DOI Heft:
Nr. 168 (March 1907)
DOI Artikel:Studio-talk
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.20774#0256
Studio-Talk
largest city in Great Britain? Or has the spirit of
commercialism stamped out the beautiful and killed
the vitality of its early art, driving its artists to seek
recognition, and the listeners to their pictured voices,
to other fields, until the last call comes and the
tired body rests under the loved Mother Earth,
who has sung to them in her language and whose
interpreters they were? Ignored by their home-
land until their translations have become the wealth
of art’s secret in alien lands—not till then does
their country claim them. But even in this respect
Manchester fails to open her doors or hang in her
permanent collection the work of her near neigh-
bour, William Stott, of Oldham, or the pictured
dreams of William Estall, born in her midst. Can
it be wondered, then, that the Academy shows so
little of distinctive interest ? And yet I would pass
willingly many times through the turnstiles to see
the work of the few who redeemed it from what
would otherwise be a depressing exhibition of the
city’s art.
The work of H. S. Hopwood, A.R.W.S., claimed
at once the attention by his large water-colour,
Cottage Service in the Hebrides. Here one was
entranced by the restrained, yet powerful, render-
ing of humble, homely humanity; while A Street
in Staithes, Yorks, by the same artist, impressed
one by its charming composition, colour and dig-
nified strength. In his Morning, Mr. Hopwood
strikes a harmony of subtle beauty, as if his
fingers had played gently with the delightful
interpretation that was evolving in his mind;
delicately, too, so that nothing might be lost.
The complex simplicity charms one; the table
with its remembrances of the night, when tired
hands had left it so, and the rapt pose of the
maid as she lingers by the window, with the case-
ment curtains slightly drawn, and peeps out to the
wakened day where she catches a faint glimmer
of grey, gold and silver-green from the litten land-
scape, and stands awed by the morning glory or held
by the magic carol of some early songster tempting
her to linger still awhile ere she sets the first meal,
and work spells out the day. Lovers of the work
of an artist, and those wishing to see more of Mr.
“ THE FERRY
234
BY FRED. W. JACKSON
largest city in Great Britain? Or has the spirit of
commercialism stamped out the beautiful and killed
the vitality of its early art, driving its artists to seek
recognition, and the listeners to their pictured voices,
to other fields, until the last call comes and the
tired body rests under the loved Mother Earth,
who has sung to them in her language and whose
interpreters they were? Ignored by their home-
land until their translations have become the wealth
of art’s secret in alien lands—not till then does
their country claim them. But even in this respect
Manchester fails to open her doors or hang in her
permanent collection the work of her near neigh-
bour, William Stott, of Oldham, or the pictured
dreams of William Estall, born in her midst. Can
it be wondered, then, that the Academy shows so
little of distinctive interest ? And yet I would pass
willingly many times through the turnstiles to see
the work of the few who redeemed it from what
would otherwise be a depressing exhibition of the
city’s art.
The work of H. S. Hopwood, A.R.W.S., claimed
at once the attention by his large water-colour,
Cottage Service in the Hebrides. Here one was
entranced by the restrained, yet powerful, render-
ing of humble, homely humanity; while A Street
in Staithes, Yorks, by the same artist, impressed
one by its charming composition, colour and dig-
nified strength. In his Morning, Mr. Hopwood
strikes a harmony of subtle beauty, as if his
fingers had played gently with the delightful
interpretation that was evolving in his mind;
delicately, too, so that nothing might be lost.
The complex simplicity charms one; the table
with its remembrances of the night, when tired
hands had left it so, and the rapt pose of the
maid as she lingers by the window, with the case-
ment curtains slightly drawn, and peeps out to the
wakened day where she catches a faint glimmer
of grey, gold and silver-green from the litten land-
scape, and stands awed by the morning glory or held
by the magic carol of some early songster tempting
her to linger still awhile ere she sets the first meal,
and work spells out the day. Lovers of the work
of an artist, and those wishing to see more of Mr.
“ THE FERRY
234
BY FRED. W. JACKSON