A GOOD MANY PEOPLE ARE OF THE opinion that Art and the appreciation
of Art are making considerable progress in this country, but others are
inclined to be despondent on this subject; and among the most despondent
is an estimable clergyman of a parish some miles from Broadminster.
He told me that he was confirmed in his pessimism by observing the
popularity of the imitation half-timbered, red-brick cottages which
country architects are running up by the hundred in every direction.
“The foundation of all true Art is Truth,” he said, “and yet we are
confronted daily with all the falsehood of creosoted laths curving about
ridiculous gables in imitation of the old oak timbering. People hold up
their hands in horror at the recollection of the outside stucco of the
early Victorians; but where is the difference between the immorality of
pretending that bricks are stone and of pretending that creosoted laths
are old timbers?”
Of course he had many other instances of the inefficiency of the Schools
of Art to fulfil the object of their establishment: there was the villa
fireplace, for example, suggesting that its delicate ornamentation was
of the fine paste of Robert Adam, when it was simply a horrible thing of
cast iron; and what about the prevailing fashion in ladies' dress?...
It was time, he thought, that steps were taken by men of genuine
artistic feeling to put people on the right track in regard to Art
in daily life; and he expressed to me in confidence the belief that a
change could best be brought about by an appeal to the sense of beauty
inherent in womankind. He begged the co-operation of one of the Minor
Canons at the Cathedral at Broadminster, who had achieved fame on
account of his artistic tendencies, and this gentleman consented to
deliver an address at a specially convened mothers' meeting in the
parish-room of the reformer.
He kept his promise, as every one knew he would. He delivered an address
on “The Influence of Cimabue on the later works of Donatello” in the
presence of forty-two matrons, nearly all of whom could both read
and write; and it was understood that he proved up to the hilt every
statement that he made, and any of his audience who may have had some
doubt as to the part that Cimabue played in the development of the
genius of Donatello must have left the hall feeling that they could no
longer hesitate in accepting the relative position of the two artists as
defined by the lecturer.
[Illustration: 0307]
The next address is, I hear, to be made on the subject of “The
Cinquecento and its Sequel.”
That is the way to popularise Art in the country districts. When once
the wives and mothers of the farm labourers and the shepherds of the
Downs are brought to understand the importance of taking a right view of
Cimabue and the Cinquecento, then Art will become a living thing in this
country--perhaps even sooner: who can tell?
Equally practical was the response made by a wealthy gentleman who
has recently settled near Brindlington to the appeal of the parson
to contribute something to the loan collection with which he hoped to
second the efforts of the Minor Canon to stimulate an appreciation
of good art in his parish. In charge of a traction-engine of large
horse-power there was brought in a stone-mason's lorry to the door of
the hall a full-size powerful group by Monsieur Rodin, representing an
episode in the life of the most flagrantly humorous faun that ever grew,
or half-grew, out of a rock under the rough-hewing chisel of the great
French artist. At first one did not know that one was looking at a
piece of sculpture--one seemed to be looking into a stone quarry. But
gradually the idea revealed itself, and then one rather wished that it
hadn't. The faun was not one of Nature's gentlemen: you could see that
at once; but after a while, with good luck, you became aware of the fact
that there was a nymph, or what looked like a nymph, scattered about the
quarry--yes, you could see it quite distinctly from certain standpoints,
and when you did you rather hoped that you had been mistaken. It was
a masterpiece that “Group by M. Rodin.” It might have been taken for a
freak of Nature herself--one of those fantastic rocks which are supposed
to suggest the head of the first Napoleon or perhaps the Duke of
Wellington wearing his cocked hat, or it may be a huge lizard or, if
properly humped, a kneeling camel. But whatever it was, there stood the
stone quarry brought to the very doors of the hall wherein were “loaned”
all the objects of Art contributed by the less ambitious collectors of
the neighbourhood, and within were six stalwart men preparing to rig up
on a tripod of fifteen-feet ash poles each as thick as a stout tree, a
tackle of chains and pulleys for shifting the thing from the truck to
the rollers by which it was to be coaxed into the building.
They did not get it beyond the porch. The tiled pavement crumbled
beneath it like glass, and the caretaker of the building was doubtful
about the stability of the floor within. In the porch it remained until
the parson's wife, who had heard the noise of the traction-engine and
felt sure that something was going on, arrived upon the scene.
She took a glance at the landscape within the porch, and then ordered a
dust-sheet.
Of course the “Group by M. Rodin” was worth more than all the loans
within the building; but it was not everybody's group. It remained in
the friendly obscurity of the dust-sheet except when some visitor with
inquisitive tendencies begged for a glimpse of it. Then the parson,
averting his eyes, lifted up a corner of the dust-sheet, and remarked
that he was sure that the work would be a noble one when the great
sculptor should have cut away all the superfluous stone that lay in
great masses about the figures; but even in its unfinished condition
anyone could see that it could not weigh much under five or six tons.
I fancy that the gentleman who had contributed this loan was more of a
humorist than the parson had suspected.
What I think is the most disappointing feature in connection with the
development of Art in the provinces is the lack of interest shown
in certain districts in the local productions. The producers are not
without honour save in their own county. Of course, if it became a
question of saving money, there would be patrons enough of local art;
but unhappily the possible patrons are incapable of estimating correctly
the money value of such things, and they prefer to give five pounds for
a picture by an artist a distance than two for one by a local man,
even though they might be assured by some one capable of pronouncing an
opinion that the cheaper work was the better.
A few years ago I was made aware of a curious example of this
characteristic of some places. It occurred to an enterprising
printseller at Broadminster that a spring exhibition of works in black
and white might attract attention and enable him to do some business;
and with the co-operation of some of the London publishers he managed to
get together over two hundred capital examples of modern work, including
some proof etchings by Le Rat, David Law, Frank Short, Legros,
and others. A local lady, who was understood to be a liberal and
well-informed patroness of Art in various forms, visited the exhibition
and was greatly attracted by an etching of a spring landscape. Finding
the price moderate, she bought it and carried it home with her in
her brougham. A week later, however, she returned with it to the
printseller.
“Is it true that the Cuthbert Tremaine who did this is only a local
man?” she inquired.
The printseller assured her that she was quite right: Cuthbert
Tremaine's people belonged to the town, and he had been educated at the
Grammar School and the School of Art.
“Do you think it was quite fair of you to hang that from such a person
among the etchings that co-exibit here?” she asked.
“He was quite able to hold his own among the best of them,” said the
printseller. “He's coming well to the front, I assure you.”
“I don't think that it is at all fair to your customers to try and foist
off upon them the work of a local man,” said the lady severely. “An
ordinary local man! I wonder very much at your doing such a thing. I
have brought the etching back to you, and you must change it for me.
You really should have told me that Cuthbert Tremaine was nothing but a
local man.”
So much for the encouragement of local talent in our county.
Quite recently a more striking instance of this peculiarity was offered
us in a neighbouring town. A local artist held a sale exhibition of
water-colour drawings of scenes within a radius of six miles. There were
perhaps thirty of these, and every one of them was good, and every one
of them was pleasing. There was no suggestion of slovenliness about any,
nor was there a hint of an amateur. They were not the sort of drawings
that might be referred to as “highly creditable”--nobody wants to
possess “highly creditable” things: they must have positive merit,
without taking into consideration the conditions under which they are
done, before any one who knows something about art would wish to possess
them; and the watercolours in this exhibition could certainly claim to
be in this light.
Well, cards of invitation were sent to some hundreds of possible buyers,
and were heartily responded to, for free exhibitions are very popular
in our neighbourhood, especially those that take the form of a
demonstration of a new breakfast cereal (with samples gratis). But in
the matter of sales the response was not quite so hearty as it might
have been. The artist did not clear five pounds during the fortnight
that his exhibition remained open.
A month or two later, however, a stranger exhibited a collection of his
drawings in the same town, and although they were infinitely inferior
in almost every way to those of the local man, they found quite a
satisfactory number of purchasers, notwithstanding the fact that there
was not a drawing that was not priced at more than double the sum asked
by the local artist for his sketches.