A Schoolboy’s Sketches Reveal the Bent of a Talented Illustrator.
FREDERIC REMINGTON’S drawings and paintings of ranch life are so full
of action and so vigorously drawn that they have attracted attention
all over the United States and abroad, wherever true art is honored. No
living artist can equal Remington in bringing into life, as it were,
on the very canvas, a bucking broncho, or the sweeping charge of a
force of Uncle Sam’s cavalry. One fairly sees the dust on the scorching
alkali plains, and hears the quick clatter of the horse’s hoofs as he
strikes the ground, and gathers his legs again.
And yet, with all his success, Mr. Remington is most unassuming. I went
to New Rochelle, where he has a cosy place on the crest of a hill.
He was in his studio, which is an addition to the house; and, as I
descended a few steps, he rose from before his easel to greet me. His
working coat was covered with paint, and he held a brush in his left
hand. He had not been warned of my mission, and seemed almost startled.
“I cannot shake hands,” he said, looking at me, “mine are soiled; I am
a painter, you know.”
He sat down, hanging one arm over the back of his chair.
“Don’t write about me, but speak of my art!” said Mr. Remington.
“But you and your art are one,” I replied, looking around the studio,
and to its walls hung with Indian relics. “Most of your pictures are
from experiences of your own in the great far west, are they not?”
“Yes, but not all,” was the reminiscent reply.
“And those trophies?” I added, glancing at them.
“O, I bought most of them. That jacket I bought from a mounted
policeman. Pretty, isn’t it? I am able to depict the western country
and life, because I have been there.”