“That nature is always right is an assertion artistically as untrue
as it is one whose truth is universally taken for granted. Nature
is very rarely right; to such an extent, even, that it might almost
be said that nature is usually wrong. That is to say, the condition
of things that shall bring about the perfection of harmony worthy a
picture is rare, and not common at all.
“This would seem, to even the most intelligent, a doctrine almost
blasphemous. So incorporated with our education has the supposed
aphorism become, that its belief is held to be part of our moral
being; and the words themselves have, in our ear, the ring of
religion. Still, seldom does nature succeed in producing a
picture.”[44]
One should never confound art with nature; they are antithetical terms.
There is no art in nature; there should be no nature in art. And what is
art is not nature, and what is nature is not art.
Nature is the raw material, art is the finished product; and art should
no more resemble nature than a cave resembles a house. And to the
extent that art slavishly imitates nature is it of the cave-dwelling
variety.
There is no color that is not found in nature. There is no combination
of colors a hint of which cannot be found in nature. But it is the
business of art to take the colors, accept the hints, and produce
combinations and effects not found in nature.
It is not the business of the artist to paint anything as it is, but
everything as _he_ sees it.
Yet the public demand that a tree shall be reproduced as _they_ see
it,--that the picture shall be a substitute for the reality. Why not go
to the window and look at the tree? For, as a _tree_, with its quivering
leaves and the infinite play of light and shadow, it is more beautiful
than any realistic photograph, drawing, or painting possibly could be.
But to see the reflection of the tree in the depths of a human soul one
must turn to art, to poetry, to music, or to painting. The reflection
may not at all resemble the reality any more than Keats’s “Ode to a
Nightingale” resembles the bird or the song of the bird; but it will be
far more interesting and far more beautiful because a human expression.
The child’s mud-house and the boy’s snow-man are of greater concern to
humankind than all the plains and mountains of the earth.
_VIII_
_The Royal Society of British Artists--In Paris once more--At Home and
at Work._
In June, 1886, Whistler was elected president of the Royal Society of
British Artists.
Prior to that time he had exhibited in the rooms of the society in
Suffolk Street, and he was no doubt elected to give life to a moribund
association. He succeeded beyond the wildest anticipations of the most
sanguine members.
He rearranged the exhibitions by excluding sufficient of the unworthy to
leave ample space on the walls for the proper exhibition of such
pictures as were accepted.
When the Prince of Wales, now King Edward, visited the galleries for the
first time, Whistler, as president, received him. And when the prince
said he had never before heard of the society and asked its history,
Whistler, with the grace of a courtier, replied:
“It has none, your Highness. Its history dates from to-day.”
Two years of so revolutionary a president were all the ancient
association could stand. As has been well said:[45]
“That Suffolk-Street episode was, perhaps, the oddest of an odd
career. The most mediocre and middle-class of all the artistic
societies of London was in low water, and the thought occurred to
some revolutionary members to make Whistler president. It was like
electing a sparrow-hawk to rule a community of bats. Some of the
bats moved out, some followers of the sparrow-hawk came in; but the
interesting new community did not last long. The suburban ladies,
who had been the support of the Society of British Artists, were
shocked at the changes. They found no pleasure in the awning
stretched across the middle of the room, the battened walls, the
spaced-out ‘impressionist’ pictures, and the total absence of the
anecdotes and bright colors which they loved. A few hundred
visitors of another sort came, and were charmed, but the commercial
test of success was not satisfied. Before long Whistler ceased to
be president, and the society, under a more congruous chief,
‘relapsed to its ancient mood.’”
When he failed of re-election many of his friends resigned.
“It is all very simple,” he said. “The ‘Royal Society of British
Artists’ has disintegrated,--the ‘Artists’ have come out, the ‘British’
remain.”
When interviewed to obtain his explanation of the “state of affairs:”
“The state of affairs?” said Mr. Whistler, in his light and airy
way, raising his eyebrows and twinkling his eyes, as if it were all
the best possible fun in the world; “why, my dear sir, there’s
positively _no_ state of affairs at all. Contrary to public
declaration, there’s actually nothing chaotic in the whole
business. On the contrary, everything is in order, and just as it
should be,--the survival of the fittest as regards the presidency,
don’t you see; and, well--Suffolk Street is itself again! A new
government has come in; and, as I told the members the other
night, I congratulate the society on the result of their vote: for
no longer can it be said that the right man is in the wrong place.
No doubt their pristine sense of undisturbed somnolence will again
settle upon them after the exasperated mental condition arising
from the unnatural strain recently put upon the old ship. Eh? what?
ha! ha!”
He painted a signboard for the entrance to the galleries,--a lion and a
butterfly,--a “harmony in gold and red,” with which, he says, “I took as
much trouble as I did with the best picture I ever painted.”
But his successor in office clothed the golden lion “with a coat of
dirty black,” and effaced the butterfly entirely; whereupon he called
the society to task for destroying the work of a fellow-artist, and the
entire episode appears in the “Gentle Art” as only he could tell it.
* * * * *
In 1887 he married the widow of E. W. Godwin, the architect of the
“White House,” and not long after they went to live in Paris, at 110 Rue
du Bac.
The narrow passage-way that leads from the street to where they lived
is, like thousands of others in Old Paris, just an archway between two
shops, unpromising and uninviting.
Passing through, one finds a small paved court immediately in the rear,
and on three sides of this court the entrances and windows of the
apartments and houses opening therefrom.
The court itself is not without interest. On one side there is an old
bronze fountain, long since dry; about the walls a sculptured frieze,
much the worse for wear; everything of by-gone days,--the very
architecture, in all its details, of another generation.
Whistler’s entrance was on the ground floor, just across the little
court. On a memorable day the bell was answered by a solemn-faced
English servant,--possibly more than ordinarily solemn-faced, because
that particular morning he was in great disfavor, and was subsequently
discharged for a cumulation of shortcomings which would have exhausted
the patience of an ordinary man thrice over. But Whistler--all
impressions to the contrary, notwithstanding--was a man of infinite
patience with sitter and servant,--the work of the latter being
considerably lighter than that of the former. Under only the greatest
provocation would he discharge either.
Passing through the door, one went down several steps into the small
hall, and through that into the reception-room.
This room was a revelation of the personality of the artist,--simple,
dignified, harmonious; it was restful and charming to the last degree.
The details were so unobtrusive that it is difficult to recall
particular features. The floor was covered with a coarse, dark-blue
matting; the panelled walls were in pure white and blue, while the
ceiling was in a light shade of blue. The room stood firmly on its feet,
unlike so many in even the best of houses, which have floors so light
and walls so dark that everything is topsy-turvy.
Color seeks and finds its level; light floors, with darker walls and
ceilings, reverse the natural order of things, and compel people to live
on their heads.
The few pieces of furniture were of an old pattern, graceful almost to
fragility, and covered with some light stuff which harmonized with the
tone of the walls.
There were but two pictures in the room, one at each end, both sketches
by Whistler, “harmonies” or “arrangements” in color rather than
compositions. The “key” being blue, the pictures blended with the walls,
as all pictures should, as if part of the original scheme of decoration.
When a visitor, who was fascinated by the color of these two studies,
asked the painter if he would part with them, he said:
“God bless me, no! I am going to do something big some day from those.
Pretty, eh?”
His studio was filled with just such “notes” and “jottings” of schemes
in color and composition, and from each it was his intention to work out
something more important and complete; but such was the fertility of his
imagination that no man could hope to carry even a fraction to finished
conclusions.
Near the fireplace, at one end of the room, was a little old-fashioned
table covered with writing-materials,--paper of the smallest size, a
dainty ink-stand, and several quill pens. This was the table of
controversy, the battlefield of disputation, the veritable mount of
irony, while the ink-well was the fountain of exquisite sarcasm, and
the quill pens the scalpels which laid bare the vital recesses of
unlucky opponents.
It was the habit of the painter, in his idle moments, to sit at this
little table, with a small cup of coffee and a cigarette, and write
those barbed and pointed notes which, like so many banderillas,
irritated to frenzy the bulls they were aimed at.
The far side of the room opened into one of those quaint old gardens so
often found tucked away in the midst of crumbling buildings on the
ancient thoroughfares. Its narrow confines were enlarged to the eye by
winding, gravelled walks and vistas of flowers and bushes; the rickety
seats, half hidden by the foliage, invited the loiterer to repose, and
the high wall beyond suggested the gloomy confines of some convent or
deserted monastery.
“A picturesque spot. Once at dusk there came the tinkle of a far-off
bell, as if for vesper prayers; the years rolled back, and visions of
other days flitted along the garden paths; stately dames in rich
brocades, with powder, patch, and high coiffure, and gallant courtiers
with graved and jewelled blades, whose whispered vows were no more
stable than the sound of rustling leaves.”
Here of a Sunday afternoon Mrs. Whistler frequently served tea, and in
this garden he made some of his best lithographs.
At home Whistler was the most delightful of--guests. The cares of
hospitality sat lightly upon him.
To the caller who had come at the appointed hour, and had waited for
thirty or forty minutes, he would apologize so delightfully for the
“unpardonable delay,” that a prince could take no offence, much less an
ordinary visitor, who could profitably spend the time in studying the
harmonious surroundings.
It is difficult to describe the charm of his manner, so different from
the notion of it that prevails generally.
He was far more easy of approach than most celebrities; and once within
the charmed circle, he was the most agreeable and companionable of
living men.
He would make the diffident feel instantly at ease, and he would exert
himself to interest even the stupid visitor, but he would not encourage
him to come again.
His own talk was so bright that it was unnecessary for any guest to say
much,--a capacity for listening appreciatively being the best
qualification. Still, he did not monopolize the conversation. He himself
was one of the keenest listeners that ever sat at a dinner-table;
nothing escaped him. And if by chance some one said a good thing, he was
the first to applaud it.
In company it was impossible to draw him into serious discussion. If the
attempt were made, it usually led to a monologue on his part on some
branch of the topic under discussion,--a monologue so extravagant, so
funny, so irresistible in its humor and denunciation that the entire
company would turn and listen with delight.
No one who has ever heard his comparison of the Englishman who carries
his tub and sponge on the top of the coach to parade his cleanliness
with the French who had vast public baths before England was discovered
can ever forget the inimitable wit and humor and--underlying truth of it
all. Again, his description of the Germans,--a people that call a glove
a hand-shoe. Well, it is idle to even call to mind these things; they
will never be heard again, and no report could do them justice.
A lady, after visiting him, said, “He is like no other human being; a
creature of moods and epigrams, but perfectly delightful. I feel as if
I’d been conversing with a flash of lightning in a brown velvet coat.”
No man could draw him out of malice aforethought. It was fatal to say:
“Mr. Whistler, do tell that story of the----” etc.
Of that sort he was no story-teller at all, and if persistently urged,
would close up like a clam; but, if left to himself, he would take part
in any conversation that might be started, and would soon take the lead,
not obviously or offensively, but naturally, and say things that would
make the professed wit dumb with envy. He would say things he had said,
or even printed, before, if the subject warranted it. He might even go a
bit out of his way to drag in a good thing which he thought would fit;
but for the most part his talk was the spontaneous utterance of the
occasion.
He was known to every “chef” and “maître d’hôtel” in London and
Paris,--for, while he ate and drank most sparingly, he was exceedingly
fastidious.
He did not care greatly for the large caravansaries like the “Ritz,”
where people go to perform in public astounding gastronomic feats; but
he knew every place in Paris where a really good dish was to be had at a
moderate price, and every such place gave him the best it had.
* * * * *
Nearly every sketch, drawing, or portrait of Whistler gives some phase
of his many-sided personality, but not one--not even those by
himself--gives anything like an adequate conception.
He was a man most difficult to place on canvas. He could not be grasped
and held long enough. He himself tried it, but with only moderate
success. Others have tried it and failed completely,--that is, failed to
portray him at his best; for that matter, no one who has ever drawn or
painted him did so when he was at his best, for those moments came only
in the seclusion of his own studio, when, alone with model or sitter, he
worked absolutely oblivious to everything but his art. No man is at his
best when posing for photograph, sketch, or portrait, and Whistler was
farther from being an exception to this rule than most others. He knew
too well what a portrait should be to feel the indifference which is
essential to a perfectly natural pose. Consequently, while few men were
better known by sight in Paris and London, scarce any one knew him as he
was,--the most profoundly serious, conscientious, and consistent artist
of his day and generation.
As has been stated, he was always exceedingly particular about his
dress,--as finicky as a woman. In his early London days he carried a
long, slender wand, like a mahl-stick, for a cane, and was conspicuous
wherever he went, not only on account of his diminutive size, but also
by his stick and dress.
An attendant at an exhibition once wished to relieve him of his cane,
but he exclaimed:
“Oh, no, my man! I keep this for the critics.”
* * * * *
The following, by a London correspondent, is a very good description,
though of late years he had abandoned the cane and his hair was somewhat
grayer:
“They say Whistler is fifty-six. But years have nothing to do with
him. He is as young in spirit, as lithe in body, as dapper in
‘get-up’ as he was twenty years ago.
“Is there another man in London with such vitality as Whistler
has,--I care not what his age,--another so dainty, another so
sprightly in wit? Do you see that dapper gentleman coming along
Cheyne Walk, silk hat with very tall crown and very straight brim;
habit apparently broadcloth (frock coat), fitting to perfection a
supple figure; feet small as a girl’s,--an American girl’s; hands
delicately gloved in yellow; in the right hand a lithe, slim wand,
twice as long as a walking stick; glass in eye; black moustache and
slight ‘imperial;’ black hair with wavy threads of gray here and
there? The dainty gentleman lifts his hat, and you see above his
forehead the slender, white lock--the white plume as famous as
that of Navarre. This is our friend Whistler, the inimitable, truly
called ‘the master.’ You may meet him in the early morning, or at a
private view in the afternoon, at an evening party, two hours
before midnight or two hours after it; and you will find him as
fresh in spirit, as dainty, as lively, as witty at one time as at
another.”
Some one once gave him an American umbrella,--one of those that when
rolled tightly are as small as walking-sticks. He was delighted with it,
and used it as a cane. One day, coming out of the studio with a friend,
and while hurrying to the cab-stand a few blocks away, it began to
drizzle, and his friend, who had no umbrella, said:
“Hurry and put up your umbrella or we’ll get our hats wet.”
He fumbled a second at the umbrella, then hurried on.
“But I would get my umbrella wet.”
* * * * *
It was commonly said Whistler was unapproachable. In his studio, when at
work, yes; in his home, no.
A note of introduction from any approved correspondent would almost
invariably bring a favorable response. But not every correspondent was
approved; or if so at one time, did not necessarily remain so
indefinitely, and a note from the wrong--perhaps wronged--source was no
commendation at all. On the whole, a frank application from a stranger
for permission to call was quite as likely as not to prove successful,
such a note in itself being a tribute.
But at the studio it was very different. He had no reception-days or
hours, as many painters have. He had no use for the social rabble in his
workshop.
One warm afternoon, when hard at work, the bell rang. Brush in hand, he
went to the outer door at the head of the six flights of steep, slippery
oak stairs, and found there Mr. C----, whom he knew,--a man who had
little to do but bother others,--and Lady D----, a distinguished and
clever woman, both out of breath from their long climb.
“Ah! my dear Mr. Whistler,” drawled C----, “I have taken the liberty of
bringing Lady D---- to see you. I knew you would be delighted.”
“Delighted! I’m sure; quite beyond expression; but,”--mysteriously, and
holding the door so as to bar their entrance,--“my dear Lady D----, I
would never forgive our friend for bringing you up six flights of stairs
on so hot a day to visit a studio at one of those--eh--pagan moments
when”--and he glanced furtively behind him and still further closed the
door--“it is absolutely impossible for a lady to be received. Upon my
soul, I should never forgive him.”
And the lady looked daggers at her confused cavalier, as Whistler bowed
them down the six flights of oaken stairs and returned to resume work on
the portrait of a very sedate old gentleman, who had taken advantage of
the interruption to break for a moment the rigor of his pose.
In those days and for many years the Paris studio was at No. 86 Notre
Dame des Champs. Whistler said one day, “Only the French have any taste
in the naming of streets.”
The six steep flights of polished oak stairs no doubt shortened his life
by many years. As long ago as 1894 he was accustomed to take a long rest
on a settee at the head of the third flight, and again on reaching the
top. Later he would have his luncheon served in the studio to avoid the
fatigue of going down and coming back. He was by no means an old man,
and looked the picture of health, cheeks ruddy, eye bright; but he would
get out of breath, and his heart gave him trouble,--startled him at
times with its eccentricities and warnings.
A blunt friend, frightened at seeing him one day almost collapse on
reaching the studio, said:
“I tell you, Whistler, those stairs will be the death of you; and I’ll
be hanged if I am coming here any more with you, for you’ll die on my
hands, and that would get me into a nice mess. Why don’t you have a
studio on the ground floor?”
“When I die--I will.”
* * * * *
But while casual callers met with scant courtesy at the studio, he was,
as has already been noted, exceptionally cordial to all who were
sincerely interested in his work, and would spend hours and hours of
days that were precious in showing pictures to people who really could
not understand them,--for that matter, who did understand them?--but who
were honest in their expressions of approval, and this, too, with no
thought of selling anything he had; in fact, nothing chilled the
enthusiasm of the moment so much as the suggestion of a purchase; he
became immediately a different being, and one by one his treasures would
be turned to the wall.
* * * * *
The studio was a large barn-like room at the very top of the high
building. There was a small entryway, which had a glass door opening out
upon a balcony, high up over the street, and another door which opened
into the studio proper.
A huge skylight lighted this great attic, but only in part, for the room
was too big to be well lighted from any one opening.
The old oak floor was quite dark, and in places where he worked it was
polished by use, for when entirely absorbed he had the habit of moving
back and forth so quickly as to slide a pace or two.
The tone of the studio was brown, not a deep or muddy brown, but a brown
that seemed tinged with gray.
The base-board that stretched a narrow line about the big room was a
deeper shade than the wall, and so nice were the gradations of tone,
that floor, base-board, wall, and raftered ceiling blended together as
one harmonious whole, all of which was the work of Whistler.
The furniture amounted to nothing: a table near the far side, where he
lunched, an old sofa against the wall under the skylight, two or three
old French chairs, his easel and palette. There was a high stove near
the door,--one of those French complications intended for the generation
of a maximum of heat with a minimum consumption of precious coal. Like
most labor-saving devices, it required some skill for its management,
and Whistler was not a mechanic.
One cold day it was only too apparent the stove needed encouragement,
and the sitter suggested that the damper be opened,--in fact, started to
open it himself, when Whistler, greatly alarmed, exclaimed:
“God bless me! but you must not touch that; the last time I meddled with
it, the fire went out. There is only one man in Paris who understands
that stove.”
“Well, where is he?”
“Dear me, I discharged him to-day. How unlucky.”
“Then, we must seize the stove by the horns and take our chances on the
consequences.” And throwing the damper wide open, there was soon a
blazing fire.
* * * * *
For work outside, Whistler used a very small palette of the usual form;
in his studio he carried no palette whatsoever, but used in lieu thereof
a rectangular table that resembled a writing-desk. The top sloped
slightly; at the left were tubes of colors, at the right one or two
bowls containing oil and turpentine, with which the colors when mixed
were reduced so thin that they would run on the sloping top of the
table.
He relied upon innumerable coats of thin color to secure the desired
effect rather than upon one or two coats of greater consistency. This
made the work long and tedious as compared with the modern mode of
taking the pigments as they squirm from the tubes and pasting them while
yet alive on the canvas; but it has undoubtedly given his pictures a
permanency and durability far beyond that of others.