It was quite simple. Here was a soul which dwelt in a prison of shyness. Painting unlocked the door. Out it rushed. Free. It could be itself at last. No fears; no concealments. Liberty!
That was all very well for Fritz, but how about his sitter? About the time the sitter sensed what was going on he felt moved to exclaim:
"Just a moment, Fritz. Don't you think you are getting a trifle familiar?"
I heard one of his painter friends, eyeing a canvas which Fritz had just finished, mutter,
"There is some marvelous subtlety about that mind."
Already his knack of guessing people was damnable. He played no favorites. "I am going to paint what I see or I am not going to paint at all." If what he saw was fatuous, he told it with the disconcerting gusto of a child; if it was sad, he told it (as in that student portrait) so as to produce a burning pressure behind the eyelids; if it was strong and gentle, he told it (as in the portrait of the young farmer) so as to kindle respect and affection. Often all this was unconscious. Again he knew exactly what he was doing and took a wicked relish in it. Of some wealthies whom he was painting he confided with a grin:
"Of course they patronize me within an inch of my life, but I sometimes wonder what would happen if they knew...."
Perhaps he was not so unsophisticated as advertised in the catalogue. He helped himself pretty generously out of the popular supposition that an artist is a mild form of lunatic. He made good use of his talent for silence. But what ears and eyes! Nobody who had seen him paint could ever feel quite safe with him again.