suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and complex; and it
is this surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures
from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited so curious
an interest in his life and character.
It was not till four years after Strickland’s death that Maurice Huret
wrote that article in the _Mercure de France_ which rescued the unknown
painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding writers,
with more or less docility, have followed. For a long time no critic
has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority, and it was
impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed
extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and the
reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines
which he laid down. The rise of this reputation is one of the most
romantic incidents in the history of art. But I do not propose to deal
with Charles Strickland’s work except in so far as it touches upon his
character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously
that the layman can understand nothing of painting, and that he can
best show his appreciation of their works by silence and a cheque-book.
It is a grotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a
craft comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is a
manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that all may
understand. But I will allow that the critic who has not a practical
knowledge of technique is seldom able to say anything on the subject of
real value, and my ignorance of painting is extreme. Fortunately, there
is no need for me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward
Leggatt, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has
exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland’s work in a little book[1]
which is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less happily
cultivated in England than in France.
[1] “A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of Charles Strickland,” by
Edward Leggatt, A.R.H.A. Martin Secker, 1917.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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