- drawings of ruby lind

8/13/2019 ... - Drawings of Ruby Lind

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AAL RUByLIND


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DRAWINGS OF RUBY LIND(Mrs. will DYSON)

1887-1919


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THiHINarRUByLlNDLCAV^WILL. DYSON)

CECIL PAL/nERLONDON ^'IQ^O


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RUBY LIND

WO hours before midnight on the night of March the 12th,1919, died Ruby Lindsay at her home at -Chelsea. .... Withher went from the world one of those rare beings whoseexistence is a compensation for the uglier travail of our world.

Life confounds us in our pessimism by throwing upphenomena of a spiritual or material beauty, the mere con-templation of which is a lessening of the miseries that living involves. Shewas of the nature of such.Here was a being in the presence of whom we were uplifted by thefeeling that a sweet and working approximation to perfection was after alla realisable quality. For it seemed so simple and so effortless a thing forher to be this, and a thing involving no meticulous refinements of ourcommon frailties out of existence It was no remote spiritualquality in her that made us wonder by what process of mad elaborationwe others were going so far astray. ...The mean, the thwarted, the pitiful, fill us with sadness by seeming tobe an inevitable outcome of our day. She made them seem less inevitablemore a pathetic and avoidable going wrong. . . . The life that blossomedinto this loveliness was a life that had acquitted itself of its own poorcondemnations. The tree that grew this fruit was a tree to be judgedless harshly. ...

It was not her beauty alone a loveliness that at all times had thefresh frankness of a child'swhich made her friendship and love theunique remembered treasure of some lives. It was not her happyunbookish humouror the half-shy and generous aflFection upon whichwe could all draw. For all these things we loved her. But it was herabsolute Tightness in a world where the rest of us are so sadly misfittedand sadly know the desolating extent of our misfittingthat made her a thingof reassurancea reawakening of belief in life. God or things, we said,


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husband, so given to entangling himself in his own subtleties, this instinct ofhers so often pointed unerringly to the rightness at which the male in himfailed to arrive by laborious processes of ratiocination. These were herhumorously paraded triumphs.

Right judgments were a simple matter with her. She arrived at themat one illogical bound. There is this characteristic capacity in the minds ofessential womenthat they can more often than others, and in spite of thesophistication of age and experience, keep that capacity for sweepingsimplifications which belongs to the child.

It seems as though they have within them an unvarying and mysticstandardthe primitive rectitude of our mysterious origin, sitting inimmediate and instinctive judgment. They are the repository of all thewisdom of our kind that has become instinctivethe embodiment of thenobilities of our origin Our aims may falter, but these, our origins, areprovedtestedaf^rmedauthoritativeand back to these we must alwayscome, as to our basic rightness, as to our starting pointto the breasts thatsuckled us. They are the MotherFact Permanencefixed and abidinghealth. . . They havesuch womenas she had, an unvarying common-sense, a worldly sagacityan infinite capacity for victimisation withoutdisillusion. She was the victim of a thousand deceptionsof a thousandjokes of children and of friends. She resented the deceptionwith anger,with humour, with contempt for that lovely part of her she called hercountry bumpkinness but the deceivers never deceived herif to bedeceived is to be robbed. They left her always with the same generousenthusiasm, the same quick unquestioned sympathy.The happy balance of her nature was in everything she did. Herwork seemed to have been achieved in happinessthough it was born ofanguish and sore travail. Those gracious hands were designed to producethat lovely line and no othera line that has a sweetness surpassed by nopen draughtsmen of our time. It was a misfortune that this talent was notrecognised for the happy thing it was. It was perhaps due to her almostmorbid modesty that even to her few intimate friends she was thought of,less as one who did beautiful and happy things, than as one who was them.What tragedy was in her life was due to the thwarting of her craftsman'spassionthose fingers, that could do with untutored and intuitive skillanything beautiful that human fingers might be called upon to do, achedto be so employed.

But it was only a comparatively disjointed attention she could in herlatter years devote to it.The tragedy of the mother who is also artist, is that either the artistor the child must sufTer. To her this was no open question : the last wasunthinkablebut the first remained a source of paina thing that peeped


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through the happiness of her unremitting and always anxious love forher child.

Death is only death to the best and the worst of usbut it seemed to usthat her going had a tragedy and a poignancy above other deaths. Both inthe departure itself and in the nature of the going were elements that movedus as no other deaths will. She lived through the anguish and the anxietiescommon to all who have had husbands and brothers and men friends andlitde children during the dreadful years from 191' with her share of lossand sorrow and of privation. Her death came after the Armistice, whenit seemed that we might dare to hope again. The little denials of littledesirable things seemed to be at an end. She had spent a fortnight of restin Irelandher first real holiday since the warand returned in a haste ofexpectation to make a dress for an artist ball that was to be for her the happyresurrection of all the suppression of the war. The dress was never finished-she died of that plague which is the inevitable consummation of all our wars ;on the night of the ball. She died clasping in her hand a newly-arrivedletter from her daughter. It contained childish hints of surprises for hermother's approaching birthday. . . .

It was as though War before departing utterly from us had added herdeath as a foot-note, to enrich with a final commentary the tale of hiscrowded horror.

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CONTENTSRuby Lind ....The BoxThe Dance . . . _Ti Tree, Half Moon Bay, 1907 -Fairy Land - - . .Decoration to an Unpublished TragedyIllustration to an Unpublished TragedyUnfinished Pen DrawingThe Cat -Pencil Sketch - - - .At Bourne End -Leave 1917 . . . .Princes RisboroughFan - - . - .Sketch for Fan - - - -Pencil Sketch - - . .Pencil Drawing with Sketch by Artist'sDaughter - - . .

Wisdom and FollyPen DrawingPencil SketchesThe Artist and DaughterBetty - - - -Page of Sketch Book -

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The Box

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The Dance

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Early Drawing. Ti Tree, Half Moon Bay, 1907

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Fairy Land

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Decoration to an Unpublished Tragedy

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Pencil Sketch

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CENTRAL UNIVERSITY LIBRARYUniversity of California, San Diego

, DATE DUE


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- drawings of ruby lind

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