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.