Art and How to Fake It

Advice to the Art-Lorn and Those Who Have Not Yet Sighted the Sea Coast of Bohemia

NANCY BOYD

DEAR MISS BOYD: Will you please tell me what is the matter with my studio? I am not an artist, but I am very artistic, and I have left no stone unturned to make my studio the very haunt of all that is free, etc., in the Village. I have a black floor, orange curtains, a ukulele made of a cigar-box, a leaky gas-jet, a back-number of a Russian newspaper, and as many cock-roaches, Chinese back-scratchers, and different shades of paint as anybody. Also I make a point of encouraging the milder vices, such as smoking; I have ash-trays everywhere. It has been the dream of my life to be a literary and artistic center, but somehow people do not flock as I had hoped they would do. If you can tell me what is the matter I shall be most grateful. Signed,

ARTISTIC.

(The trouble is with the ash-trays; remove them. Get into the habit when alone of crushing out your cigarette against the wall-paper, or dropping it on the floor and carelessly grinding it into the rug, or tossing it in the general direction of the fire-place, if you have one, being very sure never to look anxiously after it to see where it lands. This easy manner on your part will do more than anything else to put your guests at ease. Soon they will be using your studio as if it were their own, going to sleep with their feet in the coffee-tray, wiping paint from their hair and elbows upon the sofapillows, making sketches on the walls of unclothed people with small heads and overdeveloped muscles, and dropping ashes just everywhere.)

DEAR MISS BOYD: I have just decided to open a restaurant, and I have rented an old stable on Sullivan Street just south of the Square, which I think ought to make a terribly attractive restaurant. I don't know anything about cooking, but I think I can get somebody to do the cooking. I am writing to ask you three questions: How shall I furnish it? What shall I name it? What should be my attitude towards my clients? Very truly yours, AMBITIOUS.

P. S. I had thought of naming it either The Topaz Armadillo, The Ultra-Violet Brontosaurus, or The Boeotian Swine. None of these has been used yet, so far as I know. But I shall do nothing until I hear from you. A.

(I would advise you against using any of the three names you mention. It is impossible to be sure that somebody else has not already taken them. If I were you I would call it simply The Stable, which is so obvious a name for a Greenwich Village restaurant that I am sure nobody has ever thought of it. As regards the furnishing and decoration, I would suggest that you make very few changes. Keep the stalls just as they are; in each of them put a table made of a wide plank supported by two saw-horses; let the seats be choppingblocks, in one of which might be sticking jauntily a bright sharp axe. The walls should be enlivened with pieces of old harness,—bridles, blinders, bits, etc.,—as well as photographs of Black Beauty and the One-Horse Shay; and there must be of course a rusty horseshoe over the door. Let the restaurant be lighted by smoky kerosene lanterns, and barndance music be furnished by an old-style graphophone with a painted horn. Serve the food in charming, hand-painted, little mangers, or in little canvas bags embroidered in assorted wools, which fit neatly over the heads of the guests. Each guest should be supplied with a cunning little whip to crack if the fodder is slow in arriving. As for the food itself, I would suggest that here you diverge a bit from your general scheme, and serve, instead of dry oats and bran, half-cooked spaghetti, sticky Armenian pastries, and liqueur-glasses of sweetened Turkish mud. As for yourself, you should circulate among your guests freely, dressed in a gunny-sack adorned with coarse tassels of red rope. Assume the habit, too, of singling out each evening from among your clients some entire stranger, seating yourself beside him, hanging your arm about his neck, and daintily gobbling up the choice bits of his food; in this way you will not only acquire a reputation as a wit, but you will also keep sufficiently well-nourished.

N. B. Be sure you have a hay-loft, where the guests may recline after dinner. This is important. The loft should have no more pitch-forks in it than observance of the tradition requires, and should be lighted only by a bin of white beans.)

MISS N. BOYD,

Dear Madam:

I am a plain, honest woman, with a house in Waverly Place where I let Furnished Rooms to Artists. I have a lot of trouble with them. In the first place they are awfuly careless about their Rooms, they never hang-up anything, there are always dirty shirts on the floor, to say nothing of bread-crusts and rinds of hambolowna. I have an awfull time with them. Then another thing when they are not laying abed all day so I cant get in to do up the work, they are trying to set the chimny on fire burning up oily rags and peices of canvas all covered with paint, and setting up all night talktalk-talking so as honest people cant get a wink of sleep. But all that, though theres no getting round it that its terrible trying and all that, is not the reason why I take my pen in hand to write you. Its about the rent. They dont pay it. I let it go and let it go and when finaly I do get up curage to say something about it, because I suppose I have my rights just the same as Artists, all the time I am talking they draw pictures of me on the back of an envelope. Then they say, O, come on Ma, I thought you was a Patrun of the Arts. Whatever that may be. Then they promise to pay me the next day, because somebody is going to buy a picture off them, but next day comes and they ether say the same thing all over or else they're gone. Id hold their baggage, only they never have any, only an empty gin-bottle all daubed over with red and purple and undressed women, or a fancy-dress costume so holy and dirty its of no use to anybody or two or three copies of a magerzine called the little reveiw. What will I do, dear Miss Boyd, I thought seeing you knew so much about Artists mabe you might be able to tell me. With grateful appreciation in advance I remain, yours very truly, LANDLADY.

(There's only one thing to do. You can't go through their clothes while they're asleep, because they always sleep in their clothes. And it's never any good serving a summons on them to appear in court; because they just don't appear. The only thing to do is this. Buy a tin bank and place it on the table in the hall. Above it tack the following placard:

FREE THINKERS! FREE LOVERS! and FREE BOOTERS!

If you have any Heathen Pity in your Hearts Drop a Nickel in the Slot for the Starving Baby-Anarchists of Russia!

WHO DOES NOT CONTRIBUTE TO THE CAUSE OF ANARCHY IS MID-VICTORIAN!!!

(I think you will have no further trouble.)

DEAR MISS BOYD:

Mine is a strange case. I have always thought I should like to be an artist. Not because I care anything about art, for I don't, but because artists lead such a free life. As a little boy, I was different from my young companions; I did not like to study; I objected to going to bed directly after supper, and I was often discovered pulling the wings off flies, or stealing sweets from my little sister. Later, my disinclination to apply myself to any profession, such as the ministry, the law, etc., surpassed only by my unfailing instinct for the salacious passages in the novels which I read, caused my parents to believe that I must be artistic. They have sent me to New York to study art. But as I have no particular talent in any direction, being more versatile than intensive, I fear, I am somewhat at a loss. I can neither write, paint, model, sing, dance, play a musical instrument, design costumes, nor act, nor am I a sympathetic listener. What shall I do? Signed, JURGEN.

(Remember this. When all else fails, two courses remain open to a man: he can always give lectures on the drama, or edit anthologies of verse; for neither of these is either talent or training necessary.)

DEAR MISS BOYD: Will you kindly advise me how to furnish and decorate my new studio in 12th Street? I am not an artist, but I do not get on very well with my husband, so I thought I would get me a studio in 12th Street. Although I have no artistic capabilities, and am totally colour-blind, I can make extremely good coffee, so I am sure there will always be artists dropping in, and I want the place to be perfect in every detail. Also kindly suggest what subjects the artists will be likely to discuss, so that I can read up a little. Very sincerely, A WIFE AND MOTHER.

(The safest thing is a Chinese studio; everybody has one, so nobody can criticize yours. The correct way to decorate it as follows: Floor, black; ceiling, blue; walls, lemon-yellow, olive-green, cherry-red, plum-violet, respectively; curtains persimmon-orange, made of tarleton, unhemmed; couch on floor; cushions on floor, books on floor, tea-tray on floor, cigarette-butts on floor, guests on floor. Get everything you can find that is made of teakwood,—you can always tell it: dull-black, lot of carving and mother-of-pearl. Everything that isn't teak-wood, paint vermilion. Have something lacquered; doesn't matter what. Have a lot of pictures of tom-cats and tigers around, also Japanese prints as follows: Little men going up hill in rain-storm; small tree with large bird in it; lady writing letter with paint-brush; lady shooting at shoji with bow and arrow; actor with tongue out of mouth. These are all very inexpensive; if you buy a teaset in Mott Street, they will probably come wrapped around the cups. Be sure to burn incense night and day, with the windows closed; this cannot fail to give atmosphere.

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As for conversation, the artists will talk about El Greco, Cezanne, and Gauguin. It is safe to remark of El Greco, "Well, look at Cézanne!"; of Cezanne, "Still, look at Gauguin!"; and of Gauguin, "Have you ever been to Tahiti?" You say you are colour-blind. Divulge the fact to no one. But never lose the opportunity of describing in detail the colour-scheme of any landscape, smock, or picture at which you and your companions may be gazing. Your success is assured.)

DEAR COLUMN: Since you have so much influence with the up-town thrill-hunters, can't you sort of give 'em a hint that the Village isn't fashionable any more? They're thicker down here than garbage-cans, little theatres, and Italian babies; they've bought up all the north-light, and hung batik over it; and the poor homeless native has not where to lay his chrome yellow and Prussian blue. It's getting quite unbearable, Yours, MATTISSE PICCASSO.

(The condition of which you complain will not continue long. Since the prohibition of spirituous liquors in the States, there has been an ever-increasing migration of the art-just-lovers from Harlem to Montparnasse. The Quartier Latin [Scandinavian Quarter] of Paris, is full of them.)

DEAR MISS BOYD: I am Chinese girl, but attend American college, Vassar, and enjoy very much. My room-mate is very nice girl, blue eye, yellow hair, very pretty, but in one fact very peculiar. She insist on deco-

rating room with old awful Chinese screen and picture and little ugly dog and Buddha which is not true god, also old piece of weaving made long time ago all by hand and most uneven by dirty peasant, all thing such as in my country no nice family permit be found in attic. In vain I exhort, O cherished room-mate, behold beautiful American golden-oak rocking-chair, behold wonderful miraculous American Victrola, behold incomparable American imitation lace, all, all made by machinery and

without flaw!—In vain, in vain. She tack up on wall unspeakable object such as my baby-brother could do better, she offend my artistic eye with hideous Chinese teak-wood table-atrocity, she break up our friendship. Advise me, most honourable Boyd. I am in despairs. Signed, CHU CHIN CHOW,

(Unfortunately this letter arrives too late for me to answer it.—N. B.)