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| Moritz Retzsch illustration for Friedrich Schiller's Pegasus Im Joche |
Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy, Sally Young and Sue Davis for their ongoing research collaboration; specifically to William for providing a scan of the original document, and in turn many thanks to Peter Binckley and Patricia D'Arcy "Trish" Binckley (1951-2007), at the source.]
Apollo, god of the fine arts, was the only one of the gods who ever had to make his living. And did he do it with any of his various arts? Nay, verily. He had to tend the flocks of King Admetus in order to eat. Perhaps this significant fact should have served as a warning to all of us who follow after him. But it has been generally disregarded. We artists blithely set forth along a path we are well aware is a steep and rocky one, bordered by thorns, beset with quagmires, and [often] precariously skirting the brink of precipices. But we chance it. We say of Art, as it was said of Love, "All other pleasures are not worth its pains."
Not that I really had any other alternative. From the time I could hold a pencil, there was but one thing for me. I must be an artist. After all, it was in my blood. My mother's father, Harvey Michel, was a well-known portrait painter in his day. He was a favorite pupil of Washington Allston, and his portraits may be found in many of the old Southern homes. Mother drew beautifully -- figures, she never did landscapes. And Grandmother, while she never painted, used to put a spray of flowers before her and copy them with her embroidery silks. Father was a lawyer, but amused himself painting charming landscapes. His father, likewise a lawyer, also painted landscapes for his own pleasure. Father's mother painted flowers in water colors. So I came honestly by my own bent.
Father was born in Somerset, Ohio, the youngest of four sons. There were no daughters. His father died when he was a boy. Uncle George, who came next to Father, was very anxious to go to West Point. A boy who had grown up with him, named Phil Sheridan, was also very anxious to go there. And when the appointment was given to Uncle George, Phil was so bitterly disappointed that he cried. Uncle George was a generous fellow, and he gave up the appointment to his friend, who afterwards became the famous General Sheridan. Uncle George went West, became a mining man, and died in Colorado.
I think Somerset must have been some sort of a Catholic centre. There was a splendid church there -- perhaps it was a cathedral [St. Joseph's Church, first Catholic church in Ohio.] The Pope of that day sent over as an altarpiece, one of Raphael's paintings. Later the church took fire and burned.
Father was only a boy, but he was so distressed at the destruction of a picture done by Raphael's own hand that he rushed into the burning church and with his pocket knife cut out the head of one of the cherubs. I have often looked at it with reverent eyes. [I]n my childhood, in its portfolio. Alas! The precious thing, with other of our art belongings, was lost by a careless storage company.
Among the pictures I grieved for most was a huge heavily bound book of Rembrandt's etchings. And I loved two books of exquisite line drawings by Moritz Retach [Retzsch], The Song of the Bell [an illustrated edition of Friedrich Schiller's Das Lied von der Glocke], and a smaller one whose name I've forgotten. It told the story of the beautiful winged horse Pegasus, and the poet he came to live with. But the poet was unworthy, and sold Pegasus to a peasant, who harnessed him to a plough. The last picture showed Apollo on the back of the rescued Pegasus, soaring aloft in the sky, while the peasant stared upward in stupid amazement. [See this link.]
My family all had the wandering foot, and in our various peregrinations, much was lost. The old saying "Three moves are as bad as a fire" I know to be tragically true. To be sure, I am like the rest of the family and love to travel and go about. I don't mind moving, and can easily make a home wherever I may be. Yet all my life I have longed for a fixed home to come back to. A place where I could leave my belongings. But I have never had it. I have always had to go about like a snail, carrying my home on my back.
One treasured thing, however, we have managed to cling to. That is a plaster bust of Patrick Henry, done from life by the sculptor. My grandmother's grandmother was one of Patrick Henry's sisters -- his youngest sister Lucy. [She married Valentine Wood -- P.D.B.] This bust has come down in the family. Grandmother [Jane Johnston Michel -- P.D.B.] inherited it and she gave it to mother [Mary Louise Michel Binckley -- P.D.B.] I grew up with it. In her old age Mother gave it to my brother George [George Sydney Binckley -- P.D.B.] His widow now has it in her home in Hollywood, California -- the charming home George built into the face of a cliff. As far as I know, it is the only authentic portrait of Patrick Henry in existence. The one on the Capitol in Washington, painted by Sully, was done ten years after his death, and from description only, as Sully had never seen him.
Father's paternal ancestry was English, while his mother was of German descent. [Where the English ancestry idea came from is unclear. The Binckley name was first spelled Binggele, later Binckele, then Binckley/Binkley. The origin is Swiss. -- P.D.B.] There is a family tradition of a castle on the Rhine, and a grandfather [Stocker -- P.D.B.] who was an idealist -- a dreamer -- who gathered a group of friends and retainers and came to America to found a colony, a sort of Utopia. It did not turn out as he had hoped, and it was said he died broken hearted.
Mother's father [Harvey Michel -- P.D.B.] was of Huguenot descent. Three brothers Michel fled from France on Saint Bartholomew's Eve and came to Virginia. Her mother [Jane Johnston Michel] was of Scottish blood, and her great-great grandfather, Peter Johnston, was born in Annandale, Scotland and was a great friend of Sir Walter Scott.
If I were a dog, I'm afraid I'd be a yellow one, with four strains of blood in my veins.
[Ellen/Nellie/Nella Fontaine Binckley (September 1, 1860-April 27, 1951). Family names and dates were whimsically tweaked by their owners during their lifetime, adding mystery and sometimes causing confusion. For Binckley's "Artist's Life," I'm opting for the full artist's signature name, Nella Fontaine Binckley.
Harvey Michel/Harvey Mitchell (1799-1866)
Washington Allston (1779-1843)
Mother = Mary Louisa Binckley/Mary Louise Binckley (1838-1930)
Jane Johnston Mitchell/Michel (1811-1892)
John Milton Binckley (circa 1831-1878)
His father = John Henry Binckley (1788-1849)
His mother = Charlotte Stocker Binckley (1788-1877)
George Binckley = George Michael Binckley (1828-1885)
Philip Henry Sheridan (1831-1888). Appointed to US Military Academy in 1848 and graduated in 1853. There are conflicting accounts about this that I hope to delve into via a later post.
There was a fire at St. Joseph's in 1864, but not sure of the origin of this story. The central image is remarkably similar to Ray Bradbury's story "The Smile" (Fantastic, 1952), published a year after Nellie's death.
Moritz Retzsch (1779-1857)
Patrick Henry (1736-1799)
Lucy Henry Wood (1743-1826)
Valentine Wood (1724-1781)
George Sydney Binckley (1870-1941)
Widow = Helen B. Gilbertson Binckley (1874-1965)
Sully = Thomas Sully (1783-1872)
Peter Johnston (1710-1786)
Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832). He is conflated with his father, also named Walter Scott.]
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