Studio: international art (7.1896)

The Work of Alfred East

and herein he shows himself, of course, in sym-
pathy with the best modern Art, as much of
Writing as of Painting—that he is not indebted too
deeply to his subject, for the poetry, dignity, refine-
ment, which his canvas discloses. I meaD, not to
his subject so far as his subject is place and defi-
nite form. Much oftener his real subject is evan-
escent effect—the transitory and the subtle charm
that not too many appreciate in Art, since not too
many even notice it in the actual world. And
here comes in whatever measure of affinity Mr.
East has with modern Impressionism. He is not
fond—I judge it from his work—he is not fond of
literal and precise expression—the expression that
often, under the guise of " form" and "admirable
draughtsmanship," or of "marvellous and pains-
taking finish "—to quote the phrases of familiar
eulogy—does but unmask the commonplace. Facts
are sometimes commonplace. Impressions genuine,
spontaneous, momentary, escape that thraldom.
The most rapid sketch may be with many, as far as
it goes, the nearest thing that they can get to the
fine impression. Yet, in its mere rapidity, that
sketch is bound, generally, to be incomplete. To
carry intact the fineness and the delicacy of the

impression through subsequent labour—to con-
serve the unity of thought in work extending,
amid inevitable distractions, over many days—
that, surely, is the feat of the more serious artist
in Painting as in Writing, and it is that that the
Impressionism of Alfred East, retained to the
end in his best efforts, does often so delightfully
accomplish.

Landscape like Alfred East's, then, while it
does not neglect form—especially form in masses
— is not in the main formal. The effects it seeks
to register with great precision are rather effects
of colour and illumination than of definite and
lasting line; and, here too, while the search
sometimes may be for pure accuracy, at others it
may be for an almost invented harmony—a de-
corative effect. Hence, of course, Mr. East is not
so much the historian of a given spot as of the
events of a selected hour. Time counts with him
for much more than place. It is not Lelant, or
Stow-on-the-Wold, or some village in Warwickshire
or Worcestershire—" the shires," as Drayton has it
in his " Polyolbion "—" the shires, which we the
heart of England well may call." But it is Gay
Morning, or a serene afternoon, or solemn evening,