Читать книгу Cubists and Post-Impressionism - Arthur Jerome Eddy - Страница 6

The crowning event of the day was the sale of Rembrandt’s “Bathsheba.” The bidding started at 150,000 francs and within a couple of minutes a perfect whirlwind of bids had carried the price to 500,000 francs offered by a dealer, Mr. Trotti.

Already the smaller fry among the bidders had been eliminated and the contest was circumscribed to a small group, Messrs. Duveen, Wildenstein, Tedesco, Muller and Trotti being the most ardent in the battle.

“Six hundred thousand!” cried Mr. Duveen.

“Six hundred and fifty thousand,” said Mr. Wildenstein.

Mr. Duveen replied with a nod which meant the addition of another 50,000. Then with bids of 10,000 and 25,000 the price mounted, the struggle developing into a duel between Mr. Wildenstein and Mr. Duveen. Eight hundred thousand francs was reached and left behind; 900,000 francs in turn was passed.

“Nine hundred and fifty thousand,” rapped out Mr. Duveen.

“Nine hundred and sixty thousand,” responded Mr. Wildenstein.

Then came “nine hundred and seventy thousand” and “nine hundred and eighty thousand.” By this time the entire gathering was spellbound by the spectacle of the gladiatorial contest for the picture.

“Nine hundred and ninety thousand,” said Mr. Wildenstein.

There was an instant of silence.

“A million!”

Every eye turned from the speaker, Mr. Duveen, to gaze on Mr. Wildenstein expectantly. Then there was silence, signifying his withdrawal from the fight.

A mighty hubbub arose. The Rembrandt had been knocked down to Mr. Duveen for a million francs, or, with the commission, 1,100,000 francs. Never has such a price been given for a Rembrandt.

This is not dealing in art, it is art on the horse-block.

Here is the record of that one painting:

1734—Sold at Antwerp for	$109
1791—Sold at Paris for	240
1814—Sold at London for	525
1830—Sold at London for	790
1831—Sold at London for	792
1832—Sold at London for	1,260
1841—Sold at Paris for	1,576
1913—Sold at Paris for	220,000

During the exhibition in New York and Chicago the pictures were the one topic of conversation; for the time being it was worth while to dine out; society became almost animated.

I recall one delightful and irascible old gentleman, critic and painter, who had not had a fresh appreciation for twenty-five years. For him art ended with the Barbizon school. Whistler, Monet, Degas had no sure places.

We all have the courage of others’ convictions.

The new, however good, is always queer; the old, however bad, is never strange.

Most people laugh at new pictures because they are afraid if they don’t laugh at the pictures, other people will laugh at them.

Now and then a man laughs at a queer picture because he can’t help it, he is a joy.

Laughter is the honest emotion of the child, on the grown-up it is often a mark of ignorance.

It is so easy to ridicule what one does not understand and dares not like.

Laughter never stops to think—if it did there would be less laughter.

If you feel like laughing at a picture, laugh by all means, it will do you good, but be sure you really feel like laughing, and to make sure ask yourself this question, “If that picture were the only one in the room and I were alone with it would it strike me as laughable?”

It always takes just about so many years. What happened with the Barbizon School happened with Impressionism; what happened with Impressionism, will happen with Post-Impressionism; what will happen with Post-Impressionism will surely happen with post-post-Impressionism, and so on. One movement follows another, as season follows season. Life is rhythm.

Each generation thinks itself unique in its experiences.

We go to an exhibition of cubist pictures and we think nothing like that ever happened before, hence we feel safe in denouncing them.

We admit England was wrong when it ridiculed Turner, that France was wrong when it ridiculed Corot, that Paris was wrong when it derided Millet, Manet, Monet, Degas, and a host of other great men, but we are not wrong when we deride the new men. Why? Because we think they are newer and stranger than the men named.

ZAK

The Shepherd

We accept Wagner as a genius, but Strauss—oh, no, he is too strange, but there are stranger composers than Strauss already at work and we must travel fast to keep up with the procession.[3]

Be very sure the Cubists, the Futurists, and all the other queer “ists” would not make the impression they are making if there were not a good reason for it, if the times were not ripe for a change.

Broadly speaking we are changing from the perfections of Impressionism to the imperfections of Post-Impressionism; from the achievements of a school, a movement, that has done the best it could, to the attempts, the experiments, the gropings, of new men along new lines.

It is the purpose of this book to describe some of the changes that are taking place and try to explain them in plain, every-day terms.

The curse of art literature and professional art criticism is art-jargon.

Every department of human activity from sport to science, baseball to philosophy, speedily develops its own jargon and the tendency is for the jargon to become denser and denser and so more and more obscure its subject, until some man with horse-sense—like Huxley in science and William James in philosophy—restores the use of every-day English.

Some jargon like that of the baseball reporter is intensely vivid and amusing, it is language in the making, but the jargon of the art critic is deadly, it is neither vivid nor interesting—it is simply hypnotic. It is only when the critic gets so angry he forgets his jargon that he becomes intelligible—and betrays himself.

The reputation of many a preacher, many an orator, depends wholly upon his command of jargon, his ability to utter endless phrases which are either stock ideas, old as the hills, or which sound as if they meant something but on analysis prove quite barren.