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By Glenn Harrington
In 1826, the novelist Sir Walter Scott described Sir Edwin Landseer's dog paintings as “the most magnificent things I ever saw.” The British artist, Landseer was perhaps the world's most celebrated animal painter. His oil The Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner, depicts a faithful, grieving collie slumped atop his master's grave. Landseer's lush, wooly paintings, touched the rich and poor alike, in much the same way that the travelled tales of Lassie have fixed themselves in our culture.
Years ago, I had learned from a past issue of this magazine that Jere Knight, the wife of Eric Knight, author of the popular Lassie books, lived not too far from us, here in PA. Eric had died as a pilot in WWII. His tales about a collie were world famous, and had been made into a string of successful movies and Lassie products. (I still have a Lassie lunch box, and a collie named Francis.) Knight was English, but had moved to America with his family, met his second wife Jere, and settled on Springhouse Farm in Springfield Township, PA, where they raised collies. Jere was a writer, who had edited many of the Lassie books, and still lived in the area.
Early in fatherhood, on Saturday mornings, I'd buckle my boys into the car and head off for a Bucks County adventure. One Saturday, I pointed the car towards Jere Knight's home. As we turned onto Route 611, I peripherally noticed an antique hangar just off the road named, Nadiaʼs Trash or Treasure. No boy, no matter the age, could pass up treasure.
Inside we were greeted by an old Hungarian woman named Nadia. As the boys uncovered treasures, I talked with her. She revealed that she had been James A. Michener's personal secretary, typing many of the manuscripts of the famous stories he had written.
Over the next hours, Nadia filled my head with literary treasures. We never did make it to Jere's home (she died before we had another chance) but Knight's indelible depictions of Lassie have remained an inspiration, influencing my approach to capturing an animalʼs true character through portraiture.
Recently, I visited a family in Connecticut that had commissioned me to paint their daughtersʼ portraits alongside their horses. They own a lovely, cottage-style house on a horse farm, which reminded me of Lassie's original Highland home. As I talked with the family, I couldn't help but notice how their dog had parked himself on the carpet, listening at our feet. I was there to paint people, but the dogʼs image in this Lassie-like rustic lounge, bent me down, and I began photographing him while we talked. Bonka, was poetry in the margins, and although not commissioned, I immediately began a painting of him when I returned home to the studio. Several months later, without contacting the family, I sent the dogʼs portrait. Two days later I received a call relaying the most extraordinary reaction to a portrait that I've ever received; Bonka had died the night before the painting arrived! A sad experience had taken on new light, and their lovely dog was once again listening from the wall of the same room where I had first met him.
Another portrait commission took me to the home of a bank executive in North Carolina, where I spent the evening getting to know the family. In the morning, I took their two children for a long walk through their vast home, and asked where they'd like to be painted. They chose a festive, graphically-decorated, child's dream bedroom with patterned pillows and dotted drapes. As I began setting up, the boy ran off to get something. He came back with a screaming cat, hissing, spitting, and boxing at him as he dumped it into his sisterʼs lap. The cat in the painting shows more prominently than the scratched up reclining boy, but the parents appreciated the unpretentious, natural composition, and quickly grew to love the paintingʼs realness.
Pets don't sit still. You've got to work fast, plan quickly, and have a treat in the pocket. A good memory and keen draftsmanship are essential to capturing the character of our beloved creatures. Reluctant, loyal dogs, have long been pushed into the frames of classic paintings throughout history: from Velazquez to Reynolds to Sargent, sitting obediently at the expensive feet of their aristocratic owners. Radiographs have revealed that Vermeer had taken out a sleeping dog from the doorway in his painting, “A Maid Sleeping”. He'd done the opposite of what Norman Rockwell had said to do: “If a paintingʼs going badly, then put a dog in it.” I've had a few paintings that were slow to sell, and taking Rockwell's advice, have gifted them all with a dog. Needless to say, they have all found lovely homes.
Unveiling a portrait of man or beast to a client is invariably an unsettling, but always enjoyable, experience. I cover the paintings with decorative fabrics, then pull back the curtain and wait. Once, I waited for what seemed to be an hour, and upon hearing no reaction, assumed disappointment. I turned and noticed a tear in the clientʼs eye. Tears are always an unexpected reaction, the most true response, and when they flow it's difficult to restrain mine too. One compassionate clientʼs tears actually ran down my face as she hugged me after the unveiling of her dogʼs portrait. It was the loveliest response to a portrait that I have ever experienced, canine or human, and as she moved away, she lifted the oil, quietly recited the dogʼs name and began to lightly pet the painting. It was very touching–-I'm glad the painting was drier than our eyes!