Drawings in Pen and Pencil from Dürer's Day to Ours with Notes and Appreciations

A DRAWING is a thing to be looked at and not written about. Pages and pages written about it will not make a good drawing bad nor a bad drawing good; nor will they, unfortunately, really equip and instruct anyone to know the one from the other—should he happen to lack that subtle sense whereby such things are known; for the reason why one drawing is justly ranked as a masterpiece while another is thrown away lies hidden on the plane of our more transcendental perceptions—such, for example, as the sense whereby we know whether a note is in tune or out of tune; and further: whether a musical composition is base in its gesture or great. At present the majority of people lack these senses but, due to a guiding justice, this fact rarely if ever prevents the artist who has achieved something great from receiving, though it may have been long retarded, his full meed of praise eventually. That the praise is so often belated and the appreciation of an artist retarded until, for him, it has lost its savour is due to many causes: so long as the competitive and childish habit persists—of awarding the palm of greatness to one man’s work by the simple expedient of simultaneously condemning someone else’s—narrowness and prejudice will continue to trouble the artist. It should surely not be difficult to realize that the world of art—like the Kingdom of Heaven—has many mansions, and that, though both have their “housing problems,” still—in both there is room for many.

In life the “housing problem” for the artists is acute and vexed—they have to scramble for a place and, in the scramble, if some are unduly praised far more are unduly blamed. Death seems to be the only arbiter of justice for them. In the struggle for recognition none are more unscrupulous and narrow than the artists themselves; with the instinct of self-preservation strongly developed in them they, metaphorically, deal what they hope will be death-blows at all who stand in their way. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for an artist to be a just critic of his contemporaries. The truth of this assertion is easily tested: ask an artist his opinion of a mixed dozen of old masters—he will have words of praise for all of them and his comparisons will be just and true. Then ask him his opinion of a dozen of the leading artists of his own day—he will not have words of praise for more than two; and if by chance he should still be a student in the schools he will find himself only able to praise one of them; and the remarks he will make about the others will be in questionable taste! Even our most revered old masters gave way to this human weakness. For instance, Michelangelo treated Leonardo as though he held him in profound contempt; especially in a little matter connected with the casting of a bronze. In fact—each paid the other the compliment of jealousy.

The deplorable battle that had to be waged before Whistler’s genius could be accepted is also a good example. In the very forefront of the fight rode Whistler shamelessly wounding, for the sake of his own aggrandizement, his opponents, who were really his brother artists. Viewed at this distance of time it looks a dirty business, and several good artists are only now healing of their wounds. He is forgiven of course, firstly because he was a genius of a high order and secondly because of his wit and the irresistible style with which he handled his weapons; and thirdly because he was, of course, most venomously attacked on all sides himself. It was the power of Whistler’s caustic wit that caused the prestige of our leading art society to become so undermined that, until quite recently, many of our greatest living artists could not face the ignominy of exhibiting there; and to this day one still meets with the bashful student who has to deny himself any visits to its exhibitions!