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Rothenstein said "yes, I did not know you dined here that often." Some one asked him why he wore his hair long, "To test your manners" he answered. He is a disciple of Whistler's and Wilde's and said "yes, I defend them at the risk of their lives." Did I tell you of his saying "It is much easier to love one's family than to like them." And when some one said "Did you hear how Mrs. B. treated Mr.
I merely submit that that is not the frame of mind in which great portraiture is done. The drawing is large, ample, and vigorous, beautifully understood, but not very profound or intimate: the picture seems to have been accomplished easily, and in excellent health and spirits. The painting is in Mr. Whistler's later and most characteristic manner.
"Do you like it?" asked Miss Price. "I don't know," he answered helplessly. "You can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery except perhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother." She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took him to a picture representing a railway-station. "Look, here's a Monet," she said. "It's the Gare St. Lazare."
If you ask me for its source I repeat again Whistler's immortal saying: "Art is an expression of eternal, absolute truth, and starting from the Infinite it cannot progress, =IT IS=." Has he put the emphasis on his work in the place where it is most important? Has he so completely expressed himself that the onlooker cannot fail to find his meaning? Appreciation of Art. Loveridge.
Mark Twain was taken by a friend to Whistler's studio, just as he was putting the finishing touches to one of his fantastic studies. Confident of the usual commendation, Whistler inquired his guest's opinion of the picture.
Whistler's nights are the blue transparent darknesses which are half of the world's life. Sometimes he foregoes even the aid of earthly light, and his picture is but luminous blue shadow, delicately graduated, as in the nocturne in M. Duret's collection purple above and below, a shadow in the middle of the picture a little less and there would be nothing.
In Velasquez, too, there is selection, and very often it is in the same direction as Mr. Whistler's, but the selection is never, I think, so much insisted upon; and sometimes in Velasquez there is, as in the portrait of the Admiral in the National Gallery, hardly any selection I mean, of course, conscious selection. Velasquez sometimes brutally accepted Nature for what she was worth; this Mr.
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."
He even ventured to annex some of the master's most telling stories and thus came into conflict with his teacher. One incident may find a place here. The art critic of The Times, Mr. Humphry Ward, had come to see an exhibition of Whistler's pictures.
The Japanese any Japanese would have been delighted by Whistler's "Nocturne." Ruskin wasn't. He had never seen the night, and therefore he declared that Whistler had "flung a pot of paint in the face of the public." That men should dogmatize concerning things where the senses alone supply the evidence, is only another proof of man's limitations.
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