Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1905 (Heft 10))

AS OTHERS SEE US.

The following contribution toward an appraisement of the artistic tem-
perament was made by one of the speakers at the recent Centennial Anniver-
sary Dinner of the Pennsylvania Academy. He had made the acquaintance
of two brothers, Syrians, one of whom was an itinerant musician, while the
other, who was the elder, gathered in the nickels. To some remark concern-
ing the disparity of their occupations, the latter replied, sotto voce: " Antoné,
my broerther, he haf not moch onderstandin’ ; Antoné, he ... plays
...the pipe.” It is to the credit of the audience, since it was composed
chiefly of artists, that the applause was hearty and prolonged.
In the mellowness which ensues upon a good dinner, liberally enjoyed,
it is easy to laugh, even at that which involves a bitterness upon reflection,
for the artistic temperament has been at the mercy of the children of this
world since the days of the Renaissance, probably since those of Pheidias.
Indeed, the earliest scratcher upon horn or stone, in all reasonable likelihood,
was considered by his brethren to be " a wee bit daftie,” and in a flesh-hunting
age, flesh being the prime desideratum, no doubt he was; just as in a dollar-
hunting age, dollars being the proper basis of appraisement, no doubt he
is. By their wad ye shall know them; and, contrariwise, no wad, no
recognition.
There is only one sadder thing than the world's indifference toward the
artist, and that is the artist’s indifference toward the world. If he be unsuc-
cessful, he rails at it; if successful, he despises it. But neither contempt nor
abuse contributes to good-fellowship.
This is where the artist makes such a mistake. He will not, like other
men, recognize the saving grace of unrighteousness, and make friends of the
mammon thereof. And, if an artist does descend into the fat-lands and
returns after a while sleek and swollen with contentment, but minus his
brush, which the other foxes have agreed is the ideal thing, straightway they
denounce him and say he is no artist.
No doubt he isn't; and probably never was and never would be under
any condition. For what is an artist? Observe, I ask the question and
thereby get the drop on you; not being myself ready with an answer. Only
I know that he isn't what he is usually considered to be. There are painters
and sculptors, photographers and illustrators, art-craftsmen and architects
(though the last are not infrequently but builders in flower-embroidered waist-
coats)—a host of fancy workers in and out of literature, some few of whom
may be artists. But that we should consider all to be, heaven forbid! And
I only used the word artist at the start because it is by common and erroneous
usage so conveniently inclusive.
The trouble with most of these artists is that they have " too much ego
in their cosmos.” While the majority of men are content to subordinate
their ego to the aggregate cosmos, and those whose ego is of superior useful-
ness or superior audacity reap a material benefit, the artist is not measuring
his ego with the world, but hugging it to himself. It is so dear to him

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