Then they suggested Religious Liberty as a subject. My argument against this was that it is an idea of the mind and not for the eye. Pope Hildebrand, a most wicked man, would be a far more decorative proposition than Bishop Potter, though not representing Religious Liberty nearly so well. I tried to make a composition, but failed and gave it up. I did propose, however, that it could be done by taking the color red for the Church of Rome, raising the tone to a lively pink for the Church of England, then a very faint rose shade for Unitarianism. In this way the idea might be made to last out the seven panels, the last being one where only the pure in heart could see any color at all.
Brander Matthews once gave me the best illustration that I know of a purely literary subject that could not be painted. The ladies of New York presented a flag to a Negro regiment. The color sergeant stepped forward, as in duty bound, to accept it. He then should have stepped back, but, being a negro, had to say something. So, saluting, he remarked, “I’ll bring these colors back or I’ll report to God, the reason why.” Now this is a fine tale, but how to paint it? One would have a negro and a flag; the remainder would have to be printed underneath.
Mistaking the subject for the artist is a great failing of a certain type of mind. This was true of Freddie Remington. He was a darling and we all loved him—one of those rare beings, a man without an enemy. When he began painting he was lucky enough to stumble upon a new field, one of great size, that had not been touched, and one that all America cared for. The West, the cowboy, soldier, and miner were virgin soil, waiting for his touch. Roosevelt, who did not know as much about painting as he did about roughriding, wanted to have a statue erected to him as the greatest American artist.
I do not believe the ordinary politician ever considers the fine arts seriously. To him beauty is something for Sundays or holidays, and he lets the women attend to it. At least, when we were in Washington some years ago, making an attempt to have the tax on art removed, I had a chance to judge the mental weight of one Congressman. I was asked to be one of the party (as one of the minor speakers only), for I could tell what I knew of the same matter in France and England. I was fool enough to say, in the course of my argument:
“This may not go down with the woolly West, but it should in the East.”
Instantly a long young man, with a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead, rose and said:
“What’s that, Mr. ——” (turning to his neighbor to ask my name)—“oh, Simmons? What do you know about the West, if I may ask. How far west have you ever been?”
I think he took it for granted that I was born (like Sargent) on the other side. I answered:
“Three years under the shadow of Mount Shasta, Mr. Bryan.”
I knew William Jennings by sight and judged that he had not ventured so far from his home town as I had. He was silenced by the chairman and there was a chuckle.