It appears that Mr. Gandish, at a great age—though he was not older than
several industrious Academicans—withdrew from the active exercise of his
art and employed his learning and experience as Art Critic of the
“Newcome Independent.” The following critique appears to show traces of
declining mental vigour in the veteran Gandish.
OUR great gallery has once more opened her doors, if not to the public,
nor even to the fashionable _élite_, at least to the critics. They are a
motley throng who lounge on Press Days in the sumptuous halls; ladies,
small boys, clergymen are there, and among them but few, perhaps, who
have received the training in High Art of your correspondent, and have
had their eye, through a lifetime more than commonly prolonged, on the
glorious Antique. And what shall we say of the present Academy? In some
ways, things have improved a little since my “Boadishia” came back on my
hands (1839) at a time when High Art and the Antique would not do in this
country: they would not do. As far as the new exhibition shows, they do
better now than when the century was younger and “Portrait of the Artist,
by S. Gandish”—at thirty-three years of age—was offered in vain to the
jealously Papist clique who then controlled the Uffizi. Foreigners are
more affable now; they have taken Mr. Poynter’s of himself.
To return to the Antique, what the President’s “Captive Andromache” must
have cost _in models alone_ is difficult to reckon. When times were
cheaper, fifty years since, my ancient Britons in “Boadishia” stood me in
thirty pounds: the central figures, however, were members of my own
family. To give every one his due, “Andromache” is high art—yes, it is
high—and the Antique has not been overlooked. About the back-view of the
young party at the fountain Mr. Horsley may have something to say. For
my part, there seems a want of muscle in vigorous action: where are the
_biceps_, where are the thews of Michael Angelo? The President is a
touch too quiet for a taste framed in the best schools. As to his
colour, where is that nutty brown tone of the flesh? But the designs on
the Greek vase are carefully rendered; though I have heard it remarked by
a classical scholar that these kind of vases were not in use about
Homer’s time. Still, the intention is good, though the costumes are not
what _we_ should have called Ancient Roman when the President was a
boy—ay, or earlier.
Then, Mr. Alma-Tadema, he has not turned _his_ back on the glorious
Antique. “The Roses of Heliogabalus” are not explained in the catalogue.
As far as I understand, there has been an earthquake at a banquet of this
unprincipled monarch. The King himself, and his friends, are safe enough
at a kind of high table; though which _is_ Heliogabalus (he being a
consumptive-looking character in his coins in the Classical Dictionary)
your critic has not made out. The earth having opened down below, the
heads of some women, and of a man with a beard and his hair done up like
a girl, are tossing about in a quantity of rose-leaves, which had
doubtless been strown on the floor, as Martial tells us was the custom,
_dum regnat rosa_. So I overheard a very erudite critic remarking. The
composition of the piece would be thus accounted for; but I cannot
pretend that Mr. Tadema reminds one of either Poussin or Annibale
Carracci. However, rumour whispers that a high price has been paid for
this curious performance. To my thinking the friends of Heliogabalus are
a little flat and leathery in the handling of the flesh. The silver
work, and the marble, will please admirers of this eccentric artist; but
I can hardly call the whole effect “High.” But Mr. Armitage’s “Siren”
will console people who remember the old school. This beautiful girl
(somewhat careless in her attitude, though she has been sensible enough
_not_ to sit down on the damp rock without putting her drapery beneath
her) would have been a true gem in one of the old Books of Beauty, such
as the Honourable Percy Popjoy and my old friend, Miss Bunnion, used to
contribute to in the palmy days of the English school. Mr. Armitage’s
“Juno,” standing in mid-air, with the moon in the neighbourhood, is also
an example to youth, and very unlike the way such things are generally
done now. Mr. Burne-Jones (who does not exhibit) never did anything like
this. Poor Haydon, with whom I have smoked many a pipe, would have
acknowledged that Mr. Goodall’s “David’s Promise to Bathsheba” and “By
the Sea of Galilee” prove that his aspirations are nearly fulfilled.
These are extremely large pictures, yet well hung. The figure of Abishag
is a little too much in the French taste for an old-fashioned painter.
_Ars longa_, _nuda veritas_! I hope (and so will the Liberal readers of
the “Newcome Independent”) that it is by an accident the catalogue
reads—“The Traitor.” “Earl Spencer, K.G.” “The Moonlighters.” (Nos.
220, 221, 225.) Some Tory _wag_ among the Hanging Committee may have
taken this juxtaposition for wit: our readers will adopt a different
view.
There is a fine dog in Mr. Briton Riviere’s “Requiescat,” but how did the
relations of the dead knight in plate armour acquire the embroidery, at
least three centuries later, on which he is laid to his last repose?
This destroys the illusion, but does not diminish the pathos in the
attitude of the faithful hound. Mr. Long’s large picture appears to
exhibit an Oriental girl being tried by a jury of matrons—at least, not
having my Diodorus Scriblerus by me, I can arrive at no other conclusion.
From the number of models engaged, this picture must have been designed
quite regardless of expense. It is a study of the Antique, but I doubt
if Smee would have called it High Art.
Speaking of Smee reminds me of portraits. I miss “Portrait of a Lady,”
“Portrait of a Gentleman;” the names of the sitters are now always
given—a concession to the notoriety-hunting proclivities of the present
period. Few portraits are more in the style of the palmy days of our
school (just after Lawrence) than a study of a lady by Mr. Goodall (687).
On the other hand, young Mr. Richmond goes back to the antiquated manner
of Reynolds in one of his representations. I must admit that I hear this
work much admired by many; to me it seems old-fashioned and lacking in
blandness and affability. Mr Waterhouse has a study of a subject from a
poem that Mr. Pendennis, the novelist (whom I knew well), was very fond
of when he first came on the town: “The Lady of Shalott.” It represents
a very delicate invalid, in a boat, under a counterpane. I remember the
poem ran (it was by young Mr. Tennyson):—
They crossed themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast
That puzzled more than all the rest
The well-fed wits of Camelot:
“The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly;
Draw near and fear not, this is I
The Lady of Shalott.”
I admit that the wonder and dismay of the “well-fed wits,” if the Lady
was like Mr. Waterhouse’s picture of her, do not surprise me. But I
confess I do not understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, modern painting.
Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the Cake—a subject which,
as is well known, I discovered in my researches in history. Where is
“Udolpho in the Tower”? or the “Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day after He
was Deprived of his Victuals”? or “King John Signing Magna Charta”? They
are gone with the red curtain, the brown tree, the storm in the
background. Art is revolutionary, like everything else in these times,
when Treason itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of
contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by Royal—mark
_Royal_!—Academicians! . . .
* * * * *
_From Thomas Potts_, _Esq._, _of the_ ‘_Newcome Independent_,’ _to S.
Gandish_, _Esq._
Newcome, May 3.
MY DEAR SIR,—I am truly sorry to have to interrupt a connection with so
old and respected a contributor. But I think you will acknowledge, on
reading the proof of your article on the Academy, which I enclose, that
the time has arrived when public criticism is no longer your province. I
do not so much refer to the old-fashioned tone of your observations on
modern art. I know little about it, and care not much more. But you
have entirely forgotten, towards the end of the notice, that the “Newcome
Independent,” as becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty and Progress.
The very proper remarks on Lord Spencer’s portrait elsewhere show that
you are not unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close
(expressing, I fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language which
makes me shudder, and which, if printed in the “Independent,” would spell
ruin. Send it, by all means, to the “Sentinel,” if you like. Send your
Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from the “Lady of Shalott,” I
can find it nowhere in the poem of that name by the author you strangely
style “young Mr. Tennyson.” {165}
I enclose a cheque for a quarter’s salary, and, while always happy to
meet you as man with man, must get the notice of the Academy written up
in the office from the “Daily Telegraph,” “Standard,” and “Times.”
{166}—Faithfully and with deep regret yours,