THE ARTIST ILLUSTRATED.
The following is from Mr. Robert Kerr’s interesting Discourses on Fine Art Architecture.
“What is an artist? Oh, everybody knows what an artist is till you press the question, and then you find that everybody does not so clearly know. I have already defined my meaning in the term, but perhaps you have net yet felt the fulness of the definition; and illustration may be useful.
“In a lone room, damp-walled and fireless,—the midnight wind of March howling without,—cold, but not feeling it,—cheerless, comfortless, but senseless to such,—there sits, perhaps a youth, perhaps an aged man. A book lies open, and his red eyes greedily devour the thought. Or it is a picture that he muses on; perhaps a statue, a carving, a device; perhaps (although it may seem wonderful) a building. Or he writes,—ponders and writes; or draws,—ponders and draws. Or it is music that he loves,—sweet melody—soft harmony—in the still night, when grosser men have ceased their turmoil’s jarring discord. How intent he is! He forgets the world—forgets himself—forgets the cold March night—-in some strange lore! The chill of opening spring is but as the warmth of kindest, sunniest Autumn. That cheerless home of his is lost—lost in the vision of a beautiful heaven. The bleak black noon of night is without! within it is a brilliant daylight scene; and he is very happy! He is alone with Art,—his soul surrounded with the beautiful. He is drunk with love of Loveliness as with a drug. Sorcery-struck, the earthy of him sleeps, and the supernal self is breathing a celestial air. He is not in the dim, damp chamber,—cold and comfortless. Earth singing a wild winter-song without,—he is far away! Fool that he is,—poor dreamer! Fool? Dreamer? Nay!”
THE DOUBLE SURPRISE.
A husband wishing to surprise a beloved wife on her birthday, came to Sully, the painter, and got him to paint his portrait “on the sly.” It was begun forthwith, and Sully was to have it carried home and put up while the wife was out. But before it was half done, the wife paid him a visit by stealth. “Pray, Mr. Sully,” said she, “could you not contrive, think you, to make a portrait of me by such a day (Sully stared), for that is my birthday, and I should like of all things to surprise my husband,” “Why,—a—a,” said Sully, seeing that she had no idea of the trick, “I do believe that I could; and if you will manage to draw your husband away the night before, I will have the picture hung up for you and all ready to receive you in the morning.” “Delightful!” said she. To work he went therefore, and so closely was he run that once or twice he had to let the husband out of one door on tiptoe, while the wife was creeping in at another on tiptoe. Well, the portraits were finished: they were very like. The night before the birthday arrived, and Sully finding both parties away, each being decoyed away by the other, hung them up (the pictures, not the parties) in their superb frames, just where they required to be hung. The rest of the story we may as well skip,—for who shall describe the surprise of both, when the wife got up early, and the husband got up early, both keeping their countenances to a miracle, and each feigned an excuse to lead the other into the room where the two portraits appeared side by side!—Monthly Magazine, 1826.
THE IDEAL PART OF PAINTING.
“Painting is an act that leads to infinite exertion, and the perfection of it appears difficult to be ascertained. The grandest performances of the greatest masters cannot circumscribe the limits of the art. Raphael has executed prodigious works; but yet we dare to think that he may be excelled, and this great man laboured every day of his life, with a hope to surpass himself. I am certain that had his life, which was a short one, been extended to ever so great a length, and had his progress in his art kept pace with his increasing years, the idea of perfection which he cherished would have prevented him from being satisfied with what he had, and he would always have aimed at further improvement. No one but a painter can imagine this infinite process in the art: other men consider it as confined to very narrow limits. The artist himself sees his toil expanding itself every moment into infinite extent. This art may be compared to geography; where a dot stands for a city, a sea, or a kingdom.”