SOME MODELS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 27, 4 July 1891, Page 124

SOME MODELS.

There was the big Somali, Kano, whose yellowy - black epidermis was of the texture of dressed crocodile-leather In European costume his points did not show to advantage; but in a red-and-white Arab jellaba, embroidered with green silk, with a leopard skin and a Highland target of bull hide —with a fancy arsenal of weajrons, from an Afghan knife to an Ashantee war spear, from a Chinese matchlock to a boomerang—he was a loveable thing to paint. Of late years Kano has vanished from our ken. There is a rumour in Studioland to the effect that he has accepted an engagement with the manager of a travelling circus, and in his

character of a freshly caught Zulu devours three |>ounds of raw Ireefsteak nightly, to the tune of ‘The King of the < annibal Islands as breathed blainingly from blatant brass.

Then there were those three Italians. A ring at the door, and when it was opened, there they would be standing, opal - eyeballed, olive green in the cold sunlight of Albion. I mici rispetti signori! Off went the three hats together as if three strings had been simultaneously pulled. Did the gentleman want a model? Two models? Three models? Here was Federigo—elderly, wrinkled, with a smile of infinite patience and an appetite of unfatbomed capacity: here Battista, surnamed the Big, with the muscles of an ox and the moustaches of a Papal Guard. Last but not least, Beppi the Boy. the mendacious, the gar licky, rhe beautiful '. Then there was Topsy Tirlepin. Topsy would arrive with a Belgravian rat-tat and inquire airily, ‘ Scumble in ?" Scumble would admit the impeachment. Upon which Topsy would furl the red-satin parasol—she carried this in all seasons—and surge over the threshold and into the studio with an air which betokened her familiarity

-with the topography of Potboiler Fiats. Topsy was quite the lady—insistent on the aspirate —had picked up a gooddeal of the artistic jargon, and employed her knowledge quite as intelligently as the art critic -of aminor weekly. Shewasnice in her eating, was Topsy, and threw over Sapp Green, Academy picture and all, because the views of artist and model did not accord in the matter of lunches. Cold meat, with a pickle, and half-pint of hitter four days out of six ! And upon the table of a gentleman in Mr Green’s position ! A Hot Hontray was, to say the least of it, what one might have expected, and a drop of burnt Cognac in one's caffy ! Topsy’s criticisms w ere freely bestowed, if not always gratefully received ; and she possessed a vast store of

biographical information regarding fiiends of hers — Topsys clients were all

* friends ’—who had married ladies of her own profession. These ladies, according to Topsy. invariably conducted themselves as though to the purple born; wandering through hazy vista of innumerable Private Views, robed in splendour, leaning on the arm of President himself : whilst their happy possessors invariably attained to repute ami fortune. There was Triggs—little Triggs, who gave up the profession and went into the foreign wine trade. A few of us helped him in his effort to take one manly step beyond the bounds of modeldom. But it was no use; he was saturated with idleness, so to speak. The life had eaten into him. In a dusty corner of the studio stand, to this day, some dozen flasks of Trigg's unique Vesuvio, guaranteed . a vintage of exceptional quality, imported from the very foot of the burning mountain. That Vesuvio was tested at a studio supper, and triumphantly vindicated its title to the possession of volcanic properties on that occasion.

Maiia Giannina next. Daughter of Venice, adoptive child of London, Saffron Hill knows thee yet. To day Maria Giannina is Parona of a little eating house in that savoury locality, where veal with tomatoes and long strings of thick macaroni may be washed dow n Italian throats with the most iniquitous of cheap vintages, and rows with knives are not infrequent. Maiia Giannina is aging, with the premature old age of the Italian woman. Her ripe, brown, luscious cheek is getting sunken, her curves of contour are

less voluptuous, her ro|>es of hair—hair sun-gilded on the summits of its waves and black as night in the masses of its shadows—are less plentiful. Her eyes have lost their sleepy-fiery expression, and are grown hawk-like, eager for bajorehi. Her manners are more civilized, less engagingly brutal. She is less given to the

making of inarticulate noises — zoological, repulsive, uncouth. There is an unfinished full length study of Maria leaning np. face to wall, in the same corner with the Vesuvio. She walked out in a rage and didn’t come back again, and so the final touches were never pntin. It wasCbisselish who offended her. He had started a sketch in clay, and string and compass proved Maria Giannina to measure three points less from the tip of the left shoulder to the inner en 1 of the left clavicle than from the inner emi of the right clavicle to the tip of the right shoulder. How Maria Giannina winded the slur thus cast upon the exactness of her proportions I hardly know. She had little enough English in those days, but tones and gestures were enough for Southern quickness to comprehend. She rose up and came down off

pigs I'—thus in effect Maria Giannina—‘ you are ignorant as asses. You measure, you punch, you daub, you wag your heads together. And for what ?’ Both thumb-nails brought together inquiringly, separated, and waved disparagingly. ‘ For nothing '. How beautiful this foolery ! Prrh '.’—an eqnuine expression of disgust. ‘ And—holy saints ! —it must not be your daubed canvas, —which I curse! yonr obscene lump of dough, upon which I spit!’ (suiting the action to the word)—‘that is to blame, but Maria Giannina who is made wrong I’ A stamp. ‘Have not you,’ Paron, the great Signor with the beautiful beard —whom you call Ser Federic —have he not paint Maria

the platform, and unburdened her soul as follows :—• Sons of Giannina? Have he not cry, “ Marie, by this soul of mine you have the buti pairfec?’’ Chc-c '. In my own land the great artists weep. ‘ Come back, Maria, little love and we w ill fill thy lap with florins ! And 1 will go back, dedicating you, descendants of drowned dogs, to the devil. Cnputr la ! Then Maria Giannina bounced oat, upsetting Cliissellish, high stool, and wet clay and all, with a scornful thrust of her shapely muscular elbow. She shook the dust of the studio literally from her feet, and, having been paid beforehand for the whole three sittings, departed and returned no more.