Orchardson was a man of wide interests. He was always liberal in his outlook. Anything new, no matter by whom, or what form it took, interested him, and he was particularly good to young men. For instance, the son of Professor Lorimer, of Edinburgh, sent a portrait of his father to the Academy. No one had then heard of young Lorimer, but the picture was accepted and hung on the line. Two or three years after, when the artist was in London, he was introduced to Orchardson, who at once exclaimed:
“‘J. H. Lorimer’! Ah, yes! I remember. I hung a picture of yours on the line at the Academy a few years ago, because it showed promise.” And thus began a delightful friendship. That was his way. Whenever he could do a young artist a good turn, he did so; whenever he could say a word of encouragement, he was always willing; endless were the visits he paid to the studios of youthful aspirants, and many the kindly words of advice and encouragement he left behind.
He thought it one of the crying shames of the day that more was not done for living painters and sculptors. He considered our public buildings and open spaces should be adorned by sculpture, that our public libraries and edifices should be decorated by paintings.
“There is just as good talent as ever there was,” he would say, “if these millionaires would only encourage it, and not pay vast sums for spurious old masters. You have only to call a thing old, and it will be bought, but call the same thing new, and no one will even look at it.”
Speaking to him once about a fellow-artist’s death, I said what a pity it was a man should live to over-paint himself, just as men lived to over-write themselves—paint until their eye has lost all idea of form and colour.
He did not agree to this. “Once a painter, always a painter,” he declared. “Our individual taste improves, our life becomes more educated, until we look upon work as bad which, years before, we thought good. In fact,” he maintained, “if the early pictures of an artist were put with his later work, you would probably find he had not deteriorated at all.” He gave as an illustration the works in the Manchester Exhibition—where one man had, perhaps, twenty pictures, painted in different years, hung side by side; and these, he maintained, one and all reached a certain standard, and did not deteriorate or improve very much with years.
Once asked to paint a picture containing several portraits, he agreed, although the subjects were not handsome—ugly, in fact.
“What a trial that must be to you?”
“Oh dear, no! I far prefer an ugly face to a beautiful one. It is generally so much more interesting.”