The
greatest art critic living could not dislike pictures and sculptures
more than I do at this moment. We began by spending a whole morning
in each gallery. We examined each picture critically, and argued
with each other about its "form" and "colour" and "treatment" and
"perspective" and "texture" and "atmosphere." I generally said it
was flat, and B. that it was out of drawing. A stranger overhearing
our discussions would have imagined that we knew something about
painting. We would stand in front of a canvas for ten minutes,
drinking it in. We would walk round it, so as to get the proper
light upon it and to better realise the artist's aim. We would back
away from it on to the toes of the people behind, until we reached
the correct "distance," and then sit down and shade our eyes, and
criticise it from there; and then we would go up and put our noses
against it, and examine the workmanship in detail.
This is how we used to look at pictures in the early stages of our
Munich art studies. Now we use picture galleries to practise spurts
in.
I did a hundred yards this morning through the old Pantechnicon in
twenty-two and a half seconds, which, for fair heel-and-toe walking,
I consider very creditable. B. took five-eighths of a second longer
for the same distance; but then he dawdled to look at a Raphael.
The "Pantechnicon," I should explain, is the name we have, for our
own purposes, given to what the Munichers prefer to call the
Pinakothek. We could never pronounce Pinakothek properly. We
called it "Pynniosec," "Pintactec," and the "Happy Tack." B. one
day after dinner called it the "Penny Cock," and then we both got
frightened, and agreed to fix up some sensible, practical name for
it before any mischief was done. We finally decided on
"Pantechnicon," which begins with a "P," and is a dignified, old-
established name, and one that we can both pronounce. It is quite
as long, and nearly as difficult to spell, before you know how, as
the other, added to which it has a homely sound. It seemed to be
the very word.
The old Pantechnicon is devoted to the works of the old masters; I
shall not say anything about these, as I do not wish to disturb in
any way the critical opinion that Europe has already formed
concerning them. I prefer that the art schools of the world should
judge for themselves in the matter. I will merely remark here, for
purposes of reference, that I thought some of the pictures very
beautiful, and that others I did not care for.
What struck me as most curious about the exhibition was the number
of canvases dealing with food stuffs. Twenty-five per cent. of the
pictures in the place seem to have been painted as advertisements
for somebody's home-grown seeds, or as coloured supplements to be
given away with the summer number of the leading gardening journal
of the period.
"What could have induced these old fellows," I said to B., "to
choose such very uninteresting subjects? Who on earth cares to look
at the life-sized portrait of a cabbage and a peck of peas, or at
these no doubt masterly representations of a cut from the joint with
bread and vegetables? Look at that 'View in a ham-and-beef shop,'
No. 7063, size sixty feet by forty. It must have taken the artist a
couple of years to paint. Who did he expect was going to buy it?
And that Christmas-hamper scene over in the corner; was it painted,
do you think, by some poor, half-starved devil, who thought he would
have something to eat in the house, if it were only a picture of
it?"
B. said he thought that the explanation was that the ancient patrons
of art were gentry with a very strong idea of the fitness of things.
For "their churches and cathedrals," said B., "they had painted all
those virgins and martyrs and over-fed angels that you see
everywhere about Europe. For their bedrooms, they ordered those -
well, those bedroom sort of pictures, that you may have noticed here
and there; and then I expect they used these victual-and-drink-
scapes for their banqueting halls. It must have been like a gin-
and-bitters to them, the sight of all that food."
In the new Pantechnicon is exhibited the modern art of Germany.
This appeared to me to be exceedingly poor stuff. It seemed to
belong to the illustrated Christmas number school of art. It was
good, sound, respectable work enough. There was plenty of colour
about it, and you could tell what everything was meant for. But
there seemed no imagination, no individuality, no thought, anywhere.
Each picture looked as though it could have been produced by anyone
who had studied and practised art for the requisite number of years,
and who was not a born fool. At all events, this is my opinion;
and, as I know nothing whatever about art, I speak without
prejudice.
One thing I have enjoyed at Munich very much, and that has been the
music. The German band that you hear in the square in London while
you are trying to compose an essay on the civilising influence of
music, is not the sort of band that you hear in Germany. The German
bands that come to London are bands that have fled from Germany, in
order to save their lives. In Germany, these bands would be
slaughtered at the public expense and their bodies given to the poor
for sausages. The bands that the Germans keep for themselves are
magnificent bands.
Munich of all places in the now united Fatherland, has, I suppose,
the greatest reputation for its military bands, and the citizens are
allowed, not only to pay for them, but to hear them.
