They wanted
something
more
restful, with a little more colour.
restful, with a little more colour.
Kipling - Poems
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. That is Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high
light on the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle,--rifles are
always clean on service,--because that is Art. I pipeclayed his
helmet,--pipeclay is always used on active service, and is indispensable
to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him an air of
fatted peace. Result, military tailor's pattern-plate. Price, thank
Heaven, twice as much as for the first sketch, which was moderately
decent. "
"And do you suppose you're going to give that thing out as your work? "
"Why not? I did it.
"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. That is Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high
light on the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle,--rifles are
always clean on service,--because that is Art. I pipeclayed his
helmet,--pipeclay is always used on active service, and is indispensable
to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him an air of
fatted peace. Result, military tailor's pattern-plate. Price, thank
Heaven, twice as much as for the first sketch, which was moderately
decent. "
"And do you suppose you're going to give that thing out as your work? "
"Why not? I did it.
