studios. The first modern American painting that arrested me was one by
Grover, of Chicago. I remember it with gratitude. Often, especially in
New York, I was called upon by stay-at-home dilettanti to admire the
work of some shy favorite, and with the best will in the world I could
not, on account of his too obvious sentimentality. In Boston I was
authoritatively informed that the finest painting in the whole world was
at that moment being done by a group of Boston artists in Boston. But as
I had no opportunity to see their work, I cannot offer an opinion on
the proud claim. My gloom was becoming permanent, when one wet day I
invaded, not easily, the Macdowell Club, and, while listening to a
chorus rehearsal of Liszt's "St. Elizabeth" made the acquaintance of
really interesting pictures by artists such as Irving R. Wiles, Jonas
Lie, Henri, Mrs. Johansen, and Brimley, of whom previously I had known
nothing. From that moment I progressed. I met the work of James Preston,
and of other men who can truly paint.

All these, however, with all their piquant merits, were Parisianized.
They could have put up a good show in Paris and emerged from French
criticism with dignity. Whereas there is one American painter who has
achieved a reputation on the tongues of men in Europe without (it is
said) having been influenced by Europe, or even having exhibited there.
I mean Winslow Homer. I had often heard of Winslow Homer from
connoisseurs who had earned my respect, and assuredly one of my reasons
for coming to America was to see Winslow Homer's pictures. My first
introduction to his oil-paintings was a shock. I did not like them, and
I kept on not liking them. I found them theatrical and violent in
conception, rather conventional in design, and repellent in color. I
thought the painter's attitude toward sea and rock and sky decidedly
sentimental beneath its wilful harshness. And I should have left America
with broken hopes of Winslow Homer if an enthusiast for State-patronized