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?
