Copyright © 2020 by Wendy Waszut-Barrett
Detroit scenic artists, Robert Hopkin and his son William G. Hopkin, traveled west in 1881 to paint scenery for the Tabor Grand Opera House and the Grand Opera House in Colorado Springs. Representing the Chicago firm J. B. Sullivan & Bro., they created similar drop-curtains for each stage. My interest in Hopkin is two-fold: first and foremost, his connection to the Tabor Grand Opera House in Denver, and secondly, his mentorship of Thomas G. Moses in the 1870s.
On Sept. 23, 1906, the “Detroit Free Press” published an article about the life and career of “Robert Hopkin, Painter” by John Hubert Greusel. He passed away only three years later. I am including this article in its entirety, as it provides great insight into the nineteenth-century generation of scenic artists who trained the generation of Thomas G. Moses.
“ROBERT HOPKIN, PAINTER
Robert Hopkin’s pipe kept going out. Every few minutes, he would go to the corner of his studio, tear a leaf out of a magazine, twist the paper and set it on fire at a gas-burner, and so get a fresh fire for his pipe. Many times during the afternoon he kept that up. It was chat, smoke, show pictures, hunt through albums, delve into portfolios.
The artist looks like a sailor; collar open at the neck, weather-beaten face, silvery gray hair close-cropped, straightforward, candid man, who has nothing to say of his ambitions.
I could scarcely believe Robert Hopkin to be the master of that wonderful chiaroscuro of the sea, visible in many paintings which, one after the other, he placed on the easel. He appeared to me more like one of those rough and ready sailormen that he paints with fidelity; and as he examined the relics in the corners, Bob reminded of Jack looking over souvenirs of voyages taken years ago. He showed me a wooden soup-box filled with odds and ends, and fished out photographs to men prominent in Detroit forty years ago; reads scraps of poetry; studied forgotten theatrical programs, and I know not what else.
He always kept smoking his briar pipe which just as persistently kept going out and had to be relighted, with the twisted papers.
SOUVENIRS OF HOPKIN’S HISTORY
Robert Hopkin still has the sure touch of his younger days, the breadth of the distinguished Dutch marine-painters. Many of his scenes on the Great Lakes resemble the work of famous sea-painters along the Zuyder Zee and are at the islands of Marken and Monnickendam.
Bob tells me that he grew up on the Detroit wharves, passed through an apprenticeship in mixing colors for decorators, drifted to scene painting, and finally made easel pictures. As he finished around in his boxes and albums for souvenirs of his early life, at last he brought up a faded photograph of the first drop-curtain of the Detroit Opera House. The theme was an allegorical landscape surrounded by Corinthian columns, supporting a flat arch – an arch that builders always said was impossible. But a fig cared Bob, the scenic artist, for these mechanical criticisms. He also showed me a drawing of the second curtains, bearing the familiar lines:
So fleet the works of men back to their earth again
Ancient and holy things fade like a dream
And Bob with a merry laugh told me that George Goodale used to be worried half to death to satisfy curious letter-writers, who wanted to know where the quotation came from. The dwellers along the English Channel, says Bob, held a fete each year to scrub a great white horse, carved in chalk cliffs; and Kingsley’s lines are found in the opening of the description.
SMELL OF THE SEA
Once in a while, Bob makes pictures that are not for sale, paints ‘em for himself. No one is to have ‘em! He is that much od an artist. He spoke of “The Kelp-Gathers,” one of his favorites. But he did not show it to me. He is peculiar that way. He may bring out his pictures or he may keep them stacked up. He did hunt out a green-covered book, “The Land of Lorne,” and gravely handed it to me. On the title page, I read, “To Robert Hopkin from his friend Mylne, March 3, 1879. Mylne was one of Bob’s earliest admirer’s Some day you may see a picture by Wenzel, three men talking, called “The Council of War.” One is Bob, the other is William Mylne, the artist, and the third is George W. Clark, lawyer, cronies, all dead now, except, Bob. Wenzel, a society cartoonist, and the best, put patent leather shoes on Bob. Bob smiled as I showed it to him. He himself always wears old carpet slippers in his studio at this time of year.
How many pictures has Robert Hopkin made? He does not know. He has never kept a studio register. His plain ways were shown when he brought out an album, photographs of his paintings. Under one, here and there, was written in lead pencil, Mr. Muir, Mr. Robinson, Mr. Chittenden, Mr. Clark. That is his style of bookkeeping.
BOB’S DELIGHT
“Have a pipe?” He brought out paper and tobacco for me. Have I ever read “White Wings, a Yachting Romance,” by William Black? Bob again visited that mysterious rear-room and returned with a copy of “The Princess of Thule.” I opened it at random and leaning back in the tall old horse-hair upholstered chair, began reading the first thing.”
“A dreary sky, a dreary fall of rain. Long low flats covered their own damp breath through which the miserable cattle loomed like shadows. Everywhere, lakes and pools, as thickly sown amidst the land as islands amid Pacific waters. Huts, wretched and chilly, scarcely discernible from the rock-strewn marshes surrounding them. To the east, the Minch, rolling dismal waters toward the far off headlands of Skye; to the west, the ocean, foaming at the lips, and stretching barren and desolate into the rain-charged clouds.”
I have no doubt that the sea and the storm and the wind came back to the venerable artist, as I read on and on. He had never followed the sea, he told me, but some of his ancestors were seafaring people around the isle of Bule and the boy was a frequent visitor at the home of his grandfather, a sea captain of Rothsay, who took little Bob on many of his short coasting trips. He has spent his Boyhood in Glasgow, has seen the ships around the world, and wished to go to sea. At 11, with his father, Bob came to Detroit and has been here for 60 years, barring cruises here and there. In the early days he was never away from the wharves; worked in the shipyard at the foot of Cass street, knew the sailors, riggers and owners. He did boat-painting but soon drifted to scene painting and color work for Tuttle & Patton, the late William Wright, Dean Godfrey & Co. In 1871, Bob went over to Chicago, was burned out, came back to Detroit, began easel-work and has followed it ever since for pure love.
Suddenly, turning the talk, he asked me if I had seen that moonlight, last night, coming down from the Flats? It was fine, the moon on the red buoys, and the light through the clouds. He might paint it, sometime. And then, in his quiet, unimportant way, he went on to tell me that he could carry these pictures in his mind for a long time. He thinks in pictures, the way other men think in figures or in vague flashes. Bob’s mind is like a picture-book.
That he is filled with the mystery and witchery if the sea was easily seen, and it was not long before he was saying that he didn’t wonder sailors were superstitious, often imagined they saw ghosts and goblins. The lonesome life at seas appeals to Bob’s imagination. It was plain that he had been under the spell, many of time.
COLOR
He spoke of clipper-built ships as the finest every built by man.
Last year, he took a trip to Scotland, went on a slow boat, he said, so that it would last longer. The Irish channel is rough all the time. But Bob is never seasick.
Ireland is righty named the Green Isle. The mists hang over it and keep the sun from burning up the grass. In Scotland, it’s the same. The figs are fine. The dark glen of Scotland famed in poetry, is also fine, to the artist’s eye. In Ireland there is so much color. Women in the back countries dress in bright tints. A long way off, the Irish girl’s red hood and cloak is visible. In America the only people that still have a touch of color in their daily loves are Syrians and the Italian immigrants. How pretty they are with their rings and their bright shawls. Civilization robs them soon of these gay colors.
Bob smokes and talks like that. There is no haste. It takes a long time.
Did I tell you that Bob, who is a plain main, dresses plainly and sticks to boots, like those worn in Detroit 40 years ago?
You learn, slowly, more things. Bob will never put a brush to canvas while anyone is near. He works alone. He has no secrets but he doesn’t want anyone around.
If he hears that you are going to say a word or two of his work, he begins to fidget, objects, backs away, shuts the door of his studio and draws in the latch-string.
And beyond all other things, he hates newspaper notices – despises them.
The most money he ever received for a painting was $2,300; – Cotton Exchange, New Orleans. The worst treatment he ever had was at the Centennial of 1876. Through a mistake Bob’s picture was hung in the Michigan building, instead of in the art gallery. That sickened Bob of exhibits. He hasn’t bothered himself to send anything to any of them for years. Some years ago he was asked to exhibit in the Royal Academy, England. “What’s the use? Too much trouble! What’s it all amount to anyway?” says Bob.
He has a memory for technique. If he ever sees a scrap of canvas; well, he’ll know it again, after years. The other day, a friend found something in a second-hand store and asked Bob to take a look. Bob did so and the friend bought, on Bobs recommendation. On cleaning the painting, the name Bob had predicted was found there. The picture was by a Canadian artist of renown, but his works are known to only a few collectors. Bob had seen only one, years before. He knew the style almost at a glance.
IMPRESSIONIST
As for art, he is an impressionist, not in any high technical or extreme sense, but in the simple meaning, to reproduce and impression; to see something, in your own way. Many years before impressionism became the vogue or before we knew one school from another, he went direct to nature’s heart for his school and his instruction and took for himself and his school all that was good without being an extremist in impressionism. His teacher was Mother Nature; his school, the seas. He paints as he breathes, that is to say, naturally as you wink you eyes. What more is there to be said?
He is likely to get up at 4 in the morning and go to the wharves. Sunset often finds him strolling about, looking at the river.
He does not paint in open air. He makes sketches, perhaps adding a dab of color, for a key. He scribbles notes of backgrounds, or color scheme. The actual spirit of the scene he keeps in his heart.
Mcedag [sp?], the great Hollander, who paints everything thought the window of his studio, which opens over the sea, has one, perhaps two moods. Hopkin has as many moods as the sea has lights and shadow. You see his ships in a heavy storm, in a fair wind, in a dead calm, in moonlight. He knows all the caprices of the sea, He paints them all.
One day, his paintings are going to come into their own.
INSIGHT
Newspaper waifs of verse appeal to Bob. One day, Charles L. Clark read Bob a newspaper poem on ocean’s wonderous caves. That was enough! Bob painted them. On another day Bob read a bit of newspaper poetry entitled “The Graveyard by the Sea.” It told of a strange thing that the sea does somewhere on an unchartered coast, buries the dead in the crawling sands, heaps up the sands, while the storm sings in requiem. Bob was amazingly caught by the conception. In his mind’s eye he already saw it all. In the Detroit Museum of Art you will find a painting called “The Graveyard by the Sea.”
The graveyard by the Sea-
Where ocean breezes sweep across the restless deep.
It stands, with headstones quaint, with sculpture rude.
Robert Hopkin is touched by the pathos of the sea, the forlorn lives of toilers.
Bob has always been amiable in business. What does he care? Hasn’t he enough for himself? To begin with, he lacks the self-conceit of artists and musicians. For publicity or art criticism he cares absolutely nothing. He prefers to let his paintings tell their own story. Who is the man, that called today? A writer do you say? And he is going to say something of me in the paper? This will never do. Is there not some way to stop him?
Bob will avoid all his cronies for a week after reading wat is told of him here, today. It will cause him a bad quarter of an hour.
BOB’S STUDIO
It’s not the conventional studio with bronze lamps, bright silks, divans, mirrors and statuary. Bob’s place is a loft where a painter works; and the corners are stacked with stuff.
His atelier is in the rear of this house, No. 247 First street. A brick barn, reached by a stairs, with two turns. A hall, a wooden door of undressed lumber, black with age. An old-fashioned latch-string. A room perhaps 10×12, divided from another room of equal size. A blackened skylight, under which is the easel, on which is a picture of a full-rigged ship at sea. Here’s where you find Robert Hopkin.
Bob keeps a tiny point of gas burning for a pipe-lighter. He uses it often, for his pipe has a way of going out unexpectedly.
A base-burner with a long pipe stands in plain view and on the pipe someone has drawn a skull and cross bones. IN the corner, are two stone jugs, tubes of color, pipes, tobacco, a large mirror and above is the motto, in old English text, “Cheerful Company Gladdens the Hour.”
WORLD A PICTURE BOOK
The world to him is a picture book of the sea. We are coming to it, little by little. He is a man that grows on you. You must wait for him to reveal himself. He goes with his paint box and brushes and paints his seas. He does it not for money or for glory and never bothers his head over formal prattle. Bob tried symphonies in greens, greys and blues, on gold background, long before Whistler was known to fame. Bob had painted in the various schools, but he is not an impressionist, or realist, or an schoolman, or any stylist. He is himself. He paints the sea in his own way. When he shuts the door of his studio, he might as well be out at sea. He is alone, with his thoughts. The ship is in the harbor ready to sail. There is a fair wind and the tide is strong. The sails are set and she starts on her voyage.
Where does he get his knowledge of light? Why is the sea a mystery to him – a mystery yet an open book. The seas is his friend and confidant, because he loves the sea. He makes the waves roll, Storm or sunshine, and always that wonderful atmosphere of the sea – the old man puts them in his canvas. As he paints it, the sea loves. The ships all but sail out of the water. His pictures are all of flesh and blood people, hard-handed men and women who have to struggle to earn their daily bread. It is not the statuesque Barbizon peasantry, but he larger unidealized and yet idealized race, as Hopkin sees the people of the sea.
Robert Hopkin, master marine painter, seems to have a hand too large to be restrained by convention; that hand is therefore guided over the canvas by a sort of intuitive constructive imagination, restrained but not lost in the knowledge of the practical sailor.
The serious old man is there beside you, smoking his briar pipe. He is the sailorman and the artist; his shirt collar is open at the neck, his big sunburned hands rest in his lap. He is come home from the sea to tell us another story. Look upon him well; study his weather-beaten face and kindly eyes; – for among the world’s great marine painters you may not soon see his like again.
“Come up and have a smoke again, some day,” he tells me as I shake hands at the studio door.
To be continued…
