WOMAN IN ART
Not Art alone, nor her large circle of friends, but the world has lost a fine woman, a splendid artist, and one of the best interpreters in her chosen subject, the beautiful and everyday life of Mother and Child.
Since the death of Mary Cassatt, the friends of American Art throughout the country have arranged loan exhibitions in various art centers, and it was surprising and interesting to know what large collections of her works were owned in the Middle States and in the far West and East. It was a significant appreciation of the artist, and no less of the subject of her choice during the latter years of her life—Motherhood and the Child.
The Memorial Exhibitions of the works of Mary Cassatt brought together a number of paintings from private collections not familiar to the general art lover, hence they invited an unusual interest. The portrait of Miss Mary Ellison was one of exceptional beauty, character, and at-homeness that put you at once on the list of Miss Ellison's friends, without question as to the technique or school of the workmanship. The group "On the Balcony" is one of those instantaneous pictures from life. Two form the company, and the third is conscious that she is the crowd and that, by inference, is in the street. A native charm pervades the group. The portrait of the "Mother of the Artist" is a reflection from life as she sits in meditative mood, and the compositon is all one would ask the face expressive of serene, thoughtful motherhood, after the heat and burden of the day. It is a portrait that is a charming picture.
More than once the writer has been asked how it is that a "Bachelor Maid" can talk to mothers about mothers and children. There are several answers to the question. Mothers are sometimes very young and need the advice and experience of an older woman. Again, a bachelor maid has usually taken time for study and preparation for her life-work of helpfulness and uplift, be it as teacher, mother's helper, nurse, or companion, plus practicalities and common sense. But the greatest, truest answer is that the genius and instincts of motherhood are deeply implanted in every woman by the Creator Himself; if he does not need her to serve in one capacity he does in another.
Abastenia St. I. Eberle has given a pathetic expression of this truth in one of her inimitable statuettes, which she calls "Playing Dolls." The little waif, out at the toes and otherwise unkempt, too poor to have a real doll, cradles on her arm a gourd squash, lavishing on the substitute doll the af-
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