If we will now turn to the evidence bearing upon this subject, we will discover what I have already indicated, namely, that the able artists who have expressed opinions touching the philosophy of their art have done so in no uncertain terms, and that the opinions which refer art to nature as the highest source seem convincing. We will also discover that not only do the majority of able painters agree upon what art really is, and express their opinions with clearness and precision, but that many of the philosophers of recent and ancient times define art in the same forceful way.

Let us first examine opinions expressed by painters and sculptors.

Michelangelo wrote: “In my judgment that is the excellent and divine painting which is most like and best imitates any work of immortal God, whether a human figure, or a wild and strange animal, or a simple and easy fish, or a bird of the air, or any other creature.... To imitate perfectly each of these things in its species seems to me to be nothing else but to desire to imitate the work of immortal God. And yet that thing will be the most noble and perfect in the works of painting which in itself reproduced the thing which is most noble and of the greatest delicacy and knowledge.” Michelangelo thus reduces the philosophy of art to the simple problem of selection, and the faithful and truthful representation of the dominant, the graceful, the harmonious, and the beautiful in nature. His statement, which so simply, even quaintly, expresses the opinion of a great master whose works have commanded the homage of the world during nearly four centuries, is worthy of the most careful consideration. It reveals his reliance upon nature without confusion of thought or pretension of any kind. There are here no intricate definitions of art or complex theories concerning his method of creating his masterly representations of the best he found in nature—“the thing which is most noble!”

The universality of this profound truth and of its independence of local conditions and circumstances is emphasized by the fact that another great master of another race, one whose technical methods and choice of subjects differed widely from those of Michelangelo, expressed the same reliance upon nature. "Albrecht DÜrer" Albrecht DÜrer was a contemporary of Michelangelo, but he worked under widely different conditions. It is the great fundamental quality of truth so quaintly commended by Michelangelo that distinguishes the works of Albrecht DÜrer. Albrecht DÜrer wrote: “Life in Nature proves the truth of these things; therefore consider her diligently, guide thyself by her, and swerve not from Nature, thinking that thou canst find something better of thyself, for thou wilt be deceived. For Art standeth firmly fixed in Nature, and whoso can thence rend her forth, he only possesseth her.”

We find in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook reference to this same principle. He recommends application to the study of the works of nature and advises the student to withdraw as far as possible from the companionship of others in order that he may more earnestly and effectively do this. His sage advice emphasizes the importance of study. “The eye, which is called the window of the soul, is the chief means whereby the understanding may most fully and abundantly appreciate the infinite works of nature.... All visible things derive their existence from nature, and from these same things is born painting.”

Another painter who has written his opinion upon this subject is William Hogarth, who said: “Nature is simple, plain, and true, in all her works, and those who strictly adhere to her laws, and closely attend to her appearances in their infinite varieties, are guarded against any prejudiced bias from truth.”

Of the great painters who have touched upon the philosophy of art in their writings, no one has written, shall I say, more fluently than has Sir Joshua Reynolds. He may even be said to have been eloquent. His lectures prepared for the students of the Royal Academy have been famous for a century and a half. They have not only inspired generations of art students with a keener interest in art, but they are probably the most helpful utterances upon the subject given to the world in his time or since. It seems to me, however, that, as is often the case where great facility of expression is practiced, Reynolds employs a term which, without clear definition, confuses the mind. This is true where he frequently uses the term “genius.” The term is associated in popular belief with the power to create works of art. Although using a term which is at least subject to this interpretation, Reynolds definitely denies to the human mind this power, asserting that the power to create is simply the power to imitate nature. Reynolds wrote: “I am on the contrary persuaded that by imitation only, variety, and even originality of invention, is produced. I will go further; even genius, at least what generally is so called, is the child of imitation.” He further says: “The study of nature is the beginning and the end of theory. It is in nature only we can find that beauty which is the great object of our search; it can be found nowhere else; we can no more form any idea of beauty superior to nature than we can form an idea of a sixth sense, or any other excellence out of the limits of the human mind.” Reynolds again writes: “Invention, strictly speaking, is little more than a new combination of those images which have been previously gathered and deposited in the memory: nothing can come of nothing: he who has laid up no materials can produce no combinations.”

John Constable, a contemporary of Reynolds, and to whose judgment we have already referred, further expressed his opinion upon this subject. A statement of principle by him seems to be conviction crystallized. Constable, although unaccustomed to writing, even unaccustomed to discussion, because he was a man of quiet and simple life, seems to have thought profoundly; and when the rare occasion to express his opinion did come he condensed within a few words a great fundamental principle with unerring precision. His definition of the purpose and method of the artist cannot, I think, be excelled for accuracy or fullness of meaning. He wrote: “In art, there are two modes by which men aim at distinction; in the one, by a careful application to what others have accomplished, the artist imitates their works, or selects and combines their various beauties; in the other, he seeks excellence at its primitive source, nature. In the first, he forms a style upon the study of pictures, and produces either imitative or eclectic art; in the second, by a close observation of nature, he discovers qualities existing in her which have never been portrayed before, and thus forms a style which is original. The results of the one mode, as they repeat that with which the eye is already familiar, are soon recognized and estimated, while the advances of the artist in a new path must necessarily be slow, for few are able to judge of that which deviates from the usual course, or qualified to appreciate original studies.” There is here no mystery or ambiguity. This is the statement of a profound truth by a great painter who knew perfectly his reliance upon nature. It was prompted by the conviction of a great mind which saw only the underlying fact and abjured all trivialities and hair-splitting theories. In his mental attitude and grasp, Constable was like Winslow Homer, a man of few words, one given to much thought and to firm convictions.

In one of his lectures at the Royal Institution of Great Britain, Constable said: “It was said by Sir Thomas Lawrence, that ‘we can never hope to compete with nature in the beauty and delicacy of her separate forms or colours, our only chance lies in selection and combination.’”

Gilbert Stuart expressed a like reliance upon nature when he said: “You must copy nature, but if you leave nature for an imaginary effect, you will lose all. Nature cannot be excused, and as your object is to copy nature, it is the height of folly to work at anything else to produce that copy.”

Corot was equally assured of the importance of this principle to an artist. He said: “Truth is the first thing in art, and the second, and the third.”

Let us take the opinion of another able painter, that of Millet, who said: “Men of genius are, as it were, endowed with a divining-rod. Some discover one thing in nature, some another, according to their temperament.... The mission of men of genius is to reveal that portion of nature’s riches which they have discovered, to those who would never have suspected their existence. They interpret nature to those who cannot understand her language.”

“I should like to do nothing which was not the result of an impression received from the appearance of nature, either in landscape or figures.”

“I should express the type very strongly, the type being, to my mind, the most powerful truth.”

These opinions are at once simple and comprehensive. They express the thoughts of men who have achieved great works. Indeed, I have never heard the able master of art say otherwise than that he has striven with all his power, sometimes in despair, to wrest from nature the subtle beauties of form and colour possessed by her and discovered by those who have the power to perceive and understand these qualities. Nature is the supreme standard, attained to only in part. We may accept nature as the source of all beauty and harmony in art and rest assured that the stream has never risen above its source.

The opinions here quoted do not differ materially from those expressed by painters of our own time.

I recall that Whistler upon the occasion of one of my visits expressed an opinion upon this subject. Whistler’s “White Girl,” “Girl at the Piano” and many other works are such notable examples of truthful representation as to give weight to his opinion. The absolute certainty with which the several parts of these pictures exist in relation to each other cannot be overstated.

In response to my inquiry regarding the most important quality in the art of the painter, Whistler said: “Art is the science of the beautiful. The parts of nature bear a certain relation to each other, and this relation is as true as a mathematical fact. People sometimes say my pictures are dark. That depends upon whether or not the subject was dark; whether the conditions made it dark. If a dark or low toned phase of nature is selected, then the picture must be absolutely true to those conditions.”

“There it is, the subject. Certain relations exist between the value notes, and these relations must be reproduced absolutely. Two and two make four—that is a simple truth in mathematics as it is in nature. Two and two make four—the trouble is that many painters do not see that two and two make four. They do not see this fine relationship which results in a simple truth. Not seeing, they try all kinds of numbers.”

Turning from the easel in front of which we were standing, Whistler lifted a book from the table with a quick, almost nervous action, and as he opened it said with a quizzical expression, “It is all in here.” The book was the “Gentle Art of Making Enemies.” Tuning quickly to the paragraph he had in mind, he read, “Nature contains the elements, in colour and form, of all pictures, as the keyboard contains the notes of all music. But the artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with science, these elements, that the result may be beautiful.” He continued to read for a good part of an hour. Whistler by Whistler was an inimitable and rare treat. The slightest shade of meaning was expressed with great delicacy, by inflection and gesture.

At the end of very many years of study and observation, Whistler’s sensitive appreciation and power of selection were extraordinary. The most subtle and harmonious qualities in nature made an irresistible appeal to him. He has described this faculty as the power to pick and choose. By the very choice of many of his subjects he was enabled to eliminate all insignificant details and thereby to render the harmonies of nature as they appeared to him. He described his method or mental attitude with reference to nature when he said: “As the light fades and the shadows deepen all petty and exacting details vanish, everything trivial disappears, and I see things as they are, in great strong masses.”

This represents Whistler in the presence of subdued and gentle qualities in nature, but it was the same Whistler, without modification or change in his attitude with respect to nature, who rendered with such startling realism and absolute fidelity to truth in his marvellous etchings the shipping, the city, and the river Thames. Under the blazing light of noonday the masts and rigging of the ships, the forms and details of the hulls, even the tile upon the roofs of the city houses were distinctly seen. He recorded his impressions manifestly without the slightest deviation from the simple truth of form and value. No one who has studied Whistler’s set of the Thames etchings will for an instant dispute this statement. The quality of simple truth is so astonishingly present in every line and form in these works that no argument is needed touching this point. The Whistler who made these etchings, the Whistler who painted the “White Girl” and the “Girl at the Piano,” must be reconciled with the Whistler who painted the evening symphonies representing the river, the “Portrait of Sarasate,” and other works of subdued and gentle qualities. The simple truth is that Whistler was as faithful and scientific in the one case as in the other, and that the result depended upon his choice of subject, and the time, and effect observed. I am told that in his later period he sought after and discovered means of securing the more gentle aspects of nature; that he toned and diffused the light in his studio scientifically by the use of semi-transparent window curtains. However this may be, it is undoubtedly true that he did rely upon the effect actually before him and that he sought to represent the subdued effect in his studio or the gentle light of evening so beautifully described by him in his “Ten O’Clock.” It would be difficult to imagine a more beautiful pen picture than this description by Whistler. It indicates his love for the gentle and harmonious qualities in nature.

“When the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys become campanili, and the warehouses palaces in the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens, and fairyland is before us—then the wayfarer hastens home; the workingman and the cultured one, the wise man and the one of pleasure, cease to understand, as they have ceased to see, and Nature, who, for once, has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist alone, her son and her master—her son in that he loves her, her master in that he knows her.”

This power to select and represent the beautiful qualities in nature, a power which is the result of repeated efforts, has been defined by Abbott H. Thayer with rare skill and poetic beauty. “It is as though a man were shown a crystal, a perfect thing, gleaming below depths of water—far down beyond reach. He would dive and dive again, driven by his great desire to secure it, until finally, all dripping, he brought it up. But that in the end he could bring it—a perfect thing—to us, was possible solely because he had first seen it, gleaming there. Others might dive and dive, might work and labor with endless patience and endless pain, but unless they had first seen the crystal—unless they had been given this divine gift of seeing—this vision—they would come up empty-handed. The occasional so-called genius does not make the crystal, but he alone sees it, where it lies gleaming below depths of water, and by his effort brings it to us. The whole question is how absolutely, how perfectly, the artist sees this vision.”

“After the artist has lived, for a certain period, in worship of some particular specimen or type of the form of beauty dearest to him, this crystal-like vision forms, clearer and clearer, at the bottom of his mind, which is, so to speak, his sea of consciousness, until at last the vision is plainly visible to him, and the all-strain and danger-facing time has come for putting it into the form in which as one of the world’s treasures it is to live on.”

When asked whether the artist has ever been granted a vision of any beauty which is not based upon the beauty of nature, Thayer exclaimed emphatically, “No, no, no! I don’t see the slightest material for any such conception.”

And when the question was further put—granted that the artist has the gift of seeing beauty in nature to which others are blind, is his picture Art in proportion as he truthfully records the beauty of the nature that he sees? Mr. Thayer answered, “Yes. Everything in art, in poetry, music, sculpture, or painting, however fantastic it looks to people who are not far enough on that road, is nothing but truth-telling, true reporting of one or another of the great facts of nature—of the universe.”

The ability to see, as Thayer suggests, is the very foundation of the artist’s power. It is this power of seeing which enables him to discover truth and beauty, and it is the skill of the trained master which enables him to reproduce these for the delight and inspiration of his fellows.

That men are endowed by inheritance with varying degrees of mental power is a self-evident fact. No one will dispute this; it comes within our common experience. Providence has been lavish in the bestowal of extraordinary powers upon the few, but it remains everlastingly true that even with these success depends upon effort. Nothing is more fully established than this truism. The records of successful men in all periods and in every avenue of life bear testimony to this fact.

To the artist, seeing is the all important thing, and to him there is no mystery either in the development of this power or in the result obtained. To him it is simply a matter of logical evolution, the result of the day’s work well done. He begins his career as a student by laboriously copying nature. His first studies are, as a rule, hard and unsympathetic. I have not discovered an exception to this rule. In the beginning the art student does not even see colour in its fullness and beauty. Gradually he acquires greater power of perception. He discovers beautiful and harmonious colours in nature which were unseen at first. He realizes the exquisite grace of line to be found on every hand but unperceived before—the movement, charm, and beauty of natural forms. New beauties are revealed from day to day; new harmonies are seen and felt. Presently the inharmonious becomes distasteful; the ugly, intolerable; the offensive, a distress. He comes into the presence of nature with a new vision. Her beauties are revealed to him. He feels a thrill in the love he bears for the exceptional and profound beauty of an evening sky or a grey day. He never talks about inspiration or soul, although he has searched out the very soul of the landscape. He simply seeks with every power at his command, as Constable, borrowing the thought from Wordsworth, expressed it, “to give ‘to one brief moment caught from fleeting time’ a lasting and sober existence, and to render permanent many of those splendid but evanescent Exhibitions which are ever occurring in the endless varieties of Nature.”

The sculptor, I think, in some such manner lies in wait for the grace and charm of movement, the supreme expression of character and of harmony, as an animal lies in wait for its prey. When one or all of these qualities are seen he seizes his chisel and strives to fix what he has discovered in permanent form.

The artist, looking back over twenty or thirty years of continuous and earnest study, of repeated and laborious effort, and of failures and successes, realizes that the power of perception and selection which he now possesses is the result of these years of observation and labor. He also realizes that he has never quite attained to the full height of his ambition to represent truthfully the supreme qualities of beauty which he has learned to discover in nature.

In the selection of subjects for his works and in the production of arrangements or combinations representing either grace, beauty of colour and form, or essential character, the painter or sculptor is aided by two very powerful influences.

The first of these is his inherited or acquired taste. Step by step, precept upon precept, first as a student in the art school, then as an artist, this faculty known as taste is cultivated, increased, until with rare discrimination and judgment he selects, “picks and chooses,” as Whistler said, the things of beauty and harmony, being guided all the while by the unwritten law of harmony of which we are all conscious. To arrive at this consummation of the artist’s highest endeavors is not an easy task.

His course may be, and often is, a very delightful and agreeable one, but it is one of infinite effort and labor. Before the painter acquires this knowledge or power which enables him to discriminate with judgment and taste, selecting those forms and colours expressive of harmony, grace and beauty, he must have served an apprenticeship of many long years. The sculptor who would aspire to the exquisite and discriminating taste of a Rodin, who observes with patience and who seizes with marvellous skill upon the very essence of grace as it is expressed by the human figure, must travel the same tedious road. If the sculptor would read and know character as does a Saint-Gaudens, he must travel many a weary mile over the path which leads to perfection in art.

The second powerful influence helping the artist to acquire knowledge is, as Constable suggested, art itself. The student while pursuing the plodding course of training in the art school and later in a wider field as an artist, is not only searching out in nature the qualities of grace and harmony, but his eyes are constantly turned in the direction of the accumulated records of art. He studies with assiduous care and thought in the great works of all times, the qualities, the harmonies, the character wrested from nature by the able painters and sculptors of the past. Myriads have tried and failed to know and master nature during the past few hundred years, and only the few who have succeeded have left the record of their success. All the weak productions have gone into oblivion. To these really great works the painter and sculptor turn again and again, patiently, persistently, unfalteringly, sometimes through hours of silent study at other times by earnest effort to copy, but always with a single purpose in mind—to know and master the secrets of the masters. Little by little, always referring the master to nature for confirmation or proof, the artist struggles upward to a more consummate understanding of the works of nature, but he never forsakes or belittles this supreme source of all his power and knowledge.

I recall asking Winslow Homer if he did not think the beauty existing in nature must be discovered and reproduced by the painter. Quick as a flash he answered: “Yes, but the rare thing is to find a painter who knows a good thing when he sees it.”

On another occasion we were picking our way along the Maine coast, over the shelving rocks he painted so often and with such insight and power, when I suddenly said: “Homer, do you ever take the liberty, in painting nature, of modifying the colour of any part?”

I recall his manner and expression perfectly. He stopped quickly and exclaimed: “Never! Never! When I have selected the thing carefully I paint it exactly as it appears.”

During our talk he emphasized, however, the importance of selection. “You must not paint anything you see—you must wait and wait patiently for a particular effect, and then when it comes, if you have sense enough to know it when you do see it—well, that’s all there is to that.”

At another time, referring contemptuously to the calm ocean under a vacant sky, he said: “I take no interest in that.” There came, however, one morning while I was at Prout’s Neck a misty and threatening sky. Grey clouds bewitching in their silvery tones went hurrying across the troubled sea. By noon it was blowing a gale and the waves were lashing the coast, sending spray high into the air. Once and again great clouds of mist drove across the deserted rocks, and the music of old ocean rose to an ominous and resounding tone. Presently Homer hurried into my room, clad from head to foot in rubber, and carrying in his arms a storm coat and a pair of sailor’s boots. “Come,” he said, “quickly! It is perfectly grand.”

For an hour we clambered over rocks, holding fast to the wiry shrubs which grew from every crevice, while the spray dashed far overhead. This placid, reserved, self-contained little man was in a fever of excitement, and his delight in the beautiful and almost overpowering expression of the ocean as it foamed and rioted was inspiring. To him this was the supreme expression of beauty and power. The moment he had patiently waited for had come.

Homer’s love for and appreciation of those rugged, elemental qualities in nature resulted in the production of forceful works of great beauty. In the selection of subjects he expressed his individual taste.

I recall an opinion expressed by the late Henry W. Ranger to the effect that Tolstoi’s definition of art had never been excelled. He referred to Tolstoi’s definition of art as the power to pass on a sensation. Ranger maintained the opinion that art is the expression of the individual’s feeling, that the artist uses the facts of nature to express his own sensation and that no great landscape was ever painted directly from nature. “The technical difficulties,” he said, “and the rapidly changing effects made it hard to paint out of doors. He could do better by depending upon his memory.” It was his opinion that the deeper qualities were secured in the studio; that nature only furnishes the hooks upon which the painter hangs his work; that he in reality expresses his own feeling, the poetry or sentiment which is in himself. Ranger here describes a vague or not clearly defined quality which is referred to as personal temperament. His opinion is in direct contradiction to the almost universal testimony of painters and sculptors, and Ranger himself in his practice failed to maintain it. Although he did not complete his works in the presence of nature, he made many sketches from nature and copied his larger canvases from these.

I think Ranger at the end of a long career had the power of discovering beautiful qualities in nature and of seeing them profoundly. I knew him well, and many times we discussed art and artists. I found his knowledge broad and intimate. His view that a painter simply passes on a sensation was repeated to me many times. I think one may frankly agree with this opinion, but I do not think a painter originates or creates a sensation. In the presence of nature he simply receives it and then transmits it, the result being dependent upon his natural or acquired power of perception, his memory, and his technical ability.

Ranger’s paintings are characterized by an understanding of nature, and this was the result of a lifetime of the most earnest, patient, and persistent study. Probably no modern artist was more industrious, for his studio was filled with studies in colour and many thousands of pencil drawings. Indeed, so familiar was he with the colours and characteristic forms of nature that he frequently reproduced these with much delicacy, relying solely upon his memory and a few accurate pencil notes. In discussing his method, I recall his remark that he painted in the studio because he could get closer to nature that way than by painting out of doors. Painters universally understand the difficulties of painting in the open because of conflicting lights. They also realize the more certain judgment of the experienced eye when painting in a quiet or more subdued light; but to do this requires great knowledge and a retentive memory.

As illustrating Ranger’s method of study and his reliance upon memory, I recall an occasion when he studied long and patiently the union or combination of two colour notes, the sky and water—for we were sailing at the time. He remarked upon the beautiful harmony expressed by these colours. He studied them intently, evidently with the thought of reproducing them later. I also remember a painting expressive of the charm and beauty of a moon-light night. It was painted at his Noank home. I believe this picture was painted almost wholly in his studio. I think it was the result of an infinite number of impressions received as he studied, evening after evening, the ocean and the sky. By this I mean that while Ranger in this painting was passing on a sensation, he was only passing on the truth and beauty of nature as realized by him night after night, and recorded in his memory.

The point here raised is one of vital importance with reference to the subject under consideration. It is that the painter does not express anything he has not received. He pursues one of two methods: he either secures beautiful qualities in the presence of nature or he reproduces qualities stored in his memory.

John La Farge referred to these two methods, the one by which the painter works directly from nature and the other by which he depends upon his memory, and his opinion bears directly upon the point raised. La Farge wrote: “He [the painter] will then go again to nature, perhaps working directly from it, perhaps only to his memory of sight, for remember, that in what we call working from nature—we painters—we merely use a shorter strain of memory than when we carry back to our studios the vision that we wish to note. And more than that, the very way in which we draw our lines, and mix our pigments, in the hurry of instant record, in the certainty of successful handling, implies that our mind is filled with innumerable memories of continuous trials.”

As La Farge points out, the difference between painting in the presence of nature and painting from memory is only a different span of memory. One painter pursues one way, another a different method. The end sought is the same.

Giovanni Segantini’s method was to go to nature finally. He began his paintings in the studio, working from studies, and finished them in the presence of nature. I recall a delightful visit with this able Italian painter at his home at Maloja, and also his interesting description of his method. His art was little known at that time, some twenty years ago. His works are now well known to art lovers throughout the world.

I had but recently seen his “Ploughing in the Engadine” at an exhibition in the Bavarian capital. It impressed me as possessing a very vital quality. The technical manner seemed at that time strange and unusual. Like worsted, the colours stretched across the sky. The earth clods were small strands of colour, revealing, on close examination, a rarely prodigal palette. This phase of Segantini’s art interested me on the purely technical side. The effect of the picture was startling. It was like a breath of fresh and fragrant air from the mountains of Switzerland.

It was following this impression received from his painting that I visited the painter at Maloja. Leaving Chiavenna early one morning, the coach slowly climbed the mountainside and, presently, crossed the apex of the range. There lay at our feet the beautiful valley of the Engadine. I carried away from Maloja many delightful impressions, but the two dominating all others were these: the earnestness of the painter, and his unwavering dependence upon nature.

He showed me large drawings or cartoons of some of his well known subjects representing the arrangement of the compositions and the balancing of the various parts of his pictures. The drawings were made in crayon and suggested in line the technical treatment of his paintings. From these sketches he transferred the drawings to canvas. In this way he saved time and labor. When a drawing was thus transferred to a canvas he carried the canvas to the scene of his subject, where he painted invariably directly from nature. When I asked if he ever completed a picture in the studio, he said: “Absolutely no! I always finish my pictures in the presence of nature.”

Segantini spoke his last word, if I may adopt this form of expression, in the very presence of and under the influence of nature. This to him was the supreme moment in the execution of his work.

Another illustration of the method of a great painter in relying upon his memory for the truths and facts of nature is found in Anton Mauve. Mauve’s power is unquestioned. He was one of the great modern Dutch painters. His pictures are always direct and forceful. His knowledge of nature was profound. This knowledge was the result of effort and study. Among his early drawings are found studies from nature which, in spirit, are wholly unlike his later productions. They reveal Mauve as a student of nature who was untiring in his effort to draw minute details with unflinching accuracy. I recall pencil studies of sheep, horses, cows, and plants which have rarely ever been excelled in the delineation of detail, not even by a master draughtsman like Barque. Mauve’s knowledge of nature acquired by this method was intimate and deep. His later manner was based upon a solid foundation. It was by this knowledge he was enabled to depict the more characteristic forms with a few hastily drawn lines. He knew well how important are broad, essential masses in art and he rendered these, eliminating non-essentials and trivial details. His sense of design or appropriate balance of parts was keen and sure; nearly all his pictures possess the distinguishing quality of simplicity. Like Ranger, he preferred to paint his pictures in the studio, but his reliance was, in the highest sense, upon nature.

I recall a visit to Mauve’s country, a country of sand dunes and pastures. These he loved and painted. One of Mauve’s students, an able etcher, was probably more familiar with the artist’s method than any other person. “His [Mauve’s] best pictures, before Laren,” he wrote me, “were all made in his studio from memory, aided with sketches in chalk. Then he went every day, if possible, to the spot he had sketched, to study the effect, the ‘moment,’ and he tried to fix that impression on his canvas when back home.”

Let us turn from the art of the painter to the art of the sculptor. Probably no modern sculptor has taken a higher place in the estimation of his fellow artists than has Rodin. As expressions of his art, his “Thinker” stands at one extreme end of the scale and such graceful and beautiful forms as “Eternal Spring” at the other. It is interesting, therefore, to know that Rodin has acknowledged his absolute dependence upon nature for the widely divergent expressions of character rendered by him. He is quoted as saying: “Seeker after truth and student of life as I am, ... I obey Nature in everything, and I never pretend to command her. My only ambition is to be servilely faithful to her.”

“I have not changed it [nature]. Or, rather, if I have done it, it was without suspecting it at the time. The feeling which influenced my vision showed me nature as I have copied her.”

“If I had wished to modify what I saw and to make it more beautiful I should have produced nothing good.”

“The only principle in Art is to copy what you see. Dealers in aesthetics to the contrary, every other method is fatal. There is no recipe for improving Nature.”

“The only thing is to see.”

“The ideal! The dream! Why, the realities of Nature surpass our most ambitious dreams.”