THE SUNDAY CALL.
ARTISTS MODELS OF SAN FRANCISCO
9
/ "[¦yo be a wooden things— how do yon
1 l'.fce the Idea? To Bit or stand hour
J after hour— -simply to be. never to
I do, and all for the sake of another's
A work, another's fame. A dog's life,
rou 6«y.
That is the life that our artists' models
lead. That is the way an oddly "assorted
group of people In our big city earn the
wherewithal. Their one talent Is the
beauty or the quaintness that was provid
ed to keep them from starvation. With
out it they would also be withouuthe four
b::s more or less that comes to their
pockets In payment for an hour's exist
ence- Easily earned money? Well, try
and see. Liberal money? Fairly co, but
the four-bit pieces that come in fast
enough or.c week must tide over the other
weeks when. In the language of the pro
fessional model, 'there's nothin' doln'."
Above the twirling: dizziness of three
etair flights Manuel Joseph lives. The
stairs are dark and narrow and steep.
They wind upward through an old Clay
street building and by and by they reach
a. slope-roofed garret and there lives Man
uel.
His room is as bl* ac the rarret o f etajro
conception, and it Is almost as dirty as he
Is. There is not a single piece of furniture
In It. It Is lighted from above by a dingy
roof window.
Mannel Is a Portuguese and his English,
always vague enough, is disappearing with
eld age. and he drops mumblingly Into his
r.ative speech. Sixty years of his hearty
life he epant as longshoreman. "I feeeh
earns Portuguese," he pays. He towered
over six-foot men a.r.d he faced wind and
water and gTew strong and 11th© in their
*.n-.ag«. Then the day came when his step
trembled ar.d the shoulders bent, and the
lor^shoreman cou;d not keep up with the
race.
Somehow ih« Hopkins Art Institute
found hire out. The people up there have
a. way of f.r.ding out subjects for picture*.
Their books contain the names of all the
professional models in town, and sketch
clubs and artists apply to them for eub
je-cts.
"We want Manuel." they said.
Po they brought him up before the class,
and the artistic souls fluttered, for he is
the real thing. He did not know how to
stand still rind be looked at for two
hours steadily, but he learned. The 10
<-ents apiece which the artistic souls paid
for their ecstasy piled up neatly and
helped teach him.
He went to pose dressed in his Sunday
coat, which is long and was black before
tt faded on somebody's else back. But the
class, much to his surprise, scorned th«
coat.
"We want the old blue Jean blouse yon
wore as a stevedore," they said.
So in the blouse h<? posed, his fine old
head bowed with eighty heavy years, his
white hair reaching to the shoulders, his
tiny gold earring naming his race. There
Is "nothin* doin* " now. and Manuel
tramps wearily through the streets look
ing for stray artists. He is stretching the
half dollars of better days to cover these,
and now and then tome one calls him in
to a studio for an hour's sitting.
"When you want, you fin" me here,"
Fays Manuel.
Soma day we may want and not find
him there, as it was with old John Ga
zelle. His Sansome-street address was on
the books of the Art School, but upon
looking for him the other day there was
no ready Information in his lodging house.
'"I haven't seen him lately," one man
said. "He don't seem to be around Just
now," anirwered another. "Why, that old
fellow? He's dead," said the shoemaker.
"But It don't matter. I can get you an
other model Just as good."
Yourssr men for models are not easy to
find. The helplessness or the vanity that
!«¦*'!« women and the old to pose have
It-s iiitfucnce over young and sturdy man
hood. Your Hebe or Psyche or Spring or
Winter are easy to find, but hunt you
must for Apollo or Mercury. One of th«
pluckiofct young art students that ever
transformed a* penny's worth of garret
Into a studio is posing in the beauty of his
rugged health for other artists who have
cllmbod before him along the ladder that
he is just supping upon. "I don't want
to be called a professional model; because
I'm proing to have other people pose for
bp some day," he said. And he told the
truth, if the sketches on his wall do not
promise idly.
Allen Thomas of Oakland . is another
young man who poses for classes. He Is
also in demand for sketch clubs for both
face a.nd form.
Miss Froelich was searching- for a
model of the ballet girl, and for long she
Bcarchr-d in vain. Then she went In de
spair to Mr. Lask and asked him if he
had any beauties on his list. He lntro
ducr-d Miss dc Voll, and she made an en
gagement then and there to pose.
"When artists saw the ballet girl pic
ture they Inquired about me, and so I
fame to bo employed by classes and clubs..
I have been sketched in street dress and
ballet costume, and just draperies. It.
tisr-d to be pretty hard work to keep up
lire posing while I was singing too, for
rehearsals take so much time. But I was
v'lxn of the chance to help out."
UJsa Henderson and Miss Weinert are
two more professional models who are
fairly content to sit before an admiring
class for two-hour stretches and be se
renely lovely. Miss Weinert is one of the
J "» who Is Interested in the result of the
pictures ehe helps to make. "Some of
»>• poses have been praised at studio
teas in N ew York." 6he told a friend.
•LTi<S when the artists have told me about
their Euccesses I have always been co
Clad. I as a floorer girl once, and the
painting was Eold for ?100. Just a tiny
¦ketch, too. They say I take careto**
poses better than the others do."
Marshall Robison. the old blind nejroi.
Is seen on San Francisco streets selling
religious books when and where he can
find a purchaser. 'In off hours of hla
peddling he finds his way to artists' stu
dios, where he earns passing dimes.
Old Marshall Is 86 years old. Many
years of his life were spent as a slave la
Louisiana, where he picked cotton under
hard masters. "I don't like to talk about
those d-ays."'. he says. "They are not a.
happy memory." ¦*'
Miss Clara Petzoldt has an adventurous
little story to .tell of how It all cams
about. It seems she has some nice, con
servative parents In Los Angeles who al
ways-laughed In a superior way when
people said that Miss Clara was lovely
enough to sit . for great artists. Clara
heard these remarks and kept up a very
quiet thinking and continued to go nurs
ing, as she had been trained to do.
Then all of a sudden the Petzoldt papa
and mamma awoke one day to find th«
young lady gone." She had betaken her
self to San Francisco, and from thers
she sent them pretty little filial letters,
faying that she was at work in her chosen
profession. They were a mild and credu
lous pal*, and so they ruffled only a little
and then settled down without her, sup
posinj? her to be nursing. ¦
Meanwhile Miss Petzoldt was strug
gling She went to picture stores and
photograph galleries and asked for names
of artists. When these artists saw her
the" took a second look. Then she be
gan to be sent for.
A household of modejs Is the Daws fam
ily on Mission street. Father, mother and
daughter all know the ropes, but old Mrs.
Daw Is the one who enlpys the work.
"One of my pictures was at the World's
Fair." she will tell you proudly. "It was
"Tamale Women.' by Arthur Matthews.
I was the old woman: the other wa»
young. ,We was in a tamale fact'ry and
I had a chicken in my lap. pickin' it.
We was dressed Mexican-like and ther»
was -a can of beer between us on th*
floor. That -was a fine picture.
"Then I've posed knittin' lots o' time»
—Just an old woman knittin'. I'm 74.
"I've been a French maid, too. Then
I've wore a cap. An' I was the Queer*
once, an' a lot of other things I forget
just now, you see.
"Do you know Jorgensen. the artist?
He's a good man. I've posed for him a
lot of times and my busband has. too.
T>ast Christmas he give si party to all his
models, an' if it wasn't the best thing 1
ever happened in San Francisco! Young;
ones .an" old ones anil Chinamen an' Japs
an' all the people he'd rver painted. An"
there was a Chrir.tmas tree and presents
for : everybody. I got a shawl an' som»
gloves: wasn't that tine? An' Mr. Jor
gensen laughed an' danced an" said ev
erybody had to sing. Japs an' all. An*
we had icecream, an' things. My, that
was a time."
The withered, little, old, yellow faca
brightened with the recollection, and a
shiny speck of a tear glinted somewhere.
Models are wooden things. Perhaps
they can't feel. . _j