It would emphasize especially the need of knowledge and mastery of facts, encouraging the formation of a stable basis on which romance, if it were minded to push its head into the clouds, might at least have sure foundation for its feet. Certainly, one accomplishment that Brush brought back from Paris was a feeling for form, and another was a faculty of seizing upon the reality of things and of keeping close to facts. No doubt it is as a painter of ideas that he is significant; but do not let us overlook the point that all his work, especially the earlier examples, shows an appreciation of the actual. How much of this he owes to the influence of Gérôme it would be hard to estimate; but even if this realization of the mental and artistic value of the actual is an element in his own character, the contact with this master must have done much to give it fibre. For the sense of actuality is communicable, while ideas are not only personal to their author, but inalienable. And how distressingly elusive, tame, and profitless in pictures are ideas unbased on actuality—the landscape, for example, that makes for sentiment without support of drawing and construction. In pictures of the human figure an inspired control of colour may fill us with enthusiasm, but cannot wholly stifle our regret if the drawing is inadequate; for the beauty of nature is the beauty of its forms and of the coloured raiment that clothes the forms without disguising them, while in the world of spiritual ideas the beauty depends upon their association with or analogy to the world of matter.
So let us recognize the value of the master’s influence upon Brush. There was much that he had to unlearn as he pursued his own evolution, notably the sleek, hard, and dispassionate method of Gérôme’s painting. But his brush work every painter of distinguished character must acquire gradually for himself, just as a writer, if he is an honest craftsman, will discover his own fashion of words, adjusting his method of expression to what he is trying to express; the main thing, both for painter and writer, being to have something to say: something which is a part of the man’s self and convictions. The method will grow to it.
Leaving Gérôme’s studio, Brush, like other students, stood at the dividing ways. He might have cast his eye around him, noted what seemed to be the tendencies of the day in art, the “latest style,” as the fashion-makers call it, and set to work to reproduce in New York the impressions aroused in Paris. Then, in time, he would have been among those who excuse their own lack of initiative with the lament that in our city there is no “art atmosphere.”
In the sense they seem to mean it, the absence is not an unmitigated evil, for what is this “art atmosphere,” when you search it closely? A little, perhaps, like Scotland, as characterized by a Scotchman, “The most beautiful country in the world to live out of.” So it is well to know there are places where the art atmosphere abounds, that one may visit for a time with pleasure and profit; yet it is remarkable how the great painters, the men of force and character, whose minds push them on continually, live either outside of it or within it behind closed doors. The smallness inseparable from an art atmosphere, the mutual admiration and amiable reciprocity of patting of backs, or worse, the “Bully, my boy!” to his face, and the “How he’s missed it!” behind his back; the petty rivalries of little cliques that clutter of themselves across a café table, setting up little standards and gaining brief conspicuousness by repeating one another’s efforts—this is not the sort of atmosphere that strong painters need to breathe. They would be stifled in it. They need, like Delacroix or Puvis de Chavannes, the ample privacy of their own inner life, or, like the Barbizon men, the large seclusion of nature. For such an atmosphere a painter of Brush’s calibre would have no use.
He returned to this country; not to city life, but to the wide freedom of the western territories, and found inspiration for his imagination among the Indians. I know nothing of what impelled him; whether it were a survival of a boy’s enthusiasm for the story of his country, or a suggestion received from the archæological associations of Gérôme’s studio, or some happy chance of idea, seized upon and followed out; but the significant point is that, though fresh from Paris, or, shall we say? because of it, he found motives that attracted him in America. The older men had found them too, but many of the younger generation, returning from Europe, were proclaiming, and many do so still, that the conditions of America are unfavourable to pictorial motives. May it not be that the barrenness is in themselves? I am not speaking of the landscape painters, but the figure men. One of their laments is the lack of picturesque costumes. This same word “picturesqueness” has been the bane of painting for two hundred years, implying the necessity of certain formulated qualities in a landscape or figure, rendering it suitable for the purposes of a picture. Owing to this obsession, Corot was fifty years old and had paid three visits to Italy before he, poet though he was, could feel the suggestion of loveliness in the scenery of his native country. So one must not be too hard on others who are deaf to the calling of their environment. But let us give no quarter to picturesqueness. It is a discredited, discreditable evasion of the facts. The true painter sees pictures all around him or evokes them from his imagination; the world of matter or of spirit continually presents itself to him in pictorial fashion; it is only a journeyman who hunts for picturesque jobs.
It may be said that possibly it was just this picturesque quality in the Indians that attracted Brush. I cannot say; but had he penetrated no further than the unusualness of their costumes and habits, as is the case with others, so far as I know, who have painted them, there were nothing to be said. But he has penetrated into the life and thought of the Indian, and, more than that, has re-created in his pictures something of the primeval world; its vast isolation, silence, mystery. He has found in these modern redmen a clue to their past and has created a series of picture-poems which have the lyric melody of Longfellow’s “Hiawatha,” an equal individuality and appeal to the imagination and a greater virility. Let me instance “Silence Broken”—a little glimpse of river, banked with dense foliage, out of which a goose has burst above an Indian in his canoe. It is a small picture, representing a contracted spot, but it needs very little imagination to make one feel that this fragment of seclusion is part of an immensity of solitariness. The man, kneeling as he plies the paddle, looks up in no wise startled, but with a grand composure that seems a part of the elemental suggestion of the scene. It is a work of powerful imagination, projecting itself upon the solemn spaciousness and mystery of the past.
Recall, too, another small canvas of big significance, “Mourning her Brave.” Standing by her dead in the snow, high up on a mountain ledge, the woman utters her dirge to a leaden sky. What emptiness and desolation of world without and spirit within! A breath of the ceaseless mystery of sorrow throbbing out of the void of time! Then a tenderer feeling pervades “The Sculptor and the King.” Stroke by stroke the sculptor has compelled the marble to respond to his thought, or wooed it, for he has a gentle, dreamy face; a youth only dimly conscious of his desires, and he waits for the king’s verdict, tremulously eager, and withal so glad in his heart at what his hands have found the skill to do; a poetic embodiment not only of the primitive man’s yearning after expression, but of the springtime of every artist’s soul. Then note the king, standing with folded arms, wrapping his doubt of the desirability of such things and, yet, his wonder and admiration of them in the convenient impenetrability of silence. There is a touch of humour in this figure, as of the critic non-plussed and unwilling to commit himself, but much more of serious reference to the early dawnings of a comprehension of the beautiful, as “a thing to be desired to make one wise.”
Those Indian subjects are of a high order of imaginative work. They have a great power of suggestion, stirring directly and forcibly one’s own imagination; and they are informed with an elevation of thought, a deeply penetrating earnestness
