Louis," from Mike. "Come on."
"Ho, ho," Louis went on, "I'd like to see this guy Elliott. Anybody who
would draw a picture like that. Hold your horses, Mike, here's another.
'The Faun." What's a faun, Mike? I guess he means fern. It looks like a
fern."
"It does that, Louis. But we'll have to let it go as a faun. It's probably
a foreign word. Most of these artists are foreigners, anyway."
Mr. Elliott and I left, Mr. Elliott remarking on the way down the
Institute steps, "Ho, hum."