The San Francisco call., 1896-05-17


bare and black against the sky, but
as YOU drive or walb under them you
observe that every branch and twig boasts
Aprirs livery of tiny green buttons. The
air is soft and warm and the streets have
an after-Easter gayety. For the vivid,
rare brilliance of the grass after our first
rains in California, for the gorgeous burst
of flowers, look to the bounets of the
women. Veritable roof-gardens sway past
on the street, in carriages, in the cars.
Every one is out enjoying this breath OF
the phenomenal early summer. The park
is crowded with riders, who come thunder
ing down the hard paths. with the silver
bicycle flashing in and out between them,
almost under the horses hoofs
The streets are alive with posters-post-
ers for the opera, the theaters and con-
certs; every one runs; everywhere there
is a crowd.
The picture exhibitions are the single
exceptions. Here the crowd penetrates in
struggling groups of but three or four. OF
course, the opening day is over and done
with. The fashionable world has paid its
formal call; the charming little rooms OF
the Society of American Artists, the more
pretentious halls of the academy bloom in
picturesque quiet.
The home of the society is under the
shadow of Carnegie Hall, with the sun
slanting on its gray tiled roof 1t is per-
haps irreyerent 10 speak of the society
first, when the academy is SO much its su-
perior IN point of age. The society occu-
pies the position relative to the academy
that the new salon of the Champs de Mars
does to the old salon OF the Champs Ely
sees. The academy represents the sobriety.
the convention, sometimes the dignity,
generally the dullnesS OF art-the society
represents the youth, the freshness, the
brilliance, as frequently the extravaganza
and audacIty. The academy is the past,
the society the future
The exhibition OF the society covers the
walls OF but three rooms; two OF them con-
tain pictures hung in but two lines: in the
central galleries are statuettes, busts and a
few miniatures. In all there are but 246
numbers in the catalogue.
The hrst glance as We step into the first
room gives one the impression OF light
Hght-hght pouring from every canvas. 1t
Is like stepping into room with a hun
dred windows-the frame has the same re-
lation to the picture that window-frame
has to the outside world-it concentrates,
1t composes, 1t limits the vision.
When L close my eyes | see the Hopkins
house In San Francisco, where the spring
exhibition must now be holding high
revel. | contrast the frescoes, the heavy
decorations, the wooden panels, the Grim
son and gold and magenta, the light
streaming in from the unshaded windows,
with these quiet, cool rooms, the soft.
vague absence of color on the walls, and /
pray for indulgence for the unhappy
artists condemned to exhibit under such
disadvantages. 1t might be as well to con-
trast also these 246 pictures with those |
have so often seen in San Francisco. At
home We are most OF US experim enting,
cropping In the dark-this New York exhi-
bltion is so choice so delicate, so assured.
The inevitable superficial colored canvas is
rara avis; everywhere we find the sin
cerlty OF determined effort, sincerity per-
haps to false ideals or temporary lights,
but always sincerity.
In the first room there are pictures by
three one-tlme Californians-a landscape
by Mary Brady, portrait by Emil Carl
sen, several figure studies by Guy Rose.
Miss Brady has achieved distinct sue
cess. Her ''Sand Dunes in California are
unmistakably under Monterey sky.
The light Is very sharp and keen, the
drawing in the middle distance-the edges
of the shore, the fat smoothness of the
rocks-is remarkable, everything is at
once hard and bright; even the green of
the rough shrubs is crude but true. The
water is little indefinite, little woolly,
but the canvas is so vital it makes the por-
traits and landscapes around it seem
washed in watercolor or painted on paper.
The portrait by Emil Carlsen is that of
young woman in yellowish brown waist
and black skirt. She rests one hand on
table with a blue cloth. An inkwell
breaks its fat surface. The other hand
hangs over the back of her chair. In the
background-that large, fiat, empty back
ground Mr.. Carlson loves to paint because
truly so few can paint it's the drawing
a N hot ,f IL
temple, but simply an accident of Mr.
Carlsen's immense, bare studio which he
has used TO balance his composition
The pcrtrait-outside of the distinction
of color which Mr.. Carsen never fails TO
render-has distinction of character in
which he Is not always successful. The
head is that of clear-eyed, self-reliant,
determined American woman, drawn as
Manet would draw it-with very few coiors.
very fiat surfaces, all the finer modelling
in the edges between the light and shadow.
the brow hard, the eyes set well in the
head, the nose and chin drawn with firm
but delicate touches.
1.-THE Moth" by Guy Rose, represents a
little winged nude figure. She has flown
into dimly lighted room and lies prone
on her face, her wings broken and singed.
II is very modern room into which she
has fluttered, with sofa cushions and most
ordinary chairs, and through the window
we see the trees in Washington Square
The contrast of ideal and real Is a little
harsh.
There is another canvas called THE
Annunciation." rather like colored
Christmas caro-, apparently young wo-
man feeding pigeons and a dim lady in
a wedding veil experimenting. Mr.. Rose
is happier when he confines himself to
less ambitious subjects. The solemnity of
the subject makes the treatment trivial,
his delicate color becomes thin and inef-
fective.
The most important portrait in the
exhibition is that of the little daughter of
J. NJ. Sears by John S. Sargent. 1t
is not Sargent at his best, but it cheapens
every other portrait in the room. | must
apologize for all the drawings, which were
mere scratches made hurrediy. Special
permission from the artist is required be-
fore any reproduction of his work is al
lowed. 1 have attempted only the ar
rangement of the masses.
The child is in white, her feet are
crossed, her hand stretched forward for
the flowers. The canvas is a big sketch,
but across the room it is remarkably
decorative. and the little white figure
stands so firmly it seems absurd to remark