Day after day, as he gave himself to his great picture,--"The Feast of
Materialism,"--he knew the joy of the worker who, in his art, surrenders
himself to a noble purpose--a joy that is very different from the light,
passing pleasure that comes from the mere exercise of technical skill. The
artist did not, now, need to drive himself to his task, as the begging
musician on the street corner forces himself to play to the passing crowd,
for the pennies that are dropped in his tin cup. Rather was he driven by
the conviction of a great truth, and by the realization of its woeful need
in the world, to such adequate expression as his mastery of the tools of
his craft would permit He was not, now, the slave of his technical
knowledge; striving to produce a something that should be merely
technically good. He was a master, compelling the medium of his art to
serve him; as he, in turn, was compelled to serve the truth that had
mastered him.
Sometimes, with Conrad Lagrange, he went for an evening hour to the little
house next door. Sometimes Sibyl and Myra Willard would drop in at the
studio, in the afternoon. The girl never, now, came alone. But every day,
as the artist worked, the music of her violin came to him, out of the
orange grove, with its message from the hills.
Pages:
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493