permit art to be dealt with as merchandise. He felt, therefore, that he
had been robbed of his shillings, and the whole affair, which from the
beginning had been a matter of pleasure rather than of profit with him,
was placed on a commercial footing. Considering the time spent, the
surface covered, the work done, the price fixed by Leyland was quite
inadequate. Then, to pay in scant pounds, instead of full guineas, that
was, in truth, adding insult to injury.
The work was not quite complete, and he took his revenge by painting his
“patron” in the guise of a peacock, with his claws on what might be mere
decoration, or, as any one might fancy, a pile of guineas. The likeness
was not immediately perceptible, but, with a hint, the world soon saw
it, and laughed.
* * * * *
Leyland has been dead a long time, and the house has passed from his
family, but the “Peacock Room” is still in existence, and the curious
visitor is occasionally, but not often, admitted. The “Princess” no
longer hangs at one end, for long ago she went to Scotland, and will
soon find her way to America; but the two peacocks are at the other
end,--one the personification of the grasping “patron” and the other
bearing a faint though perceptible likeness to the defiant painter with
the white lock.
The shelves, which were once filled with the rarest of blue-and-white
china, are now given over to books, and altogether the place is but a
melancholy reminder of former beauty. But the decoration is in good
condition, and could the walls and ceilings be removed and the
“Princess” restored, the original effect would be reproduced.
The construction of the room was not Whistler’s, so he worked under
great disadvantages in dealing with architectural features, particularly
the ceiling, which he did not like; so the room, if ever removed, would
not represent his ideas of proportion and construction. It would simply
show how he made the best of a difficult situation.
The architect who designed the room and looked upon the house as his
stepping-stone to fame, when he saw the--to him--desecration, was
completely unbalanced, went insane, and died not long after.
* * * * *
If opportunities had offered, Whistler would have been a great
decorator, for such was his susceptibility to color that he could not
tolerate discordant effects about him. It was ever his habit to decorate
his studio, his house, or any rooms he occupied to suit his exceedingly
fastidious taste.
He did not “decorate” in the sense the term is accepted nowadays. In
truth, the casual visitor to his studio or to his house would depart
under the impression there was no decoration at all, for neither figures
nor patterns made the walls attractive, yet from floor to ceiling every
square inch was a matter of extreme solicitude. He would mix colors and
apply them with his own hands until the room was in harmony.
Even the great barn of an attic which was his studio in Paris was
painted by him, so that from its dark--not black--rich oak floor, along
base-boards and walls, to sloping roof, the effect was such as he sought
as an environment for his pictures,--a brown, a grayish brown, a soft
and singular shade of brown, hard to describe, difficult to see, but
delightful to _feel_ in its sober and retiring neutrality,--and that is
the best color, the best tone, against which to hang Whistler’s
paintings in any general exhibition, for it remains quietly and
unobtrusively in the background, and at the same time the silvery
quality in it gives it life.
* * * * *
When London laughed at his “Yellow and White” exhibition of etchings it
did not know that a master of color was giving an object-lesson in
interior decoration.
Who can recall without a feeling of restful satisfaction the delightful
reception-room of that later home in Paris, at 110 Rue du Bac? So simple
that, really, there was not a conspicuous feature about it, and yet
every detail had been worked out with as much care as he bestowed on a
painting.
This feature of Whistler’s art, this susceptibility to color and line in
surroundings will be referred to again in the discussion of his
exquisite color-sense.
For the present it is sufficient to point out that he was something more
than a painter of easel pictures; that instinctively he was akin to
those great masters who combined their efforts with those of the
architect in the endeavor to produce beautiful results.
A sympathetic writer has said:
“Although he was in no way a spendthrift, he would make every sort
of sacrifice to his art. Had he been given more opportunity, there
seems no reason to doubt that he would have made other rooms even
more beautiful than the famous ‘Peacock’ dining-room. But, frankly,
the public did not care for his work enough to buy much of it from
him at anything like a fair price; so that he was obliged to limit
himself to comparatively small surfaces, easel pictures, over
which collectors will soon begin to wrangle, we dare say, now that
the clever hand which created them can work no more, and the big,
kind heart which gave this man the courage to fight through fifty
years against ‘_la bêtise humaine_’ is cold and still.”[23]
In showing his work to visitors he exercised all the reserve and
discretion of the Japanese, who places before his guests but one
kakemona during that most formal and elaborate of social festivities,
the “Tea Ceremony,” or who, under pressure of repeated requests, takes
from its little box and unfolds from its many silken wrappings one, just
one, of his precious bits of porcelain. No more on the same day, lest
the surfeited guests fail in appreciation.
If in his studio, Whistler would first turn to the wall every picture
and arrange the few pieces of furniture so that nothing should attract
the vagrant eye, then he would place the one picture he wished seen on
the easel in the best of light, without, however, letting it be seen
until frame and glass were carefully wiped, when, stepping back on a
line with his visitor, he, too, would enjoy his work as if he saw it for
the first time. He would never exhibit anything he was tired of, and he
never tired of anything he exhibited. This appreciation of his own work,
his enthusiasm over what he had done, was often misunderstood by people
accustomed to the false modesty of artists who stand dumb while others
vainly strive to see in their work the beauties which they of all
people can best make known.
* * * * *
If time permitted he might bring forth two, or even three, pictures, but
rarely more, and always each by itself. If some visitor, presuming on
his good nature,--and he was indulgent in the extreme to those he
liked,--insisted on placing the pictures side by side for comparison, as
is the custom in shops, he was as uneasy and unhappy as would be a poet
if several persons insisted on reading aloud before him several of his
poems at the same time,--for what is a picture but a poem, mute to the
ear but clarion-voiced to the eye?
* * * * *
In public exhibitions of his works he had the same sense of the eternal
fitness of things.
First of all, the room must be properly lighted, and Whistler’s
paintings require a soft light. In his studio the skylight was well
arranged with shades, so he could keep the light soft and constant; and
frequently he would draw the shades so as to make the room quite dark,
and then view portrait and sitter as they loomed up in shadow.
“Some students planned to call on him one New Year’s morning. A
friendly student, not at all sure that Whistler would like it, gave
him a little tip as to the surprise party.
“‘Tell them that I never receive callers,’ he exclaimed, excitedly.
The student explained that he wasn’t supposed to know anything
about it.
“‘Are you sure they mean well?’ he inquired, anxiously. And on
being reassured, ‘Well, tell them I never receive visitors in the
morning.’
“The students called in the afternoon, and found awaiting them a
most genial and delightful host. He told stories and showed them
his palettes to prove that he practised what he preached, and
pictures and sketches were exhibited to them never seen by the
public, among the surprising ones being some allegorical studies.
He served them with champagne and fruits and cakes, and was most
solicitous as to their enjoyment. One of them asked him how he
arranged his subjects so as to produce the low tone noted in his
pictures. He posed a visitor, pulled over the shades so as to shut
out all light, save from one window, and there before them was a
living Whistler ‘arrangement’ ready to recede behind a frame, as he
says all portraits should do.”
It is a pity to ever subject his pictures to the trying light of the
usual gallery, and it is a still greater pity to exhibit them at night
in competition with foot-lights and foyer. His work should not be made
the attraction for either a “five-o’clock tea” or a dress rehearsal.
People who will not go during the day are not worth inviting.
The fact that people are content to view the best paintings of all time
by artificial light, and even profess to find a “softness” and “charm”
lacking by day, is but additional evidence of that want of
susceptibility and fine feeling which characterizes the modern world,
artists and laymen alike. For no picture that was painted by daylight
should be seen at night, if all its beauties are to be felt.
* * * * *
A room for the exhibition of his pictures should be of precisely the
right tone, and this is a matter of no little difficulty.
When president of the Society of British Artists, in 1886, his
arrangement of the rooms was criticised as being “tentative,” because he
had left the battens on the walls; whereupon he wrote that in the
engineering of the light and the treatment of the walls and the
arrangement of the draperies everything was intentional; that the
battens were meant to remain, “not only for their use, but as bringing
parallel lines into play that subdivide charmingly the lower portions of
the walls and add to their light appearance; that the whole combination
is complete.”
There is a hint to all managers of exhibitions.
* * * * *
To summarize the foregoing suggestions:
The tone of the walls should be such as to keep them in the background.
The monotonous blankness of the walls may be broken by unobtrusive
lines, not arbitrarily for effect, but justifiably for use and effect.
Only such draperies should be used as are absolutely necessary to reduce
vacancies or to soften harsh lines, and these should lose themselves in
the tone of the room.
Floor should be low in tone, the rich, dark brown of old oak keeping its
place under foot best of all.
If the room is large and a few chairs and benches are admitted, they
should be of wood, plain and for service alone, as becomes a room that
is arranged but for one purpose,--namely, the exhibition of certain
pictures,--and they should be painted or stained in tone to correspond
with the room.
The light should be under absolute control, and kept quite soft,
diffused, and constant throughout the day.
The room should be closed at night, or at least the people fully warned
by notices in catalogue and elsewhere that if they have any real desire
to see and understand the pictures they will come during the day.
The pictures should be well spaced, so that each may, to a certain
degree, be studied by itself, for each is as complete a work as a piece
of music.
In short, in an exhibition of pictures, or of anything else, everything
should be subordinated to the things exhibited; nothing should be
permitted to obtrude upon the attention to their disadvantage; the work
of the decorator and furnisher on such an occasion is perfect when it is
unnoticed.
For black-and-whites, experiments in color may be made, but for
paintings which are compositions in color the background should be
neutral,--silent like the background of music.
As every one knows, green and red, side by side, accentuate and help
each other; therefore, pictures in which the prevailing tone is green
are helped by a red or crimson background, while pictures in which the
prevailing tone is red are helped by a green background.
The foregoing is elementary and a matter of common observation, and the
walls of art galleries and exhibitions are frequently covered with
either a shade of green or a shade of crimson; but in placing pictures
no discrimination is exercised,--landscapes and marines in which green
predominates are placed side by side with portraits and interiors in
which red frequently predominates on the same green or red background,
to the advantage of one set of pictures and the detriment of the other.
So far as color-effect is concerned, the pictures themselves go very
well side by side, the red of the life pieces helping the green of the
nature pieces, and _vice versa_; but if the background is permitted to
assert itself, if the pictures are spaced on the wall, any background
which accentuates the one class does so at the expense of the other.
If pictures in which the prevailing tone is green are to be placed on
the same wall with pictures in which red predominates, the background
should be neither red nor green, but, theoretically, a gray, which is
neutral and helps all colors in contrast; practically, however, a
grayish hue of brown, because pure gray requires a greater expanse of
wall between each picture than the exigencies of an exhibition or of a
typical picture gallery permit, while the element of brown permits the
wall to assert itself a little more positively between the frames, and,
at the same time, the quality of neutrality is almost as well preserved.
The stronger the tone of the background the nearer together pictures may
be placed; the weaker and more neutral the background the wider the
spacing must be,--a pure gray requiring the widest spacing of all
backgrounds, a deep crimson the narrowest. In other words, it requires a
wide expanse of gray to support a little color, while a very little
crimson will carry a very large expanse of color in the way of gilt
frames and strong landscapes and marines.
Wide frames, whether of gold or dark wood, enable green walls to carry
green pictures and red walls to carry red pictures without the pictures
suffering so much; the frames intervene, and the immediate contrast is
between canvas and frame instead of canvas and wall. But the secondary
contrast is there and is felt precisely in proportion to the extent of
the spacing between the pictures, and the pictures suffer accordingly.
_VI_
_The Ruskin Suit--His Attitude towards the World and towards
Art--“The Gentle Art of Making Enemies”--Critics and Criticism._
In 1877 Ruskin, passing through the Grosvenor Gallery, caught sight of
something the like of which he had never seen in the world of art. It
was the “Nocturne, Black and Gold. The Falling Rocket,” a faithful
transcript of the painter’s impression of a night-scene in Cremorne
Gardens. But Ruskin cared less for the subtle glories of night than for
the more garish beauties of the day, and still less for the sights and
sounds of Cremorne Gardens, and neither he nor any one else in either
modern or ancient world knew anything at all about the painting of night
as Whistler painted it. It is not surprising, therefore, that he was
startled, for the picture seemed to violate all those canons of art
which he had laid down in English the beauty of which more than condones
his every error, and in the impulse of the moment he wrote in a number
of _Fors Clavigera_:
“For Mr. Whistler’s own sake, no less than for the protection of the
purchaser, Sir Coutts Lindsay ought not to have admitted works into the
gallery in which the ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly
[Illustration]
approached the aspect of wilful imposture. I have seen and heard much of
cockney impudence before now, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask
two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.”
* * * * *
By way of extenuation, it must be borne in mind that this was written
off-hand, at a time when Ruskin was saying so many extravagant things,
though with them so many profoundly true things, that no one quite
understood him, and many thought him not quite sound mentally. The habit
of sweeping generalizations, of extravagant appreciations and
depreciations had grown apace since the publication of the first volume
of “Modern Painters,” nearly forty years before, and he invariably
yielded to the impression or the prejudice of the moment.
* * * * *
If Ruskin, in estimating Whistler, had paused but a moment and recalled
just a paragraph from the preface to the second edition of the first
volume of “Modern Painters” he would have been more tolerant, for he
there said:
“All that is highest in art, all that is creative and imaginative,
is formed and created by every great master for himself, and cannot
be repeated or imitated by others. We judge of the excellence of a
rising writer, not so much by the resemblance of his works to what
has been done before as by their difference from it; and while we
advise him, in the first trials of strength, to set certain models
before him, with respect to inferior points,--one for
versification, another for arrangement, another for treatment,--we
yet admit not his greatness until he has broken away from all his
models and struck forth versification, arrangement, and treatment
of his own.”
And was not Ruskin himself the life-long apologist for a most original
and extraordinary genius,--a man who to his last days was as little
understood as Whistler?
Here are some things that were said of Turner as late as 1842, when he
was doing some of his best work:
“The ‘Dogano’ (_sic_) and ‘Campo Santo’ have a glorious _ensemble_,
and are produced by wonderful art, but they mean nothing. They are
produced as if by throwing handfuls of white and blue and red at
the canvas, letting what chanced to stick, stick, and then
shadowing in some forms to make the appearance of a picture; and
yet there is a fine harmony in the highest range of color to please
the sense of vision. We admire and we lament to see such genius so
employed. But ‘Farther on you may fare worse.’ No. 182 is a
snow-storm of most unintelligible character,--the snow-storm of a
confused dream, with a steamboat ‘making signals,’ and (apparently,
like the painter who was in it) ‘going by the head’ (lead?).
Neither by land nor water was such a scene ever witnessed. And of
338, ‘Burial at Sea,’ though there is a striking effect, still the
whole is so idealized and removed from truth that, instead of the
feeling it ought to effect, it only excites ridicule. And No. 353
caps all for absurdity, without even any of the redeeming qualities
of the rest. It represents Bonaparte--facetiously described as the
‘Exile and the rock-limpet’--standing on the sea-shore at St.
Helena ... the whole thing is so truly ludicrous,” etc.[24]
Another writer says:
“This gentleman has on former occasions chosen to paint with cream,
or chocolate, yolk of egg, or currant-jelly,--there he uses his
whole array of kitchen-stuff.... We cannot fancy the state of eye
which will permit any one cognizant of art to treat these
rhapsodies as Lord Byron treated ‘Christabel;’ neither can we
believe in any future revolution which shall bring the world round
to the opinion of the worshipper, if worshippers such frenzies
still possess.”[25]
In reply to these and similar criticisms Ruskin said:[26]
“There is nothing so high in art but that a scurrile jest can reach
it; and often the greater the work the easier it is to turn it into
ridicule. To appreciate the science of Turner’s color would require
the study of a life, but to laugh at it requires little more than
the knowledge that yolk of egg is yellow and spinach green,--a fund
of critical information on which the remarks of most of our leading
periodicals have been of late years exclusively based. We shall,
however, in spite of the sulphur-and-treacle criticisms of our
Scotch connoisseurs and the eggs and the spinach of our English
ones, endeavor to test the works of this great colorist by a
knowledge of nature somewhat more extensive than is to be gained by
an acquaintance, however familiar, with the apothecary’s shop or
the dinner-table.”
There is Ruskin in arms on the other side,--it making all the difference
in the world which ox is gored.
What an interesting chapter in the history of appreciation it all makes.
Here we have the critics fulminating against Turner in “egg and spinach”
terms and Ruskin fulminating against the critics in “pot and kettle”
terms. A few years later we have Ruskin fulminating against Whistler in
the same old terms; but Whistler greatly improved the language of
vituperation by introducing humor, and answered with words that bit like
acid and epigrams pointed like needles--the etcher in controversy.
“Produced as if by throwing handfuls of white and blue and red at the
canvas,” said the critic of Turner. “Flinging a pot of paint in the
public’s face,” said Ruskin of Whistler. Beyond this, criticism begins
to be personal.
And Whistler drew the line on the “pot and kettle” stage and brought
suit for libel.
The case was heard in November, 1878, before Baron Huddleston and a
special jury.
The cross-examination of Whistler by the attorney-general, who appeared
for the defendant, was one of the features of the case, and brought out
many of the artist’s views concerning art and art critics.
It is said that during the trial one of Whistler’s counsel was holding
up the nocturne in controversy before the jury, when one of the counsel
on the other side called out:
“You are holding that upside down.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I tell you, you are.”
“How do you know which is the top and which is the bottom?”
“Oh, I don’t know; only when I saw it hanging in the Grosvenor Gallery
it was the other side up.”
Whereupon--out of deference to precedent--the nocturne was reversed.
When Whistler was asked whether the nocturne represented a view of
Cremorne, he answered:
“If it were called a view of Cremorne, it would certainly bring about
nothing but disappointment on the part of the beholders. It is an
artistic arrangement.”
And again, when asked whether a certain nocturne in blue and silver was
a “correct” representation of Battersea Bridge, he replied:
“I did not intend it to be a ‘correct’ portrait of the bridge. It is
only a moonlight scene, and the pier in the centre of the picture may
not be like the piers at Battersea Bridge as you know them in broad
daylight. As to what the picture represents, that depends upon who looks
at it. To some it may represent all that is intended; to others it may
represent nothing.”
“The prevailing color is blue?”
“Perhaps.”
“Are these figures on the top of the bridge intended for people?”
“They are just what you like.”
“Is that a barge beneath?”
“Yes. I am very much encouraged at your perceiving that. My whole
scheme was only to bring about a certain harmony of color.”
* * * * *
Mr. Ruskin did not appear, but others testified in his behalf.
Edward Burne-Jones admitted the picture had fine color, but found
absolutely no detail and composition. It was “bewildering in form,” and
“one of the thousand failures to paint night,” and “not worth two
hundred guineas.”
All of which opinions have been reversed by time,--even to the value,
which quintupled many years ago.
Mr. Frith--of whose art both Burne-Jones and Ruskin probably had
opinions that could not be expressed in temperate language--presented
his credentials as the author of the “Railway Station,” “Derby Day,” and
the “Rakes Progress,” and testified that Whistler’s pictures were “not
serious works of art.” But, then, he confessed he had not been invited
to exhibit at the Grosvenor Gallery, and, as every one knows, what is
considered art in one exhibition may not be so considered in another.
And Tom Taylor, of the _Times_,--well, for Tom Taylor’s testimony and
opinions one must go to the “Gentle Art.” It is his one sure niche in
the temple of fame.
In addressing the jury, the attorney-general said “he did not know when
so much amusement had been offered to the British public as by Mr.
Whistler’s pictures.”
The verdict was for the plaintiff, and the damages assessed at one
farthing; which coin Whistler wore on his chain long afterwards.
The costs assessed against Ruskin amounted to £386 12s. 4d., and were
paid by public subscription, one hundred and twenty persons
contributing.