ARTISTS—AND OTHERS

in order to make head or tail of it! They just simply throw

the paint on. Isn’t it awful?”
It wasn’t necessary to turn around in order to divine the source of
the petulant voice which thus disposed of the picture in front of me.
Every gallery is infested with that peculiar type—usually middle-
aged—who, having once dabbled in “‘art,’’ or who very condescend-
ingly and patronizingly are ‘‘interested’’ in art, feel in duty bound
to pass judgment on all pictures on exhibition. They know so much!
Firm in defence of the insipid water color are they, and loud in praise
of the anaemic flower studies. So charming, my dear! So quaint!
And the worst of it is, that they are usually allowed to write so-
called criticisms of that which is utterly beyond them, and their
vapid effusions appear in due course in the press as solemn reviews
of the exhibition!
The picture under fire on this occasion was ‘Wild River,’’ by J. E.
H. Macdonald, a picture which, with its sheer joyousness of color
and composition, had held my attention since my entry into the gal-
lery. To look at it was joy; to stand in front of it and ponder upon
it was ecstasy. And yet these ‘‘dilettanti’’ presumed to pass judg-
ment, and such judgment! It was the same with the rest of the ex-
hibit. From one to the other they went, despising, criticizing, cast-
ing into oblivion with haughty tones and gestures, and in many other
ways revealing a most profound ignorance of their subject. Arthur
Lismer, Frank Carmichael, Lawren Harris, A. Y. Jackson, and
others of that determined band of workers, all came in for their
share of disparagement.
Oh, complacent and self-satisfied ditherers! What do they know of
the struggle and soul-wracking effort that goes into the making of
just these pictures which they despise? We see them calmly setting
forth to paint, all complete with dinky little watercolor boxes, infin-
itesimal sheets of paper, stool, lunch box, and even an umbrella!

[13]

{Qa my dear, one must stand about twenty feet away