“About as Japanese as a colored illustration in a modern magazine.” The discussion became heated.
Oddly enough, at that moment a Japanese expert, who was crossing the country on his way to Europe to catalogue some collections, entered the room, and he was appealed to for his opinion of the drawing in question. In broken English he said:
“It is—very—pretty, very pretty; but—I not know how you say it,—but it is what you call—Spencerian,—yes, that is the name of the copy-books—Spencerian writing, while a Japanese drawing is the—autograph—that is the difference—the autograph.”
And that is the difference between some of the work of even the great ones before him and whatever Whistler did,—everything he touched was his autograph; whereas with even Rembrandt there is the feeling now and then, though seldom, of the set purpose, of the determination to secure a certain result, of the intention to do something for others. Whistler never did anything for any one but himself. He never touched needle or brush to please model, sitter, or patron. Whenever the work in hand ceased to amuse and interest him as a creation of his own fancy, he dropped it. He could not work after his interest had evaporated.
There is in existence a water-color[17] bearing Whistler’s signature on the back, and also this endorsement: “From my window. This was his first attempt at water-color.—E. W. Godwin.”
It is a characteristic view of the Thames with Old Battersea Bridge reaching almost from side to side.
In his pastels and water-colors, as in his etchings and lithographs, he never forced a delicate medium beyond its limitations.
Of all artists who ever lived, Whistler made the least mystery of his art.
He not only expressed his intentions fully in his art, but also in unmistakable language.
In the first of his “Propositions,” published many years ago, he laid down certain fundamental principles which controlled his use of etching, water-color, and pastel, the first proposition being: