Life, art, and letters of George Inness . days—and with his long,black hair and plaid shawl floating in the breeze, he cuta figure that in my young eyes was the quintessence ofgrace. On our place in Medfield there was an old barnwhich was converted into a studio. My fathers stu-dios were nearly always old barns; there was none ofthe poseur or dilettante about him. He was per-fectly content with one chair, an easel, and his tubesof paint. He never had such things as attractiverugs or broken plates or bits of rags and silk about hisplace. He never could do clever tricks with his pen-cil to amuse
Life, art, and letters of George Inness . days—and with his long,black hair and plaid shawl floating in the breeze, he cuta figure that in my young eyes was the quintessence ofgrace. On our place in Medfield there was an old barnwhich was converted into a studio. My fathers stu-dios were nearly always old barns; there was none ofthe poseur or dilettante about him. He was per-fectly content with one chair, an easel, and his tubesof paint. He never had such things as attractiverugs or broken plates or bits of rags and silk about hisplace. He never could do clever tricks with his pen-cil to amuse, and never was attracted by the so-calledartistic room with Oriental hangings, and used to ridi-cule old plates and cups and saucers and canopied di-vans and Japanese umbrellas. There was nothingluxurious about his studio; it was his workroom, andwas simplicity almost to bareness. In this old Medfield barn some of fathers most rep-resentative pictures were painted; there he paintedmany of the magnificent sunsets and elms and those 42. MEDFIELD PERIOD dramatic storms which characterize George [ original sketch of one of the finest examples of his work was done there. It was called Medfield Meadows/ and later was a wedding present from him to my wife and me. Those were wonderful years for me. I used to sitthere in his studio for hours at a time watching himpaint, pictures now, not wash-tuhs, while I, with awhite canvas before me, a large brush, and a pail ofwater, imitated his movements. When lie painted he put all the force of hisnature into it. Full of vim and vigor, he was like adynamo. It was punch here and dab there. He wasindefatigable. He was a totally different man in hisstudio from what he was out of doors. Out of doorshe was quiet, rational, and absorbed. I have seen himsit in the same spot every day for a week or morestudying carefully and minutely the contours of treesand the composition of the clouds and grass, drawingvery carefully with painstaking exact
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