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Updated: May 24, 2025
Whistler seem to me to reach his highest level in any one of the three portraits Lady Archibald Campbell, Miss Rose Corder, and "the lady in the fur jacket". I know that Mr. Walter Sickert considers the portrait of Lady Archibald Campbell to be Mr. Whistler's finest portrait. I submit, however, that the attitude is theatrical and not very explicit.
He picks up the connecting links with difficulty, and even his most complete work is full of omissions. The defect for it is a defect is by no means so fatal in the art-value of a painting as the futile explanations so dearly beloved by the ignorant. Manet was to the end the victim of man's natural dislike of ellipses, and Mr. Walter Sickert is suffering the same fate.
It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever-enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other August elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few Aubrey Beardsley by name.
The light was bad, but it disclosed the sketch sufficiently to enable some judgment on it to be formed. The sketch was exceedingly clever, painted in the broad, synthetic manner which Steer and Sickert had introduced into England as a natural reaction from the finicking, false exactitudes of the previous age.
Through the salon d'automne Roger Fry is becoming known; and there is a good deal of curiosity about the work of Duncan Grant, and some about that of Mark Gertler and Vanessa Bell. Now, of these, Sickert and Steer are essentially, and in no bad sense, provincial masters.
Walter Sickert does not cause me to falter in this opinion. Until I saw Mr. Clausen's "Labourers" I did not fully realise how terrible a thing art becomes when divorced from beauty, grace, mystery, and suggestion. It would be difficult to say where and how this picture differs from a photograph; it seems to me to be little more than the vices of photography magnified.
It was to him I owed my first knowledge of that forever enchanting little world-in-itself, Chelsea, and my first acquaintance with Walter Sickert and other august elders who dwelt there. It was Rothenstein that took me to see, in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, a young man whose drawings were already famous among the few Aubrey Beardsley, by name.
Disraeli, with his lustreless eyes and face like some seamed Hebraic parchment, came also, and whispered behind his hand to the faithful Corry. And Walter Sickert spread the latest mot of 'the Master, who, with monocle, cane and tilted hat, flashed through the gay mob anon.
Walter Sickert, then a pupil of Whistler's, praised Lord Leighton's "Harvest Moon" in an article on the Manchester Art Treasure Exhibition. Whistler telegraphed him at Hampstead: "The Harvest Moon rises at Hampstead and the cocks of Chelsea crow!" Apropos of his spats with Sickert he remarked, "Yes, we are always forgiving Walter."
"No ... I have a better plan than that ... we might be able to persuade 'Senator' Blair and old Sickert, joint editors of the Laurel Globe, to let the Scoop Club run their paper for a day just as a college stunt!" "They'd never stand for it!" I averred, innocently.
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