The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 13, 1898, Page 23

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 1898. 23 “HARD LUCK” STORIES OF OUR BEST-KNOWN ARTISTS. Ross N «IT WAS HARD LUCK,” SAID JOULLIN, “BUT I WAS THANKFUL FOR THE HORSE STEAK AND THE KEROSENE LAMP, EVEN IF THE PRO- DUCT WAS SMOKED BEEF.” teach us what we are— and let us see nian Clubgave which di- verted the trend of fashiona- ble taste f eign work in- to an appreciation of our art- ists at home, the public saw only the achievements, not the growth, of the paint Some of them have climbed up to their pr eminence difficulties as nt over sing would have cau alous hearts to weaken. Some have suffered years and others for a day the throes that mark an evolution, but t the key despafr, of ich after all may form th ss so dey ed less z all gony note of Here are some s of our lea At one time, I v &t “IT WAS THE SAME JAG" SAID CHARLIE ROBINSON. as a designer for the lithographic trade,” sald H. J. Breuer, “but when I saved a few hundred dollars I d retire with it, study and paint apes, and end by pawning the s, before going back to toil. In 5 I rented a studio on the corner of nth street and Broadway, New I had gone through the usual best clothes in hock; my i’ at the Bowery and the the proprietor of a cheap ecurity for a seven-meal 1 tried for work, but . I had got down little bacon over the gas cent loaf. It was winter, g and silent, save the oc- ceeded in getting in on me unawares I entertained him with cheerful lies until he had gone and then kicked my- self for a fool because 1 did not ask him for a dollar. “Well, at about that time my finances were at their lowest ebb. I heard the landlord at the door, blustering, swear- ing and saying, ‘What do you mean? Two months due to-morrow.” With an emphatic shove at my shoulder I gave that landlord one biff, so. He grabbed me and as I had had no breakfast that day I fell down and he sat on me like an undigested doughnut. “When I got up I had only two but- tons left that would hold. I was busy painting my eye back to its normal color when I heard another knock at the door. I grabbed the poker this time; the door opened and a gentleman whom I had known in better days en- tered the room. I raked at the stove and closed the damper, knowing that the stove was cold. “ *Hello, Brewer,” saild the new- comer. ‘Are you very busy? ‘Very!” said I. ‘Sorry,” he said. ‘I want you to get me up a design for the Real Estate Exchange downtown. It's & competi- tion and I will give you $100 for your 4 - “Well,’ said I, ‘pony down your $100 and I will see what I can do for you,’ and will you believe it, he did. I paid the landlord, but I haven't licked him vet “But what hope?” “T cannot say that I have had such a very hard time during my artistic ' said L. P. Latimer, “for I have ather fortunate. There have been when it has been hard to make h ends meet, but I have always ed at the last moment to sell a picture. The greatest trial I ever had was when my health failed and I had 7o into the country, with strict or- from my physician not to touchmy three years. The anxiety i I felt like a caged bird, and that was the greatest struggle that I ever endured for art’'s sake.” “It is amazing,” said J. W. Clawson, “how much real wretchedness can be transformed just by an unexpected order for a picture. I had a studio in New York at the time of our greatest skirmish for food, and my wife and I were feeling the lack of rations and rent, while the day for our monthly re- mittance had not yet arrived. We were rather blue, and the playful chatter of our two-year-old babe reminded us of our responsibilitie: Just then Mr. Sar- toris, General Grant’s son-in-law, called and said: ‘Clawson, old boy, T am going to sail for England to-morrow and would like to take a pastel portrait of a friend to my father. Can you do it by noon to-morrow?’ “Though a big effort, I announced with celerity: ‘Yes, if your friend will pose immediately.’ The portrait was a is life without sweet success, and finished when Mr. Sartoris called the next day. He handed me five new crisp ten-dollar bills. Wife and I bowed our benefactor out and when the door closed fell into each other’s arms, while the baby grabbed the bills and, before we discovered it, had torn one into fragments, the largest of which was a quarter of an inch square. It re- quired more time to mend and pass that greenback than it did to make three J. D. Strong associates the great- est hardships in his artistic career with the vear 1874. ‘“At that time I was studying in Munich,” sald Mr. Strong, “and waiting anxiously for my long overdue remittance. I was in pretty hard casings, I tell you, and finally took the advice of some students, who conducted me to a one-cent souphouse. This place was kept open for the very poor. There were no waiters here— each fellow must help himself to the soup plates and ladles on the shelves, and wash and return the dishes when he had finished his meal. This meal consisted of a scoop from two great caldrons of soup, or a sort of pot- pourri. I never could make out a suit- able name for the ingredients unless it could be called anti-fat. “Well, for a price equivalent to one cent, a piece of black bread and the privilege of fishing in these caldrons for whatever I could take out at one scoop was given me. At one time I got a chop bone and a chicken leg. This was not.very fattening, but I was a faithful customer there for a week.” “When I was thirteen years of age.,” Mr. Jorgensen began, ‘I commenced my first struggle in labor for art by shortening my sleep. I could be found by 4 o'clock every morning Scrubbing the floors of the old Art School at 430, Pine street. By doing this and run-" ning errands, I was enabled to clothe myself and help my mother. Sometimes during the janitor's absence all of his duties devolved upon me, but this was my first struggle and not the worst one. From 1881 to 1883 I was an assistant di- rector in the Art School, when Mr. ‘Willlams advised me to branch out for myself and take a studio. I started out on a still hunt and found one on Cali- fornia street that just suited me. But to my astonishment I was asked to pay the rent of $20 in advance. I had scarcely a dollar in my pocket and I lay awake half the night scheming to get that sum. When morning came I gained enough courage to ask the loan of a friend. I got the twenty and pro- ceeded to arrange my studio while my bosom swelled with joy at the thought that I was actually in business for my- self. It did not take me long to get things in order, for my supply of fur- niture was meager. But my stock of hope was at high tide. Then I sat down to wait for pupils and orders. Seven days passed and not a figure darkened my doors. “THE MONOTONY OF DIET AFTER A WHILE BECOMES @ALMOST AS PAINFUL AS ACTUAL HUNGER," SAID JOE STRONG. ‘““Where were my brilliant dreams? I felt that I was going mad. I sat down appointed, and in my desperation took the first room I could find where I could get credit. It was somewhat topsy-turvy, but the woman explained that her Aunt Martha had just died and that she would have it in order by night. For three days I occupied the room. without noticing anything un- usual. But on the fourth, thinking that I was opening the door to the porch, by mistake I opened the one on the opposite side of the room, and for a moment I stood rooted to the spot. For there lay the fast mortifying body of a corpse. “I went down those stairs three steps at a time and demanded of the landlady to do something with the ‘deader.’ “‘Oh, that is only poor Aunt Mar- tha,’ the woman explained. ‘She died with a little wind around her ‘eart, and the doctor said it would be no 'arm to keep the good soul for a few days. We are going to bury her over the little ’ill to-morrow.” “The worst part of the whole thing was that, knowing what was f{n the next room, I had still to occupy mine from sheer necessity until the remit- tance arrived, and that was the most wretched night in my whole exist- ence.” “The worst trials of my life,” said Thomas Hill, “I endured while paint. ing that picture of ‘The Last Spik Owing to the many commissions show- ered upon me by Mr. Stanford, my generous patron, I made very slow progress with the picture, covering a period of four years. From time to time I changed the figures at Mr. Stanford's suggestions, and one day he met me on the street and in the friend- liest manner said that he must counter- mand the order, as he feared the pub- lic would think him egotistical if he had anything to do with the work. I released him told him then that I " JIF AT FIRsT ou DoNT succep "THY ANEXTRA PANE oF GLASS™ struggle from the time I succeeded in getting myself fired from a printing office, where my father had placed me that I might outgrow the notion of studying art, down to my meager exis- tence while studying in Paris in 1883. 1 think there were very few students who lived on as small an allowance as I did. Invariably as the end of the month came around I had to live on horse meat. I did my own cooking and soon got to relish a horse steak pretty well. 2 “But pshaw! the greatest hardships of life are those we endure at home among our own friends. I remember one time when rooming with Jules Ta- vernier that I had a rather hard rub. He suggested that we go out into the country to sketch, and I had scraped all the money I could together and met him at the ferry. ‘Let me have your money, Joullin,’ he said. ‘I haven’t any just now, but I've got some coming.’ He was always like that—expecting money, and when it did come he was the most generous-hearted boy in the world. “Well, my money was soon spent, and we waited for Jules' remittance to square up our debts at the hotel. At last it came, but by that time our board bill had increased to such an extent that we could only pay our fares to Oakland. There we were—stranded at the mole. While we were scheming to get across the bay, a newsboy came up, who, reading the name of Jules Ta- ier on the valise said: ‘Hello, Jules.” “‘Do you know me? asked Jules quickly. ‘If you do, let me have four bits and I'll give you this pocket-knife.” “The bargain was made, but when we reached the other side we had to walk up to our studio carrying our traps, and the worst part of it, to exist on free lunches for nearly a week.” Gordon Ross has felt only for a day the hardships of an impoverished “WORK,” SAID WM. KEITH, “IF YOU'RE HUNGRY, WORK. IF YOU'RE IN LOVE, WORK. WHAT'S THE USE OF CRYING OVER YOUR TROUBLES? WORK]! at my easel, but I could not paint. I was blind to color save one, and that the golden twenty loaned me by my friend. It seemed to dance all over the canvas, until I had to quit work. Sev- eral more days passed, and in all of my life I can truthfully say that these were the most wretched days. Not an order; not a pupil. The fifteenth finally dawned, and early in the morning I was startled by a rap at the door. I yelled ‘come in’ rather unceremonious- ly. A stranger answered my summons. I studied that man as closely as if he had been some distant species of cre- ation, for he was the first visitor in the fortnight. He left me an order for two pictures that secured the rent, not only for one month but for three.” “The most wretched time in my ca- reer,” asserts H. S. Fonda, “I spent in Paris in 1893. I could not speak a word of French and just happened to stop at a hotel where there were no Americans. Upon the second day of my arrival I missed my bank drafts that I had been wearing in a little bag suspended from my neck. Oh, that hour of torment was bitter! I had saved my earnings of years for this one purpose—to study in the art schools of Paris, and now nothing remained. Be- sides, I had very little in my purse and as the hotel did not furnish meals I did not eat that day. Of course I no- tified the bank and hunted up the American Club at the Hotel de la Haute Loire, where I found bonhomme and consomme and, to my unspeakable delight, I also found my drafts where they had been lost in the recesses of my own pockets.” “In 1889,” said Artist John Stanton, “I left Paris and went up to Rochefort en terre to sketch. One day I was busi- ly engaged in sketching the fortifica- tions, not knowing there was a law against it, and was arrested by a ser- geant, who took me for a German spy. I made matters worse by being sullen and was locked up in the conciergerie for two days and & night and fed on onion soup. S “‘As soon as I wag released from here, my funds being low, I set out for Rye, England, where I expected to find my allowance waliting for me. I was dis- WORK! WORK!” from all responsibility, but that it was an historical event, and that if the picture were truthful I should have no trouble in finding a purchaser. He told me, however, that when I had completed the picture I had bet- ter let him see it first, and the expres- sion on his face as he said it told vol- umes to encourage me. “If there was any folly in it It was all mine, but I worked with more zeal than ever before. Foremost among the stubborn facts that stared me in the face was the mortgage on my home, besides my wife and nine chuu- ren had to have bread and butter. My four years of toil, with its hopes and discouragements, left me worn out in body and mind. The mortgage on my home was foreclosed, but Charles Crocker came to my rescue and fur- nished me with the means to get out of the country, to forget the spike picture and its attendant miseries. But I never can.” “Once upon a time” related C. D. Robinson, *“a minister tried to reform a drunken Indian by offering him a bribe to keep sober. ‘Now, Joe,’ said he, ‘if you can keep sober for one year I will give you $5 at the end of that time.’ The intoxicated Indian quickly pledged himself. The minister saw him no more for six months, when he found him on a glorious jag. ‘Why, Joe,” the good man exclaimed, ‘you are drunk again.” ‘Oh, no,’ the Indian in- sisted; ‘this is the same old drunk!” " Artist William Keith said: *“Oh, yes, I have had hardships; but, man alive, who hasn’t? I was a wood-carver and stuck to my trade until I had saved a little money, and then I began to paint; but, pshaw! when I didn’t sell my pictures did I sit down and whine like a woman? No, I just worked and worked at another. If T had quit paint- ing whenever I received a disappoint- ment or failed to sell a picture, darn it all, T would have been a physical wreck long ago. Everybody has disappoint- ments. But if you wure in' trouble, work; if you are hungry, work, and if vou are in love be sure and work; it is the best thing you can do.” “To tell the truth.” sald Amadee Joullin, “my w‘hole life has beep. = “IT'S. ONLY AUNT MARTHA’S pocket. ‘“While I was studying in Vi- enna, by a remarkable coincidence, the day my bank check arrived, another came to a man bearing my name. In 74 </ “MY LANDLORD SAT ON ME LIKE AN UNDIGESTED DOUGH- NUT,” SAID H. J. BREUER. some manner there was a confusion of signatures, and as I could not draw the money until the matter was investigat- ed, I repaired to a cheap restaurant whose price corresponded with my de- pleted purse. It would have been bet- ter for me had I gone hungry to bed, for what I ate made me wretchedly ill—so ill, in fact, that when I obtained my money I had no appetite, and that, se far, has been the most wretched day in my experience.” G. cadenasso, about two years ago, had a hard run of luck. Sickness came into his family, he had pawned all of his jewelry and each day seemed darker than the last. “It is true, I could sing,” said Mr. Cadenasso, “and often spent 20 cents for laundered linen and b cents to the bootblack to make myself presentable at some wealthy homes where I sang without remuneration, hoping that they would reciprocate by buying a picture, “One day I cannot forget. A soclety lady stopped me on the street and said, ‘Mr. Cadenasso, why don’t you go to Castle Crag? TIt's perfectly lovely up there’ ‘Madam,’ I interrupted, ‘I have not 5 cents to go to the park.’ “Oh, there was such a tempest in my soul, and everywhere I looked the clouds grew blacker; even the elements sympathized with me and covered the sky with clouds. Like an inspiration the desire came to me to cross the bay and sketch. I went with a friend and when I returned that night I brought with me my finished picture ‘The Gath- ering Storm.” I found a purchaser at once and erided my worst struggle.” Speaking of his most tormenting ex- perience, H. R. Bloomer said: “I re- member 1878 as the year of years in which the history of my struggles amounted almost to a climax. I occu- pled the studio in Paris formerly used by Du Maurier of “Trilby’ fame, and at the same time was studying under Du-° ran. One day Horace Hawes called and ‘took a fancy to a large unfinished picture of Mount Shasta. He ordered it to be finished and sent to his address in San Francisco. By a stroke of ill luck there was no certificate accom- panying the picture and it was kept in the New York custom-house for six months. “On the strength of this sale I in- cured more debts than I otherwise would have done, for I felt sure that the money would be ferthcoming as soon as the pictures arrived in San Francisco. I worked with zeal, and along with the other students I sent two pictures to the Universal Exposi- tion. Months passed by and no word from San Francisco. I got deeper and deeper in debt, and one morning—the most miserable one I have ever known —the proprietor of the restaurant told me he could give me no more credit. I walked the streets of Paris all that day without eating, trying to live down my despair. “Late that night I crept into my bed in my studio and slept, from ex- haustion, until the next morning, when I was aroused by one of the students, Wyatt Eaton, who suggested that I go to the exposition office and inquire the fate of my pictures., After a-little persuasion I went and was informed that both had been sold, and that one, ‘The Bridge at St. Gretz,’ had been bought by the French Government and that I would get 1000 francs for it. “I think I walked home on air.” When Otto Dobbertin, the sculptor, arrived in San Francisco he brought with him the remains of his overland lunch and an empty purse. For three days he lived on the debris of the one and was spurred on in his search for work by the flatness of the other. There were days, so he says, that he ate nothing at all. Then he walked out to the park, and there met a Ger-, man contractor, who gave him an or- der to make some figures for the Santa Barbara building at the Mid- winter Fair. “He also gave me $1,” sald Mr. Dobbertin, “and that kept me one week, until I had finished my fig- nxam CORPSE,” STANTON. An amusing account of Virgl) Williams’ adventure in Italy, showin that artist’s undaunted spirit, is relate by Mr. Jorgenson. Mr. Williams, wha was the fitst director of the San Fran- cisco Art School, spent nearly ten years in Ttaly. During that time he made several sketching expeditions into the interior of the peninsula. and on ong of these he discovered that he lacked the funds to buy even a third-class passage on the steamboat which would take him to his destination. His argu- ment to the ticket agent was of no avail. The agent advised him to see the captain, but he found him just as * firm. They would take no one on less than a third-class fare. “Finally as Mr. Willlams turned to leave the boat, he saw some horses aboard and said, ‘Surely, captain, you don't charge as much for shipping those horses as you do for carrying the passengers, do you?’ “‘Of course not,’ the captain replied ““Then let me go as a horse; I will stand in th re with them.” “‘Who are you, anyway? the eap- tain exclaimed, amazed at his persever- ence. “‘Tam an American artist,” Mr. Will- fams answered. ‘“Then the captain sald, “Whoever you are, you are all right; come along with me as my guest.” “Mr. Williams accepted his invita. tion, not only that time, but whenever he had occasion to cross on that boat.* ANNABEL LEE. THE FATAL KLONDICITIS. I'd a lover who was perfect— Or, I thought so at the time; He would send me flowers and candy, He would write me yards of rhyme; He would visit, send me notes— He would call me through the phone; But he took the Klondicitis, And I'm doomed to live alone. I gave just fifteen hundred - To a man 1 thought all right, He was sure of “millions in it,”” And ’twould work “just out of sight. We had planned to malke a splurge, And were waiting for a scoop; But he took the Klondicitis And T think I'm “in the soup.” You may talk of rheumatism, You may fear to get a chill, You may dread the indigestion, And the latest microbe ili; You may run the entire gamut, You may have the worst of lucks But I think the Klondicitis The most fatal thing we've struck. ELLA COSTILLO BENNETT. —_—————————— HOW TO CALL A GERMAN POLICEMAN. An amusing frontier incident is re- ported by the London Globe from the village of Schoelbach, in the neighbor=- hood of Metz. A boy who was minding a flock of sheep on a small island in the river was caught in a violent storm, during ‘WHEREVER | SAID CHRIS JORGENSEN, LOOKED,"” “THAT $20 SEEMED TO DANCE BE- FORE MY EYES.” which the rain fell in torrents. The river rose rapidly and threatened te cover the island. The boy shouted for help, and his cries were heard by two German po- licemen and several villagers, but nong of them would venture into the swollen stream. The boy had almost given himself ug for lost, when he remembered hearing some of his playmates say, “If you want a policeman, shout, ‘Vive la France!” " He immediately began to shout “Vive la France!"” whereupon the two police. men plunged into the river, seized the boy, dragged him across to the main. land and off to the police station, wher¢ they charged him with uttering sedi- tious cries. ————— Joe W. Grimes, who was in Savannal recently, is the heaviest bicycle rider in the world. He created a sensation from the time he reached that place until he left for Augusta. Grimes weighs 5243 pounds, and with all that avoirdupois rides a wheel like a three- year-old. SAID THE LANDLADY TO