Mr. White is as strong an individuality as I have met among American photographers. True enough his powers are more limited than those of others; he lacks versatility and is only a specialist, if you like; but nevertheless he is a well-rounded individuality. What he does is consistent, often beautiful, and entirely independent of other photographic work, for even if he takes his matter at secondhand from those he venerates, he understands how to imbue it with a spirit of his own.

The range of his subjects is very limited -- satisfied largely with one female model, who, although not beautiful, has a remarkable talent for posing; he has succeeded in making a series of genre studies which, despite their similarity and uniformity of method, claim our attention at first glance. At the beginning one merely notes a solemn, low-toned key of relative values, a certain weird fancifulness of subject, and a breadth of handling, at times delicious; but one is still uncertain as to what produces the general sense of unity and singleness of their impression. By studying what they mean to represent, one gradually begins to understand that the manÕs art is a product of the environment in which he lives. I have never been to Newark, Ohio, but I presume that it is one of those provincial little towns in the West with about 16,000 or 18,000 inhabitants, who probably live quite comfortably -- perhaps even more so than the average New Yorker -- but who know but little of the attractions and luxuries of a great city. Now imagine a man of artistic instincts placed in such surroundings. There are no opportunities for studying; all the ordinary thoroughfares for pursuing art are out of his reach; he cannot devote himself to it in spare hours, as he has to follow a mercenary profession and consequently lead a routine life. All he sees of the worldÕs art is in stray magazines -- and certainly not always of the best -- which come to the little town. A man in such a position has to rely largely upon himself and the observation of that which surrounds him in daily life. He will trust to the report of his own eyes and pick out from his surroundings that which seems to him practical and worthy of artistic treatment. That is exactly what Mr. White has done.

In his prints one can read as in an open book. Those old-fashioned interiors taken against the light of big windows, those old staircases, doors, and porches, the quaintly patterned gowns of the women who people these scenes, all tell their story. There is something so idyllic in his pictures, something so simple and subtle that the impression they make upon one is not unlike the peculiar fascination which Miss WilkinsÕ New England stories have for one. It is a poetry which comes naturally, and yet at times can be romantic, (as in his Chest studies), or mystical, (as in his "Spring" panel or the delightful composition entitled "The Bubble"). As long as he is true to himself he succeeds, but as soon as he attempts to set forth his ideas with the eloquence of other masters, he fails. He has no skill in compilation, as Mr. Eugene has, for instance, and is unable to cloak his sentiments in the nervous elegance of Boldini. He is even incapable of depicting ladies of fashion in magnificent robes or dazzling evening toilette, which is astonishing as he succeeds marvelously well as long as his sitters wear ordinary tailor-made gowns, as, for instance, his "Mrs. H." and his "Lady in Black," which I consider among his best work. He seems to have no eye for decorative magnificence or the management of gorgeous accessories, which take a completer training than was his share to enjoy. His strength lies rather in a vital love of reality, subdued only as far as the imagination of a simple-minded man can accomplish it. Simple subjects, like "The Readers," he can handle to perfection.

Technically, Mr. WhiteÕs work belongs to the most perfect we have seen in recent years; it is satisfactory in all details; even the mounting and framing, done by himself, shows good taste and judgment. The ensemble of his exhibition was very harmonious; there was nothing to offend the eye, which is more than I can say of most exhibitions; everything was so quiet and subdued that one almost overlooked a certain monotony of appearance, which, with inferior work, would have been simply intolerable.

This shortcoming is very easily explained, for as masterly as he is in the observation and expression of relative value, so deficient is he in the suggestion of color. That is his weak spot. The filmy, suggestive and mysterious manner in which he handles his interiors allows of no strong contrasts -- the general tone would be spoiled, and with it the sentiment. He regards colors as relating to the prevailing note of the whole field of vision rather than to each other, and thus he invariably obtains an ineffective scale of relative importance in tone. He has learned to reveal things with the mystery of a true chiaroscura, but he only masters her in her most modest moods, and wisely avoids all violent effects. He probably knows that he would fail in attempting atmospheric effects of a more joyous nature than those which he likes to depict over and over again. Superb at times is the way in which he subordinates all unnecessary details to a mass of blacks. His blacks, however, are not as rich and deep as Mr. DayÕs, which, although they never seem mere willful emptiness, fail to express depth of space.

A certain frugality is the keynote of Mr. WhiteÕs work. He is not brimful of ideas like some men; he has only a few and his resources for expressing them are very limited, but what he can give, he gives whole-souled, in a sincere and conscientious manner. And these two qualities should not be undervalued if they are combined with genuine inborn talent. They have made a great sculptor of Mr. St. Gaudens, and although Mr. WhiteÕs abilities can in no way be compared to those of our greatest sculptor, they might in time ripen in Mr. WhiteÕs individuality so that it will bear still more beautiful fruit.

As we know him at present he is one of the very best exponents of figure-photography that we have, a man who always aims at completeness, at an extremely high finish, at beauty of sentiment handled so reverently that it becomes part of the imagination, an accomplishment still very rare in modern photography.

The mild, melancholy mood which we can trace in all his prints, and which is achieved with such frugal means, is to me the most interesting note of his work. I always believed that the most individual representatives of American art would come from the West. In the Eastern large cities we are too much influenced by European art to develop strong, self-reliant individualities who, after once having entered upon a path, pursue it to the end. We Easterners are apt to shift from one ideal to another; we know too much and yet scarcely know our own trend of mind; suggestions come too easily to us, and we find it difficult to concentrate on one aim.

My final test of an artistÕs work is to consider what of it I would care to hang up on the walls of my own home; the larger the number is, the more favorable becomes my estimate of the artist; for a man who has seen as much as I have, can only live with pictures that possess intrinsic value. Let me apply this test to Mr. WhiteÕs photographic prints.

His "Spring" I consider to be one of the masterpieces of American photography; it belongs to my framed collection of photographic prints, in which every man is only represented by two or three prints. Also "The Bubble," "The Lady in Black," and several of his interiors and standing figures like "The Violinist" would do honor to any wall. I am doubtful about his "Old Chest Studies." They have been accused of being theatrical. I do not agree there; they have sprung from genuine feeling, and show how far Mr. WhiteÕs imagination may venture successfully. They are like scenes illustrating some strange story of people of bygone days moved by some heart-rending sorrow or feverish desire. A lurid light hovers over these quaintly draped women who bend over an old chest and clasp in their pale hands some relic, a sword or a chain, with the ardor of some deep emotion called up from the graves of the past. They have a great fascination for me, and yet I do not believe they would remain longer than two weeks on my wall. A story has to be marvelously well told to be permissible in pictorial art, and the "Old Chest Studies" do not reach, despite their merits, that state of perfection; they are, after all, only studies. But they, like two-thirds of his exhibited prints, should find a place in the portfolio of every collector of artistic photography.