Arts and Letters

In Rockport, on Cape Ann, there stands a house for which I have a strong affection. It is ample and inviting, well shingled, with freshly painted door and window sash. From the street it is a step into a living room spick, span, and as simple as a ship's cabin, the room of a man who sails boats and loves the sea. Its windows look down into Rockport Harbor, a swirl of light and color, a bright kaleidoscope, ever shifting in multiple patterns of excitement and activity. Across the sparkling water is the yacht club perched on its dock and around it the racing craft swing at moorings or ready themselves to catch the first breeze out of harbor. The restless bustle of arrival and departure is constant. Upon the dock bright shirted men and girls mend sails and paint boats, the ubiquitous art student stands at his easel and over all and all around is the white flash and raucous clamor of the gulls.

On a sunny morning the scene has the glamour of the Mediterranean plus the glitter and punch of an American circus. At twilight the activity slackens, harbor and shore become a deep velvet mystery, the lights come out in the houses, and the town clock clangs the hours of night.

Such was the summer home of Gifford Beal, and to me the house and harbor have become a portrait of the man, and a prime example of the sources of his inspiration.

Beal was a painter who deeply felt the goodness of life and the tingling exhilaration of living, and he chose to depict life's exuberant side not through shallowness of nature nor ignorance of grief, but from his conviction of the beauty and value of that exuberance. He chose to paint the side of life upon which the sun hits, the eternal pleasures of work and leisure, the casual enjoyable incidents which add so much to life's richness. Although there is plenty of good earthy nourishment in his pictures, at heart Beal was a poet, and to the aspect of things seen he gave the dash of inspiration, the lyric cast, which turned everyday subjects into creations of beauty and emotion. Like Hassam and Renoir, he concentrated on the outward loveliness of existence with the inner meaning beneath it. The significance of his painting is its affirmation of the juice in the grape.

Beal's pictures are a spirited parade of American life bathed in air and light, singing with color. His sunlight spangles the Concourse in Central Park, with its children, young lovers, and old-fashioned barouches, or it caresses the glory of apple trees in a New England spring, or lights up the rich marshlands of a Cape Ann autumn. We see the old Hippodrome with gleaming broad-bottomed horses, crowned by acrobats of supermundane beauty. The circus elephants, in ring or street parade, pad along, swinging their great trunks; New England fishermen mend their nets ashore, or at sea haul in giant tuna; the ocean beaches are filled with bathers; the white sails scud from harbor in racing trim—and over these scenes is the excitement of wind and the joy of light.

Landscape with figures was the favorite motive of Beal's pictures, and these peopled canvases give play to one of his major talents, the power to render crowds in motion, the supple rhythm of groups animated by a common impulse, individual yet united. These subjects also gave free scope for color, and here Beal was at his happiest. His gamut was delicious, whether subdued or strident, and in this respect few artists of any time or place have been as successful as he.

His gifts as a teacher were eminent, for his knowledge of the elements of art was well defined and firmly based. Never talking down to the less gifted student, he gave to the dull and the brilliant alike the form of sympathetic advice calculated to open their eyes and best help them through their seemingly baffling problems.

Success came to Beal early. Appreciation was grateful to him but did not turn him complacent or old-hat, for his mind was obsessed with the necessity for ever greater penetration into the riddles and mysteries of nature. He eagerly took up the challenges of new mediums of expression and fresh approaches to art, and searched without rest for greater freedom and breadth of statement, for simplification and boldness of delineation. For key into the labyrinth of his quest he had the lifelong habit of making constant studies from nature. As watchful as a hawk, he scanned Central Park, the Cape Ann country, and the West Indies for the inspiring subject, sometimes making his notes in color, but more often drawing with India ink and reed pen. Many times the resulting studies, superb in rhythm and verve, were the basis for a notable picture.

In the last three years of his life, in the grip of increasing illness, the hunter neared the goal of his lifelong search. The old tree budded and put out fresh leaves. In proportion as his body weakened his painting grew in splendor and power. It was tragic yet glorious to witness that noble battle. The body took its due, but the spirit triumphed.

Competent judges consider this last group of paintings Beal's finest work. Surely they are his most brilliant. He achieved in them as never before the desired economy of means, salience of definition, and rhapsody of color.

Beal wore a garment of compelling charm over the strength and force of his character. Under his smile lay a keen intelligence and a highly emotional nature, quick to anger at injustice and cruelty, eager to applaud nobility and fine achievement. He had to an unusual degree the gift of sympathy and compassion. His comprehension of and indulgence for the foibles and shortcomings of his friends, his imagination and gaiety of spirit, made him the loved center around whom artists gathered. In his presence egotism sweetened, antagonism faded, while those about him strove to emulate his wisdom, simplicity and good will. His fellows knew him for a superb artist, a noble and courageous man, a human being worthy of their love and honor.