Louis the ladies’ man
“Afternoon Wind”, a heckuva painting by one crazy guy.
Louis Michel Eilshemius (1864-1941) used to hand out business cards on which he described himself as, among many, many other things, a mystic, a mesmerist, a humourist and “the most wonderful and diverse painter of nude groups in the world”.
Well okay, here’s the rest:
Educator, ex-actor, amateur all-round doctor, mesmerist-prophet and mystic, reader of hands and faces, linguist of five languages, graphologist, dramatist (seven works), short-story writer and novelettes (26 works), humourist galore, ex-mimic, animal voices and humans, ex-all-round athletic sportsman (to 1889), universal supreme critic, ex-Don Giovanni, designer of jewellery etc, spiritist, spirit-painter supreme, best marksman to 1881, ex-chess and billiard player to1909, scientist supreme: all ologies, ex-fancy amateur dancer, the most rapid creator in three arts, travelling salesman — in 30 cities on 30 nights, philanthropist, saved 20 lives — three from suicide, greatest religionist, globetrotter, half the globe, western. His middle name is “Variety”. All the supreme genius minds down the ages find domain in EILSHEMIUS. Born 1864 near Newark, New Jersey.
Somehow, not even all that is enough to make you famous in New York. He was most famous for writing wacky letters to the editor of the New York Sun — on any subject at all. He claimed to be an expert on everything under the sun.
He definitely knew a thing or two about painting, at least, and put his academic coaching to decent use in figures and landscapes but, after a couple of exhibitions that went nowhere, no one was offering him the expected break. Louis didn’t need cash, though: A family trust fund kept him in a swell brownstone on East Fifty-Seventh when he wasn’t seeing the world.
Then around 1910 his artwork got a little crazier, and this is what people eventually — two decades later — decided they liked. He painted stiffly posed women with eyes staring at something off-frame in a way that makes you jumpy. The works were primitive and obsessive and refreshingly non-European. The one shown here is “The Prodigy” from 1917. The pianist is looking at you, but she’s obviously lost in the music, so we’re left on our own to wonder. See the rest.
