The Illustration of Books. Joseph Pennell

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      His only consolation is that he, personally, seldom sees the editor, he prepares himself for the ordeal, and as the editor has to encounter a constant succession of irate, contrite, emphatic, and even furious artists, his life cannot be an altogether happy one. Still he flourishes, and so does the illustrator.

      But there are compensations. One may be asked to illustrate the works of a deceased author, one may treat the volume almost as one likes, and discuss the result with the editor. In this case the artist will almost certainly do his best. If he has the true illustrative spirit, he will study the period, the country, the manners, the costume; and, if let alone, to produce the work in his own way and at his leisure, he may create a masterpiece. This, however, depends entirely on the artist. It is in this way that the great illustrated works of the century have come into existence, without hurry, without worry, and, after all, the pleasure of work has been almost the only reward the artist has gained—and that seems to be enough to attract crowds—but I doubt if the business side of illustration means much to the student.

      Better still, the artist may make a series of drawings, and then get a writer—an artist in words—one of those people who talk of impressionism in prose, or impasto in poetry, to turn out so many yards of copy. With what a grace he does so, and with what glee the artist pounces on his lines! If it were not for the ever-present editor the author’s lot would be almost as bad as the illustrator’s.

      Best condition of all under which work may be produced is when the illustrator is his own author, when he writes his own story or does his own description; this requires that one shall be doubly gifted. Much may be learned by practice, but to be really great in this has as yet scarce been granted. But a few very talented artist-authors exist.

      Equally good are those magazines that publish illustrations which are independent works of art, of equal importance with the text.

      Equally pleasant, too, is working for the weekly illustrated press—how long this form of publication will last is doubtful—making drawings which will be printed of a large size and show really the ability of the artist. It is pleasant, too, when the editor is an artist or man of sympathetic intelligence.

      Another very important matter is the recognising of the fact that illustration at its best is equal in artistic rank with any other form of artistic expression; and that in every country save England illustrators rank with any other artists. Here one is forced to take to paint to gain admittance to the Royal Academy, though most of the distinguished members of that body won their reputations, and live on them, not by colour, but by the despised trade of illustrating. Critics—even the best of them—will tell you that an illustrator is just a little lower than a painter. It is false if the art of the one is as good in quality as that of the other; else Rembrandt’s etchings are inferior to his paintings, which is absurd.

      But to-day many illustrators, in fact the mass, do not take themselves seriously. They squabble and haggle, they hurry and push, they are as much shopkeepers as your out-of-work painter. Others must have their stuff in every paper. Others’ portraits and eventless bourgeois lives appear in every magazine, especially if the portrait is done for nothing and a few drawings are thrown in. Others crib the superficial qualities of the popular one of the moment, whether his game is eccentricity, mysticism, or primitiveness, three excellent dodges for hiding incapacity or want of training.

      Not that there are no good men who do find their means of expression among the primitives or who are really mystic, or truly grotesque, but for every one of these there is an army of frauds.

      But all the while good work is being done. You may not see the real artist’s name in letters a foot long on every hoarding, or his productions in every book that comes out. But once in a while he does an article, or even a drawing and then the mystics, the hacks, the primitives, and even some few of the public, buy it and treasure it up.

      Therefore be serious, be earnest; and if you cannot be—if you think illustration but a stepping-stone to something better—leave it alone and tackle the something better. You may never succeed in that; you will certainly fail in illustration.

      There is still another point, the financial one. Here illustration approaches architecture. Ruskin said somewhere, probably by accident, for it is so true, “Never give your drawings away; tear them up or keep them till some one wants to buy them.” At the present time the profession is so crowded at the bottom that some shopkeeping editors have profited by this to reduce their prices almost to nothing—literally, by threatening and sweating, obtaining the work of mere students and people who are without money or brains, though they may be possessed of artistic ability, for next to nothing. In the case of painters they have said, “Send us a photo or sketch of your picture, and we will put it in; and think of the advertisement.”

      What you who want to be illustrators must think of is that the painters who give their work to these people are fools. Would a writer give his story for nothing, or a poet his sonnet? And when these editors say they can get such an one’s drawing for so much less, tell them to get it, they will come after you on their knees later if you have anything in you, or their papers do not come to grief in the meantime.

      Of course there can be no hard-and-fast rule about remuneration, but the labourer is worthy of what he can get. And it has only been within the last few years that the clever dodge of swindling the public by bad photos and worse art, of sweating artists by employing hacks and students has been practised, for the benefit of two people, grasping proprietors and still more grasping editors.

      In connection with this matter, let me read you an extract from a letter recently received by me from the greatest living illustrator (it is therefore unnecessary to mention his name), and read at one of the meetings of the Society of Illustrators:—

      “It has for too long been the case that the unsuccessful practitioner of other arts has turned to illustration of the baser sort as a last chance of earning a living. I dare say he has a right to a living, but in these days of cheap and nasty illustrated journals, the low standard of work he brings, as a rule, to a branch of the artistic calling always considered by me a dignified and important branch, I do not believe in recognising or encouraging; and it certainly seems to me that a certain distinction should be made between men who take not the slightest artistic interest in their work and those who conscientiously endeavour to do it well and honestly.

      “I have seen the abnormal growth and prosperity of cheap and nasty illustration, to my great regret. I suppose that so long as there is a large market for it, men will be found to supply it, and evidently this is the sort of thing finding favour to-day.

      “The standard set up by the ‘Cornhill’ and ‘Once a Week,’ and by Menzel and Meissonier abroad, seems to be out of key with the present taste. It must be that ignorance of good work is responsible”—ignorance, I may add, on the part of the artist and editor—in their case intentional or deplorable; in the case of the public it is but the blind leading the blind.

      Therefore, finally, try to do good work, and when you have done it demand to be well paid for it. If you have not the moral or financial backbone for this, go and chop wood—or paint.

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