IX
Portrait-Painting—How he Differed from his Great Predecessors—The “Likeness”—Composition of Color—No Commercial Side—Baronet vs. Butterfly.
Whistler was not a “portrait-painter,” as the phrase goes nowadays; but he was, in certain respects, the greatest painter of portraits the world has known.
As a “portrait-painter” he fell far short of Rembrandt, Velasquez, and a host of lesser men; but as a painter of portraits he rose superior to them all in certain refinements of the art.
There is a vast difference between the “portrait-painter” to whom the sitter is of first importance and the painter to whom his art is of first importance. The difference lies in the attitude of the artist towards his canvas, towards the work he is about to undertake. Is the inspiration wholly his own, or is he influenced by considerations quite foreign to the production of a pure work of art?
The attitude of the “portrait-painter” may be likened unto that of the “poet laureate,” whose verse is at the command of conditions he does not control; who may, by accident, write a good thing,—but the rule is otherwise, with even the best.
To rightly place a human being on canvas, or in stone, or in marble, or in poetry, is the noblest achievement of art. On the technical side it exhausts the resources of the art; on the spiritual side it exhausts the genius of the artist. But “portrait-painting” as a profession, as an industrial and a commercial proposition, is a degradation of art. It is in strict accord with the spirit of the age; it is a natural and an inevitable evolution. But it is, nevertheless, a degradation,—for wherein does the shop-like atelier of the professional “portrait-painter” differ from the emporium and the bazaar of commerce? And wherein do the methods of the shrewd and successful painter differ from those of the successful merchant? Are not the doors of the studio open to every comer with a purse? Are not the prices fixed at so much per square yard of canvas? Is not the patronage of celebrities sought, regardless of artistic possibilities, for the prestige it gives? Are not the A.R.A. and the R.A., and all the degrees and decorations, sought, like the “By special appointment to H.M.—” of the tradesman, for the money there is in them?
But what need to enumerate the motives that move the professional “portrait-painter,”—they are written on his every canvas.
Sculpture still clings to its ideals, and the “bust-maker” is a term of reproach. No sculptor with any ambition whatsoever, with any love for his art, would willingly look forward to a career of portrait bust-making. Dire necessity may compel him, and year after year he may make the marble and bronze effigies of local celebrities; but the yoke galls, the task wearies, and he looks forward to the time when, emancipated from his thraldom, he may do something of his own.
Not so the “portrait-painter.” He glories in his degradation; paints a score of huge, staring canvases, blatant likenesses of blatant people, and, before the paint is dry, parades them in exhibition as his latest galaxy of masterpieces,—not that his art may be magnified, but that his trade may be advertised.
The sculptor is only too glad if his bronze effigies are hidden in leafy thickets, in parks, and out-of-the-way places. He has not learned the commercial value of exhibitions. He does not every few months place on view a lot of marbles and bronzes, the work of as many weeks. He has not caught from the shop-keeper the trick of displaying his wares in a window. But the “portrait-painter”——!
“Portrait-painting” pays,—that is the worst of it all. It is the one branch of the art of painting that can be followed as methodically as the making of clothes. It is, for that matter, closely allied to and quite dependent upon the tailor and the dressmaker. Worth has made more portraits than any one painter in Paris.
The “portrait-painter” must dress his manikin in clothes that will “paint,” for the manikin is worse than nothing for the picture. There must be a gown of brilliant stuffs, and either a hat or the hair-dresser,—who also has made and unmade portraits,—or there must be a uniform, hunting-breeches, judge’s gown and wig, accordingly as the manikin is woman or man; and it is the theatrical trappings that are painted, and, incidentally thereto,—manikin.
Reynolds painted something like two thousand canvases. In 1758 one hundred and fifty persons sat to him,—an average of three portraits a week. He was as methodical as an automatic machine. Rose early, breakfasted at nine, was in the studio at ten, worked by himself until eleven, when his first sitter of the day would appear, to be succeeded by another precisely one hour later, and so on, a sitter an hour, until four o’clock, when the popular painter made himself ready for a plunge in the social swirl.
Portraits produced under such conditions cannot be made more than technically brilliant,—superficial likenesses of the great majority of the sitters,—and are unworthy the painter’s art.
After a brief study of their careers, and without seeing a portrait by either, one would be warranted in looking for a masterpiece among Gainsborough’s two hundred and twenty portraits rather than among the two thousand canvases of Reynolds.
Great facility of execution is not necessarily a condemnatory feature of a man’s art, but it is a dangerous feature, and with most men it is a fatal feature.
The hand of the master must be entirely subservient to the brain. No obstacle should intervene between the inspiration and its complete expression, but the hand must not force the imagination; and it is true that command of technic—mere digital dexterity—does lead the performer, whether painter or musician, to speak when he has nothing to say.
Happily for the reputation of Reynolds, he painted now and then a portrait in which he took more interest, and these have some—possibly not many—of the qualities that live. For the most part his reputation rests on mere volume of brilliant and high-grade work,—very much as one factory has a greater reputation than another. And he did more than any man who ever lived to reduce “portrait-painting” to a trade, a mechanical pursuit.
In the modern sense of the phrase, he was one of the greatest of “portrait-painters;” certainly the most “successful”—again in the modern sense—the world has known, of talent supreme, in genius wanting.
But there are portraits and portraits,—to illustrate:
There are portraits.
There are portraits that are also pictures.
There are pictures that are also portraits.
There are pictures.
The first-named are mere likenesses,—photographs on canvas. This sort is very common and very popular; they are made with great facility by the professional “portrait-painters” and they are greatly applauded wherever seen. They have their fixed prices,—so much for half, three-quarters, or full-length,—and they are quite a matter of commerce, with a maximum of dexterity and a minimum of art. There are those who can and do paint great portraits, who turn out endless numbers of these mechanically-made things to the detriment of their art. Of the best of this sort were the most of Reynolds’s portraits,—superficially brilliant and attractive likenesses that ought not to be seen outside the family circle for which they were intended. Of this same sort are most of those startling people who issue from the studios of the popular “portrait-painters” of to-day, to thrust the nonentity of their individualities upon us. The identity of the “Blue-Boy,” by Gainesborough, is quite immaterial; the identity of the “Shrimp-Girl,” by Hogarth, is likewise immaterial; the identity of the “Child with a Sword,” by Manet, is of no importance,—for these are pictures, though at the same time portraits.
But the identity of the “portraits” by the popular “portrait-painter” is, in ninety-nine instances out of a hundred, a matter of great importance, the value of the canvas being enhanced by the celebrity or notoriety of the sitter.
The mere portrait is better than no portrait at all, but it should be a fixture in its own household, a family heirloom, and strictly entailed; descendants failing, then to the midden.
Between the mere portrait and the portrait that possesses some of the universal qualities of a work of art the interval is wide, and almost one of kind rather than degree, though no line of strict demarcation can be drawn; while, as between the painting that is primarily a portrait, with incidental universal qualities, and a painting that is primarily a work of art, and incidentally a portrait, the difference is entirely a matter of degree.
In, for instance, the “Blue-Boy” the portrait element predominates; in the “Shrimp-Girl” the universal element predominates. In the former, the portrait was uppermost in the painter’s mind; in the other, the picture was the only consideration. And yet Hogarth’s is undoubtedly the more perfect portrait, though slight and sketchy as compared with the composition and finish of the Gainsborough.
In fact, the “Shrimp-Girl,” as an abstract work of art, is a degree higher than the picture-portrait. It is a picture,—a work of art in the doing of which no considerations other than the artistic intention moved the painter.
A mere portrait, in the dash and brilliancy of its execution or the decorative quality of its color, may be better than a picture of indifferent execution or poor color; the one may be worth keeping in a limited circle, or even of some use decoratively in a more general way, while the other is not worth preserving at all. But there is hope for the man who attempts to paint a picture, to produce a work of art, though he fails miserably; whereas there is no hope for the brilliant technician whose sole ambition is to paint and sell his canvas photographs as rapidly as possible.
Manet’s “Child with a Sword” is a superb portrait of a child,—a model, to be sure, but none the less a little human being, with as many attributes of life and humanity as the child whose parents pay the price of a likeness. Manet’s chief merit lies in the fact that all his life long he tried to paint pictures, sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully; never with any profound insight into human nature or life, but always straightforwardly and sincerely, and with a strong, firm hand. He painted many portraits of his sister and his friends, but invariably with the intention to do something of more universal validity than a likeness.
The casual visitor to the Louvre may examine at his leisure the little “Infanta” and the “Mona Lisa,” both great pictures, both great portraits, but of the two the portrait element is rather more pronounced in the Velasquez than in the Leonardo.
The little “Infanta” is there for all time on the canvas, precisely as she was in the painter’s studio, a wonderful portrait of a child, a wonderful picture of a bit of humanity, but less of a type than an individual.
As for the “Mona Lisa,” who can doubt that in the long years the painter worked on this portrait all superficial resemblances and characteristics disappeared until the constant, the elemental, the soul alone remained? It possesses many of the qualities of the idealized madonnas of Italian religious art. It began with the painter’s admiration of a beautiful woman, an individual of that day and generation; it ended with an ideal which will last so long as the slowly-darkening pigments retain line and lineaments.
The mere adding of accessories in the way of composition or background or the adoption of a classic or theatrical pose may make the work more decorative, but it does not enhance the real merit of the portrait, the status of which cannot be altered by the surrounding canvas.
When Mrs. Siddons entered Reynolds’s studio, he said, as he conducted her to the raised platform:
“Take your seat upon the throne for which you were born, and suggest to me the idea of the ‘Tragic Muse.’”
“I made a few steps,” relates the actress, “and then took at once the attitude in which the ‘Tragic Muse’ has remained.”
When the portrait was finished, Sir Joshua said:
“I cannot lose this opportunity of sending my name to posterity on the hem of your garment,” and he placed his signature on the border of the gown.
All of which are the conditions under which theatrical and meritricious art is produced. The portrait of a woman posing as the “Tragic Muse” may turn out well, but the chances are otherwise.
There are “portrait-painters” who are better than others, and the best of all were Rembrandt and Velasquez, the latter the greatest portrait-painter who ever lived,—so great that his portraits are great as pictures; but not quite in the abstract sense that a painting by Raphael is a picture,—a bright and beautiful song in line and color; not quite in the sense that a painting by Angelo is a picture,—the tumultuous outpouring of a human soul; not quite in the subtle sense that a painting by Whistler is a picture,—a harmony to delight the eye as music delights the ear.
Rembrandt and Velasquez were great in technical directions in their portraiture, and their achievements remain unchallenged; but in the painting of portraits each was something of the “portrait-painter,”—not the facile, commercial painter of to-day, but they painted portraits to earn their living. Now and then the portrait was a labor of love and a great picture, seldom—at least in the case of Velasquez—a matter of drudgery, and therefore a failure.
Velasquez was so happily situated in the court at Madrid, of the king’s household, on friendly terms with the royal family, that he painted their portraits with far more devotion and interest than he could possibly feel towards a stranger.
A portrait of Philip the Fourth by Velasquez ought to be as good a work of art as a bust of Pericles by Phidias,—and that is about the most that can be said in portraiture,—but a bust of Pericles would not be the best that the art of Phidias could do, for his art was not limited by lineaments.
Wherein the art of Whistler differed from the art of Rembrandt and Velasquez in the painting of human likenesses is as follows:
With Whistler the sitter, whether model or patron, was subordinated to the composition, to the harmony of line and color,—was simply an integral part of the larger scheme in the painter’s mind.
With Rembrandt and Velasquez the sitter was the important feature, everything else being quite casual; the object in mind being to paint a great portrait, to put a human being on canvas. A worthy object when worthily done, but not quite so pure and subtle and abstract, not quite so free from limitations of time and place and person as the intention to do something of universal validity in which the individual shall not obtrude beyond his due measure of importance.
In the attempt to do things that had never been done before, in the attempt to make painting as pure an art as music and poetry, Whistler possibly made many failures, or rather many more or less incomplete successes, but in his best things it is undeniably true that he produced pictures wherein the portrait element was as subtly if not as “strongly” developed as in anything ever before painted, and wherein at the same time that element was successfully subordinated to ideals more refined and universal.
Both Rembrandt and Velasquez did “stronger” things than Whistler,—that is to say, they placed their subjects more positively and forcefully on the canvas, so that they stand out more aggressively, and fill not only their frames but the room; they do not obtrude, but they are great big characterizations which make themselves felt in any company.
Whistler’s portraits, like all his pictures, retire within their frames, do not assert themselves, are not “strong,” as the term is quite legitimately used in the sense of powerful, positive, and vigorous. His portraits are neither “stunning” nor overwhelming; they are so quiet, restful, and harmonious as to almost escape notice. There is a wraith-like quality about some of them that has often been noted; some of them seem the portraits of shadows rather than realities.
A woman standing before “The Fur Jacket” said:
“So that is a portrait of a woman by Whistler?”
“No,” replied her companion; “it is Whistler’s impression of a woman.”
Neither was right,—for, as a matter of fact, it is simply a composition of line and color wherein a woman—in this case a model—is the central figure of the arrangement. The painting of a likeness was not in Whistler’s mind at all. The painting of a woman, either as a type or an individual, probably did not enter his head; but he had in mind a scheme which pleased him, and this scheme he placed on canvas. It is quite likely the woman happened to enter his studio, and the effect of figure, costume, and environment caught his fancy. That was the way many of the portraits were begun.
Lady Archibald Campbell was nothing to him except a possibility; she was to him as a theme, as a motive to a musician. At the outset he had all sorts of trouble with the picture; and it was not until one day Lady Campbell happened to come in with her fur cape over her shoulders that he made a new start and painted the picture. It is a great portrait, one of his very best, a haunting likeness of a woman; not such a photographic likeness as friends and relatives demand, but just the likeness that posterity demands: a woman, a type, with all the charm, all the refinement, all the real, the true, the elusive qualities of a woman,—in short, those qualities of mind and body which reappear in descendants of the third and fourth generation and demonstrate the faithfulness of the portrait.
There is no portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez which at all resembles Whistler’s portrait of his mother.
It is not at all like anything by Rembrandt; there is a hint of the blacks and grays of Velasquez, but that is a superficial observation made by every passing tourist.
In scheme, composition, intention, and execution the picture is essentially different from anything the great Spanish painter ever did. One ought to recognize the fundamental difference between the two artists on looking at the little “Infanta” in the Louvre,—there is no need to go farther. Velasquez had a firm strong grasp of life about him which Whistler lacked. The one was a man among men, the other a poet among poets, a musician among musicians, a dreamer among dreamers; the one painted men, women, and children because they interested him, the other painted them because he was interested in beautiful things; the one viewed the world by day with his feet planted firmly on the ground, the other viewed it by dusk and by night with his head in the mist and clouds.
There was the same difference between Velasquez and Whistler that there is between two poets, one of whom—like, say, Byron—deals with life with a sure hand, the other—like Keats—deals with beauty as the finest thing in life.
In poetry even the casual reader does not confound men of opposite temperaments, though both use the medium of verse to express their thoughts; but in painting, people habitually confuse men who have absolutely nothing in common except the medium they use. And yet for every poet there is somewhere a painter of like moods and temperament. Men do not differ, though some use poetry, some music, some sculpture, some painting to express their fancies and convictions.
Were one so disposed, it would not be difficult to point out the Browning, the Tennyson, the Whitman, the Bach, the Beethoven, the Wagner of painting, for the human soul is the same in every art.
Beyond the fact, therefore, that Velasquez and Whistler both expressed themselves by means of painting, they were not at all alike, and their work must reflect their fundamental differences.
Whistler, in susceptibility to color and fleeting line, in love for abstract, almost ethereal beauty, was akin to the choice spirits of the far East. He found more that appealed to him and affected him in the blue-and-white porcelain of China than in any painting from Madrid. Velasquez might give him many valuable hints as to the use of color, as to the practice of his art, but no suggestions whatsoever as to ends and aims. These motives he found in the East, in those wonderful lands where men, leaving nature far behind, almost touched heaven in their philosophies, and did seize some of heaven’s infinite blues and silvery grays in their arts.
It is idle to compare Whistler’s portraits with those of any other man, for the qualities that make those of others great are not found accentuated in his, and the qualities that make his great are not found refined in those of others.
The matter of likeness, which troubles most people, is of vital importance to the “portrait-painter,” since it is his sole excuse, the only justification he has for existing, but to art it does not matter at all.
Likeness has no objective existence. It is entirely a matter of impression, a subjective realization. Beyond the size of the mouth, the shape of the nose, the color of the eyes there is little to what is called a “likeness.” A person never looks the same to different people or on different occasions.
To the casual acquaintance a “likeness” is but skin deep; to the friend of a lifetime it is altogether a matter of character. A portrait that satisfies a wife fails to please a mother, and one that provokes the applause of the passing throng is a disappointment to the family.
For what is one man’s appearance to another but the impact of personality upon personality, the coming together of two vitalities clothed in flesh and blood. But some there are who see only the clothes of another,—the very outward shell and husk; others who see only the flesh and blood,—the physical covering; others who get at the man and know him in part as he is. For whom shall the portrait be painted,—for those who see, or those who know, or those who love? And by whom shall the portrait be painted,—by the tailor-painter or by the soul-painter?
The world is filled with painters of the superficial, with painters of husks; and those are the painters who impress the multitude, for they see what the multitude see, and there is no mystery to puzzle, but everything is superficial and plain.
A likeness is the physical semblance of the soul; and the only likeness worth having on canvas or in marble or in words is the faithful transcript of the impression the sitter makes on the artist.
From the fact that this impression changes and deepens from hour to hour, and day to day, and week to week, as the two beings come to know each other, it follows that the best portrait can only be painted after sufficient acquaintance for the dissipation of those superficial traits and characteristics which envelop everyone like a fog.
It is the special province of caricature to seize upon a man’s superficialities and peculiarities, and make the most or the worst of them; but it is the business of portraiture to get beneath and give a glimpse, an impression of the true man.
To this end Whistler’s many and long sittings were of inestimable service. The portrait grew with his acquaintance with his sitter. What first pleased him as a scheme of color and an agreeable personality came in time to interest him as a human being, with the result in the most successful canvases that the picture would be all he desired as a harmony, as a song without sound, and also a marvellously subtle realization of his impression of the human being he had learned to know.
In one respect the identity of a portrait is not a matter of entire indifference, for the attitude of the painter is more or less affected by his relation to the sitter, and whatever affects him affects his work.
Many an artist does his best when his wife or child or some one he loves is the model; and the man who could not paint his mother a little better, a little more sympathetically than a stranger would be soulless indeed. In poetry the influence of a mistress is a matter of tradition.
The picture, as a work of art, must be judged independently of its associations. It stands by itself, and is good, bad, or indifferent, regardless of the painter or the conditions under which it was done; but some of its excellencies may be explained if we learn it was a labor of love.
It would not add a feather’s weight to the superb qualities of the “Hermes,” at Olympia, if it were discovered to be a likeness of the sculptor’s son; nor would it detract in the slightest degree from its perfection if it were found to have been the work of an unknown man, and not by Praxiteles,—though in the latter case there would be a great abatement of enthusiasm on the part of the touring public. But if a number of the master’s works were in existence, and it was perceived that the “Hermes” possessed certain qualities of tenderness, certain indefinable elements of superiority that made it the masterpiece, the knowledge that some one whom the sculptor loved dearly had posed would help to explain the almost imperceptible differences. The work would stand on its own merits; but one of the reasons why it stood so high would be found in the relationship between sculptor and model.
By many who should be qualified to speak Whistler’s portrait of his mother is considered his masterpiece, possibly by some because it is of his mother, but by others quite independently of the relationship.
Others there are who consider the portrait of Carlyle his masterpiece, possibly because it is of Carlyle, but by some independently of the identity of the sitter.
Seldom is the portrait of any unknown or less known sitter mentioned in comparison,—all of which goes to show the bias which results from knowing the identity.
Every Scotchman would insist upon the Carlyle, most of them quite unconscious of the patriotic bias.
There are pictures far more subtle in color, more “Whistlerian” in effect, more distinctively the creations of a great poet in color than these two portraits, but as compared with any two, or even three, or, possibly, four others, the preservation of these are of vital importance to the fame of the artist and the advancement of art. In this sense they may be considered his masterpieces, and of the two the one that hangs in the Luxembourg is far the finer. It is one of the few pictures that leave nothing to be said by painter or layman.
It is more than a portrait,—it is a large composition of line and form and color; it is a great portrait made subordinate to a great picture.
Whistler was seldom so satisfied with a portrait that he was willing to part with it. He could always see things he wished to change,—partly, no doubt, because his impression of his subject changed from day to day,—and he would often keep a portrait by him for months and years before exhibiting. In fact he exhibited a like reserve about nearly all his work. It was next to impossible to get anything from him for current exhibitions.
He would faithfully and with the best of intentions promise to have something ready. The time would come, and he would be found still at work on the canvas as leisurely as if so many centuries were before him instead of so many hours, Nothing ever induced him to either hasten his work or exhibit it unfinished. The fact that he might not be represented gave him not the slightest uneasiness. The result was that the Whistlers seen were generally old Whistlers,—all the better for that. For instance, of the pictures exhibited at the World’s Columbian Exposition, not one had been painted within ten or fifteen years,—two dated as far back as 1864.
At the Antwerp Exhibition, a year later, there was certainly not a picture painted within ten years. By this method the artist had the advantage of his own mature judgment and the assistance of time,—and time wields a great brush. There is no glaze, no finish, no varnish equal to that dispensed so evenly, so mellowly, so softly, so beautifully by time. Furthermore, there is no judgment so sound, no criticism so penetrating as the judgment and criticism of the artist himself on his own work after the enthusiasm of the hour has worn off. One of the finest indications of Whistler’s greatness was this reserve in the exhibition of new work, this ability to do fine things and quietly put them away out of sight, until with lapse of time they could be looked over dispassionately, repainted if necessary, and either banished forever or exhibited in all their glory.
Most artists delight in seeing exhibited immediately—often prematurely—the things they do, and the delight is not unnatural. Others there are who, on account of numerous disappointments or from queer crotchets, are opposed altogether to exhibitions. Whistler was not of the latter class; he was quite human enough to enjoy, as he himself said, the honors which come from well-conducted exhibitions. He was an officer of the Legion of Honor, had received awards and honors without number, including the extraordinary award of the gold medal for etching and also for painting at the Paris Exposition of 1900, and an honorary degree from a Scotch University. These honors sat lightly, but by no means uneasily, upon him.
His unwillingness to part with work led to no end of trouble and misunderstanding. People could not understand why they should not have what they had bargained and often paid for, why there should be any delay whatsoever, much less why after many demands their money should be returned and the picture kept by the artist.
All this is, of course, diametrically opposed to the rules of commerce, and Whistler has been blamed for his unreliability, to use the mildest term urged against him.
Without knowing him it is impossible to understand his attitude towards his pictures.
In the first place, he was profoundly attached to them, whether sold or not. They were and remained his work; and in a humorous way he frequently insisted upon this superior right of the creator,—as on the fly-leaf of the catalogue of his London exhibition, which read:
“Nocturnes, Marines, and Chevalet Pieces: a catalogue. Small collection kindly lent their owners.”
And sometimes this assertion of a superior equity went so far as to interfere with the right of possession, which was quite beyond the comprehension of the multitude.
The story is told that a certain Lady B—— purchased one of his pictures, but was never able to get it.
One day she drove to the studio in her victoria. Mr. Whistler went out to the sidewalk to greet her.
“Mr. Whistler,” she said, “two years ago I bought one of your pictures, a beautiful thing, and I have never been able to hang it on my walls. It has been loaned to one exhibition after another. Now, to-day I have my carriage with me, and I would like to take it home with me. I am told it is in your possession.”
“Dear lady,” returned Whistler, “you ask the impossible. I will send it to you at the earliest practicable moment. You know,—those last slight touches,—which achieve perfection,—make all things beautiful.” And so forth and so forth, to the same effect, and the lady drove off without her picture.
After she had departed, Whistler commenced to poke around the studio, and, to the great astonishment of a friend who had been an involuntary listener to the above conversation, he brought forth a canvas.
“Here it is,” he said. “She was right about one thing, it is beautiful.” And it was beautiful.
“But the impudence of these people,” he continued, “who think that because they pay a few paltry hundred pounds they own my pictures. Why, it merely secures them the privilege of having them in their houses now and then! The pictures are mine!”
However, this side of Whistler is on record in the case of “The Baronet vs. The Butterfly,” as he called the suit of Sir William Eden to obtain possession of the portrait of Lady Eden.
As the circumstances of this famous case illustrate Whistler’s attitude towards his work, and at the same time his attitude towards those who tried to deal commercially with him, they are worth recalling:
In June, 1893, Sir William Eden, a wealthy English baronet, wrote a letter to Goupil & Co., in London, asking what Mr. Whistler’s price would be for a small picture of Lady Eden, and he was informed that the price would be about five hundred guineas. He replied, stating that he thought the price too high, and said that he would call and see Mr. Whistler in Paris. Instead of so doing, he applied to a common friend, who wrote Whistler saying that the portrait “is for a friend of mine, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, you will have to paint a very lovely and very elegant woman, whose portrait you will be delighted to undertake,” and “under the circumstances I think you might make very liberal concessions.”
The matter of price was always a matter of indifference to Whistler,—if also of indifference to the other party,—and when Sir William wrote concerning the price, Whistler replied very cordially in January, 1894, as follows:
“Dear Sir William Eden: Your letter has only just been handed to me, but this may still, perhaps, reach you in the afternoon. It is quite understood as to the little painting, and I think there can be no difficulty about the sum. The only really interesting point is that I should be able to produce the charming picture which, with the aid of Lady Eden, ought to be expected. Once undertaken, however slight, for me one work is as important as another, and even more so, as Calino said. As for the amount, Moore, I fancy, spoke of one hundred to one hundred and fifty pounds.”
The letter is quite characteristic of the artist. His interest was in the possibility of producing a charming picture. The amount he mentioned was less than he ordinarily asked for a water-color sketch, and one-fifth that named by Goupil & Co.
It must be noted that the amount is not fixed by Whistler, but is left at from one hundred to one hundred and fifty pounds, depending of course upon the painter’s own feeling regarding his work, and not depending in any sense upon the whim of the baronet.
The portrait went on towards completion. Instead of painting a head, as was originally suggested, Whistler painted a full-length figure seated upon a little sofa, the entire composition being quite as elaborate an interior as if the canvas had been five times the size. The picture was about fourteen to sixteen inches long by five or six inches high, and was such an exquisite bit of the painter’s art that a representative of a public gallery, who did not know that it was a commission, offered for it twelve hundred dollars, and higher offers were made.
Sir William Eden did not again refer to the price, although he had many opportunities; but on February 14, St. Valentine’s day, the baronet visited the studio and expressed himself as delighted with the picture. On taking leave, he informed Mr. Whistler that he was about to start for India on a hunting-tour, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, he handed it to the artist. “Here is a valentine for you. Look at it after I have gone. Don’t bother about it just now.”
When the artist opened his “valentine,” he found a check for one hundred guineas,—the minimum amount mentioned in his letter. The baronet had taken it upon himself to fix the price of the picture on the eve of his departure. The “valentine” read as follows:
“4 Rue de Presbourg, Paris, February 14, 1894.
“Dear Mr. Whistler: Herewith your valentine,—cheque value one hundred guineas. The picture will always be of inestimable value to me, and will be handed down as an heirloom as long as heirlooms last.
“I shall always look with pleasure to the painting of it,—and, with thanks, remain
“Yours sincerely,
“William Eden.”
To which Whistler immediately replied:
“110 Rue du Bac, Paris, February 14.
“My Dear Sir William: I have your valentine. You really are magnificent, and have scored all round.
“I can only hope that the little picture will prove even slightly worthy of all of us, and I rely on Lady Eden’s amiable promise to let me add the few last touches we know of. She has been so courageous and kind all along in doing her part.
“With best wishes again for your journey,
“Very faithfully,
“J. McNeill Whistler.”
From the legal point of view Whistler made the mistake of not immediately returning the check for one hundred guineas, and the additional mistake of exhibiting the picture in the Salon of the Champ de Mars in the spring of 1894, as No. 1187, under the title of “Brown and Gold. Portrait of Lady E——.”
But ultimately the one hundred guineas were returned, and the baronet brought suit to secure the possession of the picture.
Whistler would have permitted himself to be drawn-and-quartered before Sir William Eden should have any work of his. He felt, and most justly, that a work which had been begun by him, first, to oblige others, and secondly, as a labor of love, had been placed upon a commercial footing of the lowest level. He felt that there had been no real desire to have one of his pictures on account of its artistic merit, but that there had been an attempt to secure something of commercial value for one-third its market price.
The episode of the “valentine,” truly ingeniously devised, completely changed the relations between the parties. He painted out the little portrait, substituted another head, and stood ready to return the hundred guineas and to pay whatever damages the court might award the plaintiff; but under no circumstances should the baronet have the picture.
For the first time in the annals of litigation the question was presented for final determination,—whether an artist could be compelled to deliver work which he claimed was not yet finished to his satisfaction, even though he had received the price. Be it said to the credit of the French tribunal of last resort, that it held broadly that the artist is master and proprietor of his work until such time as it shall please him to deliver it. But that, failing delivery, he must return the price with interest thereon, together with such damages as the sitter may have sustained.
The hand of the painter cannot be forced by the importunity of either patient or impatient patron, and no man but the painter himself can say when a painting is sufficiently finished to be delivered.
Except in those few cases where Whistler took such intense dislikes to sitters or purchasers that he would not permit them to have his work under any circumstances, there is no instance where the great painter, in unduly delaying the delivery of a picture, had any intention of depriving the owner of what was rightfully his,—namely, the possession of the picture.
Beyond the right of possession, Whistler did not concede much to the owner. Frequently he challenged the owner’s right to exhibit without his sanction, and he was quite inclined to deny to the owner the moral right to sell at speculative prices. He had a poor opinion of those who would buy from the artist to sell later at a profit; he classed them as dealers.
Sitters did not always see things in the same light, and became tired, then impatient, sometimes ugly. Then Whistler would no longer like them, and the sittings would come to an end. If the portrait was unfinished, it was cast aside to remain forever unfinished; if finished, the money would be returned and the portrait kept,—under no circumstances to fall into the hands of a person whom he disliked.
The studio contained many an unfinished portrait, some of them works of great beauty, but of complete indifference to Whistler. He lost all interest in them when he lost interest in the sitters; and it mattered not to him that he had spent and lost days, and weeks, and months of precious time, nor did it matter to him that his sitters had exhausted themselves with numerous and long seances.
Childless, his paintings were his children, and to part with one was like the parting of mother and child.
In these days, when the selling of pictures has become an essential part of the art of painting, it is difficult for people to comprehend the attitude of a man who really did not like to sell.
“What are pictures painted for, if not to sell?” asks the spirit of the age.
It does not seem quite so obvious that poems are written to sell and that music is composed to sell. Even the “practical man” feels that poems and music ought to be made for something more than to sell, and if they are not, they will be the worst for the narrow end in view; but paintings and sculpture, they are commercial products to be dealt in accordingly.
When Whistler did part with a picture he had no faculty for getting a high price. His prices were very uncertain. To one person he might ask a round sum, to another small,—just as the mood seized him, the price having no particular relation to the painting.
He never could see why paintings should be sold, like cloth, by the square yard; why a large picture should necessarily bring more than a small. To him perfection was perfection, whether large or small.
What justifiable reason is there for the commercial schedule of so much for a head, so much for a half-length, so much for a full-length portrait?
The one may, but does by no means necessarily, take a little more time; but, then, a painter does not value his work by the day.
A perfect thing is a perfect thing, whether large or small, Whistler would frequently say. In the matter of prices he was obliged to yield somewhat to custom, and ask more for large pictures than for small, but he did so reluctantly and intermittently, with the natural result that dealers, who screen pictures as the plasterer does his gravel, could do nothing with him.
Of late years, with a demand far beyond any possible supply, his prices advanced; but where a Degas, for instance, would sell for five, ten, or fifteen thousand dollars, a Whistler of incomparably greater beauty would sell for a third or a fifth the amount,—proof of what the co-operation of the dealer can do.
Some years ago he showed a visitor several heads of Italian children, each about ten or twelve, by sixteen or eighteen inches in size. With them was a three-quarter length of one of the children. They were all superb bits of portraiture, and akin to the “Little Rose, Lyme Regis,” in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
The visitor was eager to get one or more of the pictures. After considerable pressure, he said:
“I think they ought to be worth six hundred guineas each; don’t you?”
“And the large one?” said the visitor.
“Oh, the same. That is no more important than the small.”
“Very well. May I have all four?”
“Dear me! You don’t want them all?”
“If you will let me have them.”
“But—” and then the struggle began, “I must look them over; they are not quite finished.”
“But, surely, these two are finished.”
“Yes, I might let those go by-and-bye, but not now.”
“Will you send them to me?”
“Yes, certainly, after I have gone over them again.”
“I will leave a check.”
“God bless me, no! You must not do that. It will be time enough to send a check after you receive the little pictures.”
Needless to say, the pictures were never received. They had just been finished, and he could not bring himself to part with them. It was not a matter of money at all,—likely as not he sold them later for less,—but it was always next to impossible to get him to part with recent work. If he happened to have on hand a picture five or ten years old, possibly that could be bought and taken away, but anything in which he was interested at the time he would not let go.
In 1894 he exhibited three small marines, which he had painted off-shore while the boatman steadied his boat. They were fresh and crisp,—so good that a great painter of marines said of them in the exhibition, “They over-topped everything about them.”
Two were sold, and he showed the third to an American who came to the studio. The caller said at once he would be only too glad to take it at the price named; the matter was apparently closed, and the buyer sailed for home, leaving a friend to get the picture.
A day or two after, Whistler stood looking long and earnestly at the little marine, saying half to himself:
“It is good, isn’t it?”
Then he took the canvas out of the frame, and said:
“I think it needs touching up a little.”
Another pause, then:
“Do you know, I believe I won’t let this go just yet. I want to go over it once more. You know, I can send your friend something else next winter,—something that he may like better. And if he doesn’t like it, why, he can return it.”
“But, Mr. Whistler, he wants this little marine. There is not much to do upon it, is there?”
“No—o; but, then, you see——”
“Well, why not give it the last touches now, and let him have it. If you do not send him this, I am afraid he will never have one of your pictures.”
“Oh, yes, he will; next winter——”
“But next winter others will come in when we are not here, and buy from you whatever you have.”
“Well, we will see.”
And only persistent urgings, day after day, even after a draft on London had been forced upon him, induced him to ship the painting.
At no time was there any question of price or money involved; he simply did not wish to part with the last of his three marines.
It was not until about 1890, and after, that Whistler’s paintings began to sell at anything like their real worth. To his credit be it said, his work was never “popular.”
By his independence, his seeming defiance of all conventional and academic notions in his art, his eccentricities, and his lack of commercial instincts he managed, at a very early period in his career, to alienate,—
Dealers,
Painters, and
Public,
the three factors upon which commercial success depends.
“A millionaire—one who was getting up an art-gallery—went to Whistler’s studio and glanced casually at the pictures.
“‘How much for the lot?’ he asked, with the confidence of one who owns gold mines.
“‘Your millions,’ said Whistler.
“‘What!’
“‘My posthumous prices.’ And the painter added, ‘Good-morning.’”