It's going to be a
facsimile
reproduction for a weekly.
Kipling - Poems
He used to fiddle about with 'em and show
us how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge his
reports from the Nilghai. See? "
"Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up
here this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept
clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will
unsettle your mind. "
"It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means. "
"You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art? "
"Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it again. "
Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. "Here's a sample
of real Art.
It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I
called it 'His Last Shot. ' It's worked up from the little water-colour
I made outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman,
up here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored
him, and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with
his helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his
eye, and the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn't
pretty, but he was all soldier and very much man. "
"Once more, modest child! "
Dick laughed. "Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as
well as I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the
art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers wouldn't
like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,--man being naturally
gentle when he's fighting for his life. They wanted something more
restful, with a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but
you might as well talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my 'Last
Shot' back. Behold the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without
a speck on it.
us how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge his
reports from the Nilghai. See? "
"Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up
here this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept
clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will
unsettle your mind. "
"It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means. "
"You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art? "
"Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it again. "
Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. "Here's a sample
of real Art.
It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I
called it 'His Last Shot. ' It's worked up from the little water-colour
I made outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman,
up here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored
him, and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with
his helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his
eye, and the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn't
pretty, but he was all soldier and very much man. "
"Once more, modest child! "
Dick laughed. "Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as
well as I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the
art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers wouldn't
like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,--man being naturally
gentle when he's fighting for his life. They wanted something more
restful, with a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but
you might as well talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my 'Last
Shot' back. Behold the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without
a speck on it.
