 DuPont presents the Cavalcade of America. This evening's program in the Cavalcade of America presented by DuPont relates some interesting stories about American artists, especially appropriate at this time because this is art week in the state of Delaware and in many other communities. Art week activities include exhibits of paintings, lectures on various art subjects, concerts, operettas and dramatic presentations. Everyone has the urge to create, to express artistic talent. This whole movement for a keener appreciation of things that are beautiful and for the development of good taste in all the art is very much in keeping with the spirit of the creative work of DuPont people throughout the country, as expressed in their pledge, better things for a better living through chemistry. In this evening's episode of the Cavalcade of America, we hear of the mothers of two famous American artists. And as Mother's Day will be celebrated next Sunday, May 10th, the DuPont Cavalcade Orchestra plays as an overture, a special arrangement of Dvorak, songs my mother taught me and Brahms lullaby. In 1738, in this gray field stone farmhouse, the Quaker Benjamin West, America's first great artist, was born. At the age of six, we find him watching a friendly Indian who was busily engaged decorating himself and his wigwam with colors. What are you doing, Lakeoma? Now if I don't ask questions. What? I didn't know an Indian could draw pictures too. You're putting the same war paint on your wigwam you put on yourself. How do you get them? They come from ground. Sometimes make pictures. You stick. Sometimes use hair tied together like this. That's a brush. Show me how to make one. You take this. Me make another. Oh, thanks, Lakeoma. Will you show me how to make colors too? Me busy. You take some you like. Me make more later. Be much busy now. I won't bother you anymore, Lakeoma. I'm going to make pictures myself. Good. The boy of six is usually very much in evidence around the house. Mrs. West does not hear her son's happy voice and running feet. She becomes alarmed and seeing Lakeoma passing calls to him from the steps of the house. Lakeoma! Lakeoma! Have you seen my son, Benjamin? No. See him long time. Oh, he must be up to some mischief. I haven't heard a sound from him in the past hour. Maybe he go in first. Wait, Lakeoma. Will you look for him while I go inside and see how my baby does? Yes, me look. Why, Benjamin, what does he hear with the baby? Nothing, mother. Would he tell me a false thing? What has he there behind my back? Will he punish me, mother? Hand it to me and he will see. Here it is, mother. They say it's nothing but... Benjamin, what has he done? You find boy? Yes, and look, Lakeoma. Look what he has done. Oh, he makes picture of baby. Good picture. Look, the shape of the head, the mouth. Why, Ben, where did he learn to paint and draw? I watched Lakeoma. Then I want to do it. I don't know what our friend's meeting would say to this. But what does he say, mother? They say I like it well, Benjamin, and I'll keep it always. So Benjamin West was allowed to develop his talent for drawing and painting. At the age of 22, he was given a scholarship and sent to Italy to study art. Three years later, he arrived in London, and his work was admired by the King and by the great English portrait painter Joshua Reynolds. Gilbert Stewart, later called the painter of presidents, and our historic artist John Trumbull were two of his pupils. One evening in studio in London, Gilbert Stewart brings another young American artist to call on West. Good evening, Mr. West. Good evening, Mr. Stewart. I'd like to present a print of mine from the colonies, Mr. Charles Wilson Peale of Maryland. He's an artist, too, and that's... Then he's very welcome. Come in, Mr. Peale. My home is yours. Thank you, sir. You're very kind. Do you intend to stay long in London, Mr. Peale? Long enough, sir, to show you my work and benefit by your criticism, if you'll be good enough to give it. Well, I'll be delighted to help a fellow American all I can. I had see your work this very evening if there weren't another matter on my mind. You mean the academy you've started, sir? Yes, sir. The Royal Academy, we call it. Isn't that wonderful, Peale? The first British art academy founded by an American. Yes, indeed. But I never could understand why you were not elected as first president, Mr. West. They spoke of it, but I believe we should have the greatest of us for our first president. And that meant only one artist in England, Joshua Reynolds. The inspiration and purpose of this art school fired the imagination of Charles Wilson Peale. He tried, in 1791, to found an art school in Philadelphia, but the project failed. He had a remarkable gallery of historical portraits, which were assembled and exhibited to the public in the Philosophical Society's building on Independence Square. In 1802, the museum outgrew its old quarters and moved to a new home, Independence Hall itself. We find Charles Peale arranging his enlarged collection with the help of his talented son, Rembrandt Hill. But where are you going to hang your portraits, Father? The whole long wall is covered with the cases of your rare birds and animals. Well, I'll bring the ladder over here, then. We'll hang them above the cases at the far end of the room. Well, how about this end of the room, Father? That's where I'm going to have my new art school. Oh, Father, I should think you had enough of that. And anyway, where are you going to find models to pose for life class? This is the Quaker City, you know. If I have to, I'll pose myself. I'm determined, son, that America should have an art school like Benjamin West in London. You know, I'm with you, Father, all the time, but just the two of us aren't enough. William Rush is with us. Oh, and even though he is the first American sculptor, isn't he too busy with city affairs? I hope not. Charles! Charles! Well, Will. Hello, Mr. Rush. We're just speaking of you, sir. I've got great news. A commission for a new statue? No. A whole gallery of them for you. For me? Yes. I've just been to see Judge Hopkinson and Mr. Clymer. George Clymer? Yes. And he's with us. He's going to get a group of his lawyer friends and merchants to contribute to a fund for buying a lot of casts from the antique. Wonderful. Oh, but we'll have to have a school and a gallery. Well, they'll help us to organize one. With a man of climate's prestige, a sign of the Declaration of Independence, why, we ought to be able to organize anything. We'll make him first president of our academy. Oh, Father, go easy. We haven't even a name for it yet. Oh, yes, I have. What is it? The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts. Good. Charles Wilson Field with the aid of George Clymer was instrumental in founding the first art academy in the United States. And at its first meeting, an honorary membership was voted to the American who was responsible for the founding of the British Royal Academy, Benjamin West. Applicate of America presented by DuPont moves on. For a long time, most American artists were obliged to find their inspiration and make their livings in London and Paris. But always in their exile, the American traits in their personalities and work were distinctive and set them apart from all others. This was especially so in the case of James Abbott McNeil Whistler. In 1871, Whistler lives in his home called the White House in Chelsea, London. He is beginning a new painting. His colors are spread on a table beside the easel, for he never used a palette. And he is placing the sitter in position. There now. Are you quite comfortable, Mother? The chair is a little high, Jimmy. Oh? Could I have a foot stool? Why, certainly. Now, is that better? Yes. Thank you. But, Jimmy, you've got your canvas wrong with your belt. You're going to paint on the back of it. Why not? It's a good surface. Besides, there's a girl painted on the front of it. I don't know why you want to paint no lady like me at all. Well, I'll tell you, Mother, your black dress and nice new lace makes such a lovely arrangement against the gray of the wall I couldn't resist it. Oh, I see. I'm just another arrangement. It doesn't make any difference what I look like. Not a bit. Because a fellow can't help making his mother look just as nice as he possibly can. Well, if you paint me like one of your arrangements of the River Thames by moonlight, no one will know who I am. Ah, but they'll know who did it. Why do you make them so vague and hazy, Jimmy? Because there's usually a haze over the water. Anyone can see it except those blind academic painters. That's why I don't give the canvases any definite titles, but call them my moonlights. Your friend Leyland was in today and saw one. Oh? He called it a knock turn. Well, Mother, that's perfect. So shall I. And I'll compose a whole series of them. Now, just relax, Mother. Be quite as comfortable as you can. Oh, yes, Jimmy. No one will buy your knock turns. They don't tell any story. Of course not. But they'll be beautiful harmonies of form and color. The critics will not think of them as pictures at all. The critics, huh? Those pen wipers. Of course they won't think about them at all. They can't possibly understand. Because my pictures are works of art. We know that, dear. What are you thinking of, Mummy? Is my expression disturbing you, Jimmy? I want to understand it. So millions of people can learn to love it just as it is. Just as I do now. Oh, Jimmy. I wish you'd show this lovable side of yourself to the world. Oh. They'd lose interest in me if I did. They'd want to think of me as the butterfly with a scorpion sting. Oh, but is that what you were thinking about? No. I was thinking about the past, about you, Jimmy. Long ago. When you used to draw pictures of people on the maps you were making. And got fired for it. No, Jimmy. You were discharged because you never went to work on time. In fact, often you never went to work at all. Well, now, if you were a good mother, that ought to make you laugh or cry instead of looking so contented and peaceful. I'm thankful, Jimmy. Thanks? What on earth for? To be the mother of such a great artist. And such a dear son. When Whistler sent a painting to the annual exhibition at the Royal Academy, they either rejected it or hung it obscurely. In 1872, he sent them the portrait of his mother. As usual, a storm of protest broke out in the consulate of the academy. Whistler's old friend and a great portrait painter, Sir William Boxle, dares to speak in its favor. I consider the work of genius, gentlemen. But, Sir William, you cannot hang anything as revolutionary as that. The academy must stand only for the best in art and good taste. Would you call it bad art if it had the name of a Dutch master on it? It is in the same spirit. It's a great painting. I, for one, positively refuse to approve it in this impudent American upstart. He hasn't even the common decency to honor his own mother. How can you possibly look at the old lady's face and think such a thing? But look at the title he sends with it, gibberish, cause it an arrangement in grey and black. And so it is. And it's high time we thought again in terms of color instead of turning out pictures for picture books. It's no use, Sir William. We're all opposed. Let's throw it out and waste no more time. There are other more important canvases. Well, I think not. And I'll never have it said I voted against this great painting. If it is not accepted and hung, it will be resigned from the council. Sir William, I'm sure, Sir William, you're not serious. I am not only serious. I'm right. It's not worth the price of Sir William's resignation, gentlemen. I vote we hang it. We'll hang it, Sir William. Gentlemen, someday you'll find you have done yourselves great honor. Sir William Bottsall was right. For today, the portrait of Whistler's mother, loved and admired all over the world, is the first painting in the National Gallery of France. The first work of an American artist to hang in the loo. In 1877, Whistler was invited to send eight paintings to a special exhibition at the Grosvenor Galleries in London. The exhibition created great excitement for it contained the first of the great nocturnes. To most people who thought of paintings only as pictures that must tell a story, these little paintings seem lacking in sense. They especially infuriated one self-appointed custodian of the public taste, a professor at Oxford, a writer of great power and venom, John Ruskin. He hated Whistler, whom he refused to meet with a bitterness that comes from intolerance. While the exhibition is on, Whistler drops in one evening at his club. I say there, Whistler. Oh, hello, Barton. Have you seen the latest number of Paul's clavichera? Isn't that the sheet Ruskin put out? Yes, his dirty linen robber. He has a few smudges in it about you. Oh, splendid. It shows I'm still informed. Otherwise, I'm not interested. I think you might be. Let me read a bit of it to you. Yes, do. Ruskin says, Sir Coot's linty ought not to admit it works into the gallery in which the ill-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approaches the aspect of willful imposter. I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence before now, but never expected to hear a cockscomb art 200 guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public space. Well, what do you say to that, eh? I think it's the most debased style of criticism I've had thrown at me. Sounds rather like libel, don't you think? Well, that is what I mean to find out. Whistler was in deadly earnest. He meant to make a test case of how far a critic can go in robbing an artist of his daily bread. He sued Ruskin for libel and claimed damages. The English artists were in a panic and excused themselves from bearing witness on either side, except a staunch, embarrassed view. The famous case comes to trial in the Exchequer Chamber, Westminster, London, and the Court of Queens bench before Baron Huddleston. Order, please! Order! Continue for the plaintiff, Mr. Perry. Only one more word, my lord. An end point is that Mr. Ruskin not only criticizes the art qualities of my client's paintings, but it's priced as well, which is none of a critic's business. That is all. Sir John Holker, you may proceed with the cross examination. Mr. Whistler, sir, what do you call these night paintings? Nocturnes. What's your definition of that word? It's an arrangement of line, form and color, first. And I make use of any incident of it, which will bring about a symmetrical result. Is this the one you call Nocturn in black and gold, the falling rocket? Yes. And the one Mr. Ruskin calls a pot of paint slung at the public. Order, please! Order! Where was it painted? At Cremon. Oh, but holding it upside down. Oh, of course. It's not a view of Cremon. If I called it a view of Cremon, it would only disappoint all beholders. No, it is an artistic arrangement. Why do you call Mr. Irving an arrangement in black? Oh, but I don't. That's what I call the picture. Order! Did you take much time to paint The Nocturn in black and gold? About two days? End for that. The work of two days? You dare ask two hundred guineas? No. I ask that for the knowledge of a lifetime. Do you offer this picture to the public as one of particular beauty, fairly worth two hundred guineas? I have sold others for that amount? I offer this as a work conscientiously executed. I think it's worth the money. And I'd hold my reputation on it as I would upon any of my other works. As, for example, this Nocturn in blue and silver? Yes. What does it represent? Battersea Bridge by Moonlight. Order, please. Mr. Whistler. Sir. I can't tell whether those are people on top of the bridge and how in the name of heaven they could get office. My lord, the picture is simply a representation of moonlight. My whole scheme was only to bring about a certain harmony of color. How long did it take you to paint that picture? I completed it in one day after having arranged the idea in my mind. Oh, bad deal. My lord, my lord, I protest. As a painter and artist, Mr. Whistler has earned a reputation in the United States. He is not merely a painter. He has likewise distinguished himself as a nature. And why he should be subjected to this ignominious... Art history of first importance. So many people did not take it seriously at the time. The jury brought in a verdict for Whistler. The damages were nominal, only one fathering. But it was a complete moral victory for Whistler. Some years later, Whistler met Hoker, Ruskin's lawyer at the club, and asked him about the case. You know, I never could understand, Hoker, why Ruskin didn't appear in person against me. I wouldn't let him, Jimmy. It was hard enough as it was to save him from paying you heavy damages. Yes. Yes, why didn't the jury award me more? You know, Ruskin singled out for attack the only picture in the lot I had for sale. It hurt my prices for years. Yes. But your lawyer didn't emphasize that for the jury, which is too bad, because Ruskin was wrong and should have been punished. Oh. Then why did you appear for it? Because he asked me to, and you didn't. I see. The only reason was because I couldn't afford you. What a pity you didn't try. I, gladly, have been on your side for nothing. A little late to find that out. I don't know. Here's Barksville. Oh, he seems excited about something. Jimmy. Jimmy, I've just got the greatest news. Hello, Hoker. Well, well, what's the burning noise, sir, William? It's about your picture. I've done a sea bridge by moonlight. What again? Yes, we were just discussing it. What's the matter with it now? Nothing's the matter with it. Haven't you heard the news? No. Well, I'm glad I'm the one to tell you. It's been sold. What? The National Fund bought it. Where? The National Fund. Why? To hang in the National Gallery. Yeah. I hope, Jimmy, you've got your 200 guineas for it. 200? They paid 2,000. What's that? I've got a bargain. Brilliant. Well, how do you like that, Jimmy? Well, there's something I'd like better. What's that? I'd like to see Ruskin's face when he hears of it. Fleur's victory was complete. And in our own capital, Washington, D.C., there is an entire building dedicated to Whistler's memory. In it is the famous peacock room he designed for layland and contains many of his beautiful arrangements and nocturnes. Notable among those who brought American art to international fame and glory, we accord him his place in the cavalcade of America. Better things for better living used by DuPont Chemists has true applications for the art of making books. The chemist, through his efforts to create more beautiful and lasting paper, inks, and binding material, has helped to make books, fitting and long-enduring vehicles for the genius of authors. Not far from Washington's revolutionary headquarters in historical Newburgh on Hudson, New York, are made DuPont Fabricoid and PX cloth, two of the best known materials for binding books. To this plant and laboratory have come on annual pilgrimages, the leading bookbinders of America, each one a master craftsman in his own right, to see what is new in the way of DuPont contributions to better books. Both Fabricoid and PX cloth bookbinding materials are composed of a woven textile base coated with durable cellulose compound. An almost limitless range of color and surface effects afford the book designer ample scope for his talent. Important, too, is the fact that books bound in these DuPont materials are washable and resist the attacks of heat, moisture, and hungry insect. More and more public schools of America are coming to see the wisdom of furnishing students with books bound in these washable, beautiful, and enduring materials. The unsanitary pen and finger mark schoolbook bindings of the past are rapidly disappearing thanks to the chemist. A man-made material possessing all of these assets naturally finds broad uses than in bookbinding. Fabricoid also serves long and well as furniture upholstery, luggage covering in women's handbags, and his cleanable tablecloth. In a slightly different form, this coated textile is known as DuPont Tom team, the finest of all washable window shade materials. Fabricoid represents one more achievement of modern chemical research and illustrates the phrase used by DuPont chemists, better things for better living through chemistry. Fillers of the soil, a story of American farming, will be heard next week at the same time when DuPont again presents the Cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System. UADC, New York.