DOI issue:
Nr. 342 (November 1925)
DOI article:Price, F. Newlin: Jonas Lie, painter of light
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.19986#0105
light was his conscience. Remember, his native
land, Norway, is farther north than Iceland. In
June they read all night, so in New York he lived
dawn-haunted.
When in 1906 he began painting professionally
he had back of him the results of constant work—
numberless compositions, schemes for paintings,
some no larger than postage stamps, made on a
train going to work, made in the lunch hour,
everywhere. The daily trip on the ferries fascin-
ated him. The variations were countless. It was
for these that, during the nine years, he left his
calico bench, having planned his Sundays all week
long. He worked for ease of presentation, the
magnificent, apparently lazy ease of Kreisler, the
concentrated charm of timing that genius knows;
Pavlowa, who with such consummate ease dances
for you—perfection—and then in her dressing-
room hangs exhausted over a chair. It is not easy,
this genius. This was his problem: simplicity of
presentation; color; unapparent design without
rude corners; light effulgent.
He was encouraged by work actually sold to
earn his livelihood with painting: St. Louis, three
paintings; Philadelphia, six—dark masses against
greys, simple patterns, limited action. There was
always the spirit of design, the out-crop of art that
had served the southern darkies and the negroes
of Barbadoes with calico shirts.
As he sold there came dreams of Norway and
Paris. It seemed a peculiar personal paradise.
There had been happiness and he longed for it.
Life here had become hell, starvation and hunger.
After ah, he had satisfaction for his working
through hardships; his inheritance and back-
ground were the dark winter and spring sun of
the north and back to it he traveled, also to Paris.
For a few months the northern nights and then
to Paris.
There were Gauguin and Monet. The barbarous
beauty of the former impressed, but Monet who
had cleaned the palette of the world, fascinated.
Here was the use of color, the red, blue, yellow; a
sparkling light. This just for experts. The stu-
dents in training were still drawing tightly, no
latitude or liberties allowed with form. Our
painter observed, and today in all emancipation
knows that drawing is personal. He paints as
things are. Correct drawing is not necessarily
good drawing. If you can express the meat of the
thing by distortion or elimination you are justified.
Light gives impressions, not still but active. A
boy paddling a canoe photographs as a boy still—
dead lines, no action, no rhythm. The artist must
give it life. Lines can be syncopated. The famous
"Nude Descending the Stairs" reached absurdity
because there were too many planes, too much
action. Lines can merely suggest, not actually
NOVEMBER I 9 2 5
one hundred Jive
land, Norway, is farther north than Iceland. In
June they read all night, so in New York he lived
dawn-haunted.
When in 1906 he began painting professionally
he had back of him the results of constant work—
numberless compositions, schemes for paintings,
some no larger than postage stamps, made on a
train going to work, made in the lunch hour,
everywhere. The daily trip on the ferries fascin-
ated him. The variations were countless. It was
for these that, during the nine years, he left his
calico bench, having planned his Sundays all week
long. He worked for ease of presentation, the
magnificent, apparently lazy ease of Kreisler, the
concentrated charm of timing that genius knows;
Pavlowa, who with such consummate ease dances
for you—perfection—and then in her dressing-
room hangs exhausted over a chair. It is not easy,
this genius. This was his problem: simplicity of
presentation; color; unapparent design without
rude corners; light effulgent.
He was encouraged by work actually sold to
earn his livelihood with painting: St. Louis, three
paintings; Philadelphia, six—dark masses against
greys, simple patterns, limited action. There was
always the spirit of design, the out-crop of art that
had served the southern darkies and the negroes
of Barbadoes with calico shirts.
As he sold there came dreams of Norway and
Paris. It seemed a peculiar personal paradise.
There had been happiness and he longed for it.
Life here had become hell, starvation and hunger.
After ah, he had satisfaction for his working
through hardships; his inheritance and back-
ground were the dark winter and spring sun of
the north and back to it he traveled, also to Paris.
For a few months the northern nights and then
to Paris.
There were Gauguin and Monet. The barbarous
beauty of the former impressed, but Monet who
had cleaned the palette of the world, fascinated.
Here was the use of color, the red, blue, yellow; a
sparkling light. This just for experts. The stu-
dents in training were still drawing tightly, no
latitude or liberties allowed with form. Our
painter observed, and today in all emancipation
knows that drawing is personal. He paints as
things are. Correct drawing is not necessarily
good drawing. If you can express the meat of the
thing by distortion or elimination you are justified.
Light gives impressions, not still but active. A
boy paddling a canoe photographs as a boy still—
dead lines, no action, no rhythm. The artist must
give it life. Lines can be syncopated. The famous
"Nude Descending the Stairs" reached absurdity
because there were too many planes, too much
action. Lines can merely suggest, not actually
NOVEMBER I 9 2 5
one hundred Jive