He said he did.
“Well, you have saved us twenty thousand dollars.”
At the next meeting Frank arose and demanded the money he had saved the committee, saying that he would bring eight of the foremost painters of America to the fair and have them decorate the domes of the Manufacturers’ Building. And so came the change from Italian workmen, who had formerly smeared the walls with bad copies of their old masters, to American artists (not experts in mural work, it is true, but full of enthusiasm and fresh, original ideas). I was on the point of starting back to Europe after doing a stained-glass window for my class in Harvard, when I received a hurried call, and in spite of the fact that Mr. George B. Post, the architect, upon being asked which of the Chicago decorations he liked best, said, “Simmons’s—for if my building will hold that up, it will hold up anything,” I feel that my career as a painter was entirely changed at Chicago.
Olmstead originated the plan of the fair grounds—that charming idea of letting in the waters of the lake to form canals instead of streets and making a modern Venice. In the moonlight it was a veritable fairyland. But the guiding hand in all things was Daniel Burnham, the director-general. This able, handsome, and dignified man, always undeniably a male, was as representative an American of the period as one could imagine. He was large, of the Grover Cleveland type, but with unbounded energy, one who worked while he worked and played when he played. He could accomplish more in a day than any ten men, and one reason was that he began early. Much to the consternation of some of the directors, he used to call the meetings at seven o’clock in the morning, and there was a great row if everyone was not there. These directors were not an easy group to handle, and the presiding genius was often in need of a high hand to keep them straight. For example, one of them, much puffed up by his position and thinking to give it a fitting setting, bought an old-fashioned tallyho and four, with all the appurtenances, and came to the meetings (the great horn announcing his approach) but—riding inside his coach!
Cockroach Ranch—called so because they indulged in the best North American manner of spoiling food—was the dining and meeting place of the artists of the Exposition. Here, in a big, bare room, looking like a railway station, with a long table in the center presided over by Elihu Vedder as our doyen, we met and talked of all manner of things, while such people as actresses and diplomats on a visit would sneak in to listen to our extravagant conversation. In fact, we bragged so much at night about our work and then at lunch the next day admitted it was rotten, having seen it in the “cold, gray dawn of the morning after,” that Bauer, the sculptor, said to us one day:
“You fellows remint me of a painter-man I used to know in Chermany. He vas joost like you. He vould paint anythings, nothings—for money. One day a fellow, he comes and says:
“‘Vill you paint me somethings?’
“‘Yes, I vill paint you somethings.’
“‘I vant a sign—a white horse for my inn.’
“‘I vill paint the sign, but you better haf a red lion.’