Why did Thomas Eakins, now considered the foremost American painter of the nineteenth century, make portraiture his main
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English Pages 207 [322] Year 1983
Table of contents :
Frontmatter
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS (page ix)
DIMENSIONS OF EAKINS' WORKS (page xv)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (page xvii)
PREFACE (page xix)
CHAPTER ONE. Eakins, Modern Life, and the Portrait (page 3)
CHAPTER TWO. Max Schmitt in a Single Scull, or The Champion Single Sculls (page 19)
CHAPTER THREE. The Gross Clinic, or Portrait of Professor Gross (page 46)
CHAPTER FOUR. William Rush Carving His Allegorical Figure of the Schuylkill River (page 82)
CHAPTER FIVE. The Concert Singer (page 115)
CHAPTER SIX. Walt Whitman (page 144)
BIBLIOGRAPHIC ESSAY (page 171)
Index (page 197)
THOMAS EAKINS
| The Heroism of Modern Life
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April, 1871, was soon after he had finished affectation extended to commas, which he it. The catalogue for the exhibition, the Third regularly omitted.
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: MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL throughout his career. As he was to do later as well, he filled the work with reportorial detail that was rich in metaphor. And although the subject was anchored in his own experience, it also reveals the extent to which he shared with his fellow citizens their excitement about the pursuits of modern life. The Champion Single Sculls is a portrait of Eakins’ friend Max Schmitt scull-
ing on Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River. Eakins and other oarsmen row in the middle and far distances. The tall, slender Schmitt, in the near shell, pauses
to turn and look at the viewer over his right shoulder, his face, arm, and shirt lit brilliantly by the late afternoon sun. He relaxes his right arm, with his left he guides the oars, as his shell “Josie’—its name written clearly on its side—straightens out from a turn and glides toward the viewer’s left. In the middle distance is Eakins, with intent face and a stocky physique. He moves away from the viewer, not relaxing but rowing with concentration, and the sun strikes him and his boat across the front. His shell has come from the left, in a gentle curve that parallels that of his friend’s craft. These oarsmen have met and passed each other, each on his own mission. Also absorbed in their own purposes are three other single scullers, in the distance—one on the far right, set off by a red shirt, one behind Eakins, in white, and a third by the bridge pier near the left. Various landmarks identify the location as on the Schuylkill: the Railroad Connection Bridge (with a train puffing across it from the right) and the Girard Avenue Bridge, peculiarly situated at an angle to each other;3 Sweetbriar, a colonial mansion on the brow of the hill just off the river’s right bank;+ and, in a distinctive red boat near the left shore, a crew of two rowers and coxswain in Quaker dress. The spare brown of the trees on the shoreline identifies the season as autumn. Smailer details complete the scene: part of a stone house visible on the far left; near it, four ducks in the shallow water; and, in the distance, a steamboat under a puff of white steam, its mechanical character a contrast to the motive power of the scullers. Only a few thin clouds stretch across the shifting blue sky. In the raking light of late afternoon, the day nears its 3 Both these bridges were replaced not long _ structure; this may be a boathouse. Although after Eakins painted this scene; prints in Phil- the river banks have been landscaped as a park adelphia and Its Environs (Philadelphia: J. B. since 1871, a viewer may still take Eakins’ Lippincott and Co., 1873), p. 68, show their point of view in the painting by looking south
relationship in 1870. from the parking area off West River Drive
4 This distinctive mansion, built in 1797, near the Black Road intersection. In making had been incorporated into Fairmount Park _ his picture, Eakins pulled the bridges considin 1868. There is also, on the shoreline to the erably closer to the viewer than they appear right of the bridge, a large, apparently stone in actuality.
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MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
| end; in the losses and browns of autumn, the year runs down, and the rowing season approaches its close. The painting surface reveals precisions as well as imprecisions; these differences seem to be deliberate. Only two preparatory drawings for the painting survive; they are Eakins’ very careful rendering of a pier of the Girard Avenue Bridge and on the back of that his sketch of the blade of an oar, with
the inscription “left or looking out to the blade” (Figure 17). For his later rowing paintings he was to prepare elaborate perspective drawings to establish the spatial bearings of the shells (Figure 18 shows one of the drawings with which he prepared for the Pazr-Oared Shell), and there is no reason to think that he did not do so for this first painting as well. The two small drawings that do exist point the same lesson as the later perspective studies: that with objects—which have a specific shape and place in space—Eakins wanted to be precise; that with activities he wanted to show—as his note to himself on the oar blade reveals—how an instrument with which one carries out an activity is maneuvered by the user. He told a student years later that
to paint the rowing paintings he had put little figures and bits of cloth on his roof in bright sunlight; although the motif of the “bits of cloth” seems to suggest the details of his three paintings of the Biglin brothers, he was so particular about the quality of late afternoon light in his painting of Schmitt that he may have studied for this work on his roof also.5 On the canvas itself, Eakins seems to have moved from what he could render to what he could only approximate—from measurable objects to the unpredictable moving water, sky, and clouds. He drew the bridges and Schmitt’s shell precisely to outlines that are still visible on the canvas, and then painted them, along with the tree branches and trunks in the left mid-
reality.° | dle ground, with thin opaque tones that cleanly connect one outlined edge to its opposite. These are the only exact areas on the canvas, the only areas in which Eakins seems even to have tried to point matter-of-factly to objective 5 Reported by Charles Bregler, in “Thomas painting in which transparency and stillness Eakins as a Teacher,” The Arts, March 1931, are hallmarks. Barbara Novak, for instance,
p. 384. in her influential American Painting of the ¢T am explicit about Eakins’ technique in Nineteenth Century (New York: Praeger, 1969,
this painting not only to counter the indis- p. 193), discusses this particular painting as criminate label of “exact realism” that his work a “luminist” work. Actually The Champion has attracted but to show that contrary to re- Single Sculls and other of Eakins’ paintings are cently popular theory, Eakins’ work has little “transparent” and impersonal only in phototo do with a “luminist” style, either—that is, graphic reproduction. with a style of nineteenth-century landscape
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MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
Elsewhere across the canvas he caught a world whose primary reality he felt from within. He drew his technique from the masters of indirect painting whose work he had observed carefully—Géréme, Couture, Velazquez, Rembrandt, even mid-century American landscapists. He took, and made his own, the repertory of layering, transparent glazes, opaque scumbling, and brushwork that had been explored from the time of ‘Titian. With attention to the human form that reflected his early-expressed fascination with the body in movement, Eakins modeled the figures of Schmitt and himself with built-up layers of glazes and opaque high tones, painstakingly knitting
together bodies that are specific in height, weight, and muscular action. Then , he built up the environment in a number of steps. He prepared his canvas for the area of the water with a brownish-gray underpainting and pulled over it a light blue (visible just near the right edge of the tree reflections above Schmitt’s scull, and near other edges across the canvas), and then, unevenly, more solemn blues, toned with gray or brown, and occasional light browns. Finally, he washed over the surface thin glazes of browns and grays that in some places reflect details along the shore, as on the left and near the bridge; in others hint a changing sky, as in the foreground; and at spots seem to suggest a quickening, short breeze.? With dark, regularly spaced
marks he broke this varied surface to reveal the steady dip of oars and the measured movement along the river of Schmitt’s and his own shells. To brushwork, Eakins gave a strong—but not necessarily beautiful—role. He formed the sky with virtual scrubbing. Also blue over a gray underpainting, it appears as a deep, changing field, interrupted by clouds wispy in form but not in thinness of pigment. Then, for contrast, with thin, opaque washes of brown he established against the sky the flat brown-leaved tree
: masses on the horizon, forming their contours by pulling the blue of the sky down to lap between them. Between sky and water, over on the far left of the shore, he described with thick yellow, gray, and tan pigment the stone wall of what was perhaps a boat house; nearby, he used some of the same pigment to scrub over an area of rushes with thick strokes that are anything but rush-like. Whereas some of Eakins’ technique was subtle, nowhere on the canvas did he use it to point transparently to the material world. In
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| 7 In studying Eakins’ brushwork one must incompatibility of the “leaden sky,” certainly discount the lowest part of the painting, which a consequence of the gray underpainting, with was heavily damaged and has been restored. the sunny effects elsewhere in the painting. When the painting was exhibited in 1871, the Today the sky does not seem inharmonious critic for the Philadelphia Inquirer criticized the _ with the rest of the work.
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
several areas, in fact, undescriptive of any forms whatsoever Eakins moved his brush back and forth, up and down the water in heavy blue crescents and dashes that communicate his presence as painter. In some places, where this brushwork finishes off a thickly painted passage, such as near Schmitt’s shoulder, or in the water just this side of the bridge, it seems to mark his decision simply to stop painting in an area that had given him problems, but elsewhere the brushwork is confident and free. Signing his authorship of the painting across his own boat in the picture, Eakins asserted his craftsmanship as artist to have been as grounded in experience—and as demanding—as that of the builder of the delicate shells. Schmitt is the hero in this personal, fall painting, but sculling, the Schuylkill, and Philadelphia expressed Eakins’ proper place, too.
For rowing was an activity that Eakins knew well. He had learned to row long before he went to Paris, first going out on the river in the early 1860s at a time when other Philadelphians as well were trying out this new sport.° All the members of Eakins’ family rowed—his father, sisters, and his mother; indeed, in their Mount Vernon Street home the family was only a few blocks from the allure of the Schuylkill for recreation in the late afternoons. From Paris Eakins mentioned rowing in several of his letters to his family—in - comments that reveal the several dimensions of their enjoyment of the sport:
, asking his mother if she had been on the river recently to see the fall colors;
suggesting to his sister Frances that she go row on the river when she found | herself depressed about her progress in her piano studies; and urging that Frances and Margaret should learn to swim well since they rowed so much.9 Many of Eakins’ friends at Central High School had also taken up rowing, and Max Schmitt, the central figure in The Champion Single Sculls, was prominent among them. Classmate Joseph Boggs Beale, later an artist/illustrator, 8 Although it does not seem possible now tory and Biography 97, no. 4 (October 1973), to ascertain exactly when Eakins began row- 485-510. Eakins’ letters from Paris in 1867 ing, I have assumed that he joined in the ris- reveal a long familiarity with rowing. ing activity on the river about the time his 9 Margaret McHenry, Thomas Eakins Who friends did. The diary of Joseph Boggs Beale Painted (Oreland, Pa.: privately printed, 1946),
, (at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania), p. 3, quotes the letter of fall, 1867 about the kept from 1856 through July 1865, reveals that autumn colors on the river; the other correBeale took lessons in rowing in 1863 (entry spondence is in the collection of the Archives for September 11, 1863). Beale’s diary is ex- of American Art: Eakins to Fanny, November cerpted with a focus on Beale’s artistic activ- 13, 1867 about rowing to lift her spirits; Eaities in Nicholas B. Wainwright, “Education kins to Fanny on Good Friday, 1868 about of an Artist: The Diary of Joseph Boggs Beale, learning to swim.
| 23 1856-1862,” The Pennsylvania Magazine of His-
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
wrote in his diary of being on the river several times a week; Eakins’ chemistry professor at the high school and subject of a later portrait, B. Howard Rand, M.D., was even the president of a boating club.'° Some Philadelphi-
ans rowed independently, while others, like Dr. Rand and Max Schmitt, rowed as members of recently formed boating clubs.'' Joining their new enthusiasm for rowing with an equally new passion for organized activity, several of these clubs in 1858 had founded the Schuylkill Navy to sponsor semiannual regattas and championship races, and the activities brought new
publicity to rowing. Whether for club activities or private relaxation, for racing or for exercise, Philadelphians took to the Schuylkill with craft of all descriptions, and from April until October the river was dotted with citizens in earnest training or just as earnest relaxation. They were not alone in their enthusiasm. Throughout America, in fact, the years framing the Civil War saw a virtual flowering of rowing and, in-
: deed, of many other sports. With the rise of economic prosperity a substantial number of city dwellers—new professionals, clerks, and skilled workers—enjoyed increased income and, for the first time, notable leisure. Because so many of them were engaged in exclusively mental and indoor occupations,
they turned to the outdoors for relaxation. Following the nation’s lingering affection for English customs, they chose their new sporting pursuits from English models that they knew through English sporting periodicals. Sports
| newly popular in England ranged from hunting, billiards, cricket, croquet, walking, horse racing, and yachting to rowing, and of these, rowing had particular attraction for Americans. Favorable rivers and lakes were abundant across the continent, and some of the values associated with rowing in England appealed to the developing American advocacy of leisure that was instructive, elevating, and democratic. © Arthur W. Colen, writing an introduc- vania. tory essay to the exhibition Drawings by Joseph = Max Schmitt was a member of the PennBoggs Beale (New York: Whitney Museum of sylvania Barge Club; according to Seymour American Art, 1936), and drawing on family Adelman, Eakins also belonged to the club,
sources for his information, also discusses but his name does not appear in the club’s Beale’s enjoyment of rowing, and mentions records at the Historical Society of Pennsylthat he often rowed with Eakins (p. 21. Colen vania. Because of Eakins’ friendship with writes that Eakins was a member of the Un- Schmitt, he perhaps had an informal rather dine Barge Club with Beale—see Note 11, than formal association with the group. Acbelow). Eakins’ chemistry professor, Dr. cording to Shinn in a letter of January 3, 1867 Rand, who was later on the faculty of Jeffer- (Friends Historical Library of Swarthmore son Medical College, was president of the College), Eakins talked a great deal about “the Undine Barge Club. Printed records of the Schuylkill boating club” during his first year club are in the Historical Society of Pennsyl- in Paris.
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| MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL With the passion of the convert, rowing’s new devotees in America studied
its many aspects. They wrote about its history, its technology, its social implications, its moral dimensions, and, most prominently, its character in America that distinguished it from its English antecedents. These antecedents had assumed an influential pattern. For centuries, row-
ing in England had been associated with watermen on the Thames, who engaged in the “trade of rowing” by ferrying passengers in heavy boats from one side to the other. In the course of such ferrying, watermen had become competitive about their individual speed and skill, and a tradition developed of gentry passengers occasionally wagering on the outcome of a ride. In 1716
one of these passengers, the actor Thomas Doggett, instituted an official
race—the annual waterman’s race for “Doggett’s Coat and Badge”—that, , with some transformation in equipment, continues today. Inspired by the lively spirit with which the watermen raced, members of the gentry and aristocracy took up racing themselves in private barges late in the eighteenth
century. About the same time, impressed not only with its value as entertainment but also with its benefits to health, students at Oxford began to row informally, and by 1806 students at Eton were rowing also. Rowing became institutionalized. Oxford established an official college rowing club in 1815 and Cambridge in 1827; in 1829 these clubs, rowing in eight-man barges, met in the first of the famous annual Oxford and Cambridge boat races that even today are prominent events. In the 1820s and 1830s gentleman
amateurs formed the first rowing clubs, and cities began to sponsor annual regattas. With the exception of professional races by oarsmen who were usually former watermen, over only a few decades rowing was transformed into the sport of a gentleman. By mid-century single sculling came to represent the fullest evolution of the sport. First, English boatbuilders had developed successively lighter, narrower, and longer boats that offered the rower a shell he could pull through
the water by himself, and amateurs as well as professionals took up the challenge with enthusiasm. Then, the developing technology in iron made possible the invention in the 1840s of the iron outrigger. Bolted to the side of a shell to extend considerably the leverage of the oars, the outrigger reduced the necessary thickness of the gunwale of the rowing boat and, consequently—for the sake of speed—the boat’s weight. The transformation was startling. A typical boat in 1820—called properly a barge—made of overlapping planks of solid oak, was thirty-five feet long, weighed 700 pounds, and
in an open interior, seated ten rowers, two to a seat. In contrast, a typical single shell in 1865, made of paper-thin Spanish cedar with a single plank to 25
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
a side, was forty feet long, weighed only 35 pounds, and, with a closed top,
_ seated one rower. If slightly longer and heavier, the modern shell seated two, four, six, or eight rowers, one to a seat. Even rowers themselves were more compact: the ideal weight of the oarsman early in the century was 200 pounds; by 1860, the ideal weight was 140 to 160 pounds.’ Rowing had become an art, and rowers potential heroes. The stroke called for by the modern, delicately balanced boats was not an old-fashioned hard dig into the water, but a calculated series of movements of body and oar based on principles of efficiency and grace. So disciplined and comprehensive a leisure did it seem, in fact, that rowing enthusiasts followed the lead of Thomas Arnold at Rugby and boasted that rowing was a modern reinstitution of the Greek ideal of the union of mental and physical culture.
Printmakers in England had begun to celebrate rowing in the 1820s, when | university crews first earned it a respectable popularity. In the early images of university races and of city regattas prominent motifs included competing crews, spectators in the foreground, landmarks of a particularly significant
point in the race (usually the start, the finish, or a moment of changing advantage midway through the race), and sometimes even pennants and party barges in the distance.'3 (Figure 19, for instance, shows the Eton team defeating Westminister at Putney, winning by fourteen boat lengths.) Later, when single sculling championships became popular, images functioned as
| documentary portraiture, showing champions in their shells in a location where they had won their latest victory (typically, such images were made
from studio photographs with an appropriate background drawn by the printmaker). (Figure 20 is a good example, a portrait of the single sculler Henry Clasper, champion of the North of Derwenthaugh by Newcastle-onTyne, in about 1860.) The margins of rowing portraits set forth documen_ tary data that satisfied both spectators and champions: the rower’s weight, height, and age; an exact description of his boat; the date, location, and even Engelhardt gives weights and dimen- Cambridge University Crew,” 1829, in the sions, The American Rowing Almanac and Oars- collection of the British Museum; and “The
man’s Pocket Companion (New York: Engel- Exeter Boat” (about 1830), p. 188. A printof hardt and Bruce, 1873), p. 179, as do Waters the Oxford/Cambridge race that is fairly and Balch, The Annual Illustrated Catalogue and common is the much later colored lithograph Oarsman’s Manual (Waters, Balch and Com- by A. Lipschitz, of the Boat Race of 1871 (a
pany, 1871), p. 20. © print is in the Historical Society of Pennsyl'3 Gordon Winter, “Rowing Prints for the vania). Winter illustrates an early print of the
Collector,” Apollo (London) 25 (1937), 187-191, Chester Regatta, dating from 1854, p. 190.
illustrates two rare early prints, “The First
26
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
| the time of his championship race; and in some instances a summary of his entire career of championship rowing.
| With an important exception, Americans followed the pattern set in England in the development of rowing. The first American rowers were professional ferrymen in waters around New York City in the 1820s, who, like their counterparts on the Thames more than a century earlier, occasionally rowed wagered races in heavy work boats. Next, amateurs developed an interest in the sport, and following the practical—but not the ideological— lead of class-conscious “gentleman amateurs” in London, formed rowing clubs
_in Castle Garden, spots along the Hudson (Newburgh was a very early one, followed by Poughkeepsie and Albany), Savannah, Worcester, Springfield, Pittsburgh, and Philadelphia. They began to hold races and regattas and to sponsor championships, all on the English models. Following English precedent set in the 1820s, Americans established collegiate rowing at Harvard
in 1846 and at Yale the next year. The first Harvard-Yale race was rowed | in 1852, in six-man barges (within a few years it was an annual event), and gradually over the next several decades other universities established rowing
crews and regular regattas. Emulating the example of English professional | sculling championships, a few American professional oarsmen began to compete for championship titles of various American rivers and regattas. In the
tradition of American technical ingenuity, American boatbuilders made technological contributions to the development of the shell, inventing the sliding seat, and later, the paper shell; and they introduced such novelties
into rowing practice as rowing without a coxswain.'4 | ,
: Although the Civil War interrupted the spread of rowing in the United '¢ According to Engelhardt, Rowing Alma-_ genuity, Turf, Field and Farm wrote: “Among nac, 1873, p. 28, the first modern single shell the many peculiarly American ideas so prev-
built in the United States was launched in alent at the present time, the very Yankee 1856 by David McKay. Experiments with a notion of molding boats from paper, is one sliding seat—which enabled the rower to move deserving of special attention,” January 20, forward to begin his stroke and thereby sub- 1870, p. 37. The coxswain, who sat in the stantially increased the length of his stroke— _ stern of the shell facing the rowers to set their were carried on simultaneously in the late pace and steer the course, was considered in1850s by a number of oarsmen, including the dispensable until the 1860s. In the interest of Biglin brothers, whom Eakins painted in 1872. saving weight and increasing speed, AmeriThe paper shell was developed by the boat- cans introduced the custom of rowing withbuilding firm of Waters, Balch & Co. of Troy, out the coxswain and developed a steering New York, who applied over a frame single mechanism that could be maneuvered by the layers of paper, each one varnished individ- _oarsman nearest the bow with his feet. In later ually, to produce a craft that was virtually college rowing, the coxswain resumed his esseamless and very fast. Praising the firm’s in- _ sential role.
27
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
States, within only a few years after its conclusion Americans had bought approximately two thousand boats and twelve thousand people had joined boating clubs.'s In each rowing region enthusiasts took a comparative stance : about the advancement of rowing across the country. Stimulated by expanded coverage of rowing activities in the national sporting periodicals and new interest in rowing by the local newspapers, they compared boating among
cities, boat clubs, college and university crews, types of boats, and rowers themselves. Clubs in New York City, Poughkeepsie, Saratoga, Boston, Worcester, and Pittsburgh jostled in the press for superiority in size of membership, number of races in regattas, excellence of their racecourse, modernity of their boats, number of professional races held on their course, and turn-out of spectators for rowing events. Supporting the excitement of the rowing races and regattas were the values with which Americans understood the importance of the sport in meeting the challenges of modern, urban life. First, Americans urged each other, rowing was useful to the health. Of concern to many modern citizens was the general health of their increasingly urban and sedentary (because clerical and professional) work force, and they characterized each other as “pasty” looking. Hoping that a large number of “indoor” colleagues could be coaxed to the nearest river, rowing’s advocates claimed that rowing benefited the respiration, the digestion, and the muscles | of legs, back and abdomen; it imparted a fresh glow to the skin. One devotee even praised the well-conditioned rower as “a study . . . for the sculptor and the artist, and no less an object of admiration to the man of science or the general public; his clear, bright eyes, his complexion, with the rosy tinge of perfect health peeping through; his upright carriage and elastic step, giving evidence that every muscle is under perfect control.”*7 Secondly, rowing demanded discipline. One kind of discipline was in physical regimen. Rowing season lasted from April to October, during which the rower worked out daily; many experts recommended two practice sessions per day—in early morning and late afternoon. The rower had to plan 'S Turf, Field and Farm, March 22, 1872. region and encouraged rivalry. '6 This competitiveness is evident espe- '7 Aquatic Monthly, June 1874, pp. 379-380, cially in the pages of The Clipper and Spirit of communication of May 14, 1874 from Wilthe Times, New York sporting journals to liam Wood. For other rhapsodic praises of which correspondents sent the news of activ- rowing’s contribution to health, see Robert ities in their city; these reports, and often the B. Johnson, A History of Rowing in America editorials and reporting of the regular journal (Milwaukee: Corbitt and Johnson, 1871), p. staffs, emphasized the relative progress of each 20.
28 ,
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
his sessions to develop strength as well as endurance; he had to subject himself to long, steady workouts regardless of the weather. Rowing in competition, in fact, called for such stamina that even in top condition oarsmen rarely rowed more than four or five official races per year. The discipline
extended to hours off the water as well: diet was crucial—many trainers forbade all foods but boiled beef and dry bread—and eight or more hours of sleep were essential. The serious rower avoided late hours, smoking, and alcohol. '®
Another dimension of the discipline was mental. Rowing enthusiasts urged that rowing was essentially a mental activity, directed by the intelligence.
With his brain the rower sought out the most efficient type of stroke and feather—the two parts of the action that pulled the boat through the water— and analyzed them into their components so as to exercise the most complete
control over their execution. The “scientific” rower, who made his body “perfectly subordinate to, and a quickly responsive and willing instrument
of, the mind,”'9 understood and carefully rehearsed the basic principles of | dropping the oar into the water, pulling it at precisely the right depth and , tempo, removing it cleanly, and returning it—called “feathering”—to the
, position to begin the stroke. Devotees claimed to be able to hear a “thup” when the oar entered the water if the oarsman had begun his stroke properly and to see a certain kind of bubble when the oar left the water if the oarsman had correctly begun his feather. Finally, the rower exemplified a “moral” discipline: his mental control prevailed in the heat of a race whether an oar broke, rain fell, or the rower
himself became ill. He never set his stroke by that of a competitor, but rowed according to his own, or his crew’s own, studied discipline. ‘To bend to his passions early or late—to speed up his stroke to match the spurt of a competitor—was not to row the race with the dignity the sport demanded.”° As discipline could be acquired by all, spokesmen saw rowing as the ideal egalitarian, and thus American, leisure. Although professional men and busi‘8 Rowers used the strictness of their regi- rigid self-denial” of the training had an obmen as part of their rowing character; for in- vious “good effect” on their morals; see Turf, stance, an article on the famous Ward broth- Field and Farm, June 6, 1873. ers in Harper's Weekly, September 30, 1871, ‘9 Waters and Balch, Illustrated Catalogue, concluded on the triumphant note that “they pp. 13-14.
| 29
do not drink coffee, and smoking is strictly 20 See rowing discussed as “duty” in Aquatic : prohibited” (p. 909). Many advocates of row- Monthly, June, 1874, p. 374; and in Waters ing for young men admitted frankly that they and Balch, //ustrated Catalogue, p. 145. encouraged it because the “abstemiousness and
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
nessmen could afford the expensive shells and the boathouses in which to keep them, no one was excluded from rowing: people of more modest resources could form sporting clubs to share equipment. Editors of sporting periodicals wrote that the snobbishness associated with club membership in
, England “would never be tolerated [in America]; true merit is what we demand; a good head, a sound heart, and an untarnished reputation, will admit
a man among the natural aristocracy of this great country, without a prefix | or appendage to his name. . . If his hands are callous from honest labor, so much the better; he will have no blisters to prick when he rows.”?! These were the public and rational virtues of rowing. Underneath them, and often mentioned by increasingly nature-conscious editorialists, were its more private advantages. Rowing removed one from the hubbub and the noise of the city to the restorative world of nature. Through demanding physical exercise and regenerative scenery one could work out—as Eakins advised his sister—the disappointments and frustrations of modern life. And in the best of moments rowing was positively exhilarating: the special light of early morning or late afternoon sessions on the river, the gentle sound of water closing under the oar and in the wake of the shell, the rush of moving air on the cheek, and, afterward, the pleasant tiredness of well-exercised muscles—these and more were the special, personal rewards of rowing. Responding to the new public demand, American printmakers drew on
, the English tradition to satisfy the national appetite for rowing images with sheet music vignettes, periodical illustrations, and formal prints about Amer-
| ican rowing heroes and events. General periodicals like Harper’s Weekly, Harper’s Monthly, and Leslie’s Illustrated Magazine featured news of regattas and races, illustrating their reports with wood engravings that ranged from genre
scenes tO panoramic views of race courses with identifying landmarks to portraits of both individual rowers and of crews in their craft.?? The interest | ** Turf, Field and Farm, April 21, 1871, p. _ the Library Company of Philadelphia, for ex244. For another celebration of the demo- ample—have several such images, as well as cratic quality of American rowing clubs, see vignettes on regatta programs. Also popular, , Waters and Balch, I/lustrated Catalogue, p. 16. and extant in such archives, were stereograph
> Both Harry T. Peters, America on Stone photographs of rowing crews. Among the (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Doran & earliest articles on rowing to appear in a genCo., 1931), and Nicholas Wainwright, Pbil- eral periodical was that in Frank Leslie’s Illusadelphia in the Romantic Age of Lithography trated Newspaper August 11, 1860 on the Har(Philadelphia: Historical Society of Pennsyl- vard College Regatta, July 24. By 1869 they vania, 1958), list some of these sheet music were appearing frequently, especially in Har-
vignettes. Historical societies near rowing per’s Weekly. | areas—the Worcester Historical Museum and
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MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
in rowing had so spread by 1867 that Currier and Ives published their first rowing print. Much to the point of the painting Eakins would undertake in 1870, that image, “James Hammill and Walter Brown, in their Great Five Mile Rowing Match for $4000 and the Championship of America” (Figure 21), combined portraiture, documentation, and celebration. It was issued after a nationally
followed match on September 9, 1867 between two of the best known _ professional oarsmen of the period. The race itself was a disappointment: a rematch after an earlier contest that ended in a foul, it too resulted in a victory because of a foul.?3 But the image transcends this particular race to serve larger functions: to recognize the new popularity of rowing in America, to celebrate the recent phenomenon of a national championship, to set forth portraits of each of these renowned oarsmen, to document the landmarks of
Newburgh Bay, New York, where this and many other races were held, and where some of America’s earliest boat clubs had originated, and to remind the viewer, with background detail, of the history of rowing.?+ As appropriate for a popular and documentary print, the composition is
easily read. It is a double portrait, but the design leaves no doubt of the rowers’ relative importance. Hammill, who won the championship title, rows
in the foreground position; pausing in his rowing, he looks up as though to , pose for his portrait. Brown, disqualified on a foul but widely admired as a formidable rower, bends to his rowing in the middle ground; a posed portrait being inappropriate for his secondary status, his face is visible because he looks over his shoulder to check his position. The overall design of the view is ordered by parallels: first, of the racing sculls in the foreground, and of
the background craft following them down the bay; and second, of the 23 On May 21, 1867 in Pittsburgh, the men a literal collision); or when having left his had rowed a contest for $1000 a side. Ham- __ original course, he returned to it in a manner mill withdrew before he finished, claimed a __ that blocked the progress of his opponent who
foul that was later disallowed, and Brown by rights had moved into it himself. Until therefore won. The contest on September 9 _ late in the century when oarsmen associations
was the rematch called for by Hammill, and _ set forth clear rules on fouls, the interpreta- | preceded by several months of publicity. In tion of judges was hotly contested. outcome it was a reversal of the May contest: 4 These details include two six-oared shells Brown fouled in swamping Hammill at the with coxswain, a reference to the collegiate turning stake, and Hammill, although he did _ origins of the sport; a four-oared shell withnot finish the race, was proclaimed the new out coxswain, a more modern racing boat than champion. Fouls occurred in rowing when an __ the six-oared; and other aquatic phenomena oarsman crossed into his opponent’s course of the “modern” boating center: smaller rowwithout a clear lead (usually this resulted in ing craft, yachts, schooners, and steamers.
31
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
matching diagonals of the rowers’ oars. This simplicity violates, for the sake of explicitness, the accuracy with which the rowers’ use of their arms and
backs is depicted. A slight asymmetry relieves the stasis of the resulting pattern: each rower is slightly to one side of the center of the design, balancing it, and the different positions of their bodies give the scheme momentum. The printmaker documents the occasion with margin data that provide the date of the race, time, boat dimensions and builders, racers’ names, and the details of the judgments of fouls committed. Even nearer in time to Eakins’ own rowing images—in fact, only a few months before he returned from Paris—an essay in Harper’s Monthly brought
together in subject and illustrations the most important motifs in English and American rowing.?5 The essay reported and analyzed the first International University Boat Race, a race between Harvard and Oxford held in England the previous summer that was the conversation topic of the year
, among rowing enthusiasts. [he article raised questions earnestly debated in the wake of Harvard’s loss: the merits of the “Harvard” or “American” style of rowing over that of Oxford; whether there was in fact a distinctive Amer-
| ican style; and the “moral” shortcoming of the Harvard crew in not saving their strength for the final moments of the race. Nine prints of the Interna-
| tional University Boat Race illustrated the article. “The Start, at Putney” set forth spectator-jammed steamers and guard boats, the competing crews, and on the shore identifying buildings, waving pennants, and the soft sum-
mer forms of trees. One of the images of the race underway, “Barnes Bridge” } (Figure 22), shows the boats about to pass under the bridge as spectators at all points strain to follow their progress. In “The Finish, at Mortlake” the racing craft are shown parallel to the plane of the image in order to dramatize the victory of Oxford over Harvard by half a length; in the background on the river are small boats, barges, sailboats, and even a steamer; and on the shore are the houses and inns at the finish line with pennants and flags, trees,
: and spectators who crowd every conceivable space. Other images accompanying the article focused not on the university race,
: but on the events that preceded it: an exhibition by the London Rowing Club and a single scull race between the American professional oarsman Walter Brown and the English champion James Renforth. In “The Picked Crew of the London Rowing Club” (Figure 23), which demonstates the ex25 Harper’s New Monthly Magazine (vol. 40), Currier and Ives devoted their second rowing
December 1869), pp. 49-67. So important to _ print to it, “he Great International Univerthe general boating public was this race that — sity Boat Race” (1869).
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hibition form of these rowers, the shell sits in the water at a slight diagonal
to the viewer, its length sweeping from one edge of the image almost to the | other with a slight space on the left giving it “moving room.” On the same page with that image is a careful drawing of the boat by American builder Elliott which the Harvard crew had brought to England especially for the race. In Figure 24, the former professional champion Harry Kelley (a grand old figure in English rowing who had only recently lost his title to Renforth) poses in his scull in a moment of relaxation, his oars resting lightly on the
water. [he bow and stern of the long shell are overlapped by the edge of the engraving; the image is close to the viewer, but as in the “Picked Crew of the London Rowing Club,” the shell is in a position to move away from the foreground on a diagonal. In Figure 28 the American Walter Brown poses on the thwart of his shell in a favorite portrait format for rowers (one which appeared frequently in rowing almanacs in the years 1871-1875),
reaching forward in the style with which he characteristically began his stroke—hands well beyond feet, legs flexed, wrists poised.” The entire repertoire of Eakins’ nineteen rowing images is contained in
| this article and in the Currier and Ives rowing print. In his portrait of Max Schmitt, as he was to do throughout his career, Eakins adopted this visual vocabulary of his times and applied it incisively to his work in Philadelphia. And this work, in the case of Max Schmitt, was to celebrate a champion. Prints of the Schuylkill River and of the Fairmount Water Works, located on the river, and possibly painted views as well, had featured rowing crews as part of the detail as early as 1835 (Figure 26).?7 Yet so unusual in Philadelphia was a rowing portrait as a subject for a painting of local life that on seeing the painting of Schmitt exhibited in 1871 a local critic felt compelled to note the peculiarity of the subject.?® It was unusual in France, too, where 6 For portrait photographs, some famous — sylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in 1861, crews posed in their.street clothes. Individual for instance, included E. Moran, Evening on champions, like Brown, often posed in racing the Schuylkill, E. L. Williams, Sketch on the trunks or knickers, seated on a shell thwart Schuylkill, A. Z. Schendler, View from above in the studio. A popular photographer of — the Falls of the Schuylkill (now all unlocated). rowing portraits recommended in rowing pe- 28 The painting was reviewed in the Philariodicals was John O’Neill of New York, an delphia Inquirer on April 27, 1871, by a writer oarsman himself. See Aquatic Monthly, Sep- who identified the painting as a “river scene” tember 1872, p. 313, and Turf, Field and Farm, and went on to note: “While manifesting
December 15, 1871, p. 375. marked ability, especially in the painting of 77 A number of artists exhibited paintings the rower in the foreground, the whole effect in mid-century in Philadelphia that focused _ is scarcely satisfactory. The light on the water, on local scenery; the exhibition at the Penn- on the rower, and on the trees lining the bank
33
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL | rowing began to develop even later than in America; in 1875 Géréme gave Eakins a requested critique on one of his rowing studies with the accompanying comment that he didn’t know if the subject would be saleable.?? Whereas
painted rowing portraits were not unheard of in England,3° in the United
| States the few scenes of rowers seem to have been done in the Boston area. One early such scene, that by A. A. Lawrence (Figure 27), was stimulated by the first Harvard/Yale race of 1852; another, George D. Hopkins’ Scull Race, Boston Bay, 1856 (Peabody Museum of Salem), depicted some of the first single scull races in Boston. Eakins was perhaps the earliest artist in Philadelphia—and, as Figure 27 reveals, certainly the first American artist of his capability—to paint portraits of scullers at work, to follow the lead of the early printmakers and the photographers and commit the activity to a
strong assertion of its importance: to put it on canvas.3? | indicate that the sun is blazing fiercely, but 7 Géréme to Eakins in 1873, Lloyd Goodon looking upward one perceives a curiously _ rich, Thomas Eakins, 2 vols. (Cambridge, Mass.:
dull leaden sky.” The reviewer for the Péi/- Harvard University Press, 1982), I, 116. Beadelphia Evening Bulletin, writing on the same _ fore long, however, rowing and regattas would
day, was more complimentary: “[Thomas appear in works by French artists: James TisEakins] who has lately returned from Europe sot painted the Henley Regatta ca. 1877 (priand the influence of Gerome, has also [in ad- vate collection) illustrated in James Laver, dition to a portrait, now lost] a picture enti- “Vulgar Society”; The Romantic Career of James tled The Champion Single Sculls (no. 137), which — Tissot, 1836-1902 (London: Constable and Co.,
though peculiar, has more than ordinary in- _ Ltd., 1936), pl. 17. Henri Michel-Lévy painted
terest. The artist, in dealing so boldly and The Regattas, ca. 1878 (location unknown, ilbroadly with the commonplace in nature, is__lustrated in Theodore Reff, Degas: The Artist’s working upon well-supported theories, and, Mind, London: Thames and Hudson, 1976). despite somewhat scattered effect, gives An early example by E. Morin, “Les Régates promise of a conspicuous future. A walnut du Rowing-Club,” was engraved by Marais frame would greatly improve the present for the Paris Guide, vol. 2 (Paris: Librarie Inwork.” Eakins may have seen rowing paint- ternational, 1867), p. 1511. Paul Hayes Tucker ings in New York exhibitions in the early in Monet at Argenteuil (New Haven and Lon1870s: in his letter to Earl Shinn of Good don: Yale University Press, 1982), pp. 89-120 Friday, 1875 (Friends Historical Library of discusses the rise of boating in France, with Swarthmore College), he comments that as- Argenteuil as a major center, as reflected in pects of the movement of a rowing painting _ the paintings of Monet. he had just finished (probably The Schreiber 3° Several prints of champions were made Brothers, 1874, Collection of Mrs. John Hay from these paintings. The print of “Henry Whitney) were “all better expressed than I: Clasper, Champion of the North” published see any New Yorkers doing.” On the other by Hodgetts, c. 1860, is noted as being from — hand, he may have been making a general a painting by J. H. Make; the print A Boat
34 ,
technical comparison between his ability to Race on the River Isis, Oxford, was engraved after
catch particular details and that of his rivals a painting by John Thomas Serres.
in New York. 31 He was also one of the few artists ever
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL The Champion Single Sculls reestablished Eakins in his home territory, asserting the continuity between what he had known and done before his spe-
cialized studies and what he wanted to paint now, as an artist, and it proclaimed what he had written his friend Emily from Paris—that he was proud to be a Philadelphian. For The Champion Single Sculls is a partisan image. Currier and Ives had celebrated professional rowing and, in 1869, college rowing—themes appropriate for their national audience—but they had not focused on the rowing
of amateurs, who were regional heroes. Images in the periodicals of impor- | tant races in America showed racers on the Hudson, on Lake Saratoga, in Boston, in Ontario, in Pittsburgh—but not in Philadelphia.3? Despite the rush to the river in the late 1850s and early 1860s of novices like the Eakins family, Max Schmitt, and many Philadelphia professional men, in 1870 Philadelphia had not yet attracted the national spotlight as the site of huge regattas and brilliant professional races. Yet the Schuylkill River was eminently suitable for fine rowing and was praised as such in the national press.33 The
foliaged banks of Fairmount Park on both sides of the river gave it in the summer an oft-cited “emerald” peacefulness. Above the dam, the river was smooth, broad, and fairly straight. The gentle flow of the river downstream gave a pleasant variety to rowing the course upstream and downstream. It was also eminent for spectatorship: it had just enough of a curve to make watching a race an adventure. (See Figure 28, “The Rowing Courses Used on the Schuylkill River”.) At no one vantage point could spectators see the entire race, but either above or below the bend of the river strained to catch sight of the leading boat as it shot around the turn. Although rowing had taken place on the Schuylkill as early as the 1830s, and a regatta “of some importance” had been held in 1835, heavy barges (two-seated open boats) without outriggers had dominated Schuylkill rowing until the 1860s.34 One professional race did take place on the Schuylkill—in to do so, a phenomenon that suggests not only nal, Turf, Field and Farm praised the Schuyl-
his individuality but the rapid changes that kill, stating flatly that it had the best water
: characterized the evolution of rowing after anywhere for comfortable boating: June 1,
Eakins abandoned the subject. 1867, p. 342. ) 3> For example, Harper’s Weekly had cov- 34 Engelhardt, Rowing Almanac, 1873, pp.
ered rowing events in Pittsburgh on Novem- 115-116, reconstructs what was known of | | ber 23, 1867; Ottawa on October 19, 1867; Schuylkill rowing after the regatta of 1835. West Point, June 27, 1868; and Boston on His records of the races of each year specify
July 3, 1869. _ type of boat and length of course, so that one 33 Even the editor of the New York jour- can assess the character of the sport. Also see
35
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
1862 the professional single scullers Joshua Ward and James Hammill rowed - on two successive days and established the racecourses that became official on the Schuylkill3s—but thereafter, professional rowing languished until the 1870s. The Schuylkill was too far from New York, the home of most of the professional rowers. Official college racing, which stimulated the spread of amateur rowing in the New England centers, did not begin on the Schuylkill
until after 1878. Moreover, Philadelphians were slow to take up single sculling. Whereas citizens in most rowing centers were actively single sculling by 1860, not until 1866 were the first amateur single shell races recorded in Philadelphia, | and these were unofficial, with only two rowers participating.3° In a letter published in one of the influential American sporting journals a correspond-
| ent from Albany wrote disdainfully in June 1867 that Philadelphians were still racing in gunwale barges and heavy outriggers as though the Schuylkill had just come into existence. They had not even taken up four-oared shells, the correspondent charged, and single shells were virtually unknown. His parting shot was that Philadelphians ought to “keep up with the times.”37
| Max Schmitt was among the Philadelphians to respond to this challenge. When the Schuylkill Navy began the season of 1867 with a new commodore who announced that Philadelphia would “make a bold struggle for boating supremacy in our country,” the subsequent three-day regatta drew immense crowds and the flattering notice of leading sports periodicals in New York.
Noting that Fairmount, the site of the racecourse on the Schuylkill, “is to Quakerdom what the Central Park is to Gotham,” they reported that lady equestrians, the Liberty Cornet Band, and “a surging mass of anxious humanity, men, women, and children” jammed the river banks, shores, and bridges, while “the bosom of the river [was] dotted . . . with innumerable craft gaily decorated with flags and streamers.”3° The regatta opened on June Charles A. Peverelly, The Book of American 36 See Engelhardt, Rowing Almanac, 1873, Pastimes (New York: published by the author, _ p. 117. There were two races this year (1866).
1866), pp. 201, 204. 37 Turf, Field and Farm, June 1, 1867, p. 35 ‘They rowed a five-mile race and then a 343. three-mile race. See reports in Spirit of the 38 ‘The commodore was Charles Vezin, deTimes, August 23, 1862, p. 388, and in En- scribed by the Spirit of the Times as “a boatgelhardt, Rowing Almanac, 1873, p. 31. The Spirit’ man of some years’ standing” and “a gentle-
of the Times noted that Philadelphians did not man of ample means,” June 22, 1867. (vol.
give the race proper attention—that indeed, 16), p. 308. For a report on the regatta see the main reason the competitors chose the also New York Clipper (vol. 15, no. 12) June Schuylkill was that it was generally free of 29, 1867, p. 92. craft of all kinds.
36
, MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL 10 with the race for the first single scull championship of the Schuylkill Navy. Max Schmitt won it.39
Between the time of that victory and July 1870, when Eakins returned from Paris, Schmitt raced in most of the regattas.4° The race of 1867 had secured the single scull championship as an event, and over the next few seasons Schmitt lost the title, won it back, and then lost it again. In Paris, Eakins kept track. His sister Frances wrote him of Schmitt’s victory in June 1869. “I’ve got your letter announcing Max’s victory. I am glad he beat &
you give him my congratulations next time you see him,” Eakins wrote. “Who was that Clark that run against him?”4' Clark won the title back from Schmitt that fall. When Eakins returned from Paris in the summer of 1870, Schmitt was ready to try for the championship again. This race, held on October 5 with a huge crowd in attendance, provoked even more interest than the first championship, for it drew four competitors.4? This was the first time in the three years of competition that more than two scullers had entered the event, and
it raised considerable pride in the healthy spread of single sculling among , Philadelphia rowers. The three-mile course for this race ran from Turtle Rock (Figure 28) to Columbia Bridge and back. Although the competitors, all members of the Pennsylvania Barge Club, seemed to be evenly matched, Schmitt won handily. By the time he reached the stake boat halfway through the race, two of his colleagues had already fouled twice and he was three full lengths ahead. As the Spirit of the Times reported on October 15, after Schmitt turned the stake he “had no trouble in maintaining the advantage he had gained,” and he finished with the very fast time of twenty minutes. 39 Schmitt’s opponent was Austin Street, his the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin covered it on fellow club member in the Pennsylvania Barge October 6; it was reported succinctly in The Club. According to the Clipper, the contest- New York Clipper (vol. 18, no. 28), October 15, ants pulled bow and bow for half a mile, and _1870, p. 220; and in great detail in The Spirit then Schmitt pulled ahead to win by 25 sec- _ of the Times (vol. 23, p. 135), October 15, 1870. onds, in a total time of 24:49. The race was This last report also included a summary of also recorded in Engelhardt, Rowing Almanac, the history of the single scull championship 1873, pp. 117-118, who reports that the water on the Schuylkill in which Schmitt’s early and
was “very rough.” continuing role in that championship was
4° His participation can be followed in En- cited. The race is also discussed as definitive gelhardt, Rowing Almanac, 1873, p. 119-121. for single scull racing on the Schuylkill by +: Eakins to Fanny, July 8, 1869, Archives Louis Heiland, History of the Schuylkill Navy
of American Art. of Philadelphia (Philadelphia: Drake Press, # The race of October 5, 1870 is recorded 1938), p. 134. in Engelhardt, Rowing Almanac, 1873, p. 121;
37
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
His prizes were the championship belt and a pair of silver-mounted sculls,
| and well-earned publicity as well: one of the earliest coverages of rowing activity in the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin and stories in the New York |
sporting journals. :
This is the victory that Eakins memorialized and documented in his portrait: Schmitt had been the first, and now he was again, the “champion” of the “single sculls” of the Schuylkill Navy. Just as Schmitt’s achievement as a single sculler capped the evolution of rowing, and specifically rowing on the Schuylkill, so did Eakins’ tribute bring to full expression the tradition of
, rowing imagery and tie that tradition to Philadelphia. , In the first place, The Champion Single Sculls,. like the prints and illustrations that celebrated rowing’s progress, celebrates a particular victory. Although Schmitt first won the championship in 1867, it was the race of October 5, 1870 that Eakins saw; and the double-portrait format of the painting testifies to this expert witness. In the place of the margin-filling texts of the rowing prints, Eakins conveyed with pictorial details the main facts of this champi-
| onship race. The foliage reports the fall season; the houses and double bridges mark the location not only as the Schuylkill, but, more specifically, the particular three-mile amateur course on the Schuylkill that Schmitt rowed in this race: from Turtle Rock, through the double bridges to Columbia Bridge, and return.43 The late-afternoon sunlight reports the time of the race: lasting 22 minutes, it began at 5 p.m. Schmitt rowed in the craft “Josie,” made by the famous boatbuilder Judge Elliott of Long Island, and Eakins suggests the dimensions faithfully: 33-1/2 feet long, 13 inches wide, 40 pounds. He por-
trays Schmitt’s slim physique, noted in the journal account as 5 feet, 11 inches, 135 pounds.*4
Secondly, like its precedents in prints, especially the Currier and Ives , prints, the painting celebrates more than a specific victory. It establishes that : #3 ‘The alternative three-mile amateur course near the boathouses. with turn that Schmitt could have rowed be- 44 Schmitt’s age (28), weight, and height, gan just above Columbia Bridge (see Figure and the specifications of his boat Joste (which 28), extended north to the Reading Railroad apparently belonged to the Pennsylvania Barge
Bridge and returned to Columbia Bridge. On Club of which he was a member) are re-
| 38
this course, the rower would not have passed ported in the New York Clipper (vol. 18, no.
through the Girard and Connecting Bridges. 28), October 15, 1870, p. 220. The report The third amateur course, the straightaway claims that the course was actually not quite (which is now the course commonly used) ran’ three miles in length, which would account from just below Falls Bridge (see star on map) for Schmitt’s extraordinarily fast time. all the way to Turtle Rock (see star on map),
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
Philadelphia rowing had matured. Here is the Schuylkill’s “Champion, Single Sculls” barely three years after Philadelphians had been taken to task for not rowing singly at all. What is more, four other single scullers ply the river with the champion. The only other craft on the river—besides the steamboat—1is a double scull, another notably “modern” craft. In the event any viewer unacquainted with Philadelphia’s bridges misses the point, the crew wears Quaker dress, placing the scene unmistakably in America’s Quaker city. Through its celebration of a victory and assertion of civic pride, the painting is, and fundamentally so, a portrait. More explicit than a likeness in bust form, Eakins’ image shows his friend—and, not incidentally himself also—
in a context of disciplined action that sets forth character. Schmitt is a thor- | oughgoing amateur, a modern hero who has taken on the mantle of all the virtues associated with rowing. None of these virtues had come to him through aristocratic advantages: both Schmitt and Eakins, in fact, had typically democratic backgrounds: Schmitt’s family had immigrated from Germany, Eakins’ grandfather was an immigrant from Ireland; both families were hardworking middle-class Philadelphians; both young men were graduates of the egalitarian Central High School.45 As the painting shows, these young men devote themselves to enlightened leisure activity that combines physical ex-
ercise with mental judgment and moral discipline. |
In addition to celebrating a champion, a notable pursuit, and Philadelphia “modernity,” Eakins’ painting marks the quiet, solitary pleasures of rowing. To do so he modified several of the conventions in the print repertory. A central element of many rowing images was spectatorship, and in The Champton Single Sculls, despite the amenability of the format to the nature of the occasion being celebrated, there are no spectators. The late afternoon scene, with the last steamboat down the river, records the time after the victory, when everyone has gone home; or perhaps it evokes one of Schmitt’s daily practice sessions, with the steamboat on a visitor’s tour. With another subtle modification of convention Eakins manages Schmitt’s portrait: Schmitt rows on the scene of his championship race, as do Hammill and Brown, and like the champion, Hammill, he interrupts his stroke as though to present him45 Schmitt’s background is reported in the all other students, are included in the Annual New York Clipper (vol. 15, no. 26) October 12, Reports. He became a lawyer, by which 1867, p. 211: he was born in Kaiserlauthern, identity he is listed in the Philadelphia Di-
Bavaria. His name and scholastic record at rectory from 1870.
Central High School, like that of Eakins and
39
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
self to the viewer. He is as relaxed with his oars as the Englishman Harry Kelley in the Harper’s image. But Kelley sits in his shell simply to pose; and
Hammill’s stroke is patently awry for the sake of a clear pattern. Eakins maintains Schmitt’s working position, but, by dissociating him from the actual manipulation of the oars, gives him a subtle commanding ease. Even more finely, he preserves his friend’s psychological privacy: Schmitt has to turn sharply to look at us. And in yet another delicate effect, Eakins avoids the straight paths of the shells characteristic of the popular prints and places
Schmitt’s shell on a dynamic curve with carefully arranged clues that the viewer can reconstruct. His is a painting in which movement is almost palpable.
Eakins’ transformation of the format of the double portrait that Currier and Ives employ makes a point about his own role in the activity of the painting. Schmitt’s head is almost precisely in the middle of the picture, and he is the near rower; Eakins is in the deep middle ground, off center. As in Currier and Ives’ contrast between the interrupted pose of the champion and the attention to work of the runner-up, Schmitt relaxes and Eakins (encourager rather than contender) works. Rather than rely on the easy parallelism of the popular image, however, Eakins exploits the curve of the river for a deep space in which to construct a picture of distinctions: one rower works, one relaxes; one moves into deep space, one into the foreground; one moves on a course to the viewer’s right, one to the left; one in sunlight, one in partial shade. These distinctions point to the different interests of Eakins and Schmitt as oarsmen. Schmitt is the racing champion; Eakins is the recreationist. Schmitt is a model of the excellence toward which others aspire, but Eakins is no dabbler: he rows intently, and with proper form. He, like many other Americans educated in the discipline, belongs to the large cadre necessary for the excellence of the few to flourish. Eakins, not a competitor, is the authoritative witness to this heroism, a role he was to play all his life. ~ Not only in compositional subtleties, but also in his palette and painting technique, Eakins gave his portrait of Schmitt a life beyond (and distinct from) printed rowing tributes. His subduing of the bright sky, overlayering
of the water with dark fingers of glazing, flat massing of brown areas against | the sky—under it all a noticeable gray—evoke the varied uncertainties in human endeavor. The brushwork is deliberately testing, at points awkwardly resigned. Autumn is a season of ambiguity and loss, as things come to an end, even as championships just won recede in importance after the
first flush of satisfaction. , , , 40
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL
Schmitt continued his championship rowing for several years after Eakins painted his tribute to him. In fact he became an authority on racing, recognized beyond the confines of Philadelphia. On a trip to Europe in 1873 he reported to the sporting journal Turf, Field and Farm on rowing equipment and styles in France and Germany, finding both countries considerably behind America in physical fitness and in rowing discipline.#* The year before, in 1872, he had again won the single scull championship of the Schuylkill; with that victory he had set a record for the fastest time.¢7 Thereafter, Schmitt's
own rowing gradually tapered off. Some regattas would find him on the sidelines; he was away from Philadelphia for some months, and at times he was not in top condition. Soon the pressure of business and the inevitable loss of robustness that came with entering his thirties led him to yield championship rowing to those younger than he and to row merely for recreation.# Eakins had given him the painting, and after Schmitt exhibited it in 1871— at the first exhibition of Eakins’ paintings in Philadelphia—he kept it in his living room. When Mrs. Eakins got it back in 1930 from Schmitt’s widow, it was called simply Max Schmitt in a Single Scull, having over sixty years become significant simply as a portrait of the young Schmitt rowing.‘ After The Champion Single Sculls, Eakins moved on to other rowing subjects. Just as he had tested his technique in the first rowing painting, laboring
over it here and exulting in it there, so he explored a set of variations in rowing imagery and in techniques. He painted pair-oared rowers (two men rowing, each with an oar) at various moments in races and in their workouts (Figure 29), a crew of four (Oarsmen on the Schuylkill, c. 1874, formerly Brook-
lyn Museum) and close-up portraits of a professional single sculler (Figure 30 and John Biglin in a Single Scull, 1873-1874, Yale University Art Gallery).
He painted with thick opaque brushwork; he laid in some of his skies with | 46 His letters to the journal are published fall of 1874, for instance, he rowed for his July 11, 1873, p. 26; July 25, 1873, p. 59; club in a.race of 1% miles, straightaway, in July 29, 1873, p. 138; October 24, 1873, p. a position recorded by Engelhardt (Rowing 267; October 31, 1873, p. 283. After his re- Almanac, 1875, p. 65) as immediately behind
turn, Schmitt continued his correspondence: the stroke oar; thus it must have been the his long letter about rowing on the Schuylkill crew for this race that inspired Eakins to beappeared in the issue of May 8, 1874, p. 302; gin his Oarsmen on the Schuylkill, a painting and on December 18, 1874 (p. 432) he wrote _ that he did not complete. Schmitt is the sec-
an amusing satire on Schuylkill rowing. ond figure facing the stern of the shell. 47 His time, according to Engelhardt, Row- #9 The painting entered the collection of the
ing Almanac, 1873, p. 122, Was 22.30. Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1934 with 48 For a few years he rowed in the less-de- _ that title. manding four-oared shell competition. In the
41
MAX SCHMITT IN A SINGLE SCULL | : the palette knife—indeed exulted to a friend that he had shocked Géréme by doing so in one of his hunting paintings; he experimented with wiping back some of his backgrounds to the weave of the canvas and glazing thinly over
_ the area; he painted in delicate watercolor. He sent several watercolors of
| the rowing subjects (apparently of single scullers), now lost, to his teacher Gér6me explicitly for critical appraisal and perhaps implicitly to show him an American, and even more specifically, a Philadelphian, subject.5° Some of the works he did not complete. But in the large rowing paintings that he did finish he continued his partisanship for champions, modernity, and the
Schuylkill. 5! :
The most enduring of these sculling images focus on the private moments of the activity: The Champion Single Sculls, The Patr-Oared Shell or The Biglin Brothers Practising (Plate 3), and John Biglin in a Single Scull (Figure 30). Al-
though in all the rowing paintings Eakins celebrated what an overwhelming
number of his fellow citizens—in Philadelphia and elsewhere—enjoyed and found important, he saw beyond the bright colors, the noise of the crowd, and the rush of the boat through the water to the lonely discipline of doing something well—and to its mutability. Indeed, the history of rowing itself provides a metaphor for what Eakins saw. Over the century, rowing shells had been refined from ten and eightoared heavy barges to ever lighter, ever more delicate craft rowed by smaller so Géréme criticized the first picture Ea- John and Barney of New York, and the kins sent of a rower (a watercolor) as being Coulter/Cavitt team, of Pittsburgh, the first
| static and urged Eakins to show the rower at _ professional pair-oared race in America. The the beginning or at the conclusion of his stroke Philadelphia Press covered the race in a long instead of in the middle (Goodrich, Eakims, article on May 21, 1872; and The New York
1982, I, 114); the second picture, with the Clipper gave it detailed coverage on June 1, rower at the end of his stroke, Géréme liked 1872 (vol. 20, no. 9), p. 68. Soon after he (Goodrich, I, 116). Eakins wrote Earl Shinn _ painted the Biglins, however, Eakins felt that of his amusement that Billy Sartain had re- the works were “clumsy and although pretty ported Géréme’s “fear” that the sky of his well drawn are wanting in distance and some
painting about “rail shooting” had been other qualities” (to Earl Shinn, Good Friday, “painted with the palette knife’ (Eakins to 1875, Friends Historical Library, SwarthShinn, March 26, 1875, Friends Historical more College). Eakins may also have painted Library of Swarthmore College). Eakins’ ear- another national champion. Irene Ward Norlier rowing image, which Géréme found sen, The Ward Brothers, Champions of the World
lacking in motion, probably reveals his reli- (New York: Vantage Press, 1958), p. 52, ance on the conventions of prints and pho- claims that Eakins painted a portrait of Joshua
tographs. Ward which was displayed in Ward’s hotel | Three of them grew from the famous pair- in Cornwall, New York until it was de-
oared professional race on the Schuylkill on _ stroyed in a fire. , May 20, 1872 between the Biglin brothers,
42 .
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE | model herself, made studies of her on canvas, and then, as he credited his sculptor-predecessor with having done, he completed the final work directly from the model. Fakins had not immersed himself in Rush’s world in order to paint an incident from history. For the focus of the painting, Rush’s work on his sculpture from the nude model, was not literal truth. Indeed, Eakins enabled the viewer to see this discrepancy for himself by facing the nude model with the draped fountain figure. But to say that the work was not historical is not
to say that it was not true in a profound sense. It was not new for Eakins to | move beyond historical incident: he had painted Dr. Gross in a symbolic operation, performing surgery that represented the highest ideals of his career as surgeon and of the progress of surgery over the century. He painted Rush sculpting from the nude model to pay tribute to the highest ideals of
sculpture and of painting, and, not incidentally, of his own painting in par- | ticular. And for such a painting, Eakins drew his conventions from the repertory
of the “studio” painting, a subject artists had long since used to set forth important aspects of their practice. A brief review of the tradition of this subject—often called the “artist in his studio”—shows Eakins’ bold adapta-
tion of its possibilities. , |
First explored in breadth in the seventeenth century, the theme of the artist’s studio admitted many variations: studios with a general clutter to identify them as a place of hard work; studios full of casts, engravings, completed works, and perhaps work in progress, which identified the tradition
in which the artist was working; and scenes of the artist and his model showing the artist’s reliance on “nature.” Other variations included the self-
portrait of the artist in his studio, often with the canvas hidden from view : to heighten the mystery of creativity; scenes of relaxation in the studio, with the artist’s friends participating in general merrymaking; and scenes of the visit of a patron to the studio, with the artist, perhaps in formal dress, surrounded by representative works of his career. Whatever the specific focus,
the general theme of the studio painting served the artist as self-definition: , of his working methods, his heritage, his colleagues, his social status, and his patronage. lists twenty-six studies for the painting but delphia Museum of Art, 1978), p. 102, Benidentifies many as “unlisted” and/or “unlo- jamin Eakins posed for Rush early in Eakins’
: 91
cated.” According to Theodor Siegl, The study process. | Thomas Eakins Collection (Philadelphia: Phila-
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
Painters turned anew to this theme in the nineteenth century, amidst the radical changes in social and artistic ideals. Some artists focused on the poverty-stricken nature of the artistic life: Octave Tassaert, for example, specialized in that aspect of it, drawing on his own experience. Some focused on friends and visitors whose presence in their studio had an ideological significance like Henri Fantin-Latour in his Homage to Delacroix (1865, Louvre) and Studio in the Batignolles Quarter (1870, Louvre). Others pictured the
: studios or working areas of their friends as did Edgar Degas in his Portrait of James Tissot (1866, Metropolitan Museum of Art), and Edouard Manet, in | an important variation of the type, Portrait of Zola (1868, Louvre). Students _ often submitted to the Salon exhibitions paintings of their teachers in their studios. ‘4
Although many of the paintings that are well known today had a limited
focus, the subject encouraged artists virtually to inventory the contents of | their studio—and many did, showing drawings on the wall, works in progress, casts that served as training for their drawing skills, perhaps a model posing for a work underway, and even visitors. The best known today of such inclusive mid-century paintings is Gustave Courbet’s The Artist’s Studio: A Real Allegory Summing Up Seven Years of My Life as an Artist (Figure 59).
Picturing himself seated before a canvas in the middle foreground of the painting, with a nude model nearby and his studio full of people, Courbet set forth an allegory of his artistic subjects, his working methods, and his audience—making it clear that he worked from “nature” and not from the , traditional academic nude, took as his models people closest to nature, .and was supported by writers and critics who shared his commitment to making art from direct experience. Out of the general theme of the artist in his studio, pursued vigorously as a definition of artistic creed, artists developed a variation that bore directly
on Eakins’ painting of Rush: the theme of the Old Master in his studio. They were inspired by the nineteenth-century historicism felt in all areas of
endeavor, which in the arts led to a new interest in the lives of the old | masters and a rash of biographies of old masters in the popular literature. In this historical spirit, artists painted scenes focusing on an old master engaged
in a famous encounter with a patron or rival, creating a famous work, or simply musing in his studio, with one or more of his noted works in the ‘4 This is apparent from the catalogues of Salon of 1867 (No. 483); and Otto Dorr, Jn- , the Salon exhibitions; for instance Edouard — terieur de latelier de M. Bonnat, Salon of 1868 Detaille, Un coin de Vatelier de M. Metssonter, (No. 819).
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
background providing a quick identification of the master. Like its more general type, the theme of the Old Master in his studio gave artists the opportunity to express in historical.disguise their own ideals of practice or hopes for patronage; in an era when allegiances to past styles could be changed
quickly, it was an excellent theme by which to pay honor to the artistic heritage with which artists identified their own work. Early in the century, when neoclassicism was an artistic ideal, Raphael —
and Poussin were popular subjects, and J.-A.D. Ingres probed the relationship between the artist, his model, and the work of art while paying tribute to Raphael. Eugene Delacroix, somewhat later, fascinated by the complexities of Michelangelo’s career and by the analogy of his own theories and difficulties to those of the master, painted Michelangelo pondering in his studio, his Moses and the Medici Virgin and Child in the background (Figure 60). In the 1830s and 1840s, artists rediscovered the Dutch painters and created a wide range of tributes to Rembrandt and masters of Dutch landscape and still life. Some years later, French painters turned to the Spanish baroque masters. In 1860 Manet, for example, interested in the newly popular Velézquez’s palette, technique, and royal patronage, painted the artist at his easel surrounded by courtiers. Although the focus of historicism in artistic taste shifted over the century—and reflected such phenomena as the mid-century rediscovery of artists of the Quattrocento—artists generally paid tribute with the Old Master theme to already established great artists rather than to newly discovered masters like Botticelli whose long forgotten work had just been added to the historical canon. During the years of Eakins’ studies the subject continued to engage artists’ attention—both in its general type as the artist in his studio and in its historicizing variation of the Old Master in his studio. It was prominent at the Salons from 1866 to 1869 and at the Universal Exposition of 1867.15 When Eakins visited the Prado in December, 1869, he saw Veldzquez’s two brilliant contributions to the theme: Veldsquez’s portrait of himself painting in the king’s apartments (Figure 15), and his portrait of the earlier, distin-
guished sculptor Martinez Montanés (Figure 14) at work modeling the head of | 's A survey of a few of the lesser known of — tel Seghers, celebrated flower painter, weaving a
these works shows their range: Victor Reg- garland which he intends to paint (Exposition nault, Zurburan peignant le moine en priére (Sa- _ Universelle, No. 68); J. Ballantyne (English), lon of 1868, No. 1272); Adolph Aze, Ma- Daniel Maclise, R.A., at work on bis fresco of the saccio, peintre florentin de XV: siécle (Salon of Death of Nelson in the House of Lords (Exposition
| | 93
1868, No. 83); P. Kremer (of Antwerp), Dan- _ Universelle, No. 4). |
._WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
Philip IV. Eakins’ own teacher, Géréme, painted at least two works on the Old Master variation: Raphael showing Bramante the Sistine Ceiling (1880, now lost) and Rembrandt Etching a Plate (Figure 61), the latter of which was exhib-
ited at the Universal Exposition in 1867 and also engraved. In Philadelphia, both American and European examples were popular at exhibitions from the late 1850s into the 1870s.'° Two of the most conspicuous examples of the subject by Americans, in fact, were in permanent collections in Philadelphia: one was Charles Willson Peale’s The Artist in His Museum (part of the Joseph Harrison, Jr. collection until 1878, when it entered the collection of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts collection;
Figure 62), showing the early Philadelphia artist proudly alluding to his working methods (as an artist and as a naturalist), his extensive portrait gallery (all the portraits painted by himself or his sons), and his service to and patronage by the community in the form of his museum and its interested audience. Another prominent studio painting in Philadelphia—again a selfportrait—was William Sidney Mount’s The Painter’s Triumph (Figure 63), long
a part of the Henry C. Carey collection, which showed, although goodnaturedly, the dependence of the painter on the approval of his fellow citizens.
The paintings by Peale and Mount were both studio subjects, of course, rather than tributes to Old Masters (unless one finds a certain delightful irony in Peale’s work). American artists, in fact, chose almost without ex‘6 See exhibition catalogues of the Pennsyl- Thomas Moran, a Philadelphia artist, painted vania Academy of the Fine Arts, then from Salvator Rosa Sketching the Banditti, 1860 (art
1870 (when the academy had no permanent market). The Carey Collection had in the building while its new structure was under 1870s George P. A. Healy’s Titian’s Model— construction), catalogues of the Union League from the Painting in the Louvre (now unloArt Receptions. Some of the paintings with cated). At least two paintings on the theme this subject were exhibited by the Harrison featured nude female models: Henry Bebie Farle Gallery, others from private collections (1824-1888), a Baltimore painter, painted Van like that of Samuel B. Fales. Whereas there Dyck in His Studio (illustrated in American His-
is no published study of the specifically tory 24, no. 3, 1973) and John Henry Dolph American interest in this motif, exhibition (1835-1903), Studio in the Time of Louis XVI catalogues from mid- to late-century show it (Dartmouth College). But the only scene of to have been popular, and the Inventory of an American Old Master—before Eakins’ American Painting (Smithsonian Institution) tribute to Rush—seems to be that by the
lists a number of extant paintings on the German emigrant to Philadelphia Charles theme. The American artist Edwin White Schmolze, who in 1852 painted George Washpainted several scenes of European Old Mas- ington sitting to Gilbert Stuart (Pennsylvania ters (his Leonardo da Vinci and His Pupils, 1867, | Academy of the Fine Arts).
is in the collection of Mount Holyoke).
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
ception to focus on the present in their use of this convention: they painted , studio scenes of themselves and their friends that emphasized their modernity. In 1852 Tompkins Matteson, for instance, painted an earnest tribute to the highly successful marble sculptor Erastus Dow Palmer (Figure 64), showing the dignified artist in his studio amidst his assistants and the full range of his works, all of which show his support by patrons. John Ferguson Weir painted his father, Robert F. Weir, in 1864 (Ganz Collection), seated in a studio full of the props, casts, engravings, and works in progress that identified the learned tradition the elder Weir worked in as a painter. In 1857 Daniel Huntington painted Asher B. Durand in his own modern studio—he is seated outdoors in a magnificent landscape, which he records on the easel before him (Asher Brown Durand, The Century Association, New ~ York). And by 1860 many Philadelphia artists posed for photographs that served as studio portraits, seated before an easel on which rested a representative painting.'? In their new nationalism, in their anxiety to be independent of the past, American artists—most of them, that is—considered that art in America had begun with their generation—in the 1830s and 1840s with the rise of neoclassical sculpture, genre painting, and landscape.
Even in Philadelphia, almost alone, Eakins looked to the past. Centennial , fervor encouraged retrospection and national pride, and in Eakins’ opinion, William Rush deserved patriotic restitution. For despite the fact that the city had had Rush’s water nymph cast in bronze in 1872, no celebration of Rush’s work as a sculptor had initiated, accompanied, or followed the action. In fact, the city undertook to preserve the decaying wooden figure because it was a “relic” of the old waterworks.'® Indeed, in 1875, when Eakins began his painting, virtually no Philadel-
phian would have identified William Rush as an Old Master. Part of the
, reason was the simple lapse of time. That year Eakins’ friend Earl Shinn noted the effect that his fellow Philadelphians’ absorption in the present had on their knowledge of their artistic past. In his book A Century After: Glimpses '7 Several examples of this genre are in the partment for the Year 1872,” Philadelphia collection of the Library Company of Phila- 1873, p. 22, cited by Bantel in Pennsylvania delphia and are illustrated in Kenneth Finkel, | Academy of the Fine Arts, Rush, p. 117. So inNineteenth-Century Photography in Philadelphia conspicuous a position did Rush’s nymph have
(New York: Dover Publications, 1980), fig- in public awareness that the Fairmount Park
ures 28, 31-33. Art Association was formed in 1872 to rem-
‘8 Journal of the Select Council of the City of edy the complete “deficiency” of sculpture in Philadelphia, Appendix No. 13: “Annual Re- _ the park. port of the Chief Engineer of The Water De-
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
of Philadelphia, Shinn commented that although the city had “a right to be proud of her record in art,” few citizens knew anything of Philadelphia art-
ists before James Hamilton, William Trost Richards, and Peter Rothermel—all painters (two of them landscapists), and all artists currently active.
In part to correct that lapse of community memory, three years earlier Shinn , had written the long article for Philadelphia’s Lippincott’s Magazine on the history of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Philadelphians were not necessarily unappreciative of their artists who were working in the older ways; in fact, in 1868 in its first volume Lippincott’s Magazine had published a long appreciation of the just-deceased Philadelphia portraitist John Neagle.2e But modern concerns eclipsed the past quickly.
And in the case of Rush, a number of other factors contributed to his decline. The first was that even by 1860, Rush’s wooden figureheads and scrolls had fallen into decay and rotted away, so that examples of the woodcarving that he had created in a career of more than fifty years were simply no longer to be seen. Further, after 1830 the building of transoceanic vessels had shifted away from Philadelphia; few reminders of either the old craft or their successors stirred citizens’ recollections.?! Third, several of Rush’s public and architectural sculptures were no longer in place: the crucifixes had been burned in the anti-Catholic riots of 1844, the Agriculture and Commerce on the Market Street Bridge had just been destroyed in a fire in 1875, the theater sculptures had been removed to a private institution (the Edwin For-
rest Home for actors) after the building was destroyed in 1855; even the fountain with the Water Nymph and Bittern had been moved from its location in the center of the city to a point on its periphery. The most powerful cause of the demise of Rush’s reputation, however, was Americans’ sense of the “progress” of sculpture in America in the nineteenth century. By 1875 they
confidently assumed the history of their nation’s sculpture to have begun with American sculptors’ earliest work in marble. That assessment of sculpture had not always prevailed. During his lifetime Rush had been warmly supported by his fellow citizens. But as the history
! of American art was written over the several decades from 1830 to 1875, | ‘9 Earl Shinn, A Century After: Picturesque 1868), 477-491.
, 96
, Glimpses of Philadelphia and Pennsylvania (Phil- 21 See Marion V. Brewington, “Maritime adelphia: Allen, Lane & Scott & J. W. Lau- Philadelphia 1609-1837,” Pennsylvania Magaderbach, 1875), in the chapter “Arts and Sci- zine of History and Biography 63, no. 2 (1939),
ences,” p. 4. | 93-117 for an early review of Philadelphia
20 Thomas Fitzgerald, “John Neagle, the maritime history. , Artist,” Lippincott’s Magazine 1, no. 5 (May :
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
Rush, in his earliest work a mere figurehead carver and throughout his career a worker in wood, slowly lost his place in it. It was a telling of history that Eakins challenged. Rush’s early recognition had been of two kinds, each notably partisan. In 1830 historian-compiler John Watson gave Rush enthusiastic notice in his Annals of Philadelphia in his identity as shipcarver: “Few citizens of Philadelphia are more deserving of commendation for their excellence in their profes-
sion than this gentleman, as a shipcarver.”?? Associating Rush with Phila- | delphia’s prominence in shipbuilding, Watson did not describe him as a sculptor and indeed noted virtually no other of Rush’s achievements beyond
shipcarving. Four years later, the New York artist and historian William Dunlap reversed this emphasis. Discussing Rush in his History of the Arts of Design in the U.S., Dunlap gave play to his own bias as a patriotic historian of American art.?3 Conscious of European standards against which American
achievement could be measured, Dunlap ignored Rush’s place in the context : of the local color and civic pride in Philadelphia that had interested Watson and limited his discussion to Rush’s figures and modeled busts. Dunlap deferred even the mention of Rush’s work as a shipcarver until more than half-. way through his biographical notice. Attributing to Rush working habits eminently respectable by European and academic standards—a neoplatonic
attitude toward form within the block and a close observation of the human figure—Dunlap told his readers that Rush encouraged his students to carve
hands using their own as models. |
These partisan analyses marked Rush’s first appearances in surveys of American culture and art. They also marked his last, for some time. Dunlap’s apologetic comment, “[Rush’s] time would never permit, or he would have attempted marble,” identifies the reason. After Dunlap, historians did not admit that there had been any sculpture
created by an American before 1830. They took the position of the dour 22 Watson, Annals of Philadelphia, 1845, vol. 1834; rpt. Dover, 1969), vol. 1, pp. 315-316. 1, p. 575. Although Watson’s Annals were en- Actually, as William Gerdts has pointed out larged and revised in 1845, 1857, and 1879, in his essay “William Rush: Sculptural Geno substantive changes were made in the no-__ nius or Inspired Artisan?” in Pennsylvania tice of Rush until the revision of 1879. In Academy of the Fine Arts, Rush, p. 198, note 1887 Watson’s successor Willis P. Hazard en- 18, Dunlap was relying on correspondence
larged the Annals to three volumes. from Rush’s son, who by 1833 would have 3 William Dunlap, History of the Rise and been very much aware that his father’s me-
Progress of the Arts of Design in the United States dium was old-fashioned. (New York: George P. Scott and Company,
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
John Neal who, after spending a great deal of time in Philadelphia in the mid-teens, wrote an assessment of American sculpture in 1823 that matched the acid contempt of Sydney Smith for early American surgery: “No—we have no ‘dramatists —no ‘architects’—no ‘sculptors’ in America . . . we have not even a pretender to sculpture.”?4 Americans like Horatio Greenough and Hiram Powers who had begun to
go to Italy in the 1820s and 1830s to study carving in marble seemed to historians to have founded the very practice of sculpture in America. In 1854, although Hannah Lee drew on Dunlap for the American section of her Familiar Sketches of Sculpture and Sculptors, she omitted Rush and began
her survey with stonecarvers John Frazee (1790-1852) and Horatio Greenough.?5 Subsequent writers followed suit: in 1861, the New York landscape painter and academician IT. Addison Richards wrote that “of our native
: sculptors, perhaps the first who gave indications of talent above the humblest mediocrity, was John Frazee.” James Jackson Jarves pronounced in 1864 that “such sculpture as we possess is the work of the present generation,””?7 and Henry Tuckerman, in 1867—while he did mention Rush—paid the bulk of his attention to the careers of America’s first stonecarvers.?® As the Centennial approached, books appeared surveying various aspects of America’s
history and progress, and of the few that even included a section on the country’s artistic history, the names of Greenough, Powers, Crawford, and others—all workers in marble—were those identified as “names of which any
country might be proud.” For Eakins, however, the name of William Rush was also one of which a
country, a city, and an artist successor might be proud. As Susan Eakins was to write later, her husband took it as his mission to “call attention to” *4 John Neal in vol. 2, pp. 202-203 of Ran- (Hartford: L. Stebbins, 1872), p. 326. dolph; quoted in Harold E. Dickson, ed., Ob- 27 James Jackson Jarves, The Art-Idea (New servations on American Art: Selections from the York: Hurd and Houghton, 1864), p. 209.
Writings of John Neal (State College, Pa.: #8 Henry IT. Tuckerman, Book of the Artists. Pennsylvania State College, 1943), pp. 24-25. (New York: G. P. Putnam & Sons, 1867), p. *s Hannah Lee, Familiar Sketches of Sculpture 572.
and Sculptors, 2 vols. (Boston: Crosby, Nich- 7 These include S. S. Conant, “Progress ols, & Co., 1854). John Frazee had begun his of the Fine Arts,” in The First Century of the career carving tombstones, but in 1824 began Republic: A Review of American Progress (New
| to make marble portrait busts. York: Harper and Bros., 1876), p. 413; and, 6 T. Addison Richards, “Arts of Design,” source of the quotation, Our Country Past and in The First Eighty Years of National Existence, Prospective (Hartford: L. Stebbins, 1878), p. reprinted in First Century of National Existence 222.
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
the “intelligent and refined work” of “the old sculptor,” whose “attitude in art he greatly respected.”3° Attentive to the beauty in his own city and willing to act as gadfly to his fellow citizens, Eakins set about to resurrect Rush’s
reputation. His format was one with which countless contemporaries and earlier nineteenth-century artists in Europe, including his teacher Géroéme, had honored their artistic heritage. Unlike his European counterparts, however, Eakins painted an Old Master who was in virtually no one’s canon but his own. Neither guided nor restricted by popular biographies of Rush, Eakins cut his central focus in the painting from the whole cloth. Although he could be credited with having translated quite literally Dunlap’s comment that Rush worked from nature, his painting was, on a higher level, a symbolic recrea-
tion that would direct the attention of Philadelphians to their artistic past, anchor the figural tradition—that of working from the nude model—of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts to a time near the origins of the acad-
emy, and embody Eakins’ own artistic principles. Like history-conscious , rowers, like historically sensitive surgeons, Eakins wanted to reach back to a time before his own, to root his “modernity” in what had gone before. Drawing on the conventions of the studio and Old Master themes, Eakins directed his audience’s attention to his convictions quite clearly. In the first place, Rush’s studio is a place of work. The littered floor, the layers of sketches on the wall, the ship’s scroll in progress—all indicate that Rush’s studio is not a neat showroom to impress a potential patron but a private place of diligent, searching activity. Indeed no patrons invade his privacy; no furniture is set in a corner for conversation. And appropriately,
Rush is at work—like Velazquez, like Montafés in Veldzquez’s tribute to him at work, and like Rembrandt in Gér6éme’s painting, Rush is intently absorbed in the work underway. Although no patrons or sociable visitors crowd the workshop, there is, of course, one person in the studio in addition to the sculptor and his model: the knitting woman. In the study process Eakins changed her position to
, reflect her importance as an onlooker: from a position in which she has her back to the model to one in which, as witness, she seems to be a full participant. Eakins’ reviewers and friends identified the knitting woman as the model’s mother. Although Louisa Vanuxem’s mother had in fact died sud3° Susan Eakins to Will Sartain, September p.m.” (Sartain collection, Historical Society 15, 1917, and letter dated “Friday night, 9:15 of Pennsylvania).
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE |
: denly in the summer of 1808, the year before Rush worked on the fountain, | the presence in the workshop of an older woman, whether relative or family servant, associates the scene with Eakins’ own attitudes toward models—and with those of his future academy constituency. He was to tell the Committee
on Instruction in 1877, soon after he began to teach life classes, that even | though “professional models” needed no recommendation (and therefore were
easy to obtain), the best models for the academy students were amateurs; and the participation of these models in the artistic enterprise warranted the full approval of their mother or other female relative—even their presence in the modeling session. Miss Vanuxem’s companion thus establishes both the quality of Rush’s model and the family’s approval of the project.3' She rep- _
resents the third party in the artist’s work: the supportive community of family, friends, and viewers and ultimately, of course—because of Miss Vanuxem’s father’s role in the commission—of patrons.
And in this context of community support for his work, Rush’s dress is | significant. In contrast to the disarray in his workshop, Rush’s dress 1s elegant, not literally appropriate to the messy aspect of his studio in general or the carving that is underway. His dress, too, was an aspect of the composition that Eakins changed during the study process. At first, he depicted Rush wearing craftsman’s clothing. On second thought, he modeled Rush’s dress after a more formal costume in the painting of 1812 by Krimmel. With that change, he gave the painting a specific tie to a well-known local painting that featured the very work on which Rush was carving. More important, with gentlemanly dress and a graceful bearing Eakins linked Rush to the aristo-
cratic tradition of Velazquez in his studio paintings at the Prado. Eakins created a sculptor who was no mere ships’ figurehead carver, but in his very workshop identity an important citizen. The period clothing for the model and the knitting woman root the painting in a local past from which it could speak so eloquently to the present. 31 A chaperone figure occasionally appears accompanied by an older woman. With such in earlier versions of the studio theme by other a cast of characters the potential exists for inartists: in, for example, the gouache by P. A. nuendo, and it is exploited by Felix de Vigne Baudouin, La Modéle Honnéte, 1769 inthe Ian in The Sleeping Chaperone, 1830 (Musée Mo-
Woodner Collection, New York (reproduced derne, Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts, in William H. Schab Gallery, Inc., New _ Brussels). In Philadelphia, however, “profesYork, “Master Prints and Drawings 15th-20th sional models” were prostitutes, who modCenturies,” 1972, p. 74). In the the nineteenth- eled without family supervision, and Eakins century Robert-Fleury’s lithograph Atelier de deliberately undercut erotic associations in his Rembrandt (lith. Eugene de Roux, collection tribute to Rush by including the older woman Bibliothéque Nationale) shows a draped model as chaperone.
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
In addition, the cast-off clothes of the model give the scene a vivid immedi-
acy, emphasizing the model’s nudity. The brilliant red, white, and blue fabrics contribute a patriotic touch. And the technical brilliance with which Eakins painted the fabrics and laces permitted him to avow his own skill as painter: in this scene of figure, atmosphere, and “stuffs,” Eakins proved his range to be as broad as that of Rush as sculptor in the varied evidence in his workshop. The several works of Rush in the studio show the accomplishments of his career that, once called to their attention, Philadelphians would have recognized. Eakins paid no attention to chronology in including them: in the background are the George Washington, carved in 1814, and the Allegory of the Waterworks, carved in 1825—both works done considerably after the Water Nymph and Bittern. The foreground scrolls, while not attributable to specific works, are typical of Rush’s ornamental shipcarving. All of the other works are “public sculpture” and thus show Rush’s patronage by the community— by the ancestors of Eakins’ audience. The evolution of sculptures in Rush’s workshop shows the parallels between Eakins’ and Rush’s careers: just as
Rush had moved beyond shipcarving into the more demanding realm of sculpture, so Eakins had moved on after several years of writing and teaching ornamental script to become a professional artist.
With the crux of the picture—Rush’s work on the fountain sculpture— Eakins celebrated the artistic principle that undergirded all else. The fountain sculpture itself had been Rush’s most prominently displayed commission: designed for the very center of the city, where it was comple-
, mented by an elaborate park, even in its more remote location after 1825 in Fairmount Park it continued to provide viewers with refreshing beauty. After 1872, the bronze replica gave the image renewed life and two installations graced Fairmount. Further, the figure had an allegorical reference inspired specifically by Philadelphia, unlike Rush’s more generally allegorical figures. But most important, the figure of the nymph gave Eakins the opportunity to show Rush engaged in a process basic to the academic tradition that he
had helped to establish in Philadelphia. At first, of course, that academic tradition had existed mainly as potential. The founding artists in 1805 and others who joined the group over the next few years had to struggle to bring into actuality at the academy facilities for modeling from the nude, for anatomical study, even for dependable annual exhibitions—advantages long standard in European academies. By the time of Eakins’ study at the academy in the early 1860s these advantages were an actual, although not always |
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.WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
regular, part of the curriculum; and during his tenure in the late 1870s and through the 1880s to 1886 as instructor at the academy, Eakins insured that they were fundamental to the program. That Eakins depicted Rush modeling the “Water Nymph” from the nude figures was audacious. It was bold from the point of view of conditions in Philadelphia in 1876 and bold from the point of view of conditions in Philadelphia in 1809. For it was not in the least likely that Rush modeled any of his figures from the nude: the practice had not yet been established in the city. In 1809, in fact, Rush and his fellow artists were still struggling even
, to establish the first life classes in drawing, and it was a goal they were not to realize for several years.3? One can imagine the shock the Rush and Van-
uxem descendants felt in 1881 when they saw Eakins’ license with “his-
tory.”33 It was necessary for him to be so bold, however, to establish the |
fundamental principle of his painting—which was not literal history. He | found in Rush’s work a respect for and knowledge of the human body; it was the academic tradition that nourished and guarded these principles. Thus
in his painting Rush’s model is nude, and she holds a highly typical academic : pose. Eakins proceeded with much the same reasoning in painting Dr. Gross
at work; he chose an operation that best set forth Gross’s—and his fellow surgeons’ —essential creed. To demonstrate his meaning in that painting he showed quite clearly the incision in the patient’s leg and the blood on the sheets, Dr. Gross’s scalpel, and his hands. Shocking or not, in the painting of William Rush, the nude was essential. Courageous in Philadelphia as was Eakins’ transcendence of literal history with symbol, in the context of European studio paintings it was also unusual, but for different reasons. Eakins’ teacher Géréme later painted a number of scenes of the nude model and sculptor. Some were self-portraits; one a Pyg-
malion and Galatea (Figure 65, Géréme’s The Artist and His Model combines | 37 Except for C. W. Peale’s aborted at- about Rush’s model (that of her long years of
tempt to hold a life-class in 1795, the first turning down suitors) with his painting life-classes in Philadelphia were held in 1813. Courtship (Fine Arts Museums of San FranOver the next several decades, they were held cisco), which he did right after he finished
only irregularly. the William Rush Carving His Allegorical Fig33 That is the year the painting was first ure. Nannie Williams, Eakins’ model for the exhibited in Philadelphia (see below). As far much-wooed Miss Vanuxem, also posed for as I know, there are no written accounts of the young lady in Courtship, and wore the reactions to Eakins’ painting beyond those of costume draped on the chair in the earlier the critical reviewers (for which, see Note 43). _ painting. Eakins did pay a wry tribute to one tradition
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
the ideas: the painting Pygmalion and Galatea hangs on the studio wall). How-
ever, most of the European tributes to Old Masters in the 1850s and 1860s focused on an aspect of their work that did not involve nudity: a Renaissance artist painting the Virgin, for instance, or a seventeenth-century Dutch landscapist outside with his sketch book—the former a conservative image but the latter an aspect of the history of art that had a new importance to artists in the 1850s and 1860s. Contemporary studio paintings also tended to show motifs fundamental to artists’ “modernity”: Japanese prints on the wall, copies of Spanish works, or important friends gathered in the studio. Of course the antiquity of the academic tradition of studying from the nude was not an issue in mid-nineteenth-century France, where the academy had been established in 1648, or in England, where the Royal Academy had been established in 1768. And as European painters of the 1860s and 1870s turned to “modern” life for their subjects—to the outdoors and to urban scenes— they did not want to assert an identity with an academic tradition, one that would tie them to the past. Indeed, many explicitly rejected it. Courbet, for example, did just that with his Studio painting (Figure 59): the nude (she 1s even decidedly unacademic in form) stands to one side as Courbet paints a “modern” landscape. Eakins, on the other hand, did want to assert an identity with an academic tradition—for himself, for Philadelphia, and for Rush. For Eakins, one could never surpass the modernity of the human form.
Thus, in one sense, Eakins’ focus on the nude model finds its proper context in studio pictures from earlier times—in the company, for example, of Johann Zoffany’s The Academicians of the Royal Academy, of 1770-1771 (The
Queen’s Collection, Buckingham Palace), which shows the academicians, in-
cluding the first president, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Zoffany himself, in their newly established academy engaged in the proper academic study of the nude. Another appropriate comparison is the painting by Léon Mathieu Cochereau in 1814 of his teacher Jacques Louis David’s studio (Figure 66), | which shows that David’s students drew directly from the model and not | from casts—a principle that David put forth vigorously.3+ And Eakins himself, a little more than a year after he finished his painting of Rush, had his students illustrate an article in Scribner’s Monthly about art training in Philadelphia with scenes of the life class at the academy: one student painted the 34 A much earlier example is Michael tion properly, by drawing from the nude. All
Sweerts, Pupils Drawing from a Nude Model, c. three instances, however—the Zoffany, , 1660 (Franz Hals Museum, Haarlem), show- Cochereau, and Sweerts—feature a male ing young students beginning their instruc- model.
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| WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
women’s class painting directly from the nude model (Figure 67), another showed the men’s class painting directly from the nude (Pennsylvania Acad-
emy of the Fine Arts).35 : After Eakins finished the painting of Rush, he wrote on cardboard a statement calling attention to Rush as a historical figure which was to be exhibited with the painting.3¢ He did not allude to the nudity of the model. Instead, he set forth a brief biography of Rush and a notice of several of his achievements, and he specified the iconography of the water nymph. The work had come to be called—when referred to at all—“Leda and the Swan.” Early in its years at Centre Square the sculpture was known as the “Nymph.”37 But gradually people began carelessly to refer to the delicately
proportioned bittern as a swan, especially after increasing traffic on the Schuylkill River drove the bittern away, and then they associated the swan with Leda, so that even Eakins’ art critic friend Shinn wrote of the sculpture in 1875 as “Leda and the Swan.”3® But Eakins had studied the work closely, : and to correct the inaccuracy of a title inappropriate to Philadelphia’s physical as well as her artistic legacy Eakins named the work Rush’s “Allegorical Figure of the Schuylkill River.” Eakins’ statement about Rush—direct, precise, and sensitively written—
provided the fullest explication of Rush’s work yet written: :
William Rush was a celebrated Sculptor and Ship Carver of Philadel_ phia. His works were finished in wood, and consisted of figure heads and scrolls for vessels, ornamental statues and tobacco signs called Pom-
| peys. When after the Revolution, American ships began to go to Lon- ~ don, crowds visited the wharves there to see the works of this Sculptor. 35 William C. Brownell, “The Art Schools | whose mouth issues a beautiful jet of water.” of Philadelphia,” Scribner’s Monthly 18, no. 5 Ritter, Philadelphia and Her Merchants, in 1860,
(September 1879), 737-750. p. 104, calls it a “female figure with her 36 Lloyd Goodrich, Thomas Eakins, 2 vols. spouting swan.” Thompson Westcott, Phila(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, delphia Illustrated (Philadelphia: Porter and
1982), I, note on p. 324. Coates, 1877), p. 74, mentions the “Leda-and37 Poulson’s American Daily Advertiser, Au- the-Swan fountain, wooden figures, by Rush,
gust 28, 1809, and Port Folio, series 3, 8 (July on the rocks of the forebay, and the same
1812), p. 30. figures in bronze.” Finally, Shinn, in “Amer-
38 The Stranger’s Guide to ... the City of ica’s First Art Academy,” p. 151, and in A Philadelpbia (Philadelphia: George S. Apple- Century After, p. 26, refers to the work as ton, 1845), p. 26, refers to the figure as “a “Leda and the Swan.” fine statue of a woman holding a swan, from
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
When Philadelphia established its Water-works to supply Schuylkill
water to the inhabitants, William Rush then a member of the water committee of Councils, was asked to carve a suitable statue to commemorate the inauguration of the system. He made a female figure of wood — to adorn Centre Square at Broad Street and Market, the site of the water works, the Schuylkill water coming to that place through wooden logs. The figure was afterwards removed to the forebay at Fairmount where it still stands. Some years ago a bronze copy was made and placed in old Fairmount near the Callowhill Street bridge. This copy enables the
"present generation to see the elegance and beauty of the statue, for the original wooden statue had been painted and sanded each year to preserve it. The bronze founders burned and removed the accumulation of paint before moulding. This done, and the bronze successfully poured, _ the original was again painted and restored to the forebay. Rush chose for his model, the daughter of his friend and colleague in the water committee, Mr. James Vanuxem an esteemed merchant.
The statue is an allegorical representation of the Schuylkill River. | The woman holds aloft a bittern, a bird loving and much frequenting the quiet dark wooded river of those days. A withe of willow encircles her head, and willow binds her waist, and the wavelets of the wind sheltered stream are shown in the delicate thin drapery much after the manner of the French artists of that day whose influence was powerful in America. The idle and unobserving have called this statue Leda and the Swan and it is now generally so miscalled. The shop of William Rush was on Front Street just below Callowhill and I found several very old people who still remembered it and described it. The scrolls and the drawings on the wall are from sketches in an original sketch book of William Rush preserved by an apprentice and left to another ship carver. The figure of Washington seen in the background is in Independence Hall. Rush was a personal friend of Washington, and served in the
Revolution. ,
Another figure of Rush’s in the background now adorns the wheel house at Fairmount. It also is allegorical. A female figure seated on a piece of machinery turns with her hand a water wheel, and a pipe behind her pours water into a Greek vase. Thomas Eakins 105
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
(A paper written by Thomas Eakins after he finished his picture called “William Rush carving his allegorical figure of the Schuylkill
River’”’)39 7
Whether the document was in fact exhibited with the painting, or whether Eakins hoped to be able to publish the text in full, is not known. Eakins did draw catalogue text from it, however, to inform his audience. And in his choice of that audience Eakins was as purposeful as he had been in composing his text. First, in 1878, he sent the painting to the exhibition in January
of the Boston Art Club. Then he exhibited it in New York, at the First Annual Exhibition of the newly formed Society of American Artists. There he had to condense his text for the catalogue to a few brief words: “William Rush, ship carver, was called on to make a statue for a fountain at Central Square, on the completion of the first Water Works of Philadelphia. A cel-
statues. 4°
ebrated belle consented to pose for him, and the wooden statue he made, , now stands in Fairmount Park, one of the earliest and best of American From New York the painting went to Brooklyn, to be seen in the April 1878 exhibition of the Brooklyn Art Association. At the earliest appropriate time, Eakins exhibited the painting on his home ground. That was in 1881, when the painting was seen at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in a large exhibition devoted to works by American artists working in Europe as well as in America. In Philadelphia, Eakins was able to run a long entry about Rush in the catalogue and to include an outline engraving of the paint-
ing that identified each important part (Figure 68). To the information in his original statement he added that the academy owned casts of several of Rush’s
, portrait busts and that the Krimmel painting, also in the possession of the academy, showed the original location of the sculpture and fountain.+' With
: 39 In manuscript in the Sartain collection, Minor had recently been studying in EuHistorical Society of Pennsylvania. Eakinsmay rope—shows effectively how unusual Eakins have observed the cleaning of the wooden fig- _ was in looking to the past, and particularly, ure and the casting of the bronze version; he _ to the American past for a studio subject. For
writes knowledgeably about the process. the Boston exhibition, see Goodrich, Eakins, 4 Catalogue of the First Exhibition of the So- 1982, 1, 324.
ciety of American Artists, Kurtz Galleries, New + The Brooklyn catalogue (No. 313) listed : York, March 6-April 6, 1878. Eakins’ paint- only the title of the painting. Eakins’ text in ing of William Rush was No. 8. The painting the Philadelphia catalogue, Special Exhibition by New York artist Robert C. Minor (1839- of Paintings by American Artists at Home and in 1904) of The Studio of Corot (No. 5)—an out- Europe, Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine door scene honoring the tradition in which Arts, November 7-December 26, 1881, which
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
the phrase “earliest and best” Eakins summarized Rush’s importance for both
his New York and his Philadelphia audiences: in New York, he wrote that the allegorical figure was “one of the earliest and best of American statues”; in Philadelphia, that “William Rush, the Ship Carver, was the earliest and
one of the best American sculptors.” ,
Despite his textual precision about Rush’s allegorical intentions, Eakins ,
was not able to prevent the “idle and unobserving” American public from continuing to misidentify Rush’s nymph as Leda. Even his friends were
guilty.4? But he did succeed—and magnificently—in re-establishing Rush’s , place in the history of American art. includes the error put forward by Watson in ton, intended for a ship’s figure-head; a 1830 that Rush’s George Washington had orig- female figure, personating the waterinally been a ship’s figurehead, is pointedly power; and some old-fashioned ship
instructive for Philadelphians: scrolls of the time. The Washington is William Rush, the Ship Carver, was now in Independence Hall, and the fethe earliest and one of the best American male figure is on the wheel-house at
sculptors. Fairmount. At the completion of the first Phila- The Academy owns casts of several of
delphia waterworks at Centre Square, William Rush’s portrait busts; among , which is now occupied by the Public them a portrait of himself. Buildings, he undertook a wooden statue A picture in the Academy, by Krimto adorn the square, which statue was mel, an early Philadelphia painter, shows afterwards removed to the forebay at the original position of the forebay statue Fairmount, where it still remains, though in Centre Square. very frail. Some years ago a cast of it Some public discussion of the original lowas made in bronze for the fountain near cation of Rush’s fountain may have been
the Callowhill Street Bridge. stirred in 1874 when construction was begun The statue represents the River on the site for the City Hall—what Eakins Schuylkill under the form of a woman. refers to above as the “Public Buildings.” As The drapery is very thin, to show by its was the case in the New York exhibition three numerous and tiny folds the character of years earlier, another studio painting in the the waves of the hill-surrounded stream. Philadelphia exhibition with Eakins’ William Her head and waist are bound with leafy Rush Carving His Allegorical Figure would seem withes of the willow—so common to the by its title to have made a significant con-
Schuylkill—and she holds on her shoul- trast: The Studio, Spanish interwr, by F. L. | ] der a bittern, a bird loving its quiet shady Kirkpatrick. (And interesting from the point
banks. of view of the Gross Clinic, in this exhibition :
This statue, often miscalled the Lady the painter Milne Ramsey (1846-1915) work- :
and the Swan, or Leda and the Swan, is ing in Paris, exhibited a painting called Lesson
Rush’s best work, and a Philadelphia on Anatomy, now unlocated.) beauty is said to have consented to be # Eakins’ disdain for people who had con-
his model. fused the iconography of the nymph, evident The painting shows, among other in his terms “idle and unobserving,” is char-
107 |
things, a full-length statue of Washing- acteristic of his insistence that one should get |
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
As he undoubtedly expected, when New York and Philadelphia critics reviewed the painting in 1878 and 1881 they seemed not to know much of the old sculptor.#3 Soon, however, Eakins’ painting and catalogue entries
took effect.
The first evidence of Eakins’ success came quickly, in the book his friend , Wiliam J. Clark in 1878 wrote about American sculpture. Obviously having written most of the book before Eakins called his attention to Rush, Clark wrote a special section on Rush at the end of his chapter on Philadelphia sculptors. Giving the sculptor generous coverage, Clark emphasized his “study of nature,” his self-taught genius, and his gift to Philadelphia of a “genuine
masterpiece” in the nymph. +4
The next year Watson’s Annals were revised. Expanding substantially the , notice on Rush, the editor combined the Annals’ earlier focus on Rush as a shipcarver with praise for the Rush that Eakins had celebrated. N oting that Rush’s “figures are generally fine, and if he had lived at a time when there was a chance for a statuary to make a living by his art, he would doubtless have attained a high reputation,” the editor went on to list as Rush’s achievements his theater figures, wheelhouse figures, several of his allegorical figures, his George Washington, and “the well-known figure of the Naiad with a
Swan [!], once used as a fountain at Centre Square, and now at Fair-
mount. 45
things right. In 1884, J. Thomas Scharf and quest for “very explicit explanations of the Thompson Westcott, History of Philadelphia, Lady and the Swan Fountain” (on film in the 1609-1884, 3 vols. (Philadelphia: L. H. Ev- Archives of American Art, roll P14). erts & Co., 1884), vol. 3, p. 1853, called the 43 In New York reviewers paid a great deal sculpture “Nymph and Swan.” In 1917 Su- _ of attention to the nude as an example of figsan Eakins scolded Will Sartain for so mis- ure painting, some liking it, others finding it calling the sculpture: “You do not know the _ inferior. Reviews, newspapers, and dates are statue. If you had seen it you would laugh at cited in Hendricks, “Eakins’ William Rush the title ‘Leda and the Swan.’ The bird is a Carving.” On December 2, 1881, the critic small graceful and delicate creation and she _ for the Philadelphia Press liked the “earnest re-
holds it on her shoulder” (July 5, 1917, Sar- straint” in the painting, approving that Fatain Collection, Historical Society of Penn- kins had shown that the participants in the sylvania). That same year Horace Mather _ scene care “more for what they are doing than Lippincott, Early Philadelphia (Philadelphia: for displaying themselves while doing it.” Of J. B. Lippincott and Co., 1917), describing Rush’s place in Philadelphia history no notice
the old Centre Square Waterworks, called was given. |
Rush’s statue “Leda and the Swan,” p. 107. 4 William J. Clark, Jr., Great American
And preserved in the Pennsylvania Academy = Sculptures (Philadelphia: Gebbie & Barrie,
of the Fine Arts Archives is a letter from Publishers, 1878), pp. 107-110. _ T. Rumford Samuel to Eakins, written on 45 Watson, Annals of Philadelphia, 1879, p. April 25, 1911, thanking him for answering 444.
| with a detailed personal letter Samuel’s re-
, 108
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE | Soon after Clark’s and Watson’s work, general histories of American art began to include Rush. Although the first historians were cautious—as was S.G.W. Benjamin who praised Rush as “undoubtedly a man of genius” in
1880—their debt to Eakins 1s clear. In only twenty years Eakins was quoted almost exactly. Sadakichi Hart- :
mann stated categorically that Rush began America’s sculptural tradition, and then described the fountain figure as support for his assertion: “[Rush’s]
wooden allegorical statue of the Schuylkill River, for which a celebrated : belle of the time consented to pose, standing still near the water-works in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia, is one of the earliest and best of our American statues.” The last line of Hartmann’s comments confirms Eakins’ role in the resurrection of Rush’s reputation: “Thomas Eakins has painted a picture of
Rush modeling this statue.”4° |
In restoring Rush to the canon of the history of American sculpture— indeed, in effectively challenging the terms on which that canon had been selected—Eakins acted with the artistic authority that characterized his decisions throughout his entire career. He never doubted that he saw through the accidents of time and nature, and often the ignorance of his fellow citizens, to essential principles. He was to find, however, that his vision of what
: was worth pointing out would not typically bring the assent in his audience that his recognition of William Rush had inspired. And the curious result of this phenomenon was that later, because of the painting of 1877, Eakins’ identity and that of Rush slowly merged—first in the public eye, and later in Eakins’ own symbolic vision. Eakins’ methods of instruction at the academy provided the starting point. His insistence that all students study from the human figure began to disturb the Philadelphia academy community during Eakins’ tenure as Director of Instruction after 1879. Members of the academy board were anxious to make the instruction self-sustaining and were responsive to the occasional complaints of parents and of academy students that Eakins’ rigid prescriptions were too inflexible for the casual student. A certain amount of sexual reserve dominated the public life of the community, giving for some critics a prurient cast to Ea4 §.G.W. Benjamin, Art in America: A Macmillan, 1903), gave Rush high praise, pp. Critical and Historical Sketch (New York: Har- 20-24. Even later, Edward H. Coates, direc-
per & Brothers, 1880), p. 137. Sadakichi tor of the Pennsylvania Academy, drew on Hartmann, “American Sculpture,” in A His- Eakins’ work for his talk about 1911 on Wiltory of American Art, Vol. 2 (Boston: L. C. liam Rush (Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Page, 1901), p. 16. In addition, Lorado Taft, Arts Archives; on film in the Archives of in The History of American Sculpture (New York: | American Art, roll P78).
109
| WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE kins’ matter-of-fact use of models of both sexes for students of both sexes. After increasing tension, in 1886 the board insisted that Eakins resign from his post. The action hurt Eakins deeply, for it was directed not only at him but at principles that he felt to be of unquestionable importance. With this event the merging of Rush’s and Eakins’ identities began. An
: early newspaper clipping in the Vanuxem files at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania alludes to criticism Rush had aroused among his fellow Philadelphians of 1809 with his fountain figure. But the author of the article, as subsequent historians have elaborated, ties the criticism not to the sculpture but to Rush’s advocacy of the controversial water system designed by Latrobe.47 That Rush was criticized has a historical foundation; but the community understanding of what had caused that early criticism was to change __ its character totally after 1886. In 1893 the author of a Philadelphia magazine article purporting to reestablish the reputation of the forgotten Rush men-
tioned that when Rush installed the fountain the nymph had been “de-
, nounced as immodest.”4* Five years later, a newspaper writer put the case more strongly, although again qualifying it as hearsay: “It is said that when [the fountain sculpture] was first placed in the Square many nice and fastidious persons were shocked in contemplating the female figure.”49 By 1937 the notion that Rush had scandalized his audience with the sculpture had achieved such persuasiveness that Henri Marceau, the author of the cata-
logue of the first exhibition devoted to the works of Rush, wrote that it would be superfluous to air the scandal in detail.s° Just earlier, in 1933, Eakins’ biographer Lloyd Goodrich had suggested that Eakins painted the scene of Rush because he felt bound to the sculptor by their common rejection by the Philadelphia community for working from the nude.5' 47 The clipping is filed under °Va Van 1833: The First American Sculptor (PhiladelUxem. Nelson M. Blake, throughout, notes _ phia: Pennsylvania Museum of Art, 1937), pp. the antagonism Rush occasionally aroused with 28, 29.
his early support for the Latrobe plan, the s' Goodrich, 1933, pp. 59-60. See his later engines for which failed miserably (Water for note on the matter in Eakins, 1982, I, 325. Until the Cities [Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, Bantel (Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, 1956]). As Note 9 (above) indicates, commu- William Rush), succeeding scholars, even on
nity response to the sculpture itself was Rush, followed Goodrich; as did, for exam-
warmly appreciative. ple, Wayne Craven, in Sculpture in America 48 EF. Leslie Gilliams, Lippincott’s Monthly (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, Magazine, August 1893, pp. 249-253 (p. 251). 1968), p. 23. However, Hendricks, “Eakins’ 49 July 26, 1898 unsourced newspaper clip- William Rush,” p. 386, demurred, stating that ping, Archives of the Philadelphia Museum for the socially prominent young belle to have
of Art. posed at all would have caused sufficient | so William Marceau, William Rush 1756- scandal to start innuendos.
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WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
In fact, the “tradition” that William Rush worked from the nude was Thomas Eakins’ invention, and the “tradition” that William Rush had caused a scandal by doing so was the invention of the Philadelphia community in the late nineteenth century after Thomas Eakins caused—in his insistence
on working and teaching from the nude—a scandal. When Susan Eakins assessed the painting the year after Eakins’ death as one of his most important works, she explained to Will Sartain that Eakins had painted it to call attention to Rush’s elegant and refined work.s? Through the years of Susan’s : and Eakins’ marriage—which began two years before Eakins was fired from
the academy—the painting hung in their home. In neither Susan’s corre- _ spondence nor comments by associates is there evidence that Eakins conceived of Rush’s career as troubled.
But increasingly Eakins felt his own career to be troubled, and he retreated | into more solitary ways and assumed an independent judgment of the worth
of his paintings. Many years later, in 1908, he returned to the theme of William Rush as a subject. He perhaps was stimulated in part to do so by the call printed in the Pennsylvania Magazine for more biographical details about Rush’s life.53 And poignantly, only a few years earlier the hopelessly decayed wooden nymph had been removed from her fountain in the forebay at Fairmount and stored away in an attic.5+ In the years after 1900 Eakins had paid more attention to his own sculptural interests, modeling portrait figures in his studio at the same time as he and his sculptor-friend Samuel Murray were working together on portrait subjects.55 And what had been s* Susan Eakins to Will Sartain, letters of em’s great-great-nephew, preserved what was September 17 and “Friday night, 9:15 p.m.” —left—the head—and had two bronze casts
(Sartain Collection, Historical Society of made. Pennsylvania). Sartain himself, having spent ss For Samuel Murray, see Michael W. his career in New York, had come to con- Panhorst, Samuel Murray, exhibition catasider the nudity historically accurate. He wrote logue (Washington, D.C.: Hirshhorn Muabout the painting in his memorial essay on seum and Sculpture Garden, Smithsonian Eakins, explaining that “the daughter of one Institution, 1982); and Mariah Chamberlinof the Board consented to pose nude for the Hellman, “Samuel Murray, Thomas Eakins, statue,” in “Thomas Eakins,” The Art World, and the Witherspoon Prophets,” Arts Maga-
January 1918, p. 292. zine 53, no. 9 (May 1979), 134-139. [wo late 53 Letter from Charles Henry Hart, Pennsyl- paintings by Susan Eakins show Eakins vania Magazine of History and Biography 31 working as a sculptor: one, called Artist and
(1907), 381-382. Model, shows Eakins between about 1900 and
| 111
s¢ This took place about 1900, when, ac- 1910 working at a sculpture on a pedestal; the cording to Marceau (William Rush, p. 28), the other, Sculptor and Model, 1924 (Joslyn Art figure was stored in the attic of the Assembly Museum, Omaha) is a memorial portrait. Even
Room of the Waterworks. Soon thereafter before 1go00, in the 1890s, in fact, Eakins John S. Wurts (1876-1958), Louisa Vanux- worked on sculpture, helping his student
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
true about Eakins’ principles as an artist in 1877 was still true in 1908: he
worked simply, straightforwardly, in the very private hard work of the workshop. Indeed, in conversation Eakins pointedly noted to friends that the fashionable portraitist William Merritt Chase painted in an atelier, but
, he himself worked in a workshop (see Figure 69, one of Chase’s several }
| paintings of his own studio).5
Most important, however, was that between 1877 and 1908 Eakins had come to share another bond with Rush: the goals he had established for his painting early in his career and had pursued for forty years without faltering had become old-fashioned. In 1908 Philadelphians still liked portraits, but they did not like portraits—even of, and in some instances, particularly of, eminent persons—unless they were graceful or gave easily read signs of the sitter’s power. Eakins’ work did not have these qualities. By the late 1880s
critics had begun to declare that Eakins was one of the “old school,” a “nativist” painter; and although they were often impressed by his draftsmanship, his careful observation, and the strength of his work, they were just as often distressed by the effects of these qualities. Occasionally they could hardly even “fit” Eakins’ work into histories of American painting.5’ In 1908, Samuel Murray with commissions for archi- marriage he maintained a studio downtown
tectural sculpture, and working with the on Chestnut Street; finally, after 1900 he sculptor William Donovan for relief sculp- moved his studio back to his home. ture that would ornament the Soldiers and 57 S.W.G. Benjamin, for instance, praised _ Sailors Memorial Arch, Brooklyn, In the flush Eakins in 1880 as an “admirable draughtsof these interests, Eakins did sketches about man” (Art in America, p. 208), even saying 1890 for a painting of another sculptor from that he had “very few equals in the country the past, Phidias Studying for the Frieze of the in drawing of the figure” (p. 210). As time Parthenon (Goodrich, Eakins, 1933, cat. no. passed, however, Eakins was harshly ap255). One of the sketches shows two nude _praised—by Samuel Isham, The History of youths on horses, perhaps tying the work to American Painting (New York: MacMillan Co., his own modeling of horses in high relief for 1905), pp. 525-526, who thought he ignored
the Brooklyn Memorial Arch (Goodrich, beauty altogether and laid on his paint inel-
Eakins, 1933, cat. no. 509). egantly, and who compared Eakins’ portrais6 Goodrich quotes this remark, Eakins, ture unfavorably with that of Carroll Beck1982, II, 8. And indeed, while Chase had with, who had studied with Carolus-Duran
. elaborate studios (at one time in the famous instead of with Géréme; or ignored, as by Tenth Street Studio Building in New York— George W. Sheldon, Recent Ideals of American see Nicolai Cikovsky, Jr., “William Merritt Art (New York and London: D. Appleton & Chase’s Tenth Street Studio,” Archives of Co., 1888); by Clarence Cook, Art and Artists American Art Journal 16, no. 2 [1976], 2-14) to of our Time, 3 vols. (New York: Selmar Hess, impress potential patrons, Eakins worked in c. 1888); and by Alfred Trumble, Representaa plain, cluttered interior. His first studio was tive Works of Contemporary American Artists on the top floor of the family home; after his (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1887). Charles
112 7 |
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE
in short, Eakins found himself in the same position that William Rush had been in years earlier when Eakins had determined to rescue him from obscurity: he was an artist whose work was considered out of style, even primitive. Eakins explored the Rush theme in 1908 with more experimentation than he had thirty years earlier. He apparently worked with two models: one youthfully slender and somewhat tall, who appears in four works or studies (Brooklyn Museum, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden [2], and Philadelphia Museum of Art), and the other older, plainer, and a little chunky (Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden and Honolulu Academy of Arts). He dressed Rush in craftsman’s clothing rather than formal attire and in two
paintings portrayed the chaperone as a black woman (Brooklyn Museum and Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden), a servant of his own household. In the largest, most finished work (Figure 70)—a painting much larger than Eakins’ final version of 1877—the model dominates the foreground stunningly, but the tools hanging in profusion on the back wall and the other sculptures spread out regularly across the painting disperse the impact. The viewer does not seem to peer into the past. In two other works, small, quick studies, Eakins introduced the idea of the model finishing her session (Figure
71, and Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden), being handed down from the podium by the sculptor himself, stepping into clothing being held out by another model.5®
In what was perhaps his last version of Rush and his model Eakins seems to have come finally to link himself explicitly with his predecessor (Plate 9). The canvas is large—most of it space, given a vitality, but also an ominous emptiness, with large sweeping brushstrokes. Although a scroll marks the foreground, and the atmosphere is that of a carver’s workshop, the artist— his back to us—seems to be Eakins himself. Rush’s slight build has been replaced by Eakins’ more substantial one—a girth that he had taken on over Caffin, in The Story of American Painting (New great art than almost anything we can see in
York: Frederick A. Stokes Co., 1907; rpt. New America” (vol. 1, p. 204). In 1901 HartYork: Johnson Reprint Corporation, 1970), mann’s was a lone voice. praised the work of Gari Melchers as care- s8 Van Deren Coke, The Painter and the fully observed like that of Eakins, but also Photograph (Albuquerque: University of New much better in that Melchers had “essentially Mexico Press, 1964), pp. 162-165, suggests a modern point of view” (p. 347). Sadakichi that Eakins derived this idea from a series of Hartmann, A History of American Art, 2 vols. photographs by Eadweard Muybridge of a (Boston: L. C. Page, 1901), was able to praise nude woman descending stairs, a scarf pulled
rather than condemn Eakins as nativist and over her shoulder. manly, and assessed his work as “nearer to
113 |
WILLIAM RUSH CARVING HIS ALLEGORICAL FIGURE.
the years—and Rush’s narrow head by Eakins’ blocky one. The model, fron-
tally nude, is ungainly and not young. The artist helps her down from the stand.
The modeling session is over. At this time Eakins was sixty-four; he had only two painting years left. The motif of the artist and model ending their session was a pendant to the painting of thirty-one years earlier, the painting in which a younger, more confident Eakins had set forth his creed with a work that honored a predecessor whose excellence had been forgotten. Ironically, Eakins, too, would enter the canon only posthumously.
4114
CHAPTER FIVE
The Concert Singer
ROM HIs earliest years Eakins had been drawn to music, the most 2 fleeting and intangible of experiences. Throughout a career that brought him perhaps more than his share of public affronts, and no common measure of private griefs (including the early deaths of his mother and a favorite sister), music was vital to him. He lived among music makers, in fact, although he did not play an instrument himself. When he was young, his sisters studied the piano and filled the house with the sounds of their music. His wife Susan, whom he married in 1884, was an accomplished pianist and made their home the scene of many musical evenings. And Fakins also sought out music’s effects as a concert goer. From the Pasdeloup ~ concerts and the opera in Paris to chamber music and singing society concerts in Philadelphia, he submitted himself to, and was buoyed and comforted by, music’s spell. Friends remembered that when he listened, especially to chamber music, tears often ran down his face. Music formed the subject of nineteen of his paintings, from the beginning
| of his career to near the end. The paintings are grounded in musical experience peculiar to his city and attitudes characteristic of the late nineteenth century; and like his rowing and surgical portraits and his tribute to William Rush, they show Eakins’ thoughtful assessment of the fundamental meaning of the activity. Displaying a musical authority that is both sensitive and powerful, Eakins’ portraits of musicians provide a counterpoint to the worldly heroism he celebrated in his rowing portraits, surgical clinics, and William Rush paintings—heroism that was associated with reason, action, and control.
Eakins shared with many other artists his attraction to music in contem-
porary life. Mary Cassatt, for instance, painted glimpses into the loge at the , Opéra, Manet of a group of listeners at the concerts in the Tuileries, Sargent caught the sweep of Pasdeloup’s orchestra at the Cirque d’Hiver (Figure 72), and Degas looked with humor into the cluster of players in the orchestra at 115
THE CONCERT SINGER
the Opéra (Figure 73). But casual scenes did not interest Eakins, nor did the color or the movement of large musical gatherings. His paintings stand dis-
| tinctly apart: they are portraits, and they are at the same time investigations into certain qualities of music itself. And in his own work, paintings of fellow citizens involved in music making also form a separate group.
On the one hand, it is true and important that Eakins’ portraits of musicians playing their instruments range over a spectrum of musical life in Phil-
adelphia much as the body of all his portraits includes citizens devoted to
widely varying pursuits. Eakins carried his early confidence that a few basic : principles lay at the root of all experience into friendships that led to portraits of zither players, a cellist, an oboist, a violinist, organists, banjo players and guitarists, singers, even a collector of musical instruments. These portraits range from music associated with the classical tradition to that of the folk tradition; some of the paintings are small and jewel-like in technique,
| others are large and relatively loose. They form a virtual portrait gallery of modern music making in Philadelphia.
On the other hand, Eakins’ portraits of musicians show a relationship be- | tween man and activity that is different from the themes prominent in his
portraits of other professionals at work. In the rowing paintings, Eakins held | up the oarsmen to admiration because of the command with which they executed their delicate but demanding task. Dr. Gross in his clinic, and Dr. Agnew in his, exercised with both physical dexterity and intellectual acumen impressive authority in the discipline of surgery. William Rush confidently put the final touches on his sculpture. But in the music paintings, as one can see in the pliant stance of Eakins’ Concert Singer as she makes music, the
sitters take up no poses of easy command; they pretend to no intellectual distance from the music they are making. They seem intentionally, in fact, to have surrendered their separateness to the spell of what they are doing. Eakins began to explore this submerging of individuality as early as his first musical portraits in the sequence of paintings of his sisters and of a family friend at the piano that he painted in the early 1870s (Figures 77, 78, 79, 80). That he painted pianists as the first of his interior portraits shows that, as he had done with rowing, he was starting his career with experience that he knew well. But playing the piano, like rowing the shell, had a special _ place in nineteenth-century middle-class life, and Eakins’ attention to it shows the extent to which, despite his independent response, he shared the concerns of his contemporaries. Virtually no activity of Eakins’ sisters more clearly identified them, and 116
THE CONCERT SINGER the Eakins family, with commended, “modern” middle-class pursuits than
playing the piano. Descended from the harpsichord, the piano had been | gradually modified until by about 1840 it had reached the form in which Eakins’ sisters knew it. By mid-century, manufactured in quantity by English, American, French, and German firms, it had no rival as the ideal parlor
instrument. It was a moral and entertainment center of the home, and fam- | ilies sacrificed to buy one and to pay for their children’s instruction on it— especially that of their daughters. Imagery as early as that of St. Cecilia had shown the keyboard to be the province of women. And throughout the nineteenth century, despite the fact that the great piano virtuosi in public life were men, artists showed women at the keyboard at home to compliment their cultivation and that of their families.‘ Only rarely in these scenes did artists show the attentiveness of the sitter to the actual making of music. In America George Hollingsworth, in his group portrait of the Hollingsworth’ family (Figure 74) demonstrated the cultural status of his sitters—just as did J.-A.D. Ingres in his drawing made in Rome of the exiled family of Lucien de Bonaparte (1815, Fogg Art Museum, Harvard University)—by showing a daughter seated at (but not playing) the keyboard. In his painting Az the Piano of 1859 (Figure 75), J.A.M. Whistler did show the mother of the Haden family in London playing the piano, and the daughter (presumably in training to carry on the tradition of being the musical center of the household) listening dreamily to her, but he also revealed that as a sheer possession the family’s piano dominated the parlor. It had even organized the decorative scheme on the wall above it. Degas, too, painted women at the piano, their musicianship an accomplishment particularly flattering to and worthy of their womanhood; typical, for instance, is his tribute to Mile. Dihau (Figure 76), as she looks around from her position on the piano bench. Behind her we see suggestions of the printed music from which she is playing, but Degas, intent on showing the candid surprise of her glance, only hints at the piano
keyboard and the position of her hands. , Eakins, on the other hand, gave the making of music first place, subordi‘ There were indeed some paintings, how- thralling an audience that includes George ever, that focused on the dramatic presence Sand, Victor Hugo, and Paganini. Another of the great piano virtuosi (as well as on their is Liszt playing a grand piano by Ludwig Béseninstrument and their patrons): one well-known dorfer before Franz Josef in Budapest, 1872 (un-
such image is the painting by Joseph Dan- known artist, private collection, illustrated in hauser, Liszt at the Piano (1840, National Gal- The New Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed.
erie der Stiftung Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Stanley Sadie [London: Macmillan PublishBerlin)—a parlor scene in which Liszt is en- ers Ltd., 1980], vol. 14, p. 713).
117
THE CONCERT SINGER
nating to that imperative specific moments and even individual likeness. In only one of his four images of young women at the piano—Home Scene (Figure 77)—1is the instrument a mute possession. In that quiet painting, Eakins’ sister Margaret turns from her position on the piano bench to observe their _ sister Caroline on the floor; her maternal look conveys the sweet affection that the presence of the piano in the home was felt to promise and hints at the transmission of music from older to younger. The viewer realizes with a shock that at the time Margaret was only sixteen or seventeen years old, . her image in this painting an early indication of the liberty Eakins later took with his sitters’ appearances when it served his purpose. The other three of Eakins’ paintings of music making on the piano form a sequence in which he explored the subtle relationship between technique and music making.
: By 1870 technique had become virtually an obsession with both amateur and professional musicians. Although there had certainly been fine musicians in centuries past—and many whose technical brilliance seems still to live in — the first-hand reports of letter writers and diarists—the sine qua non of musicianship in earlier times had not been so temptingly close to fast, brilliant, dramatic playing as it was to become in the century of progress. Well-educated classes had matter-of-factly played instruments as amateurs, both in
ensembles and for private pleasure, focusing not so much on technique as on the moods of gaiety or calm or even melancholy that they could evoke with capable playing. That modest approach to technical control was to change
with the modification of instruments, with the new demanding composi- __ tions, with the huge musical audiences who craved virtuosity, and with the individual concert performers who were only too willing to make themselves famous by supplying it.
Neither the piano nor the other newly developed or “improved” nineteenth-century instruments could be mastered quickly. The vast mechanical resources of the piano, particularly, made playing it well both a challenge and a responsibility: its strings stretched under high tension, the piano pro-
duced a rich sound that could approach either bombast or delicacy. The amateur could play simple music on the piano to good effect only if he | sensibly handled the instrument; and the player who wished to call upon all its resources had to spend years of study in developing the physical capability. Composers like Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann, Schubert, and others now forgotten composed groups of short, satisfying, and relatively easy pieces for the new players, but with other compositions they pushed virtuosity to its limits with music that was extraordinarily demanding. Scores and then
: 118
THE CONCERT SINGER
hundreds of piano method books flooded the market offering authoritative—
and often conflicting—advice on how to curve the fingers, hold the wrists, | use the elbows, play octaves, manage running sixths and thirds, and use the pedals in order to give this new music—and this new instrument—its due. Technique assumed so important a place in playing the instrument impressively that some teachers compelled their students to work on nothing but technique for years.” ‘hese circumstances prevailed for other instruments as well—the cello, the oboe, the flute—all of those instruments, in other words, that had been associated for centuries with ensemble playing (and thus with fairly easy adaptability to amateur musicianship). In the case of the piano, even physicians contributed to the mania for technical virtuosity: Eakins’ sitter Dr. Forbes (Figure 118) was one of them, inventing a special operation to free the ring finger from its tendon so that the pianist could lift it an extra one-quarter to one inch and strike the keys with more force. 3 Sensitive critics and musicians, however, knew that no one relying exclusively on technique could play profound music. The best pianists—and the best instrumentalists on all instruments—strove to incorporate impressive technique into a larger ideal of musicianship in which virtuosity was merely a means to bring into being music that flowed autonomously. Pianists worked to achieve in their own playing the ideal that critics found in the playing of Anton Rubenstein: “With Rubenstein [the piano] absolutely gives up all semblance of being a machine at all and becomes a living agent, interpenetrated by and responsive to the spirit of the master. Under his wonderful fingers it sings or thunders, murmurs or tingles, laughs or weeps, in apparent freedom from all physical law but that which puts it in immediate relation with the soul of the performer.”
| This—the transcendence of technique (parallel, indeed, to Dr. Gross’s * See the account of Eakins and his sister’s power of execution. . . . [She hits] as hard exchange on the subject, below. The strain and as fast as she can from beginning to end” after technique often resulted in loud, vigor- (to Fanny, November 1, 1867, Archives of ous playing unceremoniously called “pound- American Art, Smithsonian Institution,
~ ing” by offended listeners. Oliver Wendell Washington, D.C.). Holmes satirized the phenomenon in “Music 3 See Forbes’s reflection on his use of the Pounding,” which was reprinted in the Phil- procedure, which dated from considerably
adelphia publication Amateur 2, no. 10 June earlier, in his “Liberation of the Ring-Fin1872), 157. Eakins himself wrote home from — ger,” Philadelphia Medical Journal, 1898, and
Paris about the painful piano playing of Mrs. separately published pamphlet (Archives, | F. de Berg Richards, the wife of a Philadel- Jefferson Medical College). phia painter and photographer who had ac- + Scribner’s Monthly 5, no. 1 (November
companied her husband to Paris: “Her prac- 1872), 130. '
tice has given her a confidence and horse 7 119
THE CONCERT SINGER
subordination of “show” surgery for quietly effective procedures)}—was the ideal toward which Eakins showed his pianists striving. In the first painting of the sequence (Figure 78), his sister Frances bends forward slightly from a tense, careful position on the piano stool, paying close attention to the music on the rack before her as she plays a series of octaves, or perhaps sixths. She seems to monitor every muscle in deliberate, even nervous attention to what
she is doing. Her dress, white with a bright scarlet sash, highlights the | disparity between her girlish, gay costume and the mature musical discipline she has set for herself. ‘Two years earlier, before Eakins returned from Paris, she had written him
in discouragement with her progress in her piano studies, and he had responded with a remarkable letter, advising her emphatically not to concentrate on technical exercises unless they aided her to play specific passages in pieces of music. He even drew her a graph to show that, because perfection of every detail was humanly impossible, she should aim for a larger scope of mastery; as an example he called her attention to the silliness of working for months to perfect her trill technique when trills lasted for such a short time
| in a piece of music. He knew what he was talking about, he assured her: “Don’t think that you are the only one that has been down hearted. I have often wanted to die & I feel now plain it was my stupidity. I was playing
my trills drawing from plaster casts.”s | Encouraged by her brother, Frances soon went beyond her early preoccupation with achieving technical command. And in the second of Eakins’ sequence of piano paintings (Figure 79), he showed her relaxing at the keyboard, so much more the master of the instrument, in fact, that her sister Margaret leans on the piano listening raptly. Creating a mood of reverie, Frances seems with her right hand to shape the phrase of a melody; she is perhaps playing one of the many melancholy pieces popular at the time, like “The Dying Poet” or “Last Hope” by Louis Moreau Gottschalk, that pointed
the attention of player and listener alike beyond technique to the world of emotions. [he reflectiveness of these young women is echoed by the somber tones of their dresses—Frances’s a dark red and Margaret’s a deep black. Three years later Eakins turned to a musician beyond his immediate fam-
ily to create a work that would be his last painting in the piano group, Elizabeth at the Piano (Figure 80). His sister Frances had married and was
| busy as a new mother; the pianist in this painting is her husband’s sister, s Fakins to Fanny, November 13, 1867, Archives of American Art.
120
THE CONCERT SINGER | Elizabeth Crowell.’ The canvas is much larger than the earlier piano canvases, Eakins’ techniques more varied and confident. With brilliant red touches against a cool background, set off with discreet light flowing in from the left,
the work is a technical and an emotional climax to the series. As she plays, Elizabeth looks down from the score, the notes of the music so absorbed into her consciousness that she watches her hands and yields them to the flow of the music. Her left thumb visible under her right hand, she is performing a piece that called for one hand to hover over the other. Popular as far back as the eighteenth century on the harpsichord, such music demanded that the player know the score intellectually and emotionally. In contrast to the cautious technique of Frances in the first painting, and to the simple melancholy of the second, in this painting Elizabeth’s music making is a totally integrated union of body and mind: the score assimilated, the technique mastered, she has given herself to the ongoing power of the music. Of the several paintings in the sequence, this was the one Eakins chose to exhibit, and he did so for years.7
After he painted Elizabeth at the Piano, Eakins did not again focus exclusively on the making of music at the piano.® Having rehearsed the aspects of piano playing—and, in the larger context, of music making—until he found the one that best expressed the relationship between technique and music making, he turned to explore musicianship on other instruments. The first such painting is Professtonals at Rehearsal (Plate 11), a small oil painting that Eakins painted on commission for collector Thomas B. Clarke.9 The “Professionals” in the painting are a zither player and a guitarist, playing in ensemble. Their very music is a phenomenon of modern life: the small zither had been an Alpine folk instrument until the 1830s, when it was taken 6 Elizabeth Crowell’s brother, William Song of 1881 (Figure 93); and Samuel Myers, (Billy) Crowell, was Eakins’ classmate at in the painting Music of 1903, plays at the
Central High School. piano as Hedda van der Beemt plays the vi7 Eakins exhibited Elizabeth at the Piano as olin (Figure 84). “Lady’s Portrait” at the Centennial, 1876. He 9 Eakins painted Professtonals at Rehearsal after
wrote his former student John L. Wallace in he had painted the watercolor The Zither . 1887 of his disappointment that the Chicago Player. Presumably Clarke, who commisArt Institute had rejected his “big picture of — sioned the oil painting, chose the subject. the girl at the piano” the year before because Eakins’ models for the oil painting, discussed they didn’t want portraits (June 23, 1887, Ar- by Theodor Siegl, The Thomas Eakins Collec-
chives of American Art). tion (Philadelphia: Philadelphia Museum of
121 : ,
§ He did paint Susan Macdowell, later to Art, 1978), p. 105, were J. Laurie Wallace on
be his wife, at the piano, but she plays an the zither and a Canadian student, George accompaniment in the painting The Pathetic Agnew Reid, on the guitar.
THE CONCERT SINGER
onto the German concert stage and then brought by German immigrants to America. Music for the zither consisted of folk and art songs and, in large number, transcriptions of favorite operatic arias. In the 1870s enthusiasm for the instrument was just beginning to develop in Philadelphia, and Eakins’ friends were early to appreciate its potential.'° They sit at a round-top table _ in the Eakins’ family parlor, a wine bottle and two partially filled glasses on the table identifying the convivial, and the private, nature of the rehearsal. Stacks of music on the floor suggest the musicians’ official repertory, al-
though in the painting they play without music. The zither rests on the table; the performer bends over it in intense concentration. His left-hand fingers press the strings on the melody board, his right reach out to pluck the long accompaniment strings, while the plectrum on his thumb sounds the melody notes. He 1s so physically involved in the music making that even his left leg, wrapped around the chair leg, and his foot, braced against the floor, express the channeled tension. In proper technique, he 1s a veri-
table illustration out of a method book.'' And yet, the painting is not an exposition of the proper zither technique. The other ensemble player, the guitarist, looks toward his fellow musician. He seems lost in the musical atmosphere. Light falls across the scene from the right, revealing the zither player as the chief figure; even so, half his face is in shadow, and the guitarist, even further from the light, sits in a warm dusk. On the table Eakins
, presents the surfaces and weight of a still life—the metal, wood, and cord of the tuning hammer and the corkscrew; the metal of the thumb ring worn by
the zither player; and the wine bottle and glasses with their clear reflecting , © In 1856 The Philadelphia Musical Journal = Winner's Eureka Method for the Zither, and Review noted that the zither was practi- Philadelphia, n.d., illustrates a player percally unknown in America (vol. 1, no. 2 March forming with the proper technique, p. 16.
| 26, 1856, p. 19). For its rapid growth in pop- That Eakins met cultural rather than necesularity, see North’s Philadelphia Musical Journal _ sarily personal expectations with his fidelity
4, no. 3 (March 1889), 33, and 4, no. 4 (April to the zither player’s technique is apparent 1889), 7. In using the term “Professional” to from the approval the Philadelphia Musical describe his zither player and guitarist, Ea- Journal gave to the accuracy of a painting of kins probably meant to compliment their a zither player on exhibition in the Earle galstandards of performance rather than to des- _leries (by an unspecified artist) in 1889: “The ignate that music making was their liveli- position is true to life, even to the ‘crooked’ hood. There were in Philadelphia, however, fingers, showing the result of imperfect tuizither teachers and performers (notably, Henry tion; another natural feature is the stringing Meyers, see Philadelphia Musical Journal pas- _ of the instrument, the end dangling from the
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sim, and Scrapbooks of Thomas A’Beckett, ‘pin’ even as some players of to-day betray Jr., Library of Congress) to whom work on __ the same carelessness in putting strings on their the zither brought a major part of their live- —_zithers,” 4, no. 9 (September 1889), 35. lihood.
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light. Across the painting details of color give the scene additional discreet life: on the stack of music in the left a: blue cover and a red one; and over in
the lower right corner, one in orange. Throughout the scene the light softens , and folds the precise detail into a mood that conveys the otherness of the music. It is a quiet, personal world to which Eakins’ friends have given themselves and into which they draw their audience.
The “otherness” of music could also prevail in public performance, and | , Eakins saw it in the professional musicianship of the cello player Rudolf Hennig (Plate 12). The violincello in late nineteenth-century life was at the
opposite end of the spectrum from the zither. A formal rather than folk , instrument, it had been associated with ensembles for centuries, for a long time as the viola da gamba that provided the bass line for singers and for instrumental ensembles, and then, after its evolution in the eighteenth century, as violincello in the expanding symphony orchestra and in new types of smaller ensembles. In the nineteenth century, boosted like the piano by a series of structural changes that gave it brilliance and sonority, the cello entered the ranks of the virtuoso solo instruments. This was the tradition in which Rudolf Hennig, Eakins’ sitter, had been trained. Born into a family active in the influential German school of virtuoso cello playing, after his training in the late 1850s and early 1860s Hennig had immigrated to Philadelphia. There for more than thirty years he contributed indefatigably to the community musical life: as a teacher, performer in ensembles, orchestra member (most notably of the orchestra that performed regularly at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts), and soloist.'? In 1896, in recognition of his
musicianship, the Symphony Society of Philadelphia broke with their tradition of inviting only outside soloists and chose Hennig to be the featured concerto soloist for the second concert of their season. Performing a work from the German tradition of virtuoso composition, Hennig earned enthusiastic reviews that also expressed appreciation for his long career in the city.'3 Eakins, much as he had commemorated Max Schmitt’s recognition by the community, painted Hennig’s portrait. 2 For details of Hennig’s life (1845-1904), 1890s. Programs in the Scrapbooks of ‘Thomas see the Philadelphia Musical Journal 4, no. 11 A’Beckett, Jr. are evidence of Hennig’s fre(November 1889), 4-5. Hennig’s many mu- quent appearances in chamber concerts in sical activities in Philadelphia are reported in homes as well as in public performances of Robert A. Gerson, Music in Philadelphia (Phil- all kinds. adelphia: Theodore Presser Co., 1940), with 3 In announcing Hennig’s upcoming perindexed references, and detailed in the Phil- formance, the Philadelphia Ledger referred to adelphia Musical Journal, passim, and in Phil- Hennig as “the distinguished violincello viradelphia newspapers throughout the 1880s and _ tuoso” (April 26, 1896, p. 29), and in its re-
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Like The Gross Clinic, The Cello Player is a large painting. To convey the warmth and liveliness of Hennig’s music making, Eakins chose a palette of warm browns, blacks, and grays, and placed the life-sized image of Hennig
against a ground of broad many-directional brushstrokes. For the combi-
nation of man and cello, Eakins chose a distinctive format. The cello, ad- | mittedly an awkward instrument to play, had traditionally presented a dilemma to the portraitist.'4 In the late eighteenth century Gainsborough (Figure
7) had placed Carl Frederic Abel’s instrument discreetly to his side, giving him an identity associated with but not confined to his instrument. Only a few years later, Pompeo Batoni in Italy painted the virtuoso cellist and composer Luigi Boccherini (Figure 81) with different intention: Boccherini was the great founder of the new school of cello playing, a developer of the more resonant cello, and a composer of music that exploited the instrument’s new capabilities. Thus, although with almost inevitably awkward results, Batoni showed all three dimensions of Boccherini’s achievement: he preserved a full-
face likeness, demonstrated the dimensions of Boccherini’s cello, and gave an idea of Boccherini’s playing technique. A half-century later, Degas avoided
, the clumsiness of this kind of presentation in order to show that his friend the fine cellist Pillet was successor to a long tradition of excellent cellists (Figure 82). Thus he presented Pillet sitting at his desk (we seem to catch him unawares, as we did Mlle. Mihau), his cello nearby, the group of eminent cellists in the imaginary lithograph on the wall behind Pillet turned to pay him homage.'s By 1870, virtuoso cellists posed for concert photographs view on May 8 (the concert was May 7)com- vols. (London: William Reeves, 1915; rpt. plimented Hennig on his “exquisite tone—a New York: AMS Press, 1976). Others may ‘golden tone’ one might almost call it—{and] be found in photograph collections in the Lisympathy of treatment.” Hennig played the brary of Congress. For photographic porConcerto in A minor, Opus 14 by the Ger- traits of cellists after about 1865, see the porman virtuoso Georg Eduard Goltermann (b. trait of Eliza de Try (by Carjat, 1865), in 1824) (while the music is no longer per- Bernard Marbot, After Daguerre: Masterworks formed, the score is in the Free Library of of French Photography (1848-1900) from the BiPhiladelphia), and the “Recitative and An- bliothéque Nationale (New York: The Metrodante” by the famous Dutch performer Louis _ politan Museum of Art, 1980), fig. 36; and of Liibeck (b. 1838). Eakins’ study for the paint- Alfredo Piatti (1822-1901) in The New Grove
ing is in the Hecksher Museum, Huntington, Dictionary, vol. 14, p. 717. |
L.I., New York. 's Theodore Reff, in Degas: The Artist’s Mind
| 4 Edward S. J. van der Straeten provides (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976), pp. an excellent survey of images of players of 121-125, discusses Degas’s fanciful use of the the viola da gamba and the cello, History of the “eminent cellists” motif for a picture within Violincello, the Viol da Gamba, Their Precursors a picture to honor Pillet. and Collatoral Instruments, with Biographies, 2
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seated with, but not playing, their instruments (Figure 83). It was this upto-date type of format, rather than the format of Gainsborough and Degas, that inspired Eakins’ choice. Like contemporary photographers he turned the cellist’s chair at a slight diagonal and lit the work from the left. However, he portrayed his musician actually performing. But he did not make Hennig a proud virtuoso presiding over his instrument. In fact, there is no sense in Eakins’ tribute of a separation between man and cello. The cello is not in front of Hennig, but almost part of him: its sound box is nestled behind Hennig’s right leg, its neck, close to Hennig’s shoulder, disappears behind his head. The light falling across Hennig and
his instrument picks up high points and leaves small areas of darkness as , though the two were one form.
And in this singleness man and instrument are servants to the music. Hennig sits near the edge of his chair, presses the string in the higher reg-
isters of his instrument, and pushes his bow across it. The vein along his | temple stands out in his full concentration. The cello string vibrates intensely. A music lover who knew both Hennig and Eakins was later to write that Eakins’ portrait was “a true delineation of character. . . . [Hennig was a gentle man remembered with] affection and respect by those who knew him. . . . [Eakins’ rendering of the turn of his head was] intensely character-
istic of the sitter when playing, as though listening intently to the quality of | the tone, the justness of the pitch, which was always faultless.”* Cellist, zither player and guitarist, pianists, and, as will be discussed later in this chapter, singers—the differences in their instruments and repertory, the diversity of their personal backgrounds, were, for Eakins, insignificant beside their great common enterprise, the making of music.
Just how unusual Eakins was among image makers in his subordination of , man and instrument to music he himself made clear in one of his last por© Helen Henderson, Pennsylvania Academy do reveal a respect for the seriousness of the of the Fine Arts (Boston, L. C. Page & Co., activity that is like that of Eakins. Eakins’ in1911), p. 136. Winslow Homer painted a cellist terest in showing the portrait subject actually performing in a studio (The Cellist 1867, Bal- performing was a harbinger of the future ditimore Museum of Art) and then in another rection in portrait photography of musicians: painting added a violinist to make an ensem- — in recent decades photographs have come to
ble (Amateur Musicians, Metropolitan Mu- focus even more closely on the working of seum of Art, exhibited at the Third Art Re- the musician—the hands of the cellist Pablo ception of the Union League in Philadelphia Casals, for instance, the fingers of the pianist in 1871); both works are very small and in Vladimir Horowitz, the lips of the flute virspirit are more genre than portraiture, but they _ tuoso Jean-Pierre Rampal.
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: traits of instrumentalists. In the painting called Music (Figure 84), in which the violinist Hedda van der Beemt and the pianist Samuel Myers play in ensemble, the violinist gives his entire attention to playing the instrument.” His head is turned down, much as is Hennig’s. His eyes seem to be fixed on some point that will free him from a merely physical preoccupation with playing the notes. On the wall behind him Eakins painted an image of Whistler’s portrait of the violin virtuoso Pablo Sarasate (Figure 85). Sarasate holds
his silent instrument under his arm and looks out at the viewer, frankly posing. [he paintings and the ideals of musicianship held up for emulation by the artists could hardly be further apart. Although music was a distinctively “modern” and progressive aspect of life on both sides of the Atlantic, it was also much more, and it was that “more” that Eakins consistently evoked. The qualities of music that distinguished it from all other pursuits—its sensuous and transitory existence, its primary appeal to the emotions, its demand that performer and listener intuit rather than analyze its laws—allied it with the realm of the timeless more than any other activity of modern life. Indeed, music seemed to be a corrective to misleading, ultimately disappointing, material experience. It pulled man out of a preoccupation with activity into the simple contemplation of being. For many observers of the character of music, it was this ideal quality that made music so essential to modern life. Eakins’ admirer Mrs. Marianna Gris-
wold van Rensselaer evaluated the phenomenon thoughtfully: “This our nineteenth century is commonly esteemed a prosaic, a material, an unimagnative age. Compared with foregoing periods, it is called blind to beauty and careless of ideals. Its amusements are frivolous or sordid, and what mental activity it spares from the making of money it devotes to science and not
to art. These strictures . . . have certainly much truth to back them. But leaving out of sight many minor facts which tell in the contrary direction, there is one great opposing fact of such importance that by itself alone it calls for at least a partial reversal of the verdict we pass upon ourselves as children of a nonartistic time. This fact is the place that music—most nonpractical, most unprosaic, most ideal of the arts—has held in nineteenthcentury life.”'® '7 The unfinished painting The Violinist, born Museum and Sculpture Garden (Washingwhich Eakins began as a gift to van der Beemt ton, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, for posing for Music, is in the Hirshhorn Mu- 1977), p. 190, for biographical information seum and Sculpture Garden. See Phyllis D. about van der Beemt. Rosenzweig, The Eakins Collection of the Hirsh- '8 Harper's New Monthly Magazine 66 (1883),
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At the same time that musicians celebrated the contemporaneity of music and its great advance in compositional forms and virtuosity of performance since the time of Bach, they theorized about its origins in primitive times. Indisputable as it seemed that music was more sophisticated than it had ever been, it was just as obvious that music was as old as man. Historians disagreed as to whether the first music had come from a rhythmic impulse or from man’s need to speak in highly charged emotional tones (and thus to sing), or whether perhaps man had discovered music in playful curiosity
about phenomena in nature, like reeds that could be blown through and strings that could be stretched and plucked. But disagree as they did about the specific origin of music, historians agreed that music created a spell that the sophisticated and the unsophisticated alike were almost powerless to re-
sist. Back into antiquity, in fact, images about music had suggested that spell, and had identified it with two distinct kinds of experiences: the Dionysian and the Apollonian, or music that incited one to revelry (and even sensual orgy) and, at the other pole, music that induced thoughtful reverie.
The pipes of Pan generally evoked wild Dionysian revels, and the harp, associated with Apollo, suggested music’s capacity to calm the disordered spirit. When musical images were revived in secular painting in the Renaissance, the Renaissance successors to the old instruments—the lute and the flute particularly—did not always have the same clear-cut meanings, and
often scenes of music making had complex overtones of both melancholy and , _ erotic longing. But regardless of the emotional associations, such scenes evoked
a past of simpler pleasures for which men yearned. In the nineteenth century as an almost inevitable reaction to the uncomfortable pressures of material life, artists and musicians turned for some of their material to the ideal simplicity of pastoral life that they associated with antiquity. Musicians extended the earlier pastoral tradition in music into parts of the larger nineteenth-century compositional forms; groups of artists left Paris and New York and Rome to live in and paint landscapes that had antique associations, or old associations, at least. Historians of music gave new life to the pastoral ideal of Arcadia, for it provided a metaphor for their perceptions of the place of music in modern life. They followed Polybius in assessing the Arcadians as an “originally rigid and austere” people who had been educated into “piety, humanity, and hospitality” solely by the agent of music; and as a people who, once set apart 540. Perhaps the most noted late nineteenth- Arthur Schopenhauer, in The World as Will century exponent of the ideality of music was and Idea.
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from their primitive state, yearned for the irretrievable innocence they had lost and used music to express that yearning.'? Publishers, writers, and or-
_ ganizers of musical groups used the term “Arcadia” to name their enterprises: in America, the first journal in New York devoted exclusively to the arts, published from 1872-1878, was called The Arcadian. In New York as well as in Philadelphia, singing societies named themselves “The Arcadi-
ans.”° _ Even artists who stayed in the city were caught up in the general nostalgia,
and began about mid-century to paint idealized Arcadian landscapes that ranged from uninhabited gentle forests to scenes of nymphs and fauns, often playing such instruments as the panpipe and the aulos. As photography became increasingly popular as a study for painting, artists photographed nude
, models in landscapes, many of them holding imitations of such antique instruments, and painted from these studies scenes that they called “En Ar-
a, cadie,” and “Arcadia” (Figure 86).7! , His own thoughts about the effect of music developed over most of his
life—in 1883 Eakins, too, undertook an Arcadian series, although he himself never gave it a title. His work on the series, for which he made photographs, oil studies, and sculptural reliefs, provides a contrast to his portraits.?? But ‘9 In Philadelphia, for instance, a writer hibited his portrait of Max Schmitt, Bouguediscussed this in North’s Philadelphia Musical _ reau’s Arcadia (owned by J. L. Claghorn) was
Journal 2, no. 7 (July 1887), 25. In Etude 8, exhibited (No. 153), as was Arcadia by Corot no. 1 (January 1890), Annetta J. Halliday (owned by J. G. Fell) (No. 62). Fortuny’s The wrote, “Man remembers all that he is and Piping Shepherd was engraved in Scribner's might have been, and mourns—as the dwell- Magazine 18, no. 6 (October 1879), 825 (Figers in Arcadia mourned over their exile—for ure 86). Philadelphia painter Alexander Har-
his better nature lost,” p. 208. rison’s In Arcadia, featuring photographically 0 The program of the first concert of the _ realistic nudes in a landscape, was engraved Philadelphia Arcadian Club, January 9, 1880, in Mrs. van Rensselaer’s American Figure is in the Thomas A’Beckett Scrapbooks. ~ Painters (Philadelphia: J. P. Lippincott and Philadelphia music companies sold “Sar- Co., 1880), and later exhibited at the Interdinian Shepherd’s Pipes” and Philadelphia national Exposition in Chicago in 1893 (No.
composer Joseph H. Porter even wrote an 522). The Philadelphia painter Anna Lea Arcadian “galop” for the piano, published in Merritt’s Piping Shepherd—a later contribution
1869. to the theme, painted in 1896—1s 1n the col-
7 Of course, the Arcadian tradition in lection of the Pennsylvania Academy of the landscape had been a long one, with Gior- Fine Arts (fig. 10 in the Pennsylvania Acadgione’s Champétre at its head in the Renais- emy of the Fine Arts, The Pennsylvania Acadsance. The theme appeared in Philadelphia —emy and Its Women, Philadelphia, 1974).
during Eakins’ era in several guises. At the 2 Lloyd Goodrich, Thomas Eakins, 2 vols. Third Art Reception of the Union League of | (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Philadelphia in April, 1871, when Eakins ex- —_1982), I, 236, indicates that the only work he
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it shows no deviation whatsoever from Eakins’ ongoing investigation of the meaning of the activities of modern life. For his works on the theme of Arcadia, Eakins made photographic and oil studies at his sister Frances Eakins Crowell’s farm showing his students and a young nephew playing the panpipes and the aulos (Figures 87, 88). Al-
though in antiquity the aulos (or double flute) was generally associated with | passion, in pastoral scenes neither Eakins nor his contemporaries distinguished between associations with the panpipes and the aulos: they treated both as old instruments on which one played music that was simple, pure, and gently evocative. Eakins painted at least two scenes based on the pho_ tographs, with the male subjects nude (Figure 89) and the females draped Grecian style, and then he sculpted two reliefs (Figure 90 and A Youth Play-
ing the Pipes, 1883, Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden). In each scene, the figures in the landscape make or listen to music that holds them in thrall. It was the sculptural relief called Arcadia (Figure go) that seems to have most completely satisfied Eakins. It is small, with tiny strips and pieces of clay modifying every area. Across the relief stand six figures and a dog, who
all attend to the music played on the aulos by the nude youth at the right. The youth, in turn, seems to be very much aware that he has them in his command. His first auditor is a dog—a beast, even though a domesticated ~ one—who just in front of him looks up with devotion. Behind the dog is the lightly draped figure of a mature woman; with one arm resting on the hand of the other and her chin resting on that arm, she too seems to be spellbound. Behind her, two draped female figures stand together in friendship; the nearer one places her arm on the far shoulder of her companion. An old man behind
the two women leans forward on his cane and cups one hand to his ear to catch every note of the music. Last, a young female nude, her breast modestly covered and her glance averted, assumes a meditative posture. One by one, each seems mesmerized by the music. It is a scene that gently evokes other old truths about human life. The human relationships suggest solitude, :
friendship and passion. And the youth and his lover, right and left, who frame the scheme, the maternal figure of the draped woman behind the dog,
and the old man leaning on his cane, suggest the three ages of man. The entered in his record books, the relief Arca- dia (Metropolitan Museum of Art), An Arca- | dia, was listed as “pastoral sculpture.” The dian (private collection); the sculpture reliefs oil studies are Boy Reclining (Hirshhorn Mu- are a@ Youth Playing the Pipes (Hirshhorn and
seum and Sculpture Garden), Study for An Philadelphia Museum of Art) and Arcadia Arcadian (Hirshhorn); the paintings are Arca- (Hirshhorn, Philadelphia Museum of Art, and
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surface quality of the relief is tentative, worked over, fragile: the artist’s hand
is practically still at work on it. Eakins placed the relief on the wall in his studio, where it appears in photographs. In the background of his portrait of Susan Eakins in 1886, it pays a tender compliment to her own powers as a musician (Figure 91). In its basic idea—music removed from the ephemeral trappings of contemporary life—Arcadia parallels Eakins’ increasingly direct expression in his bust portraits (as will be discussed in the final chapter) of the human condition that underlay activity, costume, and environment.
Whereas music played by instruments could do no more than suggest emotions—the rest was up to the responsive listener—music created by the voice could specify them. Language gave music an explicit quality: it made the singing of a song a communication from singer to auditor, and if performed by a group, a communal declaration. A few music lovers in the late
nineteenth century did argue that this specific communicative nature restricted the expressiveness of music, but most agreed that language detracted
nothing from the expressive qualities of pure sound and in fact enlarged them, giving music an additional—and prized—level of meaning.?3 It is because of this added musical dimension that | have set apart Eakins’ portraits of singers to be discussed last. In his attraction to the singer for musical subjects, Eakins was not alone. Singers of opera were among the most popular musical heroes and heroines
of the period, and in England, France, Germany, and America photographers assiduously sought their business for photographic portraits that could
be reproduced and sold in the thousands.*4 Of painted images, the most private collection). Photographs on the theme ular throughout the 1880s. Appointed in 1875 are in the collection of the Philadelphia Mu- __ to the first Professorship of Music at the Uniseum of Art and the Hirshhorn Museum and _ versity of Pennsylvania (and currently with
Sculpture Garden. For discussions see John an appointment at Harvard, the first in the G. Lamb, Jr., “Eakins and the Arcadian United States), Hugh Clarke was an organist, Themes,” in William I. Homer et al., Eakins composer, and music historian. About 1893, at Avondale and Thomas Eakins: A Personal Col- according to Goodrich (1933, cat. no. 480), lection (Chadds Ford, Penn.: Brandywine River _ Eakins painted his portrait. That portrait does
Museum, 1980); and Yale Bulletin 36, no. 1 not survive, but a portrait of Clarke in 1911 (Fall 1976). In my own discussion, I differ by Benedict A. Osnic is in the collection of from Goodrich (Eakins, 1982, 1, 234) in iden- the University of Pennsylvania (see Agnes tifying the figure on the far left in the relief Addison, ed., Portraits at the University of
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Arcadia as female. Pennsylvania, Philadelphia: University of 3 Hugh Clarke, Music and the Comrade Arts Pennsylvania Press, 1940, fig. 69).
(Boston and New York: Burdett, Silver & Co., 24 In addition to works mentioned in the . 1889), pp. 106ff., states a point of view pop- Bibliographic Essay, reproductions of por-
| THE CONCERT SINGER memorable by Eakins’ contemporaries are those of French café singers; these
are distinctively from the world of entertainment. And in tone, many of — those images are, if not cynical, disjunctive: Degas’ café singers, for instance,
garishly lit, seen from an unusual point of view, point up the disparity between the ostensible glamour of the role and the ordinary person underneath (Figure 92). Daumier savaged his performers, stripping the roles of their glamour.
Eakins, however, admired the song that was sung not in the café but in the parlor, not on the opera stage but on the concert stage. His preference is evidence not only of his devotion to activities generally thought of as of high “moral” seriousness but of a major difference between this aspect of
public life in Philadelphia and public life in Paris. |
In fact, Eakins’ attention to the parlor and concert singer had virtually a national bias. In America, the voice, earnestly cultivated, was seen as the most democratic, the most modern of “instruments.” Although the piano, the small instruments like the guitar and banjo, and the violin attracted middle-class players in large numbers, after 1850 more citizens studied the voice than any other musical instrument.?5 Several factors contributed to this phenomenon. One was economic. By
natural endowment, everyone—or almost everyone—had a voice. A piano was a major investment; other instruments, although less expensive, also
required a degree of financial comfort. And unlike the piano, the voice was portable. The singer could make music at home—in the family parlor—and alone; or he could join singing societies, where with other devotees he en-
joyed the great heritage of choral music from the past. , Perhaps the most important quality of the voice in its favor was that it directly expressed emotion. Indeed, throughout a century that prided itself on the emotional structure of its music, the special qualities of the human voice were commended as the ultimate measure of the beauty of a musical trait photographs of singers are found in Daniel 5 See Loesser’s rueful acknowledgment (in Blum, A Pictorial Treasury of Opera in America Men, Women, and Pianos, New York: Simon (New York: Grosset and Dunlap, 1954); and and Schuster, 1954) of the popularity of the James Camner, ed., The Great Opera Stars in song over even the piano, p. 546. Through Historic Photographs (New York: Dover Pub- _ the latter one-third of the century, such pelications, Inc., 1978). American Art Journal, riodicals as the Philadelphia Musical Journal, Philadelphia Musical Journal, and others fea- American Art Journal, and even the Atlantic tured on the front page of every issue engrav- Monthly, reflect the national obsession with ings or photogravures of famous singers and _ singing.
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instrumentalists. ,
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performance. The highest compliment one could give a pianist—a laborer on that most mechanical of instruments—was to say that he made his instrument sing. Mendelssohn, in fact, called entire groups of works that he composed for the piano “Songs without Words.” The best zither player coaxed a human lament out of his small instrument.?6 Those who loved the guitar
described it as a channel of human emotion, its vibrating strings the closest | possible equivalent to the sensitive human voice.?? Concert violinists and cellists were praised for the “singing” tone of their playing. Flutists, oboists, even conductors of orchestras strove to give their music the range of feeling, and the singing tone, of the human voice. Although the string player could approximate the course of that emotion with sensitive bowing, the wind instrument player with careful blowing, and the pianist even more remotely with gradations of touch, all these techniques were, in the final analysis, translations. In contrast, the singer gave direct expression to emotions—to man’s deepest fears and hopes—with the very instrument used to communicate them in speech. For many lovers of music it was this sheer physical nature of the voice, a sound produced by man’s own body, that gave it its power as a musical instrument. For these theorists, especially, the ideal singer was a woman.
They held the voice to be the most transparent of instruments, and the
woman, more likely than the man to be pure in character and particularly | obvious in her emotional reactions, to possess the ideal singing instrument.”®
| For other lovers of the voice, the music derived its fundamental power from language. Songwriters developed texts that magnified the emotional content of music: texts that told tales of sorrow, of loss, and of regret. From composers like Schubert, of art songs, to composers of less demanding songs for the “mass market,” writers cultivated in the song the broad range of melancholic experience and feeling. The song, by its very nature, was perhaps best fitted to enhance, to relieve
the tensions of, and to reflect the complexity of modern life. It was democratic, it was old and yet new, and it encouraged the expression of emotion. 26 North’s Philadelphia Musical Journal 4, no. “Woman as a Musician: An Art-historical :
1 (January 1889), 12. Study,” published as a separate paper by
27 Frederic V. Grunfeld, The Art and Times William Reeves, London; presented at the of the Guitar (New York, Macmillan, 1969), Centennial in Philadelphia in 1876; and Ar-
p. 174, quoting The Giulianiad, or Guitarist’s thur Elson, Women’s Work in Music (Boston: ’
Magazine (London), 8 (1833), 19. L. C. Page & Co., 1904). 28 See especially Fanny Raymond Ritter,
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From young woman to physician, from student to clergyman, modern citizens, including Eakins himself, studied to become singers. Music publishing
houses in America, England, and Germany produced more music for the voice than for all other categories of musical performance put together. In one character or another, the voice dominated public musical life—on the opera stage, in the concert hall, in the parlor, around campfires on the open
range of the American West. |
Eakins, who was not to achieve success as a singer himself,?9 painted sing-
ers in three of those situations: in the parlor, in the American West, and in the concert hall. The Eakins household, in fact, was the scene of many musical gatherings that involved singing, and Eakins’ painting of 1881, The Pathetic Song (Figure 93), conveys the earnest devotion to music making and the profound respect
for the song that characterized these gatherings.3° The painting is a large canvas, with portraits of three musicians. In the foreground the singer, Margaret Harrison (a student of Eakins), stands with a gentle attentiveness to the moment, totally given to the responsibilities of her singing; she holds the music before her at waist level and looks out to her hearers—who sit in our space as we study the picture—to convey the emotion of the song. She is a woman no longer very young; thirty years old (and due to be married later that year), Margaret Harrison had lived long enough to have the experience that gave the emotion in her song depth and conviction. Behind her, Susan Macdowell at the piano and C. F. Stolte3' on the cello pay close attention to their supporting roles as accompanists: the pianist turns slightly toward the singer, sensitive to the slightest pause or change of dynamic level that would
call for her mirroring it in her accompaniment, and the cellist focuses intently on the score of his obligato (a melodic line that paralleled or compli79 According to Goodrich, Eakins, 1982, Il, Margaret Harrison’s forthcoming marriage. 83, Eakins’ singing teacher gave up in de- Her brothers were the painters Alexander and
spair. Birge Harrison, who after their training in
3° For a brief article. on this painting, see Paris, stayed there to work. The Metropolitan Museum Bulletin 37, no. 4 31 Mr. Stolte, who died in 1888 at the age (Spring 1980), 40. The Museum owns a wa-_ of 77, was a long-standing Philadelphia mutercolor of the painting that Eakins did after sician. For years he had been a cello instruche finished the oil and presented it to Mar- tor, and had taught, among many others, garet Harrison for posing. Also, see Rosen- Charles M. Schmitz, who went on to become zweig, Eakins Collection of the Hirshhorn Mu- a conductor, cellist, and singer—and the seum, pp. 93-94; the oil study for the painting teacher of Weda Cook, Eakins’ concert singer. is at the Hirshhorn. A letter in the archives See North’s Philadelphia Musical Journal 3, no.
at the Corcoran Gallery of Art discusses 7 (July 1888), 4.
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THE CONCERT SINGER
mented that of the singer), the fingers of his left hand stopping notes high in the register of the strings, the fingers of his right hand holding the bow with precision.3? Light falls across the scene from the left, bringing almost all its power to the central part of the painting: emphasizing the singer and her music score—although leaving part of her in shadow—picking up a touch
- of the music on the piano, and catching the cellist’s white hair, his collar, and his part of his right hand. Subdued touches of color contribute to the soft dignity of the atmosphere: the violet dress of the singer, the oriental rug, the yellow-green vase in the background, the ornate picture frame. A late-afternoon duskiness, achieved with broad brushstrokes and dabs for the wallpaper, unifies the picture—and the music making. Eakins’ particular devotion to the unity of the ensemble that creates the song is emphasized by comparing his painting with the French artist Henry Lerolle’s A Rehearsal in the Choir Loft (Figure 94), a painting that entered the
collection of the Metropolitan Museum in 1887. In showing his two musicians making music, Lerolle was interested in the vast space of the church, in the gathering of listeners, one of whom turns toward us as though caught by a photograph, the incidental detail of books and sheets of music on the
floor. Not only is the singer turned away from the viewer, projecting her music to auditors who do not occupy our space, but the musicians themselves—singer and organist—exist in totally separate worlds; the organist, in fact, has his own audience (although she may also be serving as a page turner). In Eakins’ picture, on the other hand, there is no such dispersion of interest, no willingness to distract our attention from the making of music with incidental details. The singer is brought close to the viewer; the other musicians are her accomplices; the singing of the song, the making of the music, 1s his single focus. Indeed, when he first exhibited the painting, he called it Singing a Pathetic Song.33
With the title of his painting, Eakins specified that he was celebrating the 3? Eakins’ observation of the turn of the head annual exhibition of the Society of American
of the supportive pianist is very much like Artists (no. 21) as “Lady Singing a Pathetic that of Adolph von Menzel in his drawing of Song”; on October 23, 1882, the painting was Clara Schumann accompanying Joseph seeninexhibitionatthe Pennsylvania Academy Joachim, the violinist. Staattsbibliothek, Ber- of the Fine Arts as “Singing a Pathetic Song.” lin, 1854 (See Helen Rice Hollis, The Piano: The American Art Review 2, 2nd div. (1881), 72A Pictorial Account of Its Ancestry and Develop- 73, reviewed the painting as a “quiet but efment, London: David and Charles, 1975, Plate fective domestic scene in this artist’s happiest
79). vein.” 33 Eakins first exhibited the work at the 4th —
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THE CONCERT SINGER
rendition of a particular type of song. The several types of texts that had strong appeal for American singers were distinguished by a dominant theme,
such as mourning, remembrance, patriotic fervor, love, and _ pathos. Throughout the 1860s and 1870s the most popular theme was pathos, and the most popular type of song the “pathetic song”—one that told a poignant tale of loss or regret. Constructed of several verses and a repeating chorus, the pathetic song typically featured a text that today would be considered maudlin: a story of a child who saw visions that were premonitions of his death (which occurred at the end of the song), or of a street urchin who
starved to death, or of a woman who died in a nunnery after her lover abandoned her.3+ Although many of the texts of the pathetic songs suggest
that the audience had a high degree of sympathy for the unfortunate classes, . | the songs more properly permitted listener and singer alike to grieve publicly for private, unacknowledgeable sorrows. The singer narrated the story, often as though it had happened to her; this first-person telling moved the audience
to profound sympathy. The accompaniment both strengthened and distanced the pathos: while a cello might play an affecting obligato, the piano part—even though the harmony was sentimental—would provide a steady rhythm that drove the song to its conclusion. Music at its best could move one to tears, and the pathetic song was popular because it dependably did so—providing a release from the tensions of striving, of rationality, and of control that marked the era. 34 The term “pathetic” had roots in eight- ona sad incident”); George W. Persley, “Not eenth-century aesthetic theory where it de- a Crust; or the Beggar Boy,” advertised in noted the capacity of a work of art (gently) to Amateur 1, no. 7 (March, 1871) as “a song for
arouse feelings. By the time of the Civil War the hearts of the people;” Louis Brewster, in America, when the song known as “pa- “The Dying Nun,” first printed in 1865; and thetic” was at its height in popularity, its G. Braga, “Angel’s Serenade,” 1877 (pubmeans were anything but subtle. Many songs _ lished with a cello obligato), about a child who
known as pathetic are preserved in the Free sings to her mother of her own approaching Library of Philadelphia. Periodicals, news- death. The all-time favorite song—although papers, and concert programs of the period it was not restrictively a pathetic song—was show the particular popularity of the songs apparently H. P. Danks’ “Silver Threads “Birdie in Heaven” by H. P. Danks, about a Among the Gold,” first issued in 1873 (the dead child (who is the “bird” of the title), first line to which is “Darling, I am growing advertised in Amateur 5, no. 2 (October 1874), old”); the music was so popular that it was as a “beautiful song appealing to the better arranged for trombone and piano; brass band; feelings”; Eastburn, “Died in the Streets,” orchestra; guitar and banjo ensembles; and the _ about a child who “Died for the want of a words “Jesus, Lover of my soul” were set to crust of bread, with no one to pity or care” it. (advertised as a “very pathetic ballad, founded
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THE CONCERT SINGER | Sorrow just under the surface awaiting release was a characteristic of nine-
teenth-century life that Eakins was to pursue in his other singing portraits as well.
For three of these, Eakins drew on his experiences in the Dakota territory in the summer of 1887. His friend Dr. Horatio Wood (Figure 110), recog- _
nizing Eakins’ emotional exhaustion in the aftermath of his forced resignation | from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, had recommended that to recover, Eakins spend several weeks on a ranch in the northwestern part of the territory. Essential to the cure was that he sleep and eat outdoors—‘on the line” with the cowboys—and he followed Wood’s instructions to the
letter, staying two months and bringing back with him memorabilia that included a cowboy suit, saddle, and two horses. After he returned to Philadelphia, Eakins painted images of the cowboy in a role that artists before him, attracted to the riding and roping skills of the cowboy, ignored: that of music maker (Figures 95 and 96).35 Cowboy music was just then developing the distinctive qualities for which
it has since become known. It sprang up in the tradition of the personal lament, reflecting the physical roughness and the loneliness of cowboy life: when cowboys were on the “line,” or in what Theodore Roosevelt called the “great dreary solitudes” of the vast ranges—which was most of the time— they had to endure sleeping on the hard ground, an unvarying diet, waves of heat and cold and dust, and sudden violent storms.3° The animals they protected were for long stretches of time their only companions. Often cowboys sang at night to soothe the cattle and to keep themselves awake at their guard post, playing along on a treasured banjo or guitar. Their texts—sung to simple melodic lines shaped into stanzas, with repeated choruses—focused
| | on the loneliness of their lives, on their shy hopes for their future (once they had earned a “stake”), on loves they had lost, and—in a territory where natural and man-made violence were rampant—on death. Some of the songs were lightened with occasional humor, but throughout them all lay the dark
. undercurrent of melancholy. Among them were such songs as “The Ram35 See Archie Green, writing on cowboy Magazine in 1888, they were entitled “Ranch music and images in the Jobn Edwards Memo- Life and the Far West” (February); “The rial Foundation Quarterly 8, pt. 1 (Spring 1972), Home Ranch” (March); “The Round-Up”
No. 25, pp. 196-202. (April); “Sheriff's Work on a Ranch” (May);
36 ‘Theodore Roosevelt’s series of articles on “The Ranchman’s Rifle on Crag and Prairie” Dakota life made the cowboy a topic of na- (June); and “Frontier Types” (October). tional conversation. Published in Century
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| THE CONCERT SINGER bling Cowboy,” the lament of a cowboy whose woman has deserted him; “The Dying Cowboy,” still a favorite, the first line of which is “Oh bury me not on the lone prairie”; “The Melancholy Cowboy,” and “The OldTime Cowboy,” regretting the old ways being left behind. These were the songs that cowboys improvised, brought back to the comfort of the ranch after weeks on the line, shared, and taught to visitors from back East. These were the songs that Eakins evoked in his paintings of the cowboy singing. He chose as his model his student Franklin Schenck, an individualist and sensitive singer, guitarist and banjo player himself.37 Although in all three images Eakins painted Schenck seated in a chair, conveying the setting of the ranch rather than the campfire, in two images (one a watercolor, the
other an oil), in which Schenck sings and accompanies himself on the banjo,. , the light background wash simply locates him on a ground plane. In both of these images, however, the mood is sufficiently established without a background: Schenck is practically lost in his singing, his gentle melancholy a contrast to his rugged costume and gun. The third painting (Figure 96), showing the cowboy musician in a complete setting, is a kind of companion to the Pathetic Song. In Home Ranch, the. singer, this time playing a guitar, holds forth in what is his parlor when he comes off the line: the ranch kitchen. Instead of the oriental vase and stylish furnishings of a parlor, Home Ranch reveals the plain table of a ranch kitchen,
the guns and hats of tough outdoorsmen leaning against the walls, and a listener (another one of Eakins’ students) sitting at a table bluntly holding a_ fork.3° In the dark warmth of the ranch kitchen, the source of companionship as much as of nourishment, the cowboy—like the parlor singer—has a ha-
, ven. [here he can share his fears, there his solitude enters community life. The cowboy’s themes of loneliness, of anxiety were those of which East- , erners sang, too, but less directly—often, in fact, in disguise. But if Easterners could not quite approach the directness of the cowboy , song (until, much later, when such songs became quite fashionable), as city
dwellers they had a source of strength in another aspect of the song: in its |
37 Years later Nelson C. White wrote of achieving the kind of look that interested | Schenck’s distinctively individual life after he Eakins.
left Philadelphia, one of solitude and har- 38 The student holding the fork is Samuel mony with nature on Long Island. “Franklin Murray; the gesture, like that of Mrs. FrishL. Schenck,” Art in America 19, no. 2 (Feb- muth in Antiquated Music (Philadelphia Muruary 1931), 85-86. In 1890 to 1892, when seum of Art) is blunt and startling—but cerEakins painted Schenck, the sitter, born in _ tainly to the point.
: 1856, was in his mid-thirties—his face just
1370
THE CONCERT SINGER | popularity for choral groups. And the most distinctive choral life of the song
| in mid- and late-nineteenth-century music making was in the oratorio. Ea‘kins tapped this lode of community experience with his painting the Concert Singer.39 A work imposing in scale and in idea, the painting is the climactic expression of musical themes that absorbed Eakins throughout his life. The career of his singer, Weda Cook, demonstrated—as ideally, a singer’s career should—the democratic opportunities in music making. From a large family in Camden who lived in humble circumstances, Cook had had to struggle to study and in doing so had received the encouragement of several established members of the community.*° One of those was her teacher, the well-respected Philadelphia musician Charles Schmitz; others included journal and newspaper critics who praised her publicly. Still another was Eakins himself, who undertook her portrait in recognition of her hard work and success.
Cook had been singing publicly in Philadelphia as early aas 1887, when she was a young woman of twenty. The reviewer of her concert that year assessed her talent as powerful and promising: “The event of the evening was the appearance of Miss Weda Cook, of Camden (one of Conductor Schmitz’s pupils), whose powerful contralto voice, unassuming manner and
thorough training won the most enthusiastic tributes from the critical assem- | blage. Miss Cook’s voice is undoubtedly phenomenal, and, should she decide
upon a stage career, she seems destined to make a sensation one of these , days. ... Mr. Schmitz was highly elated over the clever appearance and strong impression made by Miss Cook, and well may he feel proud of her as she is a very capable pupil.”4" Cook’s career over the next three years justified these expressions of confidence. She performed in Camden and Philadelphia, and in many capacities: in concert with the St. Paul Choral Society 39 The Philadelphia Museum of Art owns mouth and throat “as if under a microscope.” Eakins’ oil sketch for the painting. For a dis- «© This information can be gathered from cussion of the finished portrait, see Siegl, newspaper and journal reports of Cook’s apEakins Collection, pp. 126-129; and Synnove __pearances, as well as from correspondence in | Haughom, “Thomas Eakins’ The Concert a private collection. Singer,” Antiques 108, no. 6 (December 1975), 4" North’s Philadelphia Musical Journal 3, no.
1182-1184. These authors are among those 1 (January 1888), 7 (reporting a concert on who speculate what syllable she must be December 18, 1887). According to Goodrich, singing, taking their cue from Goodrich’s re- Eakins, 11, 84, Cook had made a formal debut port (Thomas Eakins: His Life and Work, New at the Philadelphia Academy of Music when York: Whitney Museum of American Art, — she was sixteen. 1933, p. 144) that Eakins watched Cook’s
138
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