FUN IN THE STUDIO
FUN IN THE STUDIO
Irish Model. Would ye moind telling me, sorr, who was the greatest arrrtist iver been—av course, prisent company always excepted!
Artist (to country model). You’d better “rest” a bit. Sitting still seems very tiring to you.
Model (mindful of instructions of local photographer’s). It ain’t the sitting still, mister. It’s the ’olding me breath!
According to a most unlikely story, the late Phil May was once on his uppers in a small town in Australia. To stave off starvation he sought and found employment as a waiter in a fourth-class eating house. One day a man who had known the artist in London dropped in and took a seat at one of the tables. When May went to take his order mutual recognition followed.
“Phil May!” the visitor exclaimed. “And compelled to work in a hole like this!”
“Yes,” retorted the artist indignantly. “I’ve sunk pretty low, but I haven’t yet got so far down that I have to eat here.”
WHOLESALE!
Patron (yawning). Augh, well, these sort of things are all much the same to me. I’ll take a lot by weight—mounts and all. How much a pound for this lot?
“QUALIFICATIONS.”
Painter (who has always been ambitious of “writing himself down an R.A.”). Think they might have elected me, having exhibited and had my name down all these years! I might have——
Friend (man o’ the world). My dear fellow, I’ve always told you, you don’t go the right way to work. You see they could only elect you for your painting, for—why do you wear such thick boots?!!
BEHIND THE SCENES.
Artist. Hullo, Jakes! How’s this? I’ve been trying to do without you—I thought you said you couldn’t come this morning?
Model. So I did, sir! I was engaged to Mr. Macmough, to sit for the legs in the Dook of Hipswich’s portrait.
Artist. Well?
Model. Well, sir, whiles I were a-sitt’n, the Dook he come in quite hunexpected like; an’ when he see me, he says he’d a deal sooner sit for his legs hisself. So I come on straight here!
“ASKING FOR IT.”
Ferocious Dealer. Now, if any man will tell me that that’s a copy, I’ll—I’ll knock him down!—What’s your candid opinion?
THE COMMERCIAL SIDE.
Painter. You don’t mean to say you want me to sign it, when I tell you I did not paint it? And a beastly copy it is, too!
Picture-Dealer. Vy not, goot sir? vy not? Tut! tut! tut! I only vish you artis’s vos men of bis’ness!
GADDY’S ACADEMY PICTURE ON VIEW.
Art Critic. You see you’ve got the duke seated and the duchess standing up. Now couldn’t you make the duchess sitting down and the duke standing up?
[But Gaddy fears the council will not put off the exhibition for a couple of months to enable him to take advantage of his friend’s valuable suggestion.
“FLATTERING.”
Cook. Laukadaisy me, Miss Mary, if it ain’t a’most like wax-work, I dew declare!
PROFESSION AND PRACTICE.
Painter. Wouldn’t care to be a painter, eh?
Model. Dear, no, sir! Rather be a doctor—their work ain’t so criticised, and it don’t much matter whether it’s kill or cure.
Rapid Genius. ’Ow do I manage it? Why, fust of all I takes the brown and does all the cats and the rinds of the cheeses—then I takes the yaller and goes over the cheeses, and puts in eyes and stripes to the cats. With a brush o’ black I puts in the bottles and the mice; finishes up with a dab o’ white on the bottles and in the mice’s heyes—and there you are!
Critic. De bicture you haff bainted is most peautiful; der is only von vordt in the English langweege vot describes eet, and I haf vorgotten eet.
Jones (to Brown, who has been to a ball at Robinson’s). Many women there?
Brown. No; only their mothers.
FOR EXHIBITION?
Painter. Oh! they won’t hang it, I know—’tis of no use sending it.
Wife. Well, Michael, if you keep it here they won’t hang it, we know—send it and try: they hang bad pictures sometimes. [Michael is encouraged.
PRETTY INNOCENT.
Lady. Oh, Mr. Mastic, why do artists have screens about their studios?
Artist. To back up the figures, and so on.
Lady. Oh, really! Well, I thought it was to keep the bedstead and all that out of sight, you know.
“AYE, THERE’S THE RUB!”
Irascible Patron (who has wiped out a good deal of Funkie’s great work). Confound your nasty picture, sir! See what it has done! The canvas is reeking with paint, sir—positively reeking! It’s disgraceful! [Exit in a whirlwind.
Artist (to his hypochondriacal friend with an independence). Ah! my dear fellow, if you had to work hard and get your own living as we have, you’d have no dyspepsia, I’ll be bound; good-bye.
THE MARCH OF SCIENCE.
Artist (as a hint to his friend). Bless me! Five o’clock! I had no idea it was so late. How quickly time does fly now!
Yankee. Which I calc’late it’s all owin’ to the vast improvements effected in clocks by our great country.
THE REAL.
Mary Jane in reply to Olivia.
“The same romantic creature as ever! His name is not Algernon, but plain Robert; and he’s not an Apelles, but a hard-working fellow, with enough of genius to make me proud of him. As to his model—etc., etc. [For “The Ideal,” see [p. 156].
PLEASURES OF THE STUDIO.
At the beginning of April, when every moment is of consequence, Mr. Flake White’s model for Hamlet appears with a black eye, which he declares is the effect of influenza.
A HAPPY MEDIUM.
Dealer. Ah! there’s good transparency there. What do you mix your colour with?
Artist. Brains.
THE IDEAL.
From Olivia to Mary Jane
“And so, dearest, you have married an artist! How like you, who was always such an admirer of the beautiful. * * * I can see you ‘in my mind’s eye’; your Algernon (his name is Algernon, is it not, dearest?) seated like another Apelles at his easel, whilst you, his own Cantaspe, make the most graceful of models. You remember——
“Apelles, when Cantaspe’s form he drew,
Bade her remove the look of love she wore,
Lest others should adore,” etc., etc.
[For “The Real,” see [page 154].
Artist. My big picture? I haven’t painted in the two principal figures yet; because I can’t find anybody pretty enough to sit for them. Ah! Miss Mary, if I could only induce you just to——
Miss Bridget. Oh! my dear Mr. M’Gilp, we should both be only too delighted! When shall we come to your studio? How shall we dress? and what style of coiffure? [Now, what is a fellow to say in such a fix as this?
James McNeill Whistler and a friend, strolling through a London suburb, met a small boy. Whistler asked him his age.
“Seven,” the boy replied.
“Oh, you must be more than seven,” said Whistler doubtingly.
“Seven,” insisted the boy, rather pleased at being taken for older.
Turning to his friend, Whistler said, “Do you think it possible that he really could have got as dirty as that in only seven years?”
Answers for our Artist.—“Biddy Maloney, just you look at that clock! Didn’t I tell you last night to knock at my door at eight this morning?”
“An’ so ye did, sir, and I came to the door at eight sure enough, but I heard ye was making no noise at all!”
“Well, why the dickens didn’t you knock, and wake me?”
“Sure, and because I feared yez might be fast asleep!”
THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.
Mrs. Fred doesn’t care how long she sits for her “dear Fred,” so long as her “darling Freddy” is in some safe place where he can’t get into mischief.
KINDLY MEANT.
Chrome (to friend). Well, and how do I get on with the doublet? Is it more like leather?
Conscientious Friend. Why, no; I can’t say it is—but (apologetically) you’ve got the face very like leather.
Painter (aghast).—Good heavens, man! Where’s your beard? What have you done to your face?
Model. Me, sir? Naethin, but just made my whiskers a wee thing decent wi’ the shears.
Painter. Then you’re an utterly ruined man, sir! and I’m very sorry for you. You’re not worth twopence. Good-morning.
How some of the old painters must have worked to get through anything like the number of “original” pictures attributed to them.
STUDIO PERSUASION.
Our friend Jack McGilp to excited partner, who has just the head for his picture of “A Husband’s Revenge.”—So she won’t stand any longer, won’t she? Of course she won’t. I’ll get a model. [The effect is magical.
Cook. Lawks, miss, it’s beautiful; but I’d no idea your pa was a portrait painter!
A MODEL HUSBAND AND A LAY FIGURE.
What Miss Grundy saw in her brother-in-law’s studio.
What Miss Grundy said about it to her sister.—“Perfectly disgraceful—and to crown it all she was bald!”
MARVELLOUS!
Young Lady. Ah! really, Mr. Splurge, I can’t think how you manage to paint with such taste.
Mr. S. Simply by holding my palate in my hand, I assure you.
A VISIT TO THE STUDIO.
Mr. Ochre (through whose frame a thrill of horror is supposed to be passing). Ugh! mind what you’re about, Charley. Mind my Ophelia; mind my Ophelia! You’ll knock her over, and spoil all her folds!
SCENE IN A STUDIO.
Jack Armstrong has painted a modern subject, from real life, and painted it uncommonly well.—Strange to say, he has sold his picture.
Messrs. Feeble and Potter (very high-art men, who can’t get on without mediæval costume, and all the rest of it) think it a mistake.—Curiously enough, their pictures are unsold.
Ballet of action with which Sparkles (who says he is so hard at work at his picture), and his friend and model, Jack Bounce, refresh themselves in the intervals of labour.
TURPS v. TURPITUDE.
The above represents a slight mistake made by Scumble’s new charwoman, who, being “partial to her drops,” thought she had a chance.
ONE USE FOR “DUNDREARYS.” (1863.)
Fitzdab (who does the Dundreary sort of thing) having brought his whiskers to a pitch of perfection seldom equalled, gives the finishing touches to Dolly Jenkins’s portrait with the tips.
ACCOMMODATING!
Stern Parent. Too fat for a page, you think, sir? Um! You see, sir, if so be you could wait a week or so, we could redooce him wery easy.
Cotton Lord (“coming” the noble patron). Haw—I was indooced to buy a little picture of yours, the other day, Stodge, haw——
Artist (who does not seem to see it). Lucky fellow!!
“NOBLESSE OBLIGE!”
Stodge (in answer to the reproachful look of his cabman). Well, it’s your right fare; you know that as well as I do!
Cabby. Oh! which I’m well aware o’ that, sir! But—(“more in sorrow than in anger”)—an’ you a artis’, sir!! [Gets another shilling!
OUR ART-SCHOOL CONVERSAZIONE.
At which (in consequence of the increased space anticipated at the R.A. exhibition) there is a greater crowd than usual.
Model (who has charge of the hats and coats). No. 97? Yessir. There now! If I didn’t see that ’at—ah—not a quarter of an hour ago!! [Not a very satisfactory look-out for Bouncefield,
who has barely time to catch his last train!
OUR ARTIST THINKS OF PAINTING A PICTURE FROM MACAULAY’S “IVRY,”
AND DECLAIMS THE POEM TO A PROSAIC PARTY.
Our Artist (ore rot.). “*****
Charge by the golden lilies! upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind——”
Prosaic Party (interrupting). Hullo!
Our Artist. Eh?
Prosaic Party. Why, hang it, that’s only one spur a-piece!
“SHARP’S THE WORD.”
Enter Lord Blasonby (hastily) to sit for his portrait in Stodge’s picture of the Chalkshire hunt.
Stodge. I understood you to say you would come yesterday, my lord; and I am engaged this morning. Lady Flouncer is coming at one o’clock.
My Lord. Haw! just in time, then. Cut away. You’ve got a good ten minutes. Wants a quarter to one, now!
“I ordered you to paint me some cows in a stable. I see the stable, but where are the cows?”
“They are in the stable.”
“So is your pay for this picture. You had better bring both out.”
THE SYMPATHIES OF ART.
Tailor (to artist customer). Looky ’ere, sir,—I’ll put it to you! you’re a drawer yourself, and if you knew the years I’ve been studyin’ the ’uman figger—you wouldn’t tell me that coat don’t fit!
UNDER A GREAT MASTER.
FAST COLOURS.
Artist (reading note from obliged friend). Um,—um,—much obliged to you for the loan of your Bedouin’s dress—(um,—um,)—will return it in a day or two, as I’ve, (ah! what!) sent it—to—the WASH!!
[The artist’s feelings (for colour especially) may be easier imagined than described.
[NOBODY DESIRES THE PAINTER TO MAKE HIM AS UGLY AND AS RIDICULOUS AS POSSIBLE.]
(In this engraving by George Cruikshank the figure of the artist is a portrait of Cruikshank himself.)
“What colour of hair do you prefer, Mr. Baldwon, black or blonde?”
“I would not care what colour it was, if I only had some!”
“Your last book, madame, had a colossal success.”
“I should say so! Every one of my three divorced husbands wanted to re-marry me!”
A great man was complaining of all the charities to which he was forced to contribute.
“I give without counting,” he groaned.
“Yes, but not without recounting,” replied a friend.
PERFECT SINCERITY; OR, THINKINGS ALOUD.
Artist No. 1. There, Master Oker, I flatter myself that will take the shine out of your precious production, although you do think nobody can paint but yourself.
Artist No. 2. Hey! dear, dear, dear! That’s very bad. By jove, my boy, it’s a dreadful falling-off from last year. If I were you, I should think twice before I sent it in.
Artist No. 1. Mere envy—illiberal humbug.
Professor. I came in accordance with an invitation I received to examine your collection of curiosities.
Parvenu (just returned from long voyage). Certainly, professor, walk right in. Allow me to first introduce to you my wife and daughters.
EASILY SATISFIED.
Fond Parent. I don’t care, Mr. Medium, about it’s being highly finished; but I should like the dear child’s expression preserved.
First author. “Well, what do you think of the book of our colleague Tintinger?”
Second Author. “Oh, what a shameless bidder for notoriety!”
“What! How so?”
“Did you not read the dedication, ‘To my mother-in-law, with sincere esteem’?”
First Artist. Well, are you satisfied with the appreciation that marine view of yours has received?
Second Artist. Delighted. Two women just stopped in front of it and one said to the other, “It just makes me seasick to look at it.”
THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.
Frame-Maker (who comes to measure Stodge’s academy pictures). Now, I think it’s a pity you don’t let me have some o’ these for my winder, since you have no idea of the amount of rubbish I can get rid of at times.
There has been much discussion as to the assistance that photography might render judicial authorities in enabling the arrest of criminals.
Yet this is what recently occurred in France. Six photographs in different poses of the same criminal who had escaped from prison were sent out to all the communes of France. From the mayor of one of these districts the following letter was received:
“Five of the criminals whose photographs you sent have already been arrested; we are on the track of the sixth.”
AS SCUMMLES’S PICTURES ARE INVARIABLY “SKYED” AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY, HE HAS GIVEN UP HIGH FINISH, AND ADAPTS HIS STYLE TO THE CIRCUMSTANCES!