Art That Concealed

Art !

A Tahitian Scandal With Comic Trimmings

SINCE that dolorous day when a syn dicate of art dealers and a peri patetic novelist emblazed the name Gauguin on the architrave of the temple of fame, this island of Tahiti has been an atelier of artists from every corner of the world—except, perhaps, the Ant arctic Continent.

Among them was a portrait painter from Denmark. He was introduced to us bv an esteemed friend and neighbour who, in his young days, had been a cap tain in the Danish army.

Now, .iust at that time, both the cap tain and the writer had been denounced as unshriven heretics and contumacious Philistines by a college of painters drawn from all the schools —from post impressionist to sur-realist. So when the man from Copenhagen told us he was a great artist, we anpeared duly humble (as was fitting in the presence of great ness). and let him do most of the talk ing. We did not wish any more court martials until we were sure of ourselves.

Later, when the great Dane took us to view his paintings, the captain and the writer looked long into each other’s eyes, then raised our right hands and swore eternal fealty to our Philistinism.

But we held our peace, and listened patiently while the painter discoursed eloquently on “My art”.

In due time, the artist had rented apartments at Papeete, unpacked his paints and brushes and set about the task of finding natives to people his masterpieces.

One of his achievements was his suc cess in persuading one of the real beauties of the island, an eminently re spectable matron, to sit for her portrait.

Tahitians of her type usually shun artists and writers. Experience has taught them to be wary. But in this case the captain had vouched for his fellow countryman.

Two or three sittings had enabled the artist to finish those charming features and shapely head on his canvas. Then, having made sketches of her figure and costume, he told the matron that no more sittings would be necessary.

When he had thus disposed of her, he called in a model from a less conven tional stratum of society, and finished the picture in the “altogether”!

The artist used every precaution to guard the secret of this substitution.

While the paint was drying, the canvas was set on an easel, in the most remote corner and kept covered. Unfortunately, a temporary absence from the studio left the man-of-all-work the opportunity to appease a curiosity which was eating into his vitals. He raised the covering from the picture; and. within an hour all Papeete knew what he had seen.

Now, being old-fashioned and hostile to “Progress”, our domicile had been connected neither with the island tele phone system nor the coconut telegraph.

Consequently, we were still ignorant of the happenings recorded above, when the Danish artist appeared at our threshold, bearing an oblong object concealed under heavy wrappings of thick paper.

“I beg a service of you”, he said. “Will you keep this parcel in a safe place until I come for it?”

“Be particularly careful”, he added, “that the wrappings are not disturbed.”

We sensed some misgivings; but we had no reason for refusal, and we con-

A little later we awoke to the fact that we had given shelter to a veritable Pan dora’s Box.

Relays of eyes had followed the parcel to its destination.

Enlightenment and an exceedingly great tempest arrived simultaneously.

We summoned the artist. The interview was short; but charred spots on the woodwork of our front porch, which several coats of paint cannot entirely conceal, bear witness to its fervency.

The captain, when he heard the story, spoke words and nhrases in Danish so potent that the old Scandinavian fire god Loki aopeared, and the captain had to chase him away with the garden hose to ore vent having his house burnt down.

In the last act of the drama, the handsome matron —guarded by two burly brothers —committed hari-kari on her image, while the painter tore his hair and shrieked “My art! My art!”

Shortly afterwards he sailed away, and we have seen him no more.—A.C.R.