![Transcription Center logo](/themes/custom/tc_theme/assets/image/logo.png)
This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.
11662 THE STORY OF AN ARTIST'S LIFE serpent-like shapes--caged lurid serpents--seeking, as it were, a means of escape, but whose brilliancy faded into wreathing smoke when their over-leaping desire carried them too far from their source of life? Or was it the great brown savory loaves, the crumpled edges of which always fell to our lot. Was it the artistic sense of the weird, or was it more probably the mere prospect of "loaves and fishes"? Aside from any personal memories, Pittsburgh has always been dear to me because of hearing my father say so many times, "A Pittsburgher of three generations." We children came to know that this expression was the one often used after his "fur had been rubbed the wrong way." There was always a touch of pride in it, and I soon got to feel that "a Pittsburgher of three generations" was a thing that did not fall to the lot of every man. "Like father, like son." Once in my life (only once, I believe) I was heard to say "A Pittsburgher of four generations." This boast, however, would not have been possible, I am sure, had I lacked the extreme care given so freely by a loving mother; for I was a most delicate child. If she had tried on me the "toughening process," so often advised by overknowing neighbors, I should probably have but added one to that already heavy column in vital statistics--"infant mortality." My early years, as I recollect, ran the usual coarse of childish vicissitudes; but, when I had become a lad of twelve or thirteen, there occurred a trivial event which was to me of the utmost importance. I was walking out with my father one fine afternoon in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, where we then resided, when I saw for the first time a real, live artist--and at work. The subject the artist had chosen was a middle distance hillside with a magnificent elm in bold relief. Showing my lack of comprehension of what the artist was trying to do, I asked my father: "Why does he not have a spy-glass so that he can see that big tree more distinctly? Why does he get so far away?" It was this simple event that, as it were, set me on fire. Like many children, I had drawn upon my slate to the loss of my lessons, or all over the fences to the detriment of the landscape, but never had it crossed my mind that I should be an artist, nor had I ever wished to be. But, after seeing this artist at work for an hour, it was decided on the spot, by me at least, that I would be one, and I assure you it was no ordinary one I had in mind. After I had watched this artist off the scene that afternoon, I eagerly hurried home, and, although it was nearly dark, I that very night shortened the skirt of an awning over our kitchen door for canvas, and for a palette requisitioned the back of an old geography, with a hold jabbed through for my thumb. And what a pride this palette was! It seemed to me that this was the most characteristic, if not the most necessary, piece of artistic trappings--maybe from the fact that I had never seen it before. My enthusiasm would certainly have been diminished, and the joy and exuberance. I felt greatly reduced, had I been forced to employ anything other than a palette upon which to mix my colors. It even mattered little when I found out next day that the cardboard absorbed my colors and turpentine almost as fast as they were placed upon it; it was a palette, or looked like one, and that was enough! It was to me the insignia of an artist, and with this in hand, even before I had any colors, I felt already just as I imagined a great artist must feel. The securing of colors and brushes was not so simple a matter--they had to be bought. I was one of a large family, and my father, a minister in the African Methodist Episcopal Church, was in the throes of buying a home. However, a long conversation with my mother that night produced fifteen cents, and this, early the next morning, secured from a common paint shop some dry colors and a couple of scraggy brushes. Then I was out immediately for a sketch. I went straight to the spot where I had seen the artist of the day before. Don't you suppose a boy, trying to hold a canvas between his knees and mix dry colors upon a pasteboard palette, might be liable to get things mixed? Well, I did. Whether I got the most of the paint upon the canvas, upon myself, or upon the ground, it would be hard to tell. But that I was happy, supremely so, there was no doubt. Coming home that night, I examined that sketch from all points of view, upside down, and down side up, decidedly admiring and well content with my first effort. There was one little disconcerting fact, however--it seemed best upside down!