International studio (35.1908)

Homer Martin, American Landscape Painter


“A NORMANDY FARM” BY HOMER MARTIN
(By permission oj Mrs. L. G. Bloomingdah)

of the painting is due to his admirable instinct
for omission. But, of course, its chief charm lies
in its colour—that of a rare old tapestry. Indeed,
where it hangs to day, in one of the great country
houses of America, it almost touches a wonderful
old tapestry, which, instead of dimming its beauty,
seems to heighten it. This picture has been called
by Boutet de Monvel, the well-known French
painter, “ the greatest landscape ever painted in
America.” He further declared that it was equal
to the best of Theodore Rousseau’s work, yet it
was unlike anything that Rousseau had done, and
he marvelled that in a new country like America
a man could work out his own salvation and
produce such a masterpiece. It crowns a room
which all that Art and Nature in unison can do has
rendered a fitting shrine for this masterpiece of
one of America’s greatest landscapists.
During his life, save among an enthusiastic
coterie (and even there more for his delightful
personality than for his work), he was not appre-
ciated. His pictures either did not sell at all or
were purchased by friends. One of his most
characteristic pictures, The Westchester Hills, lay
unsold at an old farmhouse for twelve years, and
at last—two years after his death—brought two
hundred pounds. A few months later it sold at
auction for nine hundred and fifty pounds, again
fetching from its present owner one thousand and
sixty pounds. To-day it is practically impossible

to buy a really important example of his work,
and it is certain that when the occasion comes the
fortunate buyer will have to give over one thousand
pounds for it.
Yet nothing could be further from the truth than
to imagine in Homer Martin anything of the soured
genius who resents the fact that the world does
not appreciate him. If the buying public neglected
him, his friends certainly did not. Never was one
surrounded with a more delightful, distinguished,
and really helpful group of intimates. For, unlike
many artists, he did not have artists alone for his
friends, but the leaders in many professions—
editors, critical writers, poets, musicians, physicians,
and bankers (of the last perhaps one might wish
there had been more). At the Century Club,
which boasted a membership of the choicest spirits
of the New World, Homer Martin was always
certain to be the centre of an admiring group.
Whatever was the topic of conversation, he was
certain to have something to say that was worth
while, and over all the serious suggestiveness of
his conversation played his delightful humour, a
humour which at times became wit, yet never
hurt. With all his keen knowledge of art, his
criticism was never iconoclastic—it was one that
built up, never one that tore down. However
poor he was, no worthy artist ever came to him
without getting whatever help it was in his power
to give. He was big enough even to be able to
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