Introducing the American Spirit

by Edward Alfred Steiner

My wife and the Frau Directorin, with the determination and endurance which women alone possess, continued the chase to a victorious finish.

Fortunately an altogether satisfying luncheon followed this strenuous experience, after which, rested and refreshed, we repaired to the Art Institute.

The Chicago Art Institute, within a stone’s throw of the most congested business section, at the edge of its noise and rush, is by its very being there a sort of triumph.

The Herr Director approached it somewhat condescendingly, expecting to find it and its contents big, bizarre and “nouveau richessque.” As soon as he entered the building he felt the dignity and good taste of its arrangement, and his manner changed. After he had looked critically at some of the pictures and approved them, I knew myself for once on the way to success; for his praise was as genuine as his criticism.

Knowing that money can buy both Old and New Masters, he expected to find them; but he had not expected to see such discrimination as was shown in choosing and hanging them. He was entirely unprepared for the excellent work of our native artists, outside of that small but exalted sphere occupied by Whistler, Sargent, Innes, etc.

My joy was complete when we were taken into the Art School by the Director, Dr. French, whose death not long ago must always be deplored. The rooms of the Art School were crowded by boys and girls of all ages and varied nationalities and races, learning to develop their God-given talents under the guidance of competent and sympathetic teachers. The picture they made delighted me more than those they drew or painted; for it seemed so thoroughly, generously, democratically and artistically American.

I scored another victory for the American Spirit when I introduced my guests to Lorado Taft, sculptor, and the guiding star in Chicago’s artistic firmament. In his rare personality, strength and purity, idealism and practical good sense blend, and his art reflects the man. He showed us some of his work and that of his pupils, and both elicited unstinted praise from my guests.

The climax of our visit came when we returned to the entrance hall which we found crowded by public school children, all listening to an orchestra composed of certain of their number, and led by a young girl about fourteen years of age. It seemed to me a remarkable and beautiful combination. The marbles and pictures, the music, and, best of all, the children happily wandering about the place. When the program ended there was ice-cream for everybody, served by the teachers who accompanied the children. It was a real party, an American party, and we might have travelled long and far before I could have found anything which would have better reflected for my guests the American Spirit at its best.

If I were an artist and a sculptor I should like to portray the spirit of Chicago as one feels it in this museum. I would model a group, with its central figure that same sculptor, the finely bred American, clean and wholesome, who longs to create, not only the city beautiful, but the city human. He should be surrounded by the children, happily looking at pictures and listening to music as we saw them in the Art Institute that day.

But there must be another prominent figure in my group: the heartless, ruthless, twentieth century American, with clean-shaven face, jaws strong as a vise, and a chin like the base of an anvil. He is the man who “makes a good husband,” and partly obeys the Scriptural injunction: because he provides for his own. He too should be surrounded by children; not his, but the children who work in his factories and have to live in his rickety tenements. The two men would struggle mightily for supremacy in the city’s life; and I would set up my sculptured group in the busiest place, where all who passed it by might see, and seeing, help him who was struggling for beauty and for happiness.