JOHN SWAN stands in a niche by himself. His Art is precious, like a jewel, to be handled lovingly in the seclusion of a cabinet of treasures, not exposed to the vulgar in the glare and blare of artificiality for ostentation's sake.
He loved Art for its cunning and its craft, and with deft and skilful fingers lingered long over the making of it, full of the joy of creating. At times he could be swift and impress movement and thought upon paper with a magic stroke of his crayon or chalk. Just as Manet and Monet sought for light, Swan aimed for movement, watching always for feline grace and charm in the animals that can purr as well as scream and bite.
The suppleness of the cat tribe roused in him every artistic instinct, and Barye himself has not translated into bronze or stone the majestic poise of the kings of the jungle with more intuitive skill.
His line is full of serpent-like undulations, breaking, disappearing, blurring; it is played upon as a chord in music is vibrated subtly by the musician who moves you. Line is to drawing what a strophe is to music, a phrase to prose, rhythm to poetry—it is God-given and never acquired.
Swan was a fine draughtsman, in the best sense, for his very imperfections were full of unconscious beauty. There
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