Judge, 1920-08-21 · page 15 of 36
Judge — August 21, 1920 — page 15: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical poem about two impoverished bohemian artists—a painter and poet—living in a Parisian garret. The humor centers on their desperate financial straits: the painter worries about his rent being "due tonight," the poet lacks even a single "sou" (coin), and a landlady threatens to burn his poems if he's late. The satire mocks the romantic notion of starving artists. When the painter suggests their artworks possess souls that will transcend death, the poet angrily rejects this consolation—insisting his unpaid poems are "only learning how to walk," meaning they're still too undeveloped to matter. The cartoon ridicules the pretentious spiritualization of art as escape from material poverty. The illustrations depict their chaotic bohemian life: arguing in their studio, fleeing through Paris streets. The satire targets both the artists' self-aggrandizing rhetoric and society's indifference to their actual suffering.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
And I... great epics stir at times, = H, what >| But just beyond the reach of rhymes. relief,” the 1 ti I'll make for you—though now painter { I’m dumb— sighed, ; The finest songs in worlds to “And fancy how He | come!” I might have iy | died hh i HE painter scanned the poet’s face, Without this comfort and its light— ti} While thus apostrophizing space: Mon Dieu! My rent is due tonight.” I i “Oh, Death, where is thy so-called sting If he can always rhyme with ‘spring’?” “Mine, too!’? The poet struck the i floor, i ‘C'est ca! You've caught the very And grabbed his hat and sought gist,” the door; 5 | Exclaimed the bard and banged “You pay the check, and I'll pay ) i his fist you, Until he made the glasses rock- I don’t possess a single i Sou. j j “Take care, you’re spilling half my Madame has threatened, if I’m | in bock, late, | And wait, old chap, you scarcely see ‘To pitch my poems in the grate.” i I'll need my canvases with me. | lve heaped them on my shelves so well “But wait,” the garret painter said, They tower high as Satnt Chapelle. “Unseemly haste! You’ve lost your head. kK I can’t, tu sais, when I am dead, If songs have souls, well, let i Keep all my paintings in my head.” them fly I= i And wait for you beyond the “= ‘ wy “T'd thought of that,” his friend returned, sky.” As one whom visions oft concerned; = ahh “My manuscripts, your paintings, too, “But not this batch!” the poct Have each a soul the same as you; cried, | And by your side they also fly And reached the door with awful stride: { Into the next world when you die. “Their souls? In flight? What idle Don’t fret about your cluttered shelves. talk... These things will regulate themselves.” They’re only learning how to walk.” | } j " f : al lj ih | EOmMicbooks¥eom