Part 5
There also is a weird and eccentric suite, designated as “La Mort.” In these studies Besnard has indeed played with his conception, ringing its changes to endless and infinite variety. Death, the skeleton, pursues his prey in every imaginable state of society--in the streets, in the crowd, to the lonely individual, to the lovers’ embrace, to the man and wife before the altar, he lurks behind a pillar to seize the solitary passer-by, he appears in the ball-room, jogging elbows with the _débutante_, he rescues the beggar and menaces the rich man. Here in these drawings the painter displays his first and only hint of morbidness. The idea of death, he says, has always been with him an obsession. Whistler’s etchings are alone to be mentioned in class with these admirable _eaux-fortes_.
Besnard himself explains the absence of the melancholy strain which is, as a rule, strongly underlying the work of all great genius.
“I never work when I am unhappy. Unhappiness has a most depressing effect upon my execution and my conception. Never in times of anxiety have I said, ‘I will turn to my work, I will lose myself in my
creations. When my child was ill I was utterly incapable of producing, and only when its recovery was certain could I undertake my work again. (And it is at the hospital for sick children at Berck, when he was there for the health of his child, that he painted his frescoes.)
“My best work is that which I enjoy when I am doing it; it is the work which brings me pleasure, the work that I do when I am cheerful, which is my best. This is, of course, according to temperament, but such is mine! I produce a great deal, I work very hard, of course I am ambitious, and at times know discouragement, when my conception is so far behind my power of expression. I take often two months to do a picture and work and correct my canvases enormously. There are days when the mystery that should surround an idea is absent. Those are the days that I say one sees too clearly, and at that time I do not paint. _Je ne pioche pas_, which means ‘I do not dig away at my work.’ I have produced enormously and I owe my success to myself and my work alone. I have never had patronage and have never been part of a coterie.”
He has the gift of facile labour and his mental and temperamental characteristics are revealed in the free, breezy, healthful inspirations of his work. His is a happy, vigorous genius, sane and normal, utterly devoid of much of the weakness marking modern French art.
* * * * *
As soon as the painter of mural decorations leaves the domain of myth and contiguity to his subjects, he is on dangerous ground. Pure imagination is too personal, too largely of the painter’s own time--dying with his death and needing the very spirit of the age to interpret it, and when modern subjects become the choice for decorations, they should have for their principal scheme that which will appeal to the mass and be of general interest. The poorest man and woman, the youngest child may understand and enjoy the decorations in the School of Pharmacy. These are perhaps the most promising for the continuation of Besnard’s fame. They will live. The same may be said of the pictures in the Mairie of the Louvre; whereas, those in the School of Chemistry, delightful as they are, are so personal and subtle that they require printed cards to make them intelligible to the mass. The ceiling of the Hôtel de Ville represents the apotheosis of science. A female figure with the profusion of reddish hair Besnard is fond of painting, holds in her hands sheaves of light which she casts down into a darkened world.
“My method of work is not different to that of the other masters,” Besnard says. “I first make a design in wash and then colour it liberally, put in all the vibration that I see and feel in nature.” (He has chosen his definition happily, Vibration is a distinct quality of his work). “I am really glad you do not think I represent a school! I feel myself a solitary as far as my art goes.... I love motion, and action, and variety, and yet withal I am a dreamer, completely lost in my conception and in my mental preparation for my work. For this reason, perhaps because I am so constantly absorbed in the world of imagination, my taste in literature is for modern things--for immediate things, if I may so say. I rise at seven in the morning, and am at work at nine. I paint until luncheon, and rarely do good work in the afternoons. I take my inspirations, the ideas for my pictures, from everything that surrounds me. I cannot tell from where they come, but I am always seeking to accurately arrange my ideas and render my conceptions and my translations of them harmonious.”
In the summer Besnard goes to Savoie, where in the long vacations he does almost no work, repairing his forces, resting and giving himself to the enjoyment of his tranquil, domestic life. “I think I may say that I love light above all things.”
And in no modern paintings is the luminous quality more evident. Certain of his paintings possess the mellowness of the Dutch school. There is a likeness to Rubens in his treatment of flesh, in the exuberance and splendid animalism of his women, whereas in the half-tones and sombre scheme (take, for instance, “Le Regard”), Franz Hals and Porbus are recalled. Light is his motive in the ceiling of the Hôtel de Ville. It radiates in the crucible of fire in the Sorbonne ceiling, whilst the decoration of the Français, Apollo the Sun god, again repeats the insistent idea. Besnard’s predilection for prismatic, dazzling effect is unique; a special sense for colour combined with magnificent technique and accurate drawing, explain the power of his painting and his high rank in the criticism of the present.
Besnard is in the vigorous prime of his life and production. His redundant creative force is enormous and he will, it is to be hoped and believed, abundantly add to France’s treasures of modern art.
STEINLEN
One cannot think of Steinlen, Willette, Guillaume, Rivière, Léandre, and their colleagues in the same school, without having before one’s eyes an image of the multi-populous, seething quarter of Paris wherein these clever nineteenth-century seers and priests of a certain cult lived and moved, without remembering Montmartre, and the famous cabaret _Le Chat Noir_, once on the Boulevard Rochechouart.
The Chat Noir was founded by Rodolphe Salis in 1882. This artistic tavern saw Caran d’Ache’s _début_: his silhouettes of Napoleon and the Grand Armée did much to make the place popular. Willette here presented his fascinating musical stories of _Pierrot_--_Histoires sans Paroles_. The Shadow Pantomime of Henri Rivière was also a celebrated contribution to the little Bohemian theatre.
The Chat Noir has succumbed to the law of progress that sweeps pitilessly before its scythe whatsoever would hinder its course. The delicious little plays appealing to the ready appreciation of the Faubourg Montmartrois, as well as to the keenest critics,--pantomimes of ephemeral beauty, extraordinary shows and shadow dances,--find no longer this stage waiting to extend its hospitality for their interpretation. It has no successor. A multitude of little people--feeble flames--were snuffed out as the Chat Noir closed its doors for ever. But there were those to whom the Café was only an ante-chamber to larger rooms; and among these men Steinlen is conspicuous.
The various quarters of Paris are magnets, drawing inevitably unto them those spirits who shall understand, who shall find their ways sympathetic, who shall become their poets, historians, painters.
The sensitive Boutet de Monvel reveals the Champs-Elysées, the Bois de Boulogne, the parks, the communal schools, and the gardens; for this painter of children seeks only the reposeful ways where children go, where they study, are led, carried, or wander safely alone.
In Belleville, Geoffroy has been responsive to benevolence and charity from man to man. He presents the Foundling Schools, the Asylums. The
soothing atmosphere of charity envelops his work--he has seen the poor through the medium of philanthropic faith. Daumier, the father of personal caricature, sixty years ago regarded Paris with the philosopher’s eyes. Gavarni looked through the single eyeglass of the man of fashion, as it were, on the petty vanities of the gay social world.
And Steinlen?
He is “a lover of life,” “an adorer of truth.” In his youth, even, surrounded by the wild _jeunesse_ of the student quarter, his spirit was calmer, profounder than the others. Montmartre became the magnet drawing to its centre this ardent soul; in Montmartre, then, as to-day, he saw the Giant Need, imperfectly met by the vast charity of the world. It is from this district that his eternal plea resounds for the poor whose necessities are eternal. He finds his quarter tragic in its commonplace moods; to him the passions of the people have spoken. There is vibrant and touching pathos in his rendering of the love-story of the grisettes, the love-story of the workman and workwoman of the people, an infinite tenderness in his pictures of humble family life--the gathering of the sad little bands enveloped by the fervour of maternity, when the frail mother, bending over her children, has more love to give than bread. And if, as we study and consider his work, we are shocked at times, and claim that the truth is unpleasing--is this not because his subjects are sought among those phases of life to which too often we willingly close our eyes?
Steinlen is a Swiss Protestant of simple parentage. He was born in Lausanne, and is Parisian by adoption only. His grandfather was a painter of talent. Save for the fact that Steinlen married at twenty and came to Paris to earn his bread with his brush and pencil, his history has no special interest. He had no time or chance to follow the academic course of study in the _ateliers_ of Paris. In order to meet his responsibilities, he had to make money, and at once. He therefore turned his talent to every use.
“I made designs for wall-paper,” he says, “for cotton stuffs, even,--to say nothing of illustrations for booksellers and book-writers, and for song-writers.”
Some of his most important work has been done through the medium of a newspaper. During the years 1891-92 _Gil Blas_ printed all the drawings Steinlen could finish. He laboured with energy almost ferocious, under the pressing need of means for daily existence. The result was the finest. It is not too much to state
that this work of Steinlen’s in _Gil Blas_ helped to revolutionise illustrative art in the periodicals of France.
He gave to the accomplishment of his editor’s orders his best effort, and filled during nearly two years the weekly pages, not for the amusement of his public, but for their awakening to the interest in the life of Paris as seen in the Faubourgs. Awaken and instruct he did. He made a call upon sympathy, and stirred and stimulated charity; but also his art was an epoch in illustrative journalism.
Public and editors demanded thenceforth more than the inadequate drawings of mediocrity, and solicited sketches from the best pencils. The modern French weeklies exhibit the cleverest possible illustrations, forming in their class the highest grade.
Frontispiece and other drawings in _Le Rire_ and _Gil Blas_ to-day by Jean Veber, Léandre, Willette, are delights to the collector, and any one possessing the years containing Steinlen’s contributions to these papers is considered fortunate.
For the most part the illustrations in _Gil Blas_ are coloured. They are satires on life drawn to accompany some “_Saut d’esprit_” or to portray simply street scenes as Steinlen knows them, or are political cartoons. In his street studies he has been relentless in his realism, careless of how unpleasant may be the impression of these frankly told horrors. No detail of sordid existence has been neglected in his bold depicting of the city’s misery.
Needless to say how admirable is the technique in these sketches, the fresh vigorous work of a man whose spirit alone was in the subject, whose ambition chafed for the leisure to create in what to him was the great province of art, the picture, the oil-painting.
It was in the early part of his career that he added to the glory of the modern poster. Artists of distinction in London and Paris have not hesitated to employ their talent in street-wall decoration. In France, Steinlen has many rivals amongst favourite painters of the day, most notably Léandre, Willette, Cheret. But the Steinlen posters have not been surpassed nor superseded. They are immensely popular, peculiarly happy.
It is scarcely necessary to recall “_Lait Pur Sterilisé_,” the enormous poster of world-wide popularity; it is universally known--there was a craze for it in Paris and in New York--of its type it is perfection. The subject is a dear little girl, red-haired, red-robed, seated before
a table drinking a bowl of milk, under the jealous eyes of three great cats. The child is Steinlen’s little daughter, and the drawing of child and cats is as skilful and clever as it well can be.
There are several charming _affiches_ especially designed for Sarah Bernhardt--others for Yvette Guilbert. Chiefest of these is the famous Café des Ambassadeurs. Steinlen made in this a striking portrait of the original _café chanteuse_; and Yvette,--slender, lithe, enchanting, as Paris and the world has found her,--boasts no more characteristic portrait of herself than the Steinlen poster.
Advertisements for Vernet les Bains, Trouville, the posters Mothu, Doria, and lastly Le Rêve--may be mentioned as important. They are all difficult to obtain.
These studies, for a purpose of necessity transient, destined to be transmitted to paper and pasted along street walls by a bill-poster’s brush, constructed to catch the crowd’s attention in order that their mission should be fulfilled--are neither vulgar nor sensational. Vigorous, strong, they are worthy the word Steinlen applies to his other work--“_Serious_.” They are done with his characteristic splendid stroke. Their colouring is brilliant, crude and boldly frank the drawing. Steinlen’s stroke is celebrated: eminently fearless, rapid, trenchant. It has been cleverly said that in each of his creations the _trait marquant_ is so deeply emphasised, the one idea is so imposed, that it is as though when his work were done he drew below it one dark black line. In his studio may be seen a wall-decoration destined rather for a _café_ than for a poster--a study of the streets, a bit of the passing crowd, taken out, as it were, and held before us. Steinlen has renounced this branch of popular decoration. His posters are already rare, and are becoming yearly more valuable.
Steinlen has done an immense amount of illustrating. Many volumes of François Coppée, Anatole France, and Guy de Maupassant are made doubly attractive by his collaboration. He has illustrated the songs of Bruant and Jouy, of Montmartre and student fame. Among some of the publications valuable chiefly because Steinlen has collaborated with the writers may be mentioned “Chanson d’Aïeules” (Tellier, Paris); “Chanson des Cabots” (Guetville); and “Chanson Rouge” (Boukay).
These illustrations number, amongst other subjects, “The Chief of the Claque,” “The Cabotins of Paris,”
“The Souffleurs of the Theatre,” “The Director of the Theatre Himself.” Each little picture is gay, familiar, intelligent, finely conceived and finely drawn. For a song dedicated to Alphonse Daudet he has a strong study of symbolic misery: a nude creature kneeling in the middle of a deserted street, arms out-spread ready to clutch her prey, who is the passer-by. In the same book we have “The Knifegrinder,” “The Needlewoman,” “The Wine-seller.” Paris seems to have given up her hetacomb of human souls and human bodies for his observation and portrayal. In the drawing for a book of Coppée’s is “The _Gamin_ of Paris,” a little half elf creature, half human child. This ghoul, seated on a mass of refuse, is red-eyed and horrible in his misery. He typifies Belleville, the Whitechapel of Paris. He is the accrued poverty, squalor, and criminal tendencies of generations combined with the frailty of childhood, the slenderness of youth. The subject is powerful, the workmanship excellent.
The best of his illustrations have been made for Edouard Pelletan, the publisher in the Boulevard St. Germain. M. Pelletan has conceived the idea of bringing out a yearly publication called _L’Almanach du Bibliophile_. Jules Claretie, Anatole France, Gustave Larroumet, and Sully Prud’homme, have collaborated to write a series of articles. But Steinlen is the feature of the publication. Monsieur Pelletan asked him to make a dozen drawings whose headings should be the twelve months of the year, the general subject to be the glorification of Labour. But Steinlen grew enthusiastic over his task, and drew many more than the twelve studies. A collection of the designs was on exhibition in Monsieur Pelletan’s library during 1901.
These pictures--for they are not studies, but admirably finished creations--represent the working man and the working woman in the pursuit of their various occupations. We see the _blanchisseuse_ stagger home through the drizzling mist, bowed under her huge burden of linen. On the skeleton scaffolding the builder becomes a speck, infinitely far from his fellows; the apprentice goes chattering gaily along with her companions,--again we have the attractive girl of the people, whose class in France is distinct, and whose personality is so agreeable. Steinlen touches with his happiest, lightest stroke the gay figure of youth and charm.
Another drawing portrays the family again around
the humble board. But the finest of the suite are four pictures drawn at Monsieur Pelletan’s suggestion that Steinlen should show the public what his skill was in careful, minute technique; for the critics have accused him of too great facility and too rapid production. He has called the first picture “Le Bois,” where a carpenter, a strong, well-drawn figure, nude to the waist, bends over the rough planks of wood, yielding in long curling shavings to his plane. In the second, “La Pierre,” the stone-polisher crouches over his well-nigh implacable mass of stone, until he may almost distinguish his image in the smooth surface. In the third, “Le Fer,” a like half-nude labourer struggles with his contortion of the mighty mineral. Lastly, Steinlen has depicted the miner, deep in his cavern’s interior.
These studies demand a first place in the catalogue of modern drawing, and lack in the perfected workmanship none of Steinlen’s distinctive, free, untrammelled handling of his subject and expression of his art. They would not lose, placed side by side with the drawings of Puvis, and indeed possess the primitive purity of line and reveal the serious conception which mark the work of masters.
Pelletan has just published Anatole France’s new book “L’Affaire Crainquebille,” a satire on French law and modes of justice, done in Anatole France’s most delightful manner, and illustrated by Steinlen.
Crainquebille, a seller of turnips, which he pushes through the streets in a little hand-cart, is accused of having called out to a policeman “_Mort aux Vaches!_”--a slang opprobium of the streets. The poor innocent, unconscious of offending, is haled to the courts, where he becomes the victim of a most amusing and witty _procès_, withal tragically pathetic. He is condemned to prison, and when once more at liberty attempts to resume his ancient, respectable calling. He finds himself a pariah, shunned because of the stigma of “jail-bird!” Crainquebille falls into abject poverty and inebriation. In his starving misery he reflects, “Prison isn’t half a bad place, after all!” and to partake once more of its peace he sins deliberately. Bearding the policeman in his den--that is, the street lamp’s shadow--he cries out to him, “_Mort aux Vaches!_” But the amiable officer, “un bon père de famille,” laughs at the old man and bids him go about his business. The poor old Crainquebille finds the justice of the world too intricate to comprehend. Imprisoned for a fault which when repeated evokes
mirth! He disappears in the fogs of a winter street.
This collaboration of Anatole France and Steinlen is _spirituel_ and successful. “Once more Steinlen was quite carried away” (Monsieur Pelletan says); “I suggested twenty drawings. He has given me fifty-five!” And each illustration is a little masterpiece, admirable in execution and full of sympathy with the class the downtrodden Crainquebille represents.
It is false to suppose that Steinlen does not give to each of his creations the greatest pains. For the little volume called “Le Chien de Brisquet”[A] he made eighty drawings for Anatole France before he got one to his satisfaction, and it was for “Le Chien de Brisquet,” which volume of drawings it will be difficult to surpass, that Steinlen drew and re-drew his canine sketches. “Although,” said Monsieur Pelletan, “I assure you _I_ was quite satisfied with the first drawings!”
A word must be said regarding his feline studies. Cats have been favourite animals with poets and painters: witness Baudelaire, Poe, Coppée, Manet; and Steinlen, too, has found these slender, graceful felines interesting. There is in his representation of this animal a subtle perceiving of the link and of the difference between the brute and the human. It suggests the masters whose paintings of animals have made them famous, Landseer above all. When his book “Le Chat” came out, it was bought at first for children, but could not long be kept in the nurseries. Copies were pilfered for drawing-rooms and studios, where elders claimed these treasures of clever design. Steinlen’s host of drawings are undoubted indications of a power not to be confined in the sphere of the illustration for books. Admirers of Steinlen’s look for great things of him during the next years, claiming that his future is more brilliant in promise than any of his colleagues, Jean Veber excepted.
Steinlen himself is a delightful personality, and distinctly a force. The grasp of his hand, the fire of his eye, his courtesy, charm, and the pleasure it is to hear him speak, render him an unusual companion. His friends, naturally, are legion--he is much beloved; but, as they say in France, he is _très sauvage_--preferring to let the world go its ways, and to shut himself away with his work in his remote studio.
His intimate contact with the very poor, the very
suffering, has formed his points of view and left its mark on his nature. He is a Bohemian, and values slightly luxuries and ways of modern worldly life. He is familiar with the haunts of the thieves in the dangerous parts of Paris: he may well take his life in his hands--he is beloved and known, he is safe. He knows the interiors where starvation and cold and crime are side by side. He has helped generously, who can say how many? directly from his own purse and indirectly through the wide sympathy he has aroused.