LANDSCAPE PAINTING
was a failure, like all the others. But the heart-breaking part of it was that I could not guess why it was a failure.
One day, as I was painting away conscientiously, a friend strolled by—a Scandinavian painter for whose work I had the most profound admiration. After studying my effort for awhile he remarked: "Harrison, that thing of yours is so good it is a pity it is not a dd sight better."
"Well, for Heaven's sake, U.," I said, "tell me what is the matter with it."
"I am not sure that I could tell you," he replied, "but if you will lend me your palette for ten minutes I might, perhaps, be able to show you."
He selected an area of eighteen inches in the left centre of my composition, and in fifteen minutes had entirely repainted it. His work, as I studied it, did not vary in color, in tone, or in value
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