International studio (59.1916)

The Tomans Room at the World's Fair

others, had friezes, sun dials, fountains and so
forth scattered about the grounds—where they
belong—in the open. A mural decoration by
Florence Lundborg was in the California Building.
Summing up the work of the great four—Ellen
Emmet, Cecilia Beaux, Mary Cassatt and Jean
McLane—perhaps the most striking note is mas-
culinity. Terse, bold, vigorous work laid on the
canvas with clear, definite minds and capable,
trained hands. Children, of course—plenty of
them—but men too, anything but feminized, and
women brilliantly characterized with very slight
accent on their clothes—a disregard of fashion
which might well be emulated by some of the
popular men portraitists whose success has been
achieved, not so much by the glory of their art,
as the glory of their silks and satins.
But perhaps we may as well concede at once
that no one quite paints babies—real tiny babies
—as Jean McLane; although when it comes to
the walking age, one would never want to see a
livelier little miss than Cecilia Beaux’s Ernesta,
the very spirit of mischief with her short black
hair (one feels she never would submit to stand
up and be curled), her snapping black eyes, her
eager, outstretched hand so delightfully painted.
Only a master can really paint hands, though
there are those who pretend that to evade a diffi-
culty is to conquer it. The spirit of authority is
there in the shape of the hand which firmly clasps
the eager vivacious imp. A part of Nurse’s arm
and one foot show, besides the apron and bow.
However unconventional this sounds, neverthe-
less it is a perfect composition; saying just enough,
no more.
An artist hitherto unknown to me, a San Fran-
ciscoan and rightly beloved here on the Pacific
Coast, Mary Curtis Richardson, gave us another
lovely phase of babyhood. On a long sofa of rich
golden brocade, lies a woman with red-gold hair,
in a white satin tea-gown, with flowing scarf over
her shoulders. The baby on her lap has the
brightest of blue eyes. A bowl of goldfish most
happily placed above Baby’s head proves that
Mrs. Richardson possesses that rare but all-im-
portant sense of composition. This picture rep-
resents young motherhood, to whom the first-born
is more a toy than a care.
I cannot refrain from mentioning another pic-
ture, The Sleeping Child, by the same artist. It
was in another room and, therefore, strictly
speaking, does not belong to this article. But I

want the name of Mrs. Richardson better known
in the east, and the canvas represents the later
phase of motherhood: the more sober joy, the
spirit of loving care, the brooding mother-heart—
the great shield and shelter for all human ills. In
the one picture we see what Baby gives the
mother; in this one we feel what Mother gives
the Baby. The mother stands frail yet indom-
itable from the spirit within. The droop of the
tired little head upon the mother’s neck is most
tenderly and lovingly painted, and the weight of
the child’s body upon the mother’s arm shows
masterly drawing. Mere skin-deep skill and
tricky cleverness receive much praise to-day. It
is, therefore, thoroughly delightful and hearten-
ing to find in Mrs. Richardson an artist who
works from within. Fine as her work is, one
feels the woman behind the work is even finer.
She is adequately equipped to express herself
upon canvas, but one does not feel she has
drained herself. Art to her means much, very
much; it is no dry formula, but neither does it
exhaust the resources of a rich nature.
A while ago I spoke of blue eyes; none are quite
so blue as those of Mrs. Johansen’s (Jean McLane)
entitled Brother and Sister. Her canvases are
characterized by an almost incredible swiftness
of touch—fairly breathless; simple and sincere is
their appeal in their fresh colour laid on with
the certain touch of knowledge.
Another lovely baby is the lusty one painted
by Marie Danforth Page, of Boston. She calls
her picture Dressing Genevieve, and the mother has
her work cut out for her—but she is an alert-
looking woman with strong, capable hands and
arms, and seems equal to her task.
Mary Cassatt paints babies, but in her deter-
mination to avoid the “pretty-pretty” she often
runs into the unpleasant. Her babies are fat little
animals, far removed from Wordsworth’s “Trail-
ing Clouds of Glory.” How different they are
from Sir Joshua’s cherubs; painted with angelic
faces and no bodies! Miss Cassatt’s seem peril-
ously near being all bodies. The baby in this
exhibition, however, is rather more alluring than
usual with her but, as if to make up for a moment
of weakness, she has given us a mother with more
than the usual harsh ugliness. I should like to
whisper in the artist’s ear: “Mothers have been
known to love their babies even if they do not
brush their hair straight back from the fore-
head!”

xxx