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Fellow Artists, Etc.
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (July 30, 1910) : 21
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      When an artist was an artisan and a member of a guild, he may have preferred the company of his fellow artists to that of people who regarded his craft with respectful ignorance, but it seems very doubtful. In time the guilds dissolved because of internal dissension and other reasons, and out of the wreckage was saved the wholly absurd belief that because two people are interested in the same work they are interested in each other and will amicably and instantly discuss their various achievements and theories. This having never been known to happen, except in rare cases where hero worship and a kindly leniency toward young disciples met and blended, it is remarkable how stubbornly the idea is clung to by the majority of minds. Hostesses, even in these enlightened days, flute ecstatically: “You are both sculptors. I know you will have so much to say to each other that I am going to leave you together in this quiet corner,” and she hurries away confident that at least two of her guests are happy, amazingly blind to the blank antagonism with which they are silently eyeing each other, unaware of their desperate horror at being left alone. The truth of the matter is they have nothing to say to each other. They dread hearing the daily platitudes of the studio at an evening party, where they hoped for a little diversion and change.They either know each other’s work and think it entirely unimportant or, what is far more harassing, they know they ought to know the other’s name and, after a vague, unhappy fashion, do, but cannot for the life of them connect it with any one piece of work and are in terror of blundering into a disclosure of their uncomplimentary ignorance. They dread hearing the daily platitudes of the studio at an evening party, where they hoped for a little diversion and change. They are unattracted by a stranger who feels he already knows them backward, and knows them for an uninspired member of an overcrowded, unappreciated profession.
      To meet those who are doing the same work we are, to live with them — colonies of artists are constantly being formed from which, at the moment of their crystallization all the artists flee, to be replaced by brokers who like an artistic atmosphere real estate To meet those who are doing the same work we are, to live with them — colonies of artists are constantly being formed from which, at the moment of their crystallization all the artists flee, to be replaced by brokers who like an artistic atmosphere — is to be understood to the point of exposure, and our lives are one prolonged effort to escape such damaging familiarity. What is generally pleasing to a writer is to meet a horse-dealer, or a sea captain who calls him an “author chap,” and looks askance at his teeming brain, while a singer is greatly soothed by the hard-headed admiration of a judge who remarks with subdued wonder that he has never met a singer before. It is childish, but singularly engaging to be asked, “How ever do you do it?” and this question is forever denied one among those of our own profession. They know the wretches perfectly. To be a rarity, if possible, a bit of a celebrity, and this is sweetest of all, a source of wonderment to people high in their own professions, is an experience so refreshing that it is small wonder if the precaution is taken to make one’s home among those of a different calling.
      Just this precaution as to one’s address brings in its trail a multitude of likable moments. One can dilate on the small rewards of one’s art and [be] met with hot sympathy from an idealistic young clerk who works twice as hard and gets a third as much. One can work with humility among those who marvellously say, “How do you think of such things?” How do you indeed ? It is a marvel to you; the ideas just come; and having stated this, your eyes shine with an exalted gratitude — a question that interpreted reads , “Why should I have been picked out to be so much more talented than other people?” It is trying to have the wrong thing admired. (If the thing is very wrong, it is trying to the point of squeamishness), but it is far better than to have nothing admired. It lifts you gently from the low spot where you have fallen prostrate, bruised, and made to bleed by your silently expressed opinion of your own work. It throws a pitiless light on the critical judgment of your admirers, but you find it in your heart to forgive them their ignorance for the sake of their healing enjoyment, and gladly you accept their supporting arms until you have reached a mood where you can endure the sight of your own work. Later, when you adore the sight of it, when you are pugnaciously dancing a dance of triumph before it, you could bear the approach of a fellow artist, but these fortified moments come at such rare intervals.

      Men have the most unreasonable dislike of a direct question... It is as though they felt their dearly prized freedom consisted of a right to do things without being questioned, and that every sentence ending with a rising inflection threatened their manhood, made them appear no better than a woman.Men have the most unreasonable dislike of a direct question. It is not an objection to the subject. They will tell you all about a thing at length if only you do not question them. So rabid do some of them feel on the matter that a drawled (you really do not want to know), “Where did you dine last night ?” brings a laconic and sternly reproving “Out.” It is as though they felt their dearly prized freedom consisted of a right to do things without being questioned, and that every sentence ending with a rising inflection threatened their manhood, made them appear no better than a woman. One partly understands their nervousness but it is not really a sign of weakness on their part to admit that they are going to the theatre. A response does not of necessity make us cease to respect them. When they come home from an affair of interest we know they want an audience, and we amicably ask the questions they might be supposed to wish; but the first interrogation closes the amazing creatures up, as though they were willing to give up their bounty only on the condition that no demands are made of them.
      The trait is so perverse and unreasonable that women given to thinking the best of men, no matter how slight their encouragement, ask questions over and over again in the hopes that this time they will answer as, of course, they are most anxious to do.
      “Well, was it interesting ?” she asks , lightly .
      Urmhum , interesting enough, " his tone one of patient martyrdom .
      “Any one there I knew?”
      “Not that I remember.”
      “Wasn’t Tom there?”
      “Oh yes, he was there.”
      “Well, did he make a speech?”
      “Urmhum.”
      “What did he say?”
      “Nothing in particular.”
      “He must have. Can’t you remember the gist of it? Was it a success?”
      It is so surprising to uncover these deep-seated, primitive feelings with such small weapon as a question. One has great difficulty in getting accustomed to the avalanche of masculinity which rolls upon one at the least jarring of interrogations.“Yes-s-s.” And so on for a madding ten minutes until the leaden soul has shown that he does not have to tell unless he wants to, and that questions are no more to him than futilely buzzing flies, such is the large, unswervableness of his rightful reserve.
      It is so surprising to uncover these deep-seated, primitive feelings with such small weapon as a question. One has great difficulty in getting accustomed to the avalanche of masculinity which rolls upon one at the least jarring of interrogations. All apology one backs away, gasping: “I beg your pardon. I had forgotten you were a man; I thought you were a human being.” A woman does not mind being talked to as an intelligent member of the opposite sex, but a man is so hotly sensitive of his calling — which is, first and above all else, masculinity. He is so jealous for its perquisites and furiously gasconnades if one takes a short cut to him and forgets the formal salute required by his principal trait. One would think that by this time they would have become accustomed to their funny selves and have ceased to demand punctilious observance of their idiosyncrasies, but, if anything, they are getting worse, and they now resemble services in Latin so old that the meaning is quite forgotten and the respect a matter of indulgent habit.
 

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