ART STRUGGLES.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXVI, Issue 3321, 31 December 1897, Page 2 (Supplement)

ART STRUGGLES.

: Bv Mbs Malcolm Bosk.j Years ago, when I was a girl, I was the prowl possessor of a prize greyhoimdi She. was a slender, graceful creature, with a propensity for killing cats. I 'well remember a painful afternoon. Call I paid on a friend, during which our polite remarks were interlarded by the shrieks of what turned out afterwards to be my hostess’s pet Tabby, which Amohia-for so the murderess was misnamed—was busily engaged in doing to death on the very door step. It was to this animal that I owe my first serious inclination to Art—with a capital A. She gained first prize at a dog-show, and with the guinea I got a box of colours. , Since then I have stumbled ’along the thorny, uphill road to artistic success, grasping by the way any outstretched helping hand. From the beginning I inclined to depicting the human form divine, as represented by my longsuffering relatives. At first, in the bliss of their ignorance, they were all anxious to sit to me. The results were various—generally anything but flattering, and I often wonder now that my unfortunate models were so lenient in their criticisms. I was heavily handicapped, though I did get my sitters free of charge, for they generally talked half the time, and were constantly jumping up to see how it was “getting on.” And then perhaps they would suggest improvements that would require a new canvas at least.

There are two kinds of domestic criticism : that which lauds you to the skies as a colonial Millais, or that which crushes you either by. stony indifference or sarcastic contempt. The art that can flourish —nay, even live—through the latter, or can improve an iota through the former, must' have “grit”—as our transatlantic cousins say in it. My relatives were too kindly- appreciative. One much-admired effort of mine hung upside-down for a month, until I came home and restored it to its right position. X am not sure now that it did not look quite as well one way as the other.

Aftes I had more time, I beguiled one or two kindred spirits, and we now and then hired a “ model ” between us. I was fortunate enough to have an empty room, furnished with some boxes and shelves, and we called this our " studio.’’ The boxes—if tested carefully—did for seats, tables, or any other uses. The room had what we learnt at school waa a continental climate —very cold in winter, and very hot in summer. Our easels stood about at artistic angles. One of them doubled up if the owner sneezed or coughed, or did anything but sit perfectly still, and its sudden collapses were very trying to our highly-strung nerves. At first we decided to depict “still life,” and painted wonderful and incongruous arrangements of fruit and vegetables. I remember a study in particular of tomatoes and a crushed paper bag, and I, for one, felt quite content when I was able on my own canvas to distinguish one from the other. How we groaned oyer a nutmeg-grater and a carrot and a hideous combination of rhubarb eepaping from a Maori bag, beside which lay two lemons. After we had gone through all our Chinaman’s stock, we essayed a higher flight, and cast about for a model. Our first was ah old German with a fine red face, crisp curling grizzled hair apfi martial moustache. We made the most of his complexion and of the moustache. One of my studies of him I came upon quite lately in a friend’s house. She hafi entitled it “ The Toper ” —quite an insult to the poor German, whose deepest draught

was lager', and whose deportment was always worthy of Tuvveyfipop himself. My friends said that was what they thought I meant it for. He had had » history. He had been all through the Franco - Prussian way as a soldier-blacksmith, and had come out of it with a fixed idea that war was a gigantic mistake. I can see him now, gesticulating wildly, and groping round in bis memory for suitable English, declaring iu a Germanised ,version of Jeannette, and Jeannot that “ Those jvho made the quarrels should be the only ones to fight." He talked at length about his ex perieuoes, and wade us often smile by his quaint expressions. “ Too much meat under the eye!” was his criticism of one of iny attempts. We felt somewhat shy of offering our warlike model money, and used to keep him supplied with tobacco, which we bought surreptitiously from the nearest tobacconist’s. I can see us now slip ■ stealthily in, after a peep inside to see that the sbop was epjpty of customers, and up and down th,e street to make sure no one was coming, "Jlalf-a-pound of Juno, please!” we asked boldly for, and the spruce young man with a bang on his forehead thought our taste jn tobacco was uncommonly strong, and praned over tbe counter as we slipped out of the shop, to see what (firpgtjou we took. Qur presentation of the little parcel was the final get in our morning’s performance, afid the—gallant old soldier always demurred, and lit hfyt pocketed thedonation with a beaming smile. 4h4 then qame the courtly flourish of his hat, as he tucked his little cane under his arm, and marched away, head np and shoulders; back.

A greatly-appreciated institution of our, "studio" was eleven o'ologk .teg,—the feminine equivalent of “smoke phi” Off; the appearance of the tray with the smiling face of my little maid above it, how gladly we flung down our brushes! While wg' restored our wasted energies, we discussed the troubles that afflict the searoher after! artistic truth —the canvasses too rough or too smooth, the model whoso features weremost irregular, and wbosp , egpr.eggjon was impossible fco catch, We generally mode a tour of inspection, cheering up the down-oast ones with “It’U.como out all right/: or / That’s a fine bit of colour in your light-hand corner,” when there waa really no shadow of a likeness to .notice favourably. Then we started again. I remember one member used to fish away viciously for about a quarter of an hour, making her easel quiver beneath the shock of her, energetic brush work. r We others used to listen enviously, until she explained she was putting iu her background.

, Our second model was an old woman - with one eye—the : place where the other > ought to have been being represented by a I patch. She did very well—in profile. 1 When I questioned her as to whether she knew of another who would sit for me, she : said ehe had a brother, and she would ask 1 him. Next day she told me " 'Owe 'ad said as 'bw 'e would be quite willin', but I soa to 'im, "Owe, it be’oves you to keep your mouth shut,’ for, mam, 'e do talk tremonjus.” ~ I Ipoked eagerly forward to .the voluble brother, who, when he appeared, quite bore out the character h>a old sister had given him. “ Hia face wag like the pippin,- 'grown ; - Bed ripe, in frosty suns that shone/’ and be had a fine crop of curly white hair, ahd awondrous flow of reminiscences of theold colonial days. He was a bricklayer, and when he came first at the appointed hour jiandod in his pard, on which, in very shaky oaligraphy, was written his capabilities. Poor fellow, he mast have been almost past work, and for many years he had had » great struggle to keep himself and his old sister. The latter had been long a widow, and she told me when her husband died, “’Owe” had immediately offered her a home. Truly the poor are kind to the poor! They lived in a little lopsided, ivy-oovored cottage that had a tombstone for S»le, “cheap,” in the front garden. It was there for years, and probably is there still, One day—goodness knows where—we captured a fine specimen of a larrikin. He resembled, the dirty little boy of the “lugoldshy Legends '* in more than one respect, but yet I believe - he had yearnings after, the ' beautiful. He was gazing pensively out into ' my back-garden, and we -asked him what he was thinking of. He told ns he did so admire ‘the ivory a’growin*'around.the winder." We very often failed to get a likeness— i of course, became of the varying expression of our sitter’s countenance. These attempts ' we termed " studies," and cited the Prcsi- ■ dent of the Art Society,; who eaid.-that like- -, ness in a portrait was nothingin comparison - with artistic merit. I have been so thank* :

lul for that remark. It has cheered m u in many hours of deep depression. About this time we came to the conclusion that a little tuition would do us no harm. We betook ns to the life class at tbe Art school. There we worked from various models, sometimes procured ten minutes before the time from the street or the wharf. Generally they were “out of work," and-looked not desperately eager to get into it again. The women were the most curious as to how we were drawing them, and one- stout old dame, of the washerwoman type, implored us not to “do” her hands, for they were sore and swollen with' chilblains. The men —some very poor specimens of the genus—were at times shy. It must have been extremely trying to pose before a roomful of girls, some of them keenly alive to the ridiculous, and to hear such remarks as “ Fine lines on his face,” “ Beautiful high light on his nose,” “Patmore green under his eye.” One man —a sailor --when he mounted the dais, gave one horrified look round at the semi-circle of feminine faces and flsd. He was seen no more there. Another tar imagined he was on the quarter-deck, for every ten minutes he had to be gently but firmly led back to the place where he. was supposed to stand. What haunts me yet about the “ still life” painting-room at that school was the wondrous and mingled odours proceeding from the different studies. I remember one day when tbe fragrance of onions, pine-apple and gorse, which some girls were painting, was quite lost in the high and gamy odour of a weka, which was being rendered immortal by an enthusiast.

In the evening we had each to sit as model in turn. I left before it came to my turn, but my chum, whose name, unfortunately, began with B, sat—and did not like it—or the results produced. The only merit they had was their unreoognizableness. The first young man who sat, when—pencil up, and one eye shut - I was measuring his nose—an operation that does not require, as one girl imagined, the laying on of hands—solemnly and deliberately winked at me, As I had never been introduced, I retired behind my easel in confusion. - Another model whom I had at my own house at this time was a man of many grievances. You hardly liked to ask him how he was getting on, for the last time you had seen him he was expecting the bailiffs. He had a long-suffering expression which was not difficult to reproduce, and we were so pleased with our first attempt that wo-, tried him again—in an attitude of meditation with one hand grasping an old black pipe. We bad much difficulty arranging that band so gs to show as few fingers as possible. Fingers were not our strong point. He also was inclined to be pensively garrulous. J?or years a man-o’-wat's man, , he had smelt powdgr in a naval engagement against the Chinese. The latter, he told us, were headed by an Englishman. After, he formed one of a band of navals ’ detailed off to repair Napoleon’s tomb at St. Helena. I had occasion once to pay ’ him a call. I found the little home ‘ to which he clung so pitifully the very pink of neatness and everything that 1 would shine resplendent. The owner was sitting oyer his tea and rose, anxious to do * fhp bonpups of his establishment. “ I paint a little myself," indicating, airily, half-a-dozen pictures on the walls. “ That hunting scone I like the best.” They were * too awful for anything, but I hops the ; Recording Angel will Riot out with a tear ' the unstinted praise J lavished on the ’ wooden men and horses and the green, ! green grass and bine, blue sky. A fellowI feejipg makes US wondrous kind. X won- ' dered as I turned from bis me'uueholy figure at his door if ho, too, had found art a hard task-mistress, and suffered much tribulation in striving after the unattainable. ft is, maybe, the same in all pursuits one enters ipto ggq aitfore, but X know it is only at times—dabbler as I an? —that I can paint even fairly. It is impossible to attempt po paint unless pne is inclined, and however doggedly ope goes on daubing, and however determined one may bo to control one’s absurd and unaccountable moods and tenses, the result is failure and depression. Life is a bowling wilderness without an oasis; and yon your self a gigantic fraud, ignorant of the mere A.B.C. of art. On the other hand, what can bo more delightful than successful progress ? That call that should be paid, that letter that should be written, the lunch that is getting cold downstairs, all is forgotten, and you, with a thrill of excitement in your breast, the sun scorching tho back of your neck, and a streak of Prussian blue on your nose, work away—in elysium. Why is it Prussian Blue-has a habit of gettip’g loose and besmearing the owner? I neyer paa it, tljough I have it in my box, bpt I generally find a dab somewhere, somewhere about my pouiafcijnanoo when I am finished painting, I rSfUambef pafhep a painful incident that happened to me once. I was—palette in hand—leaning eagerly over my master’s shoulder while he pub to my work some of those finishing touches which unkind people point out'as worthy to be admired. I bent over rather far and, .was oblivious of the fact that I Rad wipod piy pafefte covered with a ohoiAS assflrtnjent of colours —on bis spruce brown yelyate.au, bag.k. The master, intent , on his work, payer noticed it ; the only other student , in the room said nothing, and neither did I, but I remembered an important engage- ; nient and hurried away. What he said ; wlien he found it out I fian only conjecture. X knpw I sh.ould haye confessed and apologised, but I lacked the moral courage. I My oldest and last mod® l was a dame of ; 86. I liyed up a hill, and when rheumatism did not cripple her, she used to hobble up slowly to my house and gir erne a sitting. J felt sure she glad of the quiet rest and Rpt ma<Jl; f.Q say nothing of what she got as a model, gbe jyas U fßopp picturesque old body. A woollen cap of purple aps black, with a full border, framed the i wrinkled old face, and across the furrowed i forehead she wore a narrow black velvet. I could imagine her in her long past youth, with a cameo in the middle of the yelrat, Jppg slim ringlets meandering down tba girlish gupyas, apd & sjmpey ' instead of tho querulous s.adposs pn t|ie bps.. Poor creature, all bar I'fs She Rad Jcnown troubled and even her lata pypplidp bad apt brought her peace. Xt seemed somewhat irreverent to sit down to copy a face which time and sorrow bad so altered and lined. She had ono son,, and she told- us she had had much trouble with the boy. We found out afterwards “ tire boy " was sixty-eight, and a luuatlp, He afterwards died, in--an asylum, ■ And now I must draw these- sketchy reminiscences to a close. ■ Some, one I has said that there is always something sad in doing anything for the last time, and when I left my home, of all the rooms It was my painting room X said the saddest adieu to. 1 . The jolly times of ambition and of emu lation.-and the good comradeship of the Irttle band that met there are over, but tht air to-night is thick with memories ol those byrgono days. We are all scattered, one is dead, the ope of the greatest promise, she whose hand was ever ready to help a slumbler forward, and whoso; !yea was yea, and nay, nay. One lives far away in Central Otago, and still paints -landUpapes, and another ‘ has taken to the bicycle, and pajats no more. But to all, X fancy, the reipembrarjoes pf > those old days are as pleasant as thpy arc to me. ,