oratory eliminates the content or thing said and puts the art and the
oratory all in the manner of saying. And therein he is perhaps right
so far as the matter can be separated from the manner. He puts the
subject aside as one might say there is no poetry in Darwin, nothing
æsthetic or artistic, though he says much of great value, whereas there
is poetry in Swinburne though it is often difficult to find out whether
he is saying anything at all or merely putting out a pretty run or
rhythm of language. It was a pretty run of the brush that Chase fancied
above everything else.
“Subject is not important. Anything can be made attractive. Not long
ago I painted a pipe, a loaf, and a bowl of milk.... I would not be
unwilling to rest my reputation on it.... Let your brush sweep freely.
Better to lose it than to give way to timidity which soon becomes a
habit.... Better be dashingly bad and interesting.”[14]
[14] _Ibid._
It was thus he talked to his pupils trying to convince them that art
lay in an enthusiastic individual manner. He believed that--believed
that the art of painting lay in clever manipulation, in gusto, in
manual dexterity. But that did not mean a slashing about at haphazard
with a heavily loaded brush.
“Too many are hurrying on to give what is called ‘finish’ before they
have grounded their work in the truth which must inform and uphold the
entire structure.... Digest the subject fully before beginning. See it
fully done and well done--perhaps as some special painter whose work
you admire would do it. To begin to paint without deciding fully what
your sketch is to be, would be like a lecturer beginning to talk before
knowing what he was going to say.”[15]
[15] _Ibid._
Now that is excellent doctrine and Chase himself followed it in his own
practice. In 1890 I sat to him for a portrait and I recall his saying
then before he put brush to the canvas: “I try to see you on the canvas
all finished and then I start in to paint you as I see you in my mind.”
Later on in the painting he was fussed by the collar being askew; he
damned it, said it was not rightly seen or drawn, scraped it out and
did it over again. He was concerned about getting a certain amount of
realistic truth as well as easy brush-work, and talked much about the
right seeing of the model. But there was a contradiction in temperament
just here that came in to invalidate his aim only too often.
Enthusiasm is usually impatient of delay or restraint; it is always
eager for action. Yet one cannot fully understand even so obvious
an object as the model on the stand without reflection. It must be
seen and thought over and contemplated before one takes up the brush.
Nothing very great comes from dashing down on canvas something seen
for an instant only. But Chase, in spite of his talk, was not one who
reflected long or had the contemplative mind. He seldom fell into a
revery or lost himself in a labyrinth of thought. He had virtuosity and
was an _improvisateur_. The lilt and fling of his work were brilliant
in the extreme; and it is perhaps foolish to criticise it because
lacking in thought or reflection, and yet that is the comment oftenest
heard regarding it. His pictures are declared to have neither depth of
feeling nor depth of thought, and the works that are accounted his best
are the exceptions that prove the rule.
It has been noted also that Chase’s paintings were never very
elaborate in composition. He did nothing of a historical or academic
nature--nothing even in figure-painting beyond two or three figures.
Putting figures together with line and light, in plane and pattern,
perhaps called for too much reflection. It was easier to place a model
in a kimono against a screen or to arrange a fish in a plate or on a
table, or to put together a pipe, a loaf, and a bowl. He was in a hurry
to get at the canvas, and wanted none of the enthusiasm to evaporate.
Just so with his color scheme. He would not think over it until he
could feel it swell like a symphony, but instead put in unconsidered
colors that were perhaps agreeable enough in themselves, and then added
a dash of sharp red to catch the eye and make the picture “sing.” But
it was usually a common enough song that it sang. Distinction of color
is not obtained by merely arranging studio properties on canvas. Some
instinct and a good deal of feeling go to the making of the finest
color projects. So, again, we find that perhaps the common objection to
Chase’s color that it has no quality is more or less well-founded.
He knew how to draw, for he had a severe enough schooling at Munich,
but in later life he oftentimes ran over drawing, hid it under that
easy brush-stroke which he liked so much and which he usually handled
so effectively. Sometimes it went astray. It was not the premeditated
sweep of Rubens or the infallible touch of Velasquez. It was more like
Goya or Stevens or Vollon--painters whose brushes were not always
impeccable. However, the brush of Chase was sure enough, and with its
spirit and swift movement it certainly gave that oratorical effect
to which he compared painting. It is vivacious and with its facility
creates the feeling of knowledge and mastery. That was something
achieved at least. A surface by Chase usually shows that a skilled
workman has left his mark upon it.
His idea about quality in art was that it came: “As a result of perfect
balance of all the parts and may be manifested in a color or tone
or composition. In the greatest pictures it is found in all three,
and then you may be sure you are before the most consummate of human
works.”[16]
[16] _Ibid._
[Illustration: “Child Dancing,” by William Merritt Chase.]
The definition is not a good one, and he apologized for his
inability to define quality by saying that it is like trying to “tell
the difference between music and mere sound.” But quality is not
precisely either melody or harmony, though it _is_ the difference
between music and mere sound. It is the difference also between silk
and gingham, between an air blue and a baby-blue, between a luminous
shadow and gray paint, between a forceful, telling line and a halting,
rambling one. Quality is the badge of distinction--that something which
puts a _cachet_ of authority upon a work of art and places it among
the masterpieces of all time. Did Chase have it? Yes, occasionally.
Such works as the “Woman with a White Shawl” possess it. From which it
may be inferred that quality is more or less dependent upon thinking,
reflection, mood--things which were not always apparent in Chase’s art.
Yet he did much thinking along certain paths and had something very
important to say to his age and generation about sound technique, good
workmanship. In a literary or illustrative sense he recorded no more
romance, history, passion, power, or pathos than Whistler. He told
no story in paint, indulged in no dramatic climaxes, was guiltless
of emotion, and perhaps incapable of poetry. He was a workman, a
consummate craftsman in a goldsmith sense, and he did his thinking
about his work, put his storm and stress and soul into his palette
and brush. As a workman he was distinguished by a manner of his own
which is sometimes referred to as his style--his individual style.
His method, rather than his style, he passed on to his pupils, and
his influence upon them was perhaps greater than upon the community
at large. He taught more young people how to handle a brush than any
painter of any time, not excepting Rubens. Several thousand pupils came
under his influence, were stimulated by his enthusiasm, and encouraged
by his words. He was an excellent teacher, and American art is perhaps
more beholden to him for what he taught than for the things he painted.
For the pupils now carry on the teaching, and perhaps from them may
come a greater and a loftier art than Chase himself was able to
produce. The force of good teaching is cumulative and eventually it
develops into that body of belief and practice which I have called
tradition. Chase, like Whistler, was not an inheritor of any American
tradition, but he established one of his own and passed it on to his
followers. He based his pupils in good technical workmanship and taught
the fundamental value of craftsmanship. It was a teaching badly needed
in his America; he gave it importance and place in the schools and
became, perhaps without his knowing it, a master leader in the craft.
Chase’s painting is the concrete embodiment of his teaching--the
illustration of it. It has the obvious limitations of his method and
belief. To pass it by because it has not the romance of a Ryder or
the poetry of a Martin or the significance of a La Farge is to miss
its meaning entirely. He is just as frankly dealing with the surface
as Whistler, with the mere difference that Whistler asks us to regard
him decoratively and Chase desires to be looked at technically, as one
might consider a Stevens, a Vollon, a Fortuny, or a Boldini. We surely
are not so narrow in outlook as to deny admiration and high rank to
such masters of the brush as these. They are artists in the narrow
sense that they deal with art alone and consider painting only from the
æsthetic point of view, but who shall say they are not precisely and
exactly right? Each turn of the screw, each new generation in art, pins
us down more narrowly and positively to the material. Perhaps Whistler
and Chase were wrong only in being ahead of their time.
At any rate, the belief in material and method as art _per se_, however
it may jar preconceived notions, will have to be reckoned with.
And here in America its most considerable advocate will have to be
taken seriously. By certain standards we may judge his art as merely
clever, but he conceived it and wrought it in all seriousness. Does
a sword-hilt by Sansovino, or a salt dish by Cellini, or a screen by
Utamaro lack in either seriousness or art? Why not then a canvas, in
the same spirit of the skilled workman, by Whistler or Chase? Why not?
IX
JOHN W. ALEXANDER
Chase and Alexander were of the same faith in art though they varied
in ritual. They both believed in the finality of good workmanship
decoratively displayed. They had differing views of what constituted
design and color, their atmosphere and light were not the same,
and each had his peculiar handling; but with all this latitude for
variation in method there was no essential difference in æsthetic aim
or purpose. The portrait of a lady was to both of them not primarily a
revelation of the lady but a presentation of a decorative pattern in
which the sitter and her garmenting held large place because conforming
happily to an “arrangement.” This, of course, was the Whistlerian point
of view with which Chase and Alexander were in sympathy. All three of
them frequently rose above their creed and told tales of the lady’s
charm, or womanly instincts, or perhaps gave suggestion that she was a
lady and not merely a studio model dressed for the part; but usually
they were content with arranging her in a pattern as an entomologist
might spread and pin to advantage a golden butterfly on a blue-green
ground.
To question their practice is to take sides in a very old quarrel
in art. For they were the David and Ingres of the new dispensation.
Their works were based in method, though the method was brush-work
rather than drawing, and they were pronounced in arrangement though
the arrangement was a pattern of light and color instead of line and
group composition. Set over against them are the Delacroixs and Millets
of to-day who are no longer romantic and dramatic, but lay stress on
sentiment, feeling, significance, character, strength rather than mere
pattern. It is not necessary to name them, for every one will recognize
the species and call to mind the types. There are always two sides to
a quarrel, and there are several sides to art. It may be a symphony
of color as Whistler insisted, an arrangement of line or a matter of
facile workmanship as Alexander and Chase contended. No one will deny
that. In fact there is a modern disposition to locate the art of a
picture strictly within the limits of craftsmanship. But a picture may
express something more than the skill of the painter. Many of the craft
have shown that it is a means of expressing moods, passions, feelings,
sentiments, emotions; they insist that line and color, and all the
what-not of technique, are merely the means to an end and not the end
itself. Both arguments have merit and are abundantly exemplified in
practice. And why not something worth while, something acceptable, in
both?
There was good reason why Chase and Alexander should be accepted,
because they came at a time when method in America was in sad need
of reconstruction. Modern craftsmanship was practically unknown.
They brought it into vogue, established it as the grammar of art,
gave it the prominence it deserved. It was then, as now, the _sine
qua non_ of art. One must know how before he can say very much of
moment. There have been painters and poets with very limited skill
who have said things the world is glad to remember, but they are the
exceptions rather than the rule. The Shakespeares, Goethes, Titians,
and Rembrandts were all highly trained craftsmen. They had great things
to say, surely; but should we have heard them had they belonged to the
unskilled? How many in all the arts have had
“The vision and the faculty divine
Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse!”
We need not, then, think lightly of the craftsman in American art. He
has proved a much-needed person in the school. And his work has also
turned out to be a very agreeable factor in the home. Art of a decided
quality does lie in the eye and the hand. It can be greatly enhanced
in significance by the addition of a mind and a soul, but these latter
must be approached through the former to attain their full expression.
For, to repeat, technique or craftsmanship is at the bottom of all
artistic expression.
Alexander learned to paint in practically the same roundabout way
as Chase. He was born in Alleghany City in 1856, and as a child was
reared by his grandparents, his father and mother having died early. At
twelve he was a telegraph messenger, and shortly afterward, with the
death of his grandparents, he came under the guardianship of Colonel
Edward J. Allen. He was persuaded to give up the telegraph work and go
to school, but at eighteen he broke away and went to New York. He had
given signs as a boy of artistic tendencies, his drawings had attracted
some attention, and he went to New York to make illustrations for the
Harpers. There was some disappointment at first. The Harpers had not
heard of him and did not want his artistic services, not even as an
apprentice. But they needed an office boy. He accepted the place, and
through it got into the art department, where he finally came to work
upon blocks and plates. Charles Parsons was then in charge of the
department, and E. A. Abbey, Stanley Reinhart, and A. B. Frost were
there. Alexander learned much from their counsel and example. From 1875
to 1877 there appeared in _Harper’s Weekly_ an occasional political
cartoon signed “Alexander,” and in 1877 during the great strike in
Pittsburgh there were a number of large sketches and illustrations
signed “J. W. Alexander.” Later on he did for the Harper publications
and also for the _Century Magazine_ various illustrations signed “J. W.
A.”; but this was after he had been to Munich and had had some exact
training.
He remained with the Harpers three years, and then with Albert G.
Reinhart he went to Europe. The pair had intended to study art in
Paris at the _Ecole des Beaux Arts_, but on arrival there they found
the school closed for the summer. With no French to their name, Paris
was a little dreary, and they drifted on to Munich--because Reinhart
understood a little German, it is said. The Munich Academy was open,
and Alexander entered the classes of Professor Benzcur and remained
there for some three months. The teaching proved too academic and the
living in Munich too high for him, and he went to Polling, a small
town in Bavaria, where there was an American art colony under the
shepherding of Frank Duveneck. Shirlaw, Currier, Joseph De Camp, Ross
Turner were of the group. Alexander fell into good company and began at
once to profit by the association. While at Polling he sent sketches
to the student’s exhibition at Munich and won for them a bronze
medals--his first honor. Two years were passed in Bavaria and then he
joined Duveneck’s class to study art in Italy. There were twenty-three
in the class, and Alexander with Duveneck went ahead to Florence to
engage studios for them.
Two winters were spent at Florence--the summer months being more
agreeably put in at Venice. It was at Venice in the summer of 1880 that
Alexander met Whistler and received counsel and direction from him.
The advice was very potent in helping him out of the dark Munich rut
and suggesting that the decorative was perhaps more important than the
merely realistic or representative. Indeed the Whistler influence was
the most compelling the young student had yet encountered. It made a
decided impression upon him and changed perhaps the whole trend of his
art. For while Alexander never imitated Whistler’s schemes or patterns,
he accepted the decorative point of view, giving it out in his own way
with many changes and modifications brought about by later observation
in Paris. He was always impressionable and quick to adopt new ideas,
and yet it is almost impossible in his work to trace home any feature
to a given source. In that respect he was perhaps more original than
Chase or even Whistler himself.
While in Florence he supported himself by sending drawings to the
Harper publications and teaching a class of students; but he soon
realized that he was holding back his own progress by such work, and in
1881 he decided to return to America. Arrived at Pittsburgh, he made a
trip down the Ohio and the Mississippi with Fred Muller to illustrate
an article on “King Coal’s Highway.” The article appeared in _Harper’s
Monthly_ for January, 1882. The illustrations were realistic enough,
but not remarkable in any way. They created no furor. Alexander came
on shortly thereafter to New York, took a studio in the German Bank
Building, at Fourth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, and soon was doing a
portrait of a little daughter of Henry Harper. He moved to the Chelsea
Studios in Twenty-third Street, continued with portraiture, and became
interested in the art movements of the time. People looked upon him as
a young man of ability. He had not Chase’s vogue but he, nevertheless,
had his group of admirers.
In 1881 he was in Spain and Morocco, and in 1886 he went to England
for the _Century Magazine_, having been commissioned to do certain
portraits of literary men--George Bancroft, Thomas Hardy, Robert Louis
Stevenson. He did Stevenson at Bournemouth, stopping with him while
sketching him. He also did Austin Dobson, and went to Ireland to draw
some illustrations for articles by Charles de Kay. The portraits
were apparently sketches in charcoal and gave only a summary of the
heads. They were well done and rightly emphasized for reproduction.
The illustrations for the Ireland articles were decidedly good in the
landscapes--something for which Alexander had a talent, but which he
never cared to follow up until late in life and then apparently for
his own pleasure. This work and, in fact, that of the next half-dozen
years did not bring Alexander into any great prominence in America. He
had not found himself--he had not “arrived” in a large sense.
Up to 1890 his work had hardly so much as suggested his later bent or
method. The “Head of a Boy” and “Sketch of a Boy,” shown in a recent
memorial exhibition at the Century Club, are both of them early efforts
done at Polling. They are in the dark Munich style of Duveneck and not
unlike things that Shirlaw and Chase were doing a few years earlier.
“Old Cole” in the same exhibition, done in 1881, again indicates Munich
teaching. The lights are surrounded by darks and the darks are darkened
by bitumen. There is no attempt at fine color or decorative pattern,
but rather a desire for the realistic largeness of the model with a
resultant brusque modelling and some dragging of a heavily loaded
brush. The portrait of “Thurlow Weed” gives a big strong head relieved
by being in high light and again surrounded by darks. One might think
from a casual glance that it had been inspired by Lenbach. The portrait
of “Jefferson as Bob Acres,” while it still shows Munich methods, is
something of a departure. It is a costume and footlight portrait with
the lights very high, the shadows pronounced, the color very gay. It
was well set, well drawn, easily painted upon ordinary canvas, and in
the usual oil medium. The portrait had spirit and life about it and
yet gave small indication of what Alexander’s style would ultimately
become. Just so with the rather fine portrait of “Walt Whitman,” now
in the Metropolitan Museum. The hark back to Lenbach in the insistent
relief of the head and hands as spots of white surrounded by dark is
quite apparent. Perhaps here there is a pose of the figure and a sweep
of the beard that suggest Alexander’s later swing and swirl of lines,
but it is not very marked.
This work, done for the most part before he was thirty, was talked
about and praised in New York art circles, but it was really Paris that
gave Alexander rank. He had been married in 1887 to Miss Elizabeth
Alexander, and in 1890 they went abroad for a few months that he might
recuperate from an attack of the grippe. They remained away eleven
years. The time was spent chiefly in Paris, and it was to the Société
Nationale des Beaux Arts that he sent, in 1893, three portraits that
made a decided hit. They were entitled “Portrait Gris,” “Portrait
Noir,” and “Portrait Jaune.” The titles suggest color schemes,
qualities of tone, garments arranged gracefully to fill space and
make a decorative pattern--in short, the things that thereafter gave
individuality to Alexander’s art. Paris immediately took notice of
them; the Société elected him an associate member, and the next year,
when he sent a panel of five portraits, he was elected a full member.
His reputation and his commissions from that time increased rapidly. He
was a success.
Alexander has been called “the most Parisian of the Americans,” and
yet just why one hardly knows. His refined taste, his sensitiveness,
his animation are less French than American, and it must be his method
that suggests Paris. But whom in Paris? What painter can you point
to as the original or even the inspiration of his style? Carrière,
Besnard, La Touche--you think of them only to dismiss them from mind.
Whistler, Albert Moore, Burne-Jones, the Japanese, afford little clew.
Perhaps the obvious explanation is that Alexander merely followed his
own inclination and developed a method and a style quite his own.
Others have done so before him and why not he? Very likely some one
suggested a coarse absorbent canvas with thin petroleum or turpentine
as a medium, or he may have seen the results obtained by such materials
in pictures at the Salon or elsewhere. Paris has always been replete
with new mediums and methods and has had its generations of painters
who could do no more with the new than with the old. But Alexander’s
painting was something more than an absorbent canvas. He had an
original point of view and the new materials merely helped him to
reveal it.