Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1895-03-23


school. You may have an ear for music,
and think doubtless that it is attached to
your head. This is a mistake. I have
learned that a musical ear is located In the
spinal column. Then an eye for art; that
Is not so much in your head as it Is in
your soul, and even has a certain residence
In your character. Also, touch, when 1t
gets into art, is less in your body than In
your soul, and as for taste, that Is alto
gether matter of soul.
Art has a great deal to do with soul. I
find paint, pencils, plaster all those things
don't begin to have the value I had been
led to think they have by some persons
who pretend to use them and call them
selves artists.
I owe these same persons a bitter grudge
for having thus stood between me and self
consciousness in art, long, fruitless years.
You see, until / went into Paradise the
other day, have believed that l was born
without either an eye or an ear l nave
Eever been moved to tap my foot or DOB
my head when the band plays, nor has 1t
been my habit to break through the holy
calm of symphony concert, to nudge my
neighbor, and with the whites of my eyes
turned up to the ceiling eXcialm Lovely
lovely-perfectly lovely-divine!" How, then,
could think myself lover of music?
That Detestable Technique.
The same in art How could I believe
had an eye, when lovers Of art have never
let me look at q picture or statue till
could see it, without assaulting my crop
ing sense of the beautiful with fine per-
spective" detail not half bad" excellent
technique"
Oh, that destestable "techniquev' 1t has
almost spoiled creation for me, which, you
know, Is simply written down In Genesis
as seen by the eye of divinity, and pro-
~N1 rrytfh Nr, v1yrh n6v f..
ing out anything about the technique.
Still, my soul was patient and humble.
1 said to myself. will become an artist
myself. I will grow an eye, since 1 was
This was to teach me the blessing of
total blindness.
I found that to see art I must first see
nature-not in its simple being ard love-
liness, but relative to reproduction from
my palette. and the whole face of the
bright earth became sneared with those
nasty, oozing, vari-colored stuffs that art
lists squeeze out of small tin cans, to make
tees. and sky, and men, and other animals
OH canvas. The deep, harmonious green
ness Of the trees. in which my thirsty soul
had been wont to find sweet satisfaction,
Cow was resolved into horrible, impish
ccnundrums Of color that dispelled har-
mony and created chaos. Then animals
l turned in desperation from landscapes to
animals, when painting the former grew
to mean doing violence to my mother, the
earth, and animals in their turn became
in relation to art and me so many abysses
Of creation to fill me with awe that was
simply uncomfortable. When l had painted
cow on a PLAGUE, and nothing but the
horns saved the beast from being a deer,
and when had also painted on a satin
tidy horse, that, through no will of mine.
acquired hump that made it camel
why, there were months following this eX-
perience that couldn't look at beast of
any kind without going half crazy with
terror to think how easy and unconsciously
l could make that creature something else
by just keeping my artistic eye on him
lorg enough to paint him.
In a Studio.
Thus did I pass trying novitiate in art,
and after all come out no artist Still ear
less and eyeless, as I had resigned my
self to being, there was ever in my soul,
something urging me to try again, and
Lent being the season when the necessi-
ties of the soul naturally get in their heav-
lest work. determined and disappointment
seasoned as the Lost PERI" I procured a
small guide book of the Washington So
ciety Of Artists, sought the president, U. 8.
j. Dunbar, and now with the same Peri
my exultant voice may sing:
Joy, Joy! at last tits done.
The gates are passed and heavens won."
i have an eye, and in Walter Paris
studio have found my long-lost ear.
When I started up the steep flight of
stairs leading to the Olympus that is Mr.
Dunbar's studio, and the executive cham
Der of all the gods that go on earth under
the head of the Washington Society Of Ar
lists, great hunger filed my heart which
was not so much for beer and cheese as
for the other more subtle delights of b.
hemia.
My spirit yearns for Bohemia as for its
fatherland, and being somewhat prlncl1-
ETY. spirit, 1t has groaned and died, and re-
peatedly been thrown out of the wild coun-
try, where marauding winds prey upon
the good name of Bohemia and seek to
of its estate. Was 1 again to find no more
of my lain countrie," asked my soul, as
I timidly knocked at U. S. Jove Dunbar's
door. and was joyfully answered may
with the first peep that half-opened door
gave me. Eliciting no response to my gen.
tie begging to go in, ventured cautious
nose, then holder chin, finally my whole
head and body into the room unbidden.
drink hot blood Of Mrs. Grundy and live
alone with art"
The Art Eye.
You cannot expect me to describe the
place any more than you could reasonably
expect bride to give the equations of the
honeymoon. But where was Jove-making
thunderbolts or modelling men? If he
would only remodel some of the latter!
But, of course, that has nothing to do with
art.
Presently a groan, deep, awe-inspiring,
proceeded remotely from behlnd curtain.
"reminiscences of haunted houses and the
like being within easy call in me, I edged
toward the door, and hadn't quite caught
my breath, when Jove himself appeared.
told him at once that was looking for
paradise, and hoped, incidentally, to get an
eye for art. Then 1 was ushered into the
inner sanctuary, and all was just as 1 have
anticipated I don't get on first-rate with
human beings, but 1 have always believed
that if ever got Jove by the he would
understand me perfectly, and see that I'm
not only just as good as I can be, but just
as good as ever was made. Right off Jove
said he was sure I had an eye concealed
about my person somewhere, and this gave
me courage, while together we went hunt
ing for it,
"You know" said Jove-he was working
on bust of Frederick Douglass-"you
know, you can't expect everybody to have
the same capacity for art, and whatever
capacity you may have will not yield you
any satisfaction If you don't fill it up with
that for which it was created.
Eyes, but there's the rub" I answered;
where are you going to find that for
which it was created? Works of art, so
far as can see, are impotent and imperti-
nent attempts of man to reproduce the
works of the Almighty; and they just fill
NV Soul with disgust and desnair of hui