WOMAN IN ART
enabled her to reach, she lisped to herself, "Pitty boy, I loves oo, I loves oo," and baby fashion danced up and down as she studied the face. Then her eye lighted on the sober man. The song ceased, the happiness went out of her flower-like face as she slowly pointed her finger at him. Then with a deep sigh she said, ever so softly, "Poor man, poor man! He's so sorry—so sorry." Do you get the psychology of a Jewish Rabbi of two thousand years ago?
Every artist has his specialty, not only of subject, but of some one thing he does better than anything else. Bougureau's special delight and success was in flesh tints and shadows—illusive as wind-chased cloud and shadow, with glow and warmth in sunlight, and cool tones like tints of a sea-shell in the shadows. He began with the most difficult of models—babies. Not a line anywhere, all curves, creases, and dimples, chubby hands and feet, a hint of cream and rose in the skin, of cherry red in the lips. Hands, feet, and brow full of prophecy, wavy hair that defied a brush, be it mother's or the painter's. A babe Bouguereau painted was asleep; it was the only way he could be satisfied. It is unconscious beauty, and over the helplessness the mother keeps "Watch and Ward."
An artist of such exquisite skill as Bouguereau possessed painted many Madonnas, cherubs, children, and beautiful women. Two of his Madonnas are of peculiar loveliness: "Madonna of the Lamb," and the "Madonna of the Stream," They are very alike in treatment; one can hardly choose between the two. They impress one as being more refined in features than some painted in earlier centuries, but one reason may be they are modern women, the type of woman we are accustomed to, and the setting is a bit of nature our eyes are familiar with. They do not invite devotion, they do not arouse mother love, they bring no message of uplift. They speak of the superior technique of the artist, and of the lovely women he secured as models.
But motherhood has to do with more than Madonnas and babes. Babes grow up. Children under twelve years of age are the most vital members of the human family. They are too restive and energetic for purposes of art, for they are perpetual motion with the ubiquitous "Why?" ever on the tips of their tongues.
Mary Cassatt, who attempted to portray the "Modern Woman" on the walls of the Woman's Building thirty and more years ago, was more prophetic than she realized when depicting young women and girls in outdoor sports and pleasures. There was no suggestion of domesticity on that tympanum, only pleasure, health, and the tempting vision of fame were in-
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