Arthur Atkins Extracts from the Letters with Notes on Painting And

RTHVR ATKINJ: E"T RACT5 FROM T H E LETT ERS WIT H N OT ES ON PA I N T IN G A N D LAN DSCAPE WRIT TEN DU RIN G T H E PERI O D OF H I S WO RK AS A PAI N T ER I N T H E LAST T WO "EARS OF H I S LI FE 1 8 9 6 1 8 98 A. M. R OBE R T SON SA N FR AN CISCO CALI FOR N IA M DCCCC V III 5 L AR T H U R AT K I N S 1 873 - 1 899 For the friends of Arthur Atkins , these extracts from his letters , from the notes writ of ten upon the margins his sketches , will have a r eal and touching value . They will recall for them, his talk, his interests , the lovely charm of the serious and noble friend they o knew . For those to whom he was unkn wn, the pages may reveal something of the sensi tive mind and heart of the artist : his response to the beauty and dignity of the visible world . The publication rests upon the desire of his associates , to supplement the pictures with whatever remains as a record of his gifts obscured as these gifts were, by the circum of stances life , by the last sad circumstance o of death in early manho d . It is with the belief that his place in art, his influence upon painting in California, will , in the future, be perceived as distinctive and important, that these written words are ff preserved " in deep a ection for him, and in trust for that future . T H E LE T T ER S I f I have avoided m entioning the hardships of and discouragements my work, yet the hardships are very real " but why detail all I have t o do without ? Surely the incubus — of discouragement the accumulation of the of expressions despair and defeat, both writ — ten and spoken, is heavy enough upon humanity, without my adding to it . I have made my choice : from this on the only pleasure I count upon is the pleasure in work, in books, in the Open country : and if I have good food, and good clothes upon my ill God . back, I w thank and feel happy The hope that sustains me is that my work may some day rank as the work of an honest ’ wh o . man, painted as he saw and felt Don t think it is all plain sailing " if I did not keep - on the whip hand myself, this problem of the future would ruin the possibilities of the present "and if I do not speak of discourage ment, do not think it is because it is easy . I I of ns remember always, that ittleness life mea littleness of an additional sort in the work : ’ n on e that if o e cares for one s work, cannot ’ — be careless about one s life that the artist who would be sincere in his work, must learn above all else, to be honest with himself . — — Red plush lot s of Cinders the prairie ou t : a side man , burdened by the thought that it “ ” 1 5 . Sunday, dismally whistles Beulah Land This prairie country is peculiarly Sunday-like — absolutely without interest or incident . i . Five hundred m les from St Louis, Spring begins to show, and while it has a beauty of own its , the character of the landscape is monotonous and the colour very acid, the greens sharp where they show : but the bare of trees are a very delicate purple, accented here and there by almond blossoms of a gentle . n o for pink The country w, the first time since leaving the San Joaquin Valley, begins — to be interesting lived in . This city is a most wonderful and beautiful place, with noble masses of building, green of - squares , hazes purple grey trees , now flushed with a delicate golden-green—the breaking of Spring . I have seen the exhibitions " many of these : t oo : men can paint many can draw, few have anything of importance to say : so these ff exhibitions are filled with a ectations , some — times well painted, oftener not with the m fantastic and the com onplace . These men love nothing, and their tools only in a half hearted way . Here and there , like a jewel , one finds a beautiful thing—a panel by Mu h rm n Whistler and a canvas by a . The Bach fugue is still with me : any one using a feather duster briskly, sets it careering through my head . I am able to manage the memory of things I have seen well enough , but when I try to t o hear you , the Bach fugue comes back me in spasmodic frag ments : then the swirl of or that other big thing, the Widor ( which I heard twice and refused to hear a third n ow time) " it is a very faint memory , but faint as it is , it comes with great dignity and beauty It is Arthur Atkins wh o writes : not what ’ he might be " I m trying hard t o accept him k . and ma e the best of it, but it takes time It is the vile artificial conscience he is cursed : with , that gives all the trouble but there is always the comfort that we have only fifty years , at the most , before we get a new start , ’ I m and it really ought t o be great fun . hop ing that they will set me to work on the form ing planets— making the new landscapes and arranging better colour schemes for the sun " ou ill sets . w have placed at your command of the thunders and the high winds heaven, — t o compose as you will what fun it will be ” to go " But like the Jolly, jolly Mariners , “ fiddl es I say take back your golden , and give ” — fiddl es me paints and oils but golden , with splendidly dressed players in the full evening — ’ light we won t quarrel with that sort of thing " Last Sunday morning I went t o Bristol Cathedral . There was no postlude, and I heard the organ only during the service and at some distance . These great cathedrals have a way of g iving every sound a very positive value ( just as certain lights give eve ry object a distinct note of colour) so 3 that if the playing were more or less me c h an ic al , I should, probably, be none the wiser . There is much that is very beautiful about - these lawn like meadows , covered with prim roses and spotted with great elms : the sky is often beautiful , too, in a delicate way, but the line is not the line of the Piedmont country, and the colour as a whole is thin and sharp . One nice thing about this place is the long quiet evenings , and when they are clear, there comes over everything the most wonderful subdued light, which embraces and trans fig u res the whole world : and this light fades — ’ quietly about ten o clock it has gone . England is much more beautiful now, than when I landed : the green less acid and the long evenings with their golden light , drive me utterly daft . The fields with the grass just being cut, and the wonderful wonderful scents of the pink clover, of the woodbine from the hedges , make me want to shriek — aloud for I cannot paint scents . All this seeing has encouraged me greatly : I know I see and feel things beautifully enough : what I lack is the power to state it all in a direct way . It will come in time . Heaven only knows what I am " “ a ” ’ blooming c osm opol ou se I suppose : I don t care—I like this roving round the world—it suits me well . I have just finished a fairly large landscape, looking down from the cliffs f high above, with just the thin white line o 4 — l ow breakers quiet and in colour, with some f f o o . the solemnity the sea But after all, it is Piedmont I want to paint : every now and “ ’ then the desire to see it, sweeps g u stily thro my soul , but the whole world is beautiful , “ and as some one has said, It is by the grace ” of God that we are artists . I leave for Paris in a week : if Paris is more beautiful off than this, I shall go with an intense flash for and an explosion . my enthusiasm has reached the top notch " Your letter from Inverness , fragrant with of - the odor sun burnt hills, of the sea and - on wind blown woods, was hailed with joy its i arrival here, last n ght . W . and I had just returned from dinner, and as the sun went down with pomp and purple behind the Louvre, we sat upon the wall over the river, seeing the swirl of the sea from the hills above Tomales Bay . It : for of of was a fine letter me, full sights big landscape and the sea : what shall I tell you , in return ? This morning we were at St . Sulpice . On going in from the hard white glare of the street, one is struck and quieted by a p ervading opulence : the air is soft and slightly perfumed by the incense . Col ou red by it and by the glass , the atmos r ph e e becomes golden, and gold is everywhere — of in the air, in the colour the small organ , and in the altar and the vestments of the priests "the lighted candles strike a lower note off one of the same colour " and, afar , hears the chanting of the choir : beautiful voices 5 tuberoses—the perfume kindly coming in at my open window, all night long .

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