DOI Heft:
Nr. 227 (January 1916)
DOI Artikel:Hind, Charles Lewis: Alice Fanner's lyrical paintings
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.43460#0287
Alice Fanner
gen, studio-made, but so spacious in atmosphere,
dim, yet so true. Then Turner, his yacht-racing
series, one facet only of his genius, yet placing
him right in the van of the modern movement;
and his drawings, mere suggestions, yet, all said,
little things, but never forgotten, such as Breaking
Wave on Beach, and Running JCave in a Cross- Tide;
and so we passed to Henry Moore, the first of the
moderns in this country to paint the sea as it
should be painted—a master unrivalled.
“But you must not think,” I said to Miss
Fanner, “ that I regard you only as a painter of
the sea—yachts scudding before the breeze, the
waves alight, the sky aglow, and scenes on the
coast on summer days, a shimmer with notes of
colour, which are happy people frisking in the
waves, and basking on the yellow sands. But
I like to think of these, especially the yachting
pictures, because in past days, pacing through
exhibitions, often wearily, whenever I came across
one of your lyrics I had an elation—your lyrics
made me glad.”
“ Lyrics ? ” she repeated.
“Yes,” I answered. “I should certainly call
your work lyrical. Ruisdael in his big, profound
canvases is epical; Henry Moore is lyrical. Each
to his taste, to his call. Your Spring in Hyde
Park and your Luxembourg Gardens are lyrical,
longer lyrics than, say, your Autumn Sunshine or
your Winter Sunshine; but all are lyrical songs,
and they do not need words to explain them.”
Just then the orchestra began to play Mendels-
sohn’s “Spring Song,” and we ceased talking. It
is the fashion to be tired of Mendelssohn, but how
his “Spring Song” refreshes. Does it not make
us feel that the old world will again awake, its
travail hidden, and life once more go with a lilt?
We listen, and man and Nature are in holiday
mood ; larks sing, and our hearts are uplifted to
cheerfulness. As the music danced on I said
to myself: “This is just what this lady is doing in
art. Her notes are cheerfulness, sunshine, the
young green trees, and the clear, clean skies.” To
Beethoven deep calling to deep, to Mendelssohn
the light heart of art lifting our little loads; to
Peppercorn the solemnity of mass and silence, to
Alice Fanner the warmth of colour and the quick
carols of Nature. Each must be himself, whether
gen, studio-made, but so spacious in atmosphere,
dim, yet so true. Then Turner, his yacht-racing
series, one facet only of his genius, yet placing
him right in the van of the modern movement;
and his drawings, mere suggestions, yet, all said,
little things, but never forgotten, such as Breaking
Wave on Beach, and Running JCave in a Cross- Tide;
and so we passed to Henry Moore, the first of the
moderns in this country to paint the sea as it
should be painted—a master unrivalled.
“But you must not think,” I said to Miss
Fanner, “ that I regard you only as a painter of
the sea—yachts scudding before the breeze, the
waves alight, the sky aglow, and scenes on the
coast on summer days, a shimmer with notes of
colour, which are happy people frisking in the
waves, and basking on the yellow sands. But
I like to think of these, especially the yachting
pictures, because in past days, pacing through
exhibitions, often wearily, whenever I came across
one of your lyrics I had an elation—your lyrics
made me glad.”
“ Lyrics ? ” she repeated.
“Yes,” I answered. “I should certainly call
your work lyrical. Ruisdael in his big, profound
canvases is epical; Henry Moore is lyrical. Each
to his taste, to his call. Your Spring in Hyde
Park and your Luxembourg Gardens are lyrical,
longer lyrics than, say, your Autumn Sunshine or
your Winter Sunshine; but all are lyrical songs,
and they do not need words to explain them.”
Just then the orchestra began to play Mendels-
sohn’s “Spring Song,” and we ceased talking. It
is the fashion to be tired of Mendelssohn, but how
his “Spring Song” refreshes. Does it not make
us feel that the old world will again awake, its
travail hidden, and life once more go with a lilt?
We listen, and man and Nature are in holiday
mood ; larks sing, and our hearts are uplifted to
cheerfulness. As the music danced on I said
to myself: “This is just what this lady is doing in
art. Her notes are cheerfulness, sunshine, the
young green trees, and the clear, clean skies.” To
Beethoven deep calling to deep, to Mendelssohn
the light heart of art lifting our little loads; to
Peppercorn the solemnity of mass and silence, to
Alice Fanner the warmth of colour and the quick
carols of Nature. Each must be himself, whether