HOW SHE BEGAN.
Her instinct for art seems to have been a gift direct. As a very little girl her facility with the pencil delighted her teachers, and after the regular exercises of the day she was allowed to occupy her time drawing whatever fancy or surroundings might suggest. At seven years of age her parents removed to Philadelphia, and there the young artist encountered school regulations which rather debarred her from following her beloved pastime. But her talent was so pronounced that one day in every week was allowed her in which to attend the School of Design—an arrangement that continued until she entered the grammar school.
A few years later she became a regular student at this School of Design, where she took a course of wood engraving, but did not relax her study of drawing. As an engraver she became so successful that her work soon became remunerative, and gave her means to enter the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts. At the same time her progress as an engraver was so marked that her efforts were brought to the attention of the art editor of “Scribner’s Magazine,” for whom, to illustrate an article on the academy, she engraved the “Woman’s Life Class,” from her own drawing. Soon her drawings gave her a reputation, and she abandoned engraving. Her first published drawings were for school-book illustrations, from which her field widened and her work came into great demand.
In 1887 she was married and spent ten months abroad, studying for a part of the time in Paris in the school of Julien and of Carlo Rossi, devoting the remainder of her stay in travel. Upon her return she was prevailed upon to become an instructor in the Philadelphia School of Design, where she introduced life-class study, which has met with marked success.
XXXI
A Schoolboy’s Sketches Reveal the Bent of a Talented Illustrator.
FREDERIC REMINGTON’S drawings and paintings of ranch life are so full of action and so vigorously drawn that they have attracted attention all over the United States and abroad, wherever true art is honored. No living artist can equal Remington in bringing into life, as it were, on the very canvas, a bucking broncho, or the sweeping charge of a force of Uncle Sam’s cavalry. One fairly sees the dust on the scorching alkali plains, and hears the quick clatter of the horse’s hoofs as he strikes the ground, and gathers his legs again.
And yet, with all his success, Mr. Remington is most unassuming. I went to New Rochelle, where he has a cosy place on the crest of a hill. He was in his studio, which is an addition to the house; and, as I descended a few steps, he rose from before his easel to greet me. His working coat was covered with paint, and he held a brush in his left hand. He had not been warned of my mission, and seemed almost startled.
“I cannot shake hands,” he said, looking at me, “mine are soiled; I am a painter, you know.”
He sat down, hanging one arm over the back of his chair.
“Don’t write about me, but speak of my art!” said Mr. Remington.
“But you and your art are one,” I replied, looking around the studio, and to its walls hung with Indian relics. “Most of your pictures are from experiences of your own in the great far west, are they not?”
“Yes, but not all,” was the reminiscent reply.
“And those trophies?” I added, glancing at them.
“O, I bought most of them. That jacket I bought from a mounted policeman. Pretty, isn’t it? I am able to depict the western country and life, because I have been there.”