_English Illustrated Magazine_, January 1889.
PROFESSIONAL models are a purely modern invention. To the Greeks, for
instance, they were quite unknown. Mr. Mahaffy, it is true, tells us
that Pericles used to present peacocks to the great ladies of Athenian
society in order to induce them to sit to his friend Phidias, and we know
that Polygnotus introduced into his picture of the Trojan women the face
of Elpinice, the celebrated sister of the great Conservative leader of
the day, but these _grandes dames_ clearly do not come under our
category. As for the old masters, they undoubtedly made constant studies
from their pupils and apprentices, and even their religious pictures are
full of the portraits of their friends and relations, but they do not
seem to have had the inestimable advantage of the existence of a class of
people whose sole profession is to pose. In fact the model, in our sense
of the word, is the direct creation of Academic Schools.
Every country now has its own models, except America. In New York, and
even in Boston, a good model is so great a rarity that most of the
artists are reduced to painting Niagara and millionaires. In Europe,
however, it is different. Here we have plenty of models, and of every
nationality. The Italian models are the best. The natural grace of
their attitudes, as well as the wonderful picturesqueness of their
colouring, makes them facile—often too facile—subjects for the painter’s
brush. The French models, though not so beautiful as the Italian,
possess a quickness of intellectual sympathy, a capacity, in fact, of
understanding the artist, which is quite remarkable. They have also a
great command over the varieties of facial expression, are peculiarly
dramatic, and can chatter the _argot_ of the _atelier_ as cleverly as the
critic of the _Gil Blas_. The English models form a class entirely by
themselves. They are not so picturesque as the Italian, nor so clever as
the French, and they have absolutely no tradition, so to speak, of their
order. Now and then some old veteran knocks at the studio door, and
proposes to sit as Ajax defying the lightning, or as King Lear upon the
blasted heath. One of them some time ago called on a popular painter
who, happening at the moment to require his services, engaged him, and
told him to begin by kneeling down in the attitude of prayer. ‘Shall I
be Biblical or Shakespearean, sir?’ asked the veteran.
‘Well—Shakespearean,’ answered the artist, wondering by what subtle
_nuance_ of expression the model would convey the difference. ‘All
right, sir,’ said the professor of posing, and he solemnly knelt down and
began to wink with his left eye! This class, however, is dying out. As
a rule the model, nowadays, is a pretty girl, from about twelve to
twenty-five years of age, who knows nothing about art, cares less, and is
merely anxious to earn seven or eight shillings a day without much
trouble. English models rarely look at a picture, and never venture on
any æsthetic theories. In fact, they realise very completely Mr.
Whistler’s idea of the function of an art critic, for they pass no
criticisms at all. They accept all schools of art with the grand
catholicity of the auctioneer, and sit to a fantastic young impressionist
as readily as to a learned and laborious academician. They are neither
for the Whistlerites nor against them; the quarrel between the school of
facts and the school of effects touches them not; idealistic and
naturalistic are words that convey no meaning to their ears; they merely
desire that the studio shall be warm, and the lunch hot, for all charming
artists give their models lunch.
As to what they are asked to do they are equally indifferent. On Monday
they will don the rags of a beggar-girl for Mr. Pumper, whose pathetic
pictures of modern life draw such tears from the public, and on Tuesday
they will pose in a peplum for Mr. Phoebus, who thinks that all really
artistic subjects are necessarily B.C. They career gaily through all
centuries and through all costumes, and, like actors, are interesting
only when they are not themselves. They are extremely good-natured, and
very accommodating. ‘What do you sit for?’ said a young artist to a
model who had sent him in her card (all models, by the way, have cards
and a small black bag). ‘Oh, for anything you like, sir,’ said the girl,
‘landscape if necessary!’
Intellectually, it must be acknowledged, they are Philistines, but
physically they are perfect—at least some are. Though none of them can
talk Greek, many can look Greek, which to a nineteenth-century painter is
naturally of great importance. If they are allowed, they chatter a great
deal, but they never say anything. Their observations are the only
_banalités_ heard in Bohemia. However, though they cannot appreciate the
artist as artist, they are quite ready to appreciate the artist as a man.
They are very sensitive to kindness, respect and generosity. A beautiful
model who had sat for two years to one of our most distinguished English
painters, got engaged to a street vendor of penny ices.
On her marriage the painter sent her a pretty wedding present, and
received in return a nice letter of thanks with the following remarkable
postscript: ‘Never eat the green ices!’
When they are tired a wise artist gives them a rest. Then they sit in a
chair and read penny dreadfuls, till they are roused from the tragedy of
literature to take their place again in the tragedy of art. A few of
them smoke cigarettes. This, however, is regarded by the other models as
showing a want of seriousness, and is not generally approved of. They
are engaged by the day and by the half-day. The tariff is a shilling an
hour, to which great artists usually add an omnibus fare. The two best
things about them are their extraordinary prettiness, and their extreme
respectability. As a class they are very well behaved, particularly
those who sit for the figure, a fact which is curious or natural
according to the view one takes of human nature. They usually marry
well, and sometimes they marry the artist. For an artist to marry his
model is as fatal as for a _gourmet_ to marry his cook: the one gets no
sittings, and the other gets no dinners.
On the whole the English female models are very naïve, very natural, and
very good-humoured. The virtues which the artist values most in them are
prettiness and punctuality. Every sensible model consequently keeps a
diary of her engagements, and dresses neatly. The bad season is, of
course, the summer, when the artists are out of town. However, of late
years some artists have engaged their models to follow them, and the wife
of one of our most charming painters has often had three or four models
under her charge in the country, so that the work of her husband and his
friends should not be interrupted. In France the models migrate _en
masse_ to the little seaport villages or forest hamlets where the
painters congregate. The English models, however, wait patiently in
London, as a rule, till the artists come back. Nearly all of them live
with their parents, and help to support the house. They have every
qualification for being immortalised in art except that of beautiful
hands. The hands of the English model are nearly always coarse and red.
As for the male models, there is the veteran whom we have mentioned
above. He has all the traditions of the grand style, and is rapidly
disappearing with the school he represents. An old man who talks about
Fuseli is, of course, unendurable, and, besides, patriarchs have ceased
to be fashionable subjects. Then there is the true Academy model. He is
usually a man of thirty, rarely good-looking, but a perfect miracle of
muscles. In fact he is the apotheosis of anatomy, and is so conscious of
his own splendour that he tells you of his tibia and his thorax, as if no
one else had anything of the kind. Then come the Oriental models. The
supply of these is limited, but there are always about a dozen in London.
They are very much sought after as they can remain immobile for hours,
and generally possess lovely costumes. However, they have a very poor
opinion of English art, which they regard as something between a vulgar
personality and a commonplace photograph. Next we have the Italian youth
who has come over specially to be a model, or takes to it when his organ
is out of repair. He is often quite charming with his large melancholy
eyes, his crisp hair, and his slim brown figure. It is true he eats
garlic, but then he can stand like a faun and couch like a leopard, so he
is forgiven. He is always full of pretty compliments, and has been known
to have kind words of encouragement for even our greatest artists. As
for the English lad of the same age, he never sits at all. Apparently he
does not regard the career of a model as a serious profession. In any
case he is rarely, if ever, to be got hold of. English boys, too, are
difficult to find. Sometimes an ex-model who has a son will curl his
hair, and wash his face, and bring him the round of the studios, all soap
and shininess. The young school don’t like him, but the older school do,
and when he appears on the walls of the Royal Academy he is called _The
Infant Samuel_. Occasionally also an artist catches a couple of _gamins_
in the gutter and asks them to come to his studio. The first time they
always appear, but after that they don’t keep their appointments. They
dislike sitting still, and have a strong and perhaps natural objection to
looking pathetic. Besides, they are always under the impression that the
artist is laughing at them. It is a sad fact, but there is no doubt that
the poor are completely unconscious of their own picturesqueness. Those
of them who can be induced to sit do so with the idea that the artist is
merely a benevolent philanthropist who has chosen an eccentric method of
distributing alms to the undeserving. Perhaps the School Board will
teach the London _gamin_ his own artistic value, and then they will be
better models than they are now. One remarkable privilege belongs to the
Academy model, that of extorting a sovereign from any newly elected
Associate or R.A. They wait at Burlington House till the announcement is
made, and then race to the hapless artist’s house. The one who arrives
first receives the money. They have of late been much troubled at the
long distances they have had to run, and they look with disfavour on the
election of artists who live at Hampstead or at Bedford Park, for it is
considered a point of honour not to employ the underground railway,
omnibuses, or any artificial means of locomotion. The race is to the
swift.
Besides the professional posers of the studio there are posers of the
Row, the posers at afternoon teas, the posers in politics and the circus
posers. All four classes are delightful, but only the last class is ever
really decorative. Acrobats and gymnasts can give the young painter
infinite suggestions, for they bring into their art an element of
swiftness of motion and of constant change that the studio model
necessarily lacks. What is interesting in these ‘slaves of the ring’ is
that with them Beauty is an unconscious result not a conscious aim, the
result in fact of the mathematical calculation of curves and distances,
of absolute precision of eye, of the scientific knowledge of the
equilibrium of forces, and of perfect physical training. A good acrobat
is always graceful, though grace is never his object; he is graceful
because he does what he has to do in the best way in which it can be
done—graceful because he is natural. If an ancient Greek were to come to
life now, which considering the probable severity of his criticisms would
be rather trying to our conceit, he would be found far oftener at the
circus than at the theatre. A good circus is an oasis of Hellenism in a
world that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to be
beautiful. If it were not for the running-ground at Eton, the
towing-path at Oxford, the Thames swimming-baths, and the yearly
circuses, humanity would forget the plastic perfection of its own form,
and degenerate into a race of short-sighted professors and spectacled
_précieuses_. Not that the circus proprietors are, as a rule, conscious
of their high mission. Do they not bore us with the _haute école_, and
weary us with Shakespearean clowns? Still, at least, they give us
acrobats, and the acrobat is an artist. The mere fact that he never
speaks to the audience shows how well he appreciates the great truth that
the aim of art is not to reveal personality but to please. The clown may
be blatant, but the acrobat is always beautiful. He is an interesting
combination of the spirit of Greek sculpture with the spangles of the
modern costumier. He has even had his niche in the novels of our age,
and if _Manette Salomon_ be the unmasking of the model, _Les Frères
Zemganno_ is the apotheosis of the acrobat.
As regards the influence of the ordinary model on our English school of
painting, it cannot be said that it is altogether good. It is, of
course, an advantage for the young artist sitting in his studio to be
able to isolate ‘a little corner of life,’ as the French say, from
disturbing surroundings, and to study it under certain effects of light
and shade. But this very isolation leads often to mere mannerism in the
painter, and robs him of that broad acceptance of the general facts of
life which is the very essence of art. Model-painting, in a word, while
it may be the condition of art, is not by any means its aim.
It is simply practice, not perfection. Its use trains the eye and the
hand of the painter, its abuse produces in his work an effect of mere
posing and prettiness. It is the secret of much of the artificiality of
modern art, this constant posing of pretty people, and when art becomes
artificial it becomes monotonous. Outside the little world of the
studio, with its draperies and its _bric-à-brac_, lies the world of life
with its infinite, its Shakespearean variety. We must, however,
distinguish between the two kinds of models, those who sit for the figure
and those who sit for the costume. The study of the first is always
excellent, but the costume-model is becoming rather wearisome in modern
pictures. It is really of very little use to dress up a London girl in
Greek draperies and to paint her as a goddess. The robe may be the robe
of Athens, but the face is usually the face of Brompton. Now and then,
it is true, one comes across a model whose face is an exquisite
anachronism, and who looks lovely and natural in the dress of any century
but her own. This, however, is rather rare. As a rule models are
absolutely _de notre siècle_, and should be painted as such.
Unfortunately they are not, and, as a consequence, we are shown every
year a series of scenes from fancy dress balls which are called
historical pictures, but are little more than mediocre representations of
modern people masquerading. In France they are wiser. The French
painter uses the model simply for study; for the finished picture he goes
direct to life.
However, we must not blame the sitters for the shortcomings of the
artists. The English models are a well-behaved and hard-working class,
and if they are more interested in artists than in art, a large section
of the public is in the same condition, and most of our modern
exhibitions seem to justify its choice.