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Bv C:D:R.S.
SURPRISING though It may- seem. It
° isn't neceasary these days to have long
flowing hair partially covered by a moth
eaten beret worn on the side of the head.
a home in an attic lit by the nickering
flame of a candle hi a bottle,
a diet (if any) of sausage, kip
pers and elongated loaves, and
a perpetual fear of meeting the landlady,
In order to be an artist. This business
of being an artist has lost nearly all of
its picturesque qualities. Artists, nowa
days, are practically the same as normal
people. It's quite possible to walk past
one in St. George's-terrace without notic
ing any difference between him and the
ordinary everyday man in the street It's
really most confusing. *
Time was when you could be an artist
by doing almost no painting at alL Pro
viding vou dressed the Dart — after the
colourful style of people wno appear m
the write-ups of fancy-dress balls as
'Mr. Brown (artist)'— or had a dingy,
little, upstairs, untidy room, and gave
wUd bohemian parties every now and
then, you were doing all that was neces
sary from an artistic point of view.
Things have changed, however, and
most artists, nowadays, find it necessary
to do a little daubing once in a while
in order to hold their artistic status.
The wUd debaucheries, the starved look
and the recognised dress are no longer
essential qualifications.
Accordingly, the modern artist is able to
mix with his fellow men without any
sign of self-consciousness. The mere fact
that he paints does not place him beyond
the pale. To all intents and purposes ha
is quite a normal being.
Sometimes he actually goes to work
hi an office and practises his art only
in those hours of 'leisure' before or aftet
his ordinary work.
He is always looking from side to side
for a subject suited to his style of treat
ment, and when he finds it he stands for
hours on end gazing at it and saying to
himself, 'This is beautiful. I must paint
this. This is beautiful.'
So, when he has sufficient time, he
takes his wife (if he has one) and shows
her the subject and tells her, 'I must
paint this,' and before very long he is
actually taking sketches from this angle
and from that.
Sometimes he takes his easel and his
Hushes and his paints with him, and puts
the scene on to canvas there and then,
frequently he is able to work in his studio
from the sketches. It all depends on the
mood and on the subject
Perhaps when walking backwards to
view his progress he trips over a fallen
log on to the broad of his back, but
bardly notices this because of the de
tached mood he is in at the moment. This
Is known as the artistic temperament
and is one of the most valuable assets
tor any artist to have.
Small boys stand around him and annoy
him with their questions, and he fre
quently has to become quite fierce and
rude to make them go away, because small
boys and the artistic temperament don't
blend with the same degree of success
as weU-chosen colours.
However, before very long ne often
finds that his canvas has lots of paint
on it and that there are no bare patches
to cover up. Thus, the painting is
finished and he feels very pleased about
it and tells his wife (if be has one) and
his friends how pleased he is.
Wen, after all his wife and friends
have heard about the masterpiece, he
commences to feel 'the urge' again,
which is a very good idea because, with
out 'the urge.' there could be no fur
ther masterpieces.
Time passes, as time will, and one day
when 'the urge' isn't very urging he
stays home and counts all his paintings
and finds that he has no less than SO.
This makes him very, very pleased, and
he goes to his wife (if he has one) and
says, 'I have SO paintings. X think X
will hold an exhibition.'
So he puts frames around bis paint
ings at great personal risk of Injury
from the many panes of glass which he
accidentally breaks in the process, and
he hires an art gallery where he spends
long hours into the night hanging the
paintings hi various positions until the
desired effect is obtained. After this he
alters all the positions again and once
more feels very pleased with himself, and.
within quite a short time the exhibition
Is opened to the public.
Nice invitations are Issued, possibly
with a reproduction in colour of one of
the most masterly of an the master
pieces. Lots of people stand around this
one and say how much they like It, but
that It's silly to charge so many guineas
for it when, except for being larger, it
is hardly any different from the one on
the invitation.
Bo most of them go home and frame
the one on the invitation and have it
on their dressing table or on the mantel
shelf In the drawing room. This, of
course, is a great compliment to the
artist because it widens the sphere of
appreciation of his art and makes him
better known.
People ten him that they don? know
anything about Art, but that they know
what pleases them, and they point to
No. 12. 'The Cowshed,' or No. 20, 'The
Brook,' as the case may be, and the
artist is proud that his work is liked so
much.
But all good things come to an end
and so do art exhibitions. When the
last fancier has been ejected, the artist
and his wife (if be has one) total the
amount received for catalogues at three
pence a time and, to their great joy, they
find that they have no lea than eighteen
and nlnepence. This quickly helps to
swell the taxation demands made on the
nearest hostelry proprietor, and the
artist, after a good night of happy rest
wakes up to prepare for another year of
painting so that his next exhibition win
be even more successful than this one.
It's all a matter of temperament
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