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Walter E. Traprock - The Cruise of the Kawa
Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Swank by means of his camera - foolishly, I say, though the
result was one of the finest spectacles I have ever witnessed.
For days Whinney had been stalking Swank, photographing everything he painted. In a darkroom of
closely woven panjandrus leaves the films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa
long before the artist had finished his picture.
This naturally irritated Swank and he finally challenged the scientist to mortal combat, an artistic duel,
camera against brush, lens against eye.
When the details were explained to Baahaabaa, he was in a frenzy of excitement. As judge, his decision
was to be final, which should have warned Whinney, who, as the challenged party, had the right to select
the subject. His choice was distinctly artful.
"I think I've got him!" he confided. "We're to do the 'lagoon at dawn.' You know what that means?
Everything's gray and I can beat him a mile on gray; secondly, there won't be a gang of people around,
and, thirdly, Swank simply loathes getting up early. They're all alike, these artists; any effort before noon
is torture!"
"All right," said Swank, when I explained the conditions, "I won't go to bed at all."
When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Swank was not himself.
He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced
him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep. In the meantime Whinney was
dodging about with his camera, squinting in the finder, without finding anything - one never does -
peering at the brightening sky, holding his thumb at arm's length, [Footnote: In Southern Peru the same
gesture used to signify contempt and derision.] in a word going through all the artistic motions which
should have been Swank's. The latter finally aroused himself and laboriously got onto all fours, looking
like a dromedary about to lie down, from which position he contemplated the sunrise for several minutes
and then began to fumble in his painting box.
"Ver' funny - ver' funny," he crooned, "forgot my brushes."
"Let me get them for you," I suggested.
He waived me aside. "Gimme air."
Whinney's shutter was now clicking industriously. He had decided to use an entire film, and submit the
picture which came out best. Swank was gradually covering his canvas by squeezing the paint directly
from the tubes, a method which has since been copied by many others - the "Tubistes" so called. Every
few moments he would lurch forward and press his nose against the canvas, once falling flat on his
masterpiece, most of which was transferred to his chest. But he persevered.
Whinney by this time had retired to his darkroom; Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa snored; Swank worked and
I, from a near-by knoll, watched the miracle of a tropical dawn.
It was a scene of infinite calm, low in color-key, peaceful in composition, the curve of purple and
lavender beach unbroken, the crest of dark palms unmoved, "like a Turk verse along a scimitar." The
waters of the lagoon, a mirror of molten amber, reflected the soft hues of the sky from which the trailing
garments of night were gradually withdrawn before his majesty, the Day.
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