April 27th.--To-day we have all been with Mr. Akers to some studios of
painters; first to that of Mr. Wilde, an artist originally from Boston.
His pictures are principally of scenes from Venice, and are miracles of
color, being as bright as if the light were transmitted through rubies
and sapphires. And yet, after contemplating them awhile, we became
convinced that the painter had not gone in the least beyond nature, but,
on the contrary, had fallen short of brilliancies which no palette, or
skill, or boldness in using color, could attain. I do not quite know
whether it is best to attempt these things. They may be found in nature,
no doubt, but always so tempered by what surrounds them, so put out of
sight even while they seem full before our eyes, that we question the
accuracy of a faithful reproduction of them on canvas. There was a
picture of sunset, the whole sky of which would have outshone any gilded
frame that could have been put around it. There was a most gorgeous
sketch of a handful of weeds and leaves, such as may be seen strewing
acres of forest-ground in an American autumn.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277