Huntsmen find the easiest Way.
George Lathrop told me that shortly after his marriage with one of the daughters of Nathaniel Hawthorne he was very much surprised at receiving a formal visit from Mr. Emerson one afternoon. The poet was old then and was not in the habit of going about much, so the call portended something of importance. After the usual conversation, Emerson said, pointedly:
“Mr. Lathrop, I understand that you have chosen words as a means of livelihood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lathrop.
“And have married?” continued Emerson. “An added insanity?”
Poverty is one of the strongest enemies that the artist has to fight. We should each one have a Mæcenas to keep us; I know of but one or two cases in this country where men have succeeded in gaining membership in the first rank in the opinion of other artists (for they are his peers and deciding fact) without money behind them. They inherit it, they marry it, or they are backed by some one so that they may have a security of rental, food, and materials. There is not enough market for the fine arts that a man may live by them alone.
After all, it is as it should be. We are a young nation, really in our infancy, and babies do not need art until they have been fed and kept warm. It takes many generations of growing wheat until the body is ready for something finer. So far, the fine arts have been an indication of the coming death of the country that produced them—like a bush or vine, a nation flowers and then dies. Only the seeds grow, and those in another place. If I were asked to give my opinion, I would vote against forcing the people to accept the fine arts, as I would vote against giving a baby tobacco or alcohol, which would most assuredly stop its growth. (However, Emerson says, “America has a genius for making new law,” and it may be that we can change this. I sincerely hope so.)
All this is hard for the artist whose only desire is to catch and keep some of the beauty that he finds about him, and if he is forced to depend upon the sale of these dreams to provide him with bread and butter, he is quite liable to starvation or cynicism. The ordinary person cannot possibly realize how close to the wind an idealist often gets. To say that you are “broke” means nothing to the business man. I once heard one of them tell a painter friend of mine that it was all wrong for him to owe his washerwoman, that he should do, as all practical folk did, go down and hypothecate a bond! It is unethical for an artist (as it is for a professional man) to go into the courts or to advertise. He must not ask for work or show that he is hard up in any way, and, like the stage folk, he must hold his work at a high price. The distance between the price of a work of art and the money one can obtain for it is a long road, however. I was astonished to read in a newspaper, not long ago, that a picture of mine, bought by a well-known millionaire, was appraised, at his death, for exactly ten times the amount I had received for it not more than ten years before.
If a man dies or goes crazy—so that the source of supply is definitely cut off—his work immediately jumps in value. I often think of John Twachtman, struggling along without any particular recognition, selling his pictures for little or nothing, and almost bankrupt when he died. His brother painters knew the value of his work and resolved to make the public see it. The dealers fought shy of it, as he had not been a popular seller when alive. Choosing the right week in February and the proper gallery (the American Art Association) such men as Thomas Dewing and Alden Weir, who commanded a position in the fine arts in this country, were joined by one of the unusual people in America—a man with a strange combination of business ability, overwhelmed by a love of beauty—Thomas W. Clarke. Twachtman’s pictures, of which there were a great many, were properly placed before the public, with the result that his bills were paid and a substantial sum realized for his widow. A number of his best canvases were reserved so that Mrs. Twachtman might have them for a nest egg.
What a contrast while he was alive! One friend of his has in his possession to-day many exquisite sketches which he purchased from time to time for twenty-five dollars apiece. They are now worth thousands. I remember walking wearily up and down Fifth Avenue all of one afternoon with Twachtman, each of us with one of his unframed landscapes under his arm, visiting dealer after dealer in a vain effort to sell one of them for twenty-five dollars in order that he might obtain enough money to remain a member of The Players. In one gallery we were offered fifteen dollars. By that time we were quite tired, and I had to restrain John from striking the man. In sadness we returned to the club and placing the canvases in the cloak room, went downstairs to cheer ourselves with a drink, where I (talking as usual) told our afternoon’s experience to a limited number of friends. I had hardly finished when the clerk reached out through the side window and handed John a receipted bill for his dues. Stanford White had heard the story and paid them.