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Studio: international art — 17.1899

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Ernest Newton

in conclusion as to the man himself. Remote in
his rural retreat, he is out of the hurly-burly of the
world of art. Yet at times there will reach him an
echo therefrom, some news of one of his successes
at some far-off exhibition, it may be Venice, or St.
Petersburg, or Berlin, or Vienna, or Munich, or
Paris. As he reads the enthusiastic appreciation
he smiles, and, shrugging his shoulders, simply
remarks, “ That’s all right—now to work ! ” And
off he goes on his bicycle, bound for some neigh-
bouring farm, to resume his work on an uncom-
pleted canvas. He has always five or six on hand
at various places, in order that no time may be lost
when some special effect is obtainable. From five
to eight in the morning the sun will be propitious
for one subject; another cannot usefully be touched
until later. Thus he works on, now here, now
there, never at rest. The sane, purposeful life of
the man is written in his face. He is a happy
worker, enthusiastic, and garrulous with a charm-
ing garrulity clothed in language forceful and pic-
turesque. He looks on life with keen, clear vision,
as on a landscape he is about to paint.

As I think of Claus, I see again his pretty little
white house with the green shutters, and the wide
windows opening on the rich expanse of meadow
land, with the Lys winding through. Astene is the
name of the nearest village, and “ Zonnenschyn ”
■—“ Sunshine ”—that of the white house. It is,
indeed, a house of sunshine, a home of art and

friendship, a hospitable resting-place in Nature’s
centre, in the very heart of life !

Gabriel Mourey.


If the work of the handful of artists
who represent to us the rather fatuously nicknamed
“ New Architecture ” ever comes to be considered
as belonging to the “ style ” of the nineteenth
century, one can imagine the “ new ” critic
characterising it as the “style of negation.” To
breathe to Mr. Ernest Newton, for instance, the
very word “ style ” is to provoke an outburst of
righteous indignation against those blind leaders of
the blind who can conceive no architecture that
cannot be safely and obviously ticketed with the
name of some bygone century or period. It is the
link which binds together this little band of enthu-
siasts, whose work is otherwise as a rule unrelated,
this hatred and despisal of historical style. An
archaeologist, say they, with convincing earnestness,
is one thing, an architect is, or, at any rate should be,
quite another. Of course this theory of negation
may, like most theories, be carried beyond its due

* Some of Mr. Ernest Newton’s large country houses were
dealt with in an article published in The Studio for April,




{By permission of M. Lelievre)
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