From Seven to Seventy: Memories of a Painter and a Yankee — Reading Notes

A Yankee's Eye for Character

Simmons's descriptions of people are quick, physical, and often wry. He recalls a coachman in England as 'an interesting character' but notes the impossibility of painting him in his own house—a detail that reveals both the painter's instinct and the social barriers of class. His memory of a cabin boy on a Channel crossing is equally precise: 'he recovered first and carried my grip, while I went across the gangplank on all fours.' The self-deprecation is characteristic, but so is the attention to posture and movement. Even in a moment of distress, Simmons is composing a picture. His portraits of fellow artists, glimpsed in the excerpts, are likely to be similarly economical: a gesture, a habit of speech, a failure of hospitality. He does not idealize his subjects; he places them in a frame of Yankee common sense.

The Painter as Traveler

Simmons's travels are recounted with a traveler's eye for incongruity. In London, he feels 'as much an alien as if I had been of Oriental origin'—a striking admission from a man whose ancestors were New Englanders. He contrasts English politeness with a persistent sense of foreignness, noting that the English 'do not treat us as they do colonials' but 'do us the honor to scrap with us.' The observation is both political and personal. His method of travel is improvisational: choosing 'the longest and the cheapest trip,' sleeping on deck in a snowstorm, telegraphing a friend to 'bail me out.' These episodes are not mere adventures; they are evidence of a temperament that values resourcefulness over comfort. The painter's eye turns the Channel crossing into a tableau: 'the pathetic picture I must have made curled up in the scuppers.'

Humor as a Lens

Simmons devotes a chapter to 'American Humor,' and his own prose is studded with dry, self-mocking asides. He describes taking out a penny on a London train and reflecting that 'for a couple of our copper cents (with a picture of an Indian, badly done, upon the face) I receive this large, weighty, and dignified coin.' The joke is at the expense of both American coinage and his own sudden patriotism. He also praises English humor, noting that Punch 'will be stupid for six months at a time, and all of a sudden will come out with some witty picture or saying that will ring around the world.' This is the judgment of a practitioner: Simmons understands that humor, like painting, depends on timing and surprise. His own anecdotes often pivot on a single absurd detail—the seasick butter merchants, the cabin boy's recovery—that transforms discomfort into comedy.

The Craft of Memory

Simmons structures his memoir around episodes rather than themes. The chapter titles—'Making My Early History,' 'Finding My Wings,' 'In Search of a Career'—suggest a bildungsroman, but the content is more picaresque. He lingers on moments of failure or near-disaster: the depleted funds, the impossible studio, the prophetic friend who recalls a thirty-year-old prediction about Germany and America. These are not confessions but demonstrations of character under pressure. The painter's discipline shows in the selection of detail: a snowstorm, a gangplank, a coin. Simmons does not explain why these moments matter; he trusts the reader to see the composition. The memoir's final chapters—on 'The Players,' 'American Humor,' 'Paint and Painters'—suggest a man summing up not his achievements but his observations. The result is a book that feels less like an autobiography than a series of sketches, each one a finished study.

Simmons's memoir rewards readers who enjoy the company of a sharp, unsentimental observer. He does not offer a systematic theory of art or a complete life story; he offers a painter's notebook, filled with characters, places, and the occasional prophecy. The book is best read in short sittings, letting each anecdote stand on its own. For those interested in the social world of American artists in the late nineteenth century, or in the voice of a Yankee who painted murals in New York and remembered the smell of butter merchants in the Channel, From Seven to Seventy is a singular document.

Simmons wrote about work as a kind of quiet pride—things made well, hands that knew their craft. That same feeling came back to me flipping through Joseph Pennell's Pictures of the Wonder of Work Reproductions of a Series of Drawings, Etchings, and Lithographs, Made by Him about the World, 1881-1915, with — Inside the Classic. Pennell watched factories and bridges the way Simmons watched Paris light—just noticing, without needing to explain. Both books stayed with me like that.