Cyrus Cuneo ROI (1879-1916) was a celebrated American-English painter and draughtsman known primarily for his illustrative work.

Raised in San Francisco’s Italian-American neighbourhood of North Beach, the life and times of Cyrus Cuneo are somewhat wilder than many Hollywood biopics. He was born into a talented family of artists and musicians with an abundance of creativity running through his veins. As a boy, he held a single ambition, to become a professional artist, and worked tirelessly to achieve his dream.

He had a natural gift for drawing and by the age of 16, he was working for the local press as an illustrator - a role he held for three years. Keen to hone his skills, he saved relentlessly during this period with additional income derived from his bouts as a boxer.

Alongside his day job, he became the boxing fly-weight champion at the Olympic Club in San Francisco, which resulted in much-needed prize money. This, along with the sale of sketches, enabled him to head for the bright lights and famous ateliers of Paris.

In France, he initially studied at the Académie Colarossi before enrolling at the studio of James McNeill Whistler. Here, he encountered a tutor who, much to the disappointment of his pupils, was rarely in attendance. Cuneo describes his time with Whistler in an amusing document titled ‘Whistler’s Academy of Painting. Some Parisian Recollections.’

In 1900, while still in Paris, he debuted at London’s Royal Academy with two suitably dramatic illustrations from King Lear. And the following year, he moved to London.

Cuneo was imbued with a certain kind of energy, which was less common in his British peers. One journalist, in 1916, marvelled at “the rapidity with which he dashes off his vigorous war pictures” and how “twenty-four hours in the day aren't enough for him to finish all his commissions.” He described the stocky American as bearing a striking resemblance to Napoleon”.

It appears that every hour of his time in London was spent toiling for periodicals and magazines, such as The Pall Mall Magazine and the Illustrated London News. he produced hundreds, if not thousands, of illustrations over a 15-year period. His approach was quite unusual in that he worked in either crayon or oil paint on board, without preliminary pencil drafts. This was probably a technique he adopted while at Whistler’s, as his tutor had a preference for going straight to paint.

Cyrus Cuneo, The Criminologists’ Club (1905)

In 1908, as recognition for his endeavours, he was elected a member of the Royal Institute of Oil Painters. But, just eight years later, while in his prime, he died in tragic circumstances after being accidentally stabbed with a hatpin during a dance. It was reported that the pin scratched the inside of his nose and eventually led to blood poisoning.

Cyrus Cuneo led a rapid, brief and fruitful life, seemingly living each day as his last. From San Francisco to Paris to London - his uncompromising vitality led to him fulfilling a childhood ambition and, in many ways, exceeding it.

Exhibited

Royal Academy, Royal Institute of Oil Painters.

Public Collections

V&A Museum, Walker Art Gallery, Wellcome Collection.

Timeline

1879

Born in San Francisco, USA, to Gian Stefano (John) Cuneo, a butcher, and Anna Cuneo (nee Garibaldi). His parents were born in Italy.

C. 1895

Drawings first published in an Italian newspaper in San Francisco.

Worked for the press in San Francisco.

Trained at the Mark Hopkins Art Institute, San Francisco.

1896

Travelled to Paris and enrolled at Colarossi’s studio, training under Girado, Prenet, and James McNeill Whistler.

Appointed a ’Massier’ by James McNeill Whistler.

1900

Lived in Paris.
Debuted at the Royal Academy with two illustrations from King Lear.

1901

Boarded in Hammersmith, London, with Edward and Fanny Tenison. He was courting their daughter, Nell Marion Tenison, who was still residing in Paris. Occupation recorded as ‘Artist’.

1903

Married Nell Marion Tenison in Fulham, London.

1908

Elected a member of the Royal Institute of Oil Painters.

1910

Worked for the Illustrated London News.
Travelled to Quebec, Canada.

1911

Lived in Fulham, London, with his wife, two children and Frances Tenison, a relative.

1914

Produced war-related illustrations.

1916

Died in Hammersmith, London.

Reviews

The Daily Mirror (1916)

“A Rapid Artist. I was at Mr. Cyrus Cuneo's studio recently and was marvelling at the rapidity with which he dashes off his vigorous war pictures. But for all this, he was complaining that twenty-four hours in the day aren't enough for him to finish all his commissions. Mr. Cuneo is an Italian, born in San Francisco. He bears a striking resemblance to Napoleon, and at fancy-dress balls always figures as the little Corsican.”

Whistler’s Academy of Painting. Some Parisian Recollections.

“There was a great stir in the Latin Quarter when it became known that a new Académie was about to open, with Mr. Whistler as instructor. Notwithstanding the fact that the fees were twice as high as those in the ordinary schools, girls of all nationalities flocked to the Passage Stanislas to put down their names, as there were only a limited number of pupils, and the lucky forty who were admitted were the envied of all, when the schools opened in the autumn of 1898. 

Men were rather more cautious in coming to the call, being slower to appreciate the chance of studying under such a genius as Whistler. Whilst admiring him immensely as an artist, they doubted his ability to teach. All know how much Whistler despised the ordinary academic training, and how he himself broke away from the conventions. His idea was to get together a class of artists, and not any ordinary students; as he considered that a large percentage of those who joined the schools would have done far better as carpenters or blacksmiths.

There was no mercenary side to the venture, as Whistler volunteered his services. It was done from a love of art, for with his usual kindness he wished to help those who were really artistic and in earnest. To carry out his idea he installed his favourite Italian model and her husband in the Académie, entrusting them with the business side of the affair. They ran the entire school, and whatever profits there were (and undoubtedly for a time they were very high), Mr. Whistler generously refused to share. 

The house selected was an old three-storied one in the Passage Stanislas, off the Rue Notre Dame des Champs, and immediately opposite the studio of the famous Carolus Duran. It contained a stable on the ground floor ingeniously adapted to a studio, and another atelier at the top of the house. Whistler purchased some rare old carved oak from a château in the south of France, which he presented to the school. He had the handsome staircase fitted in bodily, with wainscot and handrail complete, and one had to mount these magnificent stairs to gain the studio on the third floor. The door leading into this room was of beautiful black oak, with iron latch and hinges; and in the room itself was a fireplace, which for the dignified simplicity of its carving was worthy of a home in any museum. On all the landings, and in the studios, were simple draperies, and divans with cushions, and at a glance one felt the presence of Whistler. The school was certainly a distinct break-away in every sense from the ordinary French Académies.

There was no such thing as the Professor coming twice a week at an appointed hour. Whistler came on any day, and at any time whenever, in fact, the spirit moved him, and to the sorrow of all the students the spirit moved him very seldom. Everything was done through Madame the proprietress, who was wont to inform the massier that 'Monsieur Wheeslair is coom to-day.' This announcement produced great excitement in the class. There was much arranging of palettes, and frantic endeavours, to quote Whistler's words, 'to make the Masterpiece appear as the flower to the painter, perfect in its bud as in its bloom.'

With his true politeness Whistler would mount the stairs to visit the ladies first, and there were visible signs of anxiety on the faces of the men students as they listened for the well-known tap of the dainty feet on the polished stair, as he ascended. It brought to mind the poem 'Sheridan's ride,' with 'Whistler only ten steps away-only five steps away.' Then, instead of the preliminary pause at our door, we were exasperated by hearing his footsteps dying away down the passage, and hearing his high piping voice say to Madame: 'A peut-être demain-pour les messieurs. Au revoir!'

Whistler was certainly a genius, but he showed some difficulty in imparting his knowledge. His criticisms were often foggy and uncertain, and he hardly ever found words in which to express himself. It was alınost an impossibility to develop without becoming a slave and copying him in every way. In the hands of the majority of the students this was a dangerous method. If one came with a spark of originality it was extinguished immediately by the dominating personality of The Master. He could only see Art from his own standpoint and he insisted on us all using the same palette, the same brushes as himself, and on our seeing all objects with his eyes. The result to an ordinary outsider was ridiculously monotonous. I well remember a Frenchman, who wanted to join the class, coming to view some of the studies, and then remarking, with an amused smile, 'Vous avez beaucoup little Wheelslers!'

This was perfectly true of the majority, but there were a few very matured men, who hardly carried out Whistler's formulæ as regards the palette and method, but who profited largely by the criticisms, owing to their more independent attitude. Those students who were much hampered in the other schools and discouraged by criticisms on their drawings, took sanctuary, as it were, in the Académie Whistler, where such a thing as faulty work was completely ignored. The whole time I studied with him, I never heard him once correct bad drawing, proportion, or character. This sort of criticism could only be of great artistic value to the student who was strong enough to understand; but it was fatal to those who had not gone through the mill, as well as to those who failed to realise that a school is to study in, and not a place to produce pictures.

I had just joined the Académie, and of course was on the tiptoe of expectation at the idea of really seeing Whistler, and living in the same room with him. My first experience of him revealed to me the whole object of his teaching. The announcement of his arrival was the signal for us all to shuffle off our tabourets to salute him. He had scarcely entered the room before he spotted an Englishman who was smoking as he worked, and observed drily, 'You should be very careful. You know, you might get interested in your work and let your ur pipe go out!' This remark produced a subdued chuckle on all sides. Anywhere else it would have caused a roar of laughter, but a hearty laugh before the Professor would have been considered inartistic.

Instead of sitting down in the usual French fashion and giving each pupil in turn a clear and matter-of-fact criticism, Whistler airily picked his way amongst the easels, glancing here and there, ignoring some canvases altogether, greeting others with 'Yes-yes.' To a third he would say, 'I see you're beginning to understand!' and to still another, 'Rather dirty, you know, - dirty, muddy in colour.' To a big military-looking German who towered over him he said, as he adjusted his monocle, 'You know, you're rather small in your treatment.' Then, glancing up at his huge pupil with a twinkle in his eye, and his head on one side at a knowing angle, he added the admonition, 'Broader-bigger -more simple!'

I had come fresh from the Parisian schools, and to my surprise found I was the only one doing a charcoal drawing. All the others were painting. I worked very hard at that drawing in order to impress Whistler. It certainly had the daintily across the room he stood behind me. He was silent so long that I became horribly uncomfortable. He at last broke the silence by 'Splendid, marvellous, very good, very good!' Then he paused. With a glow of satisfaction I felt I had justified my existence. Alas for my ignorance of Whistler!

In a moment the ripple of amusement from the rest of the fellows. Then again: 'There you sit, drawing a figure on a white sheet of paper, which to begin with is absolutely false, as ever-if you will observe, the model is a delicate silhouette against a green background. The composition before me is emphasised by the entire absence of white. It is a tone-harmony, enveloped in atmosphere. Here you've not only lost the effect, but changed the scheme entirely. My advice to you, Mr. Cuneo, is to paint-draw-draw with your brush, and endeavour to produce what you see before you.' Then, as he walked off, 'You may be shocked with the result!'

Needless to say, that was the first and last drawing I made in that class. From that time forward I started to paint, and when I was noticed at all I got the very brief and lucid criticisms that Whistler was so famous for. 'Yes-yes; now that's better, that's better: it rather looks as if you had squeezed the tubes on to the canvas.'

My term of office as massier or monitor commenced in a very amusing way. I was summoned one day by Madame: Mr. Whistler wished to speak to me. 1 immediately concluded my career at the Académie was at an end-that I had been found wanting, and unworthy even to follow humbly in the great man's footsteps. This was also the general impression in the class, for as I closed the door the fellows called out 'Good-bye, Cuneo, old chap!'

Whistler was standing, an impressive figure in black, the long overcoat buttoned down to his ankles, the poet's hat and black gloves all complete. I had hardly entered the room before he wheeled round and, looking sternly at me, said: 'Look here, Mr. Cuneo, you yo er-er- seem a very conscientious and hardworking young man, and I think-er-I think-er-you'll get on.' In my agony I blurted out, 'But, Mr. Whistler, I am painting entirely at present.'

'Yes, yes, yes, yes! I want you to become massier here, as Mr. is leaving. I know you will do your best to get the right sort of pupils in this class. You must understand my aim is not to get this school into the position of those other French Académies, where anybody is accepted who will pay the usual fees. No, we don't want the ordinary student just for the sake of filling up the class. We want real born artists, men who consider art a science, not a trade. Men er--men er these fellows, these er.. we want none of your cow-punching Americans, who have done portraits for two bits (twenty-five cents, or one shilling) over there, and think they can come here and join my school! They are certainly undesirable, and are not wanted here- not wanted here.'

Then, shaking his gloved finger in my face, he resumed. 'And there are others, who come from London, from that school er-we've got some of them here now! They are no credit to my school. You know the girls are much stronger, much stronger! I'll try and come round next Friday. Good day. Madame, j'ai parlé avec M. Cuneo: il comprend bien,' and without another word he left me.

On the mornings of Whistler's intended visits all were on the alert, and ordinary things were thrust aside. Tordo, the excitable Italian attendant, acted as scout, and was stationed at the end of the Passage, commanding a good view of Whistler's studio. Madame hung out of the window. At the first signs of Whistler's approach Tordo raced back, Madame instantly took the alarm, burst into the studio with 'Signor Cuneo! Signor Wheestlair!' and vanished as suddenly as she had come, and we heard her ruthlessly silence her husband, who was tranquilly playing Verdi's 'Miserere' on his harp. Almost before the last strains had ceased there was a violent ring at the bell, and one of the Americans remarked, 'That's Whistler's clutch.' Madame, by this time composed and smiling, opened the door in a calm and casual manner. After exchanging the usual greetings she came to the studio and motioned me out of the room, amid the sniggers of the others. Of course the understanding was that we were all unaware Mr. Whistler was in the place. He bowed to me, said good morning, and asked me to announce him, mentioning at the same time that he was 'very busy this morning-very busy. Have only just come to see er-how everybody is really cannot stay.'

I opened the studio door, and sheepishly walking down the shallow steps, said: 'Gentlemen, Mr. Whistler.' This naturally surprised them very much. Whistler came forward and stood on the landing, bowing graciously. 'Good morning, gentlemen I hope you are all well.' The fellows, looking uncommonly like tin soldiers, mumbled some reply. Having been relieved of his hat, coat, and cane, the great man was soon chatting amongst us. Suddenly dropping the subject he was discussing, he pointed to a canvas and said, 'Whhoo's done that?' The perpetrator of the study slowly emerged from the group, like a guilty schoolboy hauled up for some dreadful offence. ‘I see in the model a beautiful thing, but there's such a lack of er of er er-it-m-m-m, yes, yes, yes, I see in l the model a beautiful envelopment, the atmosphere; there's hardly an edge-it turns. By the way, what is your palette like? let me see it, let me see it!' 

The palette was produced, and a look of horror overspread Whistler's face. 'Good gracious! I say, Mr. Cuneo, have you shown Mr. the palette?' the arrangement for, the envelopment, the atmosphere.’ 'I am afraid, Mr. Whistler, he hasn't been here very long.' 'Well, let me see-have you got any brushes?' They were handed to him, and he looked at them very doubtfully. He then took the palette and proceeded to get it into a fit condition to use. Deciding on the general tone of the model, he mixed with the knife a lump of paint to represent this tone, then dragged in similar colours, light and dark, to form the transitional tones from light to shadow. There was a look of great admiration at the sight of what he had produced; the palette was now a true harmony in every sense; in itself it would almost have served as a picture, thus illustrating Whistler's words that 'the picture was practically finished on the palette.'

Having now got everything in satisfactory working order, and oblivious of the fact that he had an engagement, and that the poor model had been posing before he came, and had patiently stood through the tedious twenty minutes of preparatory work, Whistler started to 'transfer' to the canvas. We all crowded around, breathlessly watching his every movement: this was certainly a treat never to be forgotten. Intense interest was depicted on our eager and pleased faces, and I am sure we all inwardly felt horribly elated and a great pity for those of our fellow-students who were not present.

There stood frail little Whistler, staring at the model as though she were a ghost; open eyes and mouth, working on the palette, he held his breath, then slowly extending his arm, and gently but firmly drawing the brush along the canvas, he uttered a deep sigh, almost a puff of relief, ending with the finish of the stroke. This painful process was repeated at almost every touch, and was exceedingly comical. It was marvellous, though, to see the transformation he wrought: from an ordinary study he changed it to a canvas containing all the qualities of a great master.

As time went on uneasiness prevailed; we shifted from one foot to the other, leant on each other's shoulders, and exchanged glances of sympathy with the model, who was lifting first one leg, then the other, in a wild endeavour to get the blood to circulate, making horrible faces as she looked at the clock. (Whistler would only have women models, never men.) This had not the slightest effect on Whistler, who became more and more excited, his strokes more energetic, and the white lock reared itself defiantly in his dishevelled hair. With a louder puff than any that had preceded it, Whistler suddenly laid down the brushes, saying, 'I think that's better.'

Our enthusiastic praises were not wholly due, I fear, to the very fine lesson we had received; being merely mortal, we thought of mundane things, and we were all keenly conscious that our dinner-hour was long past. The model took instant advantage of the break, and limped across the room incoherently muttering something about its being the last time she would pose here. Whistler informed me, as I helped him into his coat, that he would come next Friday, and read us some passages from his book that he thought would be of some benefit to us. Mounting the shallow steps, he paused on the little landing at the top, and with his usual courteous bow made his exit.

We surged round the picture, and several laughing offers were made for it; but the lucky possessor carried it off triumphantly, for I am sure that up to the last moment he had expected Whistler to say, 'I'd better take this with me.' True to his word, on the following Friday he appeared, and summoning us all around him like an Indian chief holding a council of war, he seated himself on a high tabouret, and drawing from his pocket a copy of the famous Gentle Art, he solemnly read us extracts; accentuating passages with his gloved hand, occasionally looking up and asking some of the foreigners if they understood- sometimes even translating for their benefit.

A Scotchman who was very anxious to obtain Whistler's opinion on some of his sketches had begged me to speak to him that morning. I must mention here that no student could approach the Professor direct - everything had to be done through the massier. I accordingly went up to Whistler and asked him if he would look at a few sketches Mr. wished to show him. 'Sketches? oh, well-er-yes, yes, certainly.'

Very elated, Mr. ranged his works neatly in a row on a divan in a good light, and waited with much complacency for the verdict. They were the sort of thing Whistler disliked extremely, being without harmony or thought-in fact, the first thing that presented itself. Whether it was the man's knickerbockers or the lack of quality in his work that influenced the judgement one will never know. Whistler stooped and most carefully studied each sketch, one after the other, then coming back to the first one (an old peasant woman, her face brilliantly illuminated by a huge candle flaring in the foreground), he again looked at it long and hard, then quietly turning, said in a dangerously subdued tone: 'How beautifully you've painted the candle! Good morning, gentlemen.' This was Whistler at his worst; but the following incident shows how really kind he was beneath the crust of eccentricity when he saw an earnest and conscientious student.

A well-known American portrait-painter armed with a full-length portrait study taken off the stretcher and rolled up under his arm, ventured to call on Whistler one Sunday morning. A modest knock brought the great man himself to the door. Opening it a very little way, he thrust out his head and demanded irritably, 'What brings you here? what do you want?' My friend stammered out that he was a student and had a study that he would much like to show him and get his opinion on.

Whistler said, 'M-m-just wait a minute,' and rushing back into the room he turned every picture with its face to the wall, and took the one that he was engaged on off the easel. Then, motioning the American in, he sat down and said, 'Now what do you want?-you know I am fearfully busy to-day; it's really not the day to come and see me; but sit down, sit down.'

Whistler scanned the painting most critically, and suddenly blurted out, 'But what are you doing this for?' 'Well, I thought I could finish it and send it to the Salon.' 'But what's the good of that? What good will that do you? It's hung on the walls and forgotten it's much better to work for yourself and not for the Salon.'

He then stooped down and picked the canvas up and carefully pinned it on the wall, then surveyed it silently for some time. 'Yes,' he exclaimed at last, 'it's carefully done. You have a certain amount of charm and repose, and er- the colour is quiet. You don't work in the schools, do you?' Then putting the picture he had been painting on the easel, he said, 'What do you think of this?-what do you see in this?'

My friend said that he saw a beautiful feeling of atmosphere, and soft, subdued colouring, and so forth, Whistler going off into one of his quiet chuckling laughs. Suddenly Whistler said, 'I see you are not here from any mercenary motives, so sit down and we'll have a little chat.' Whistler became quite confidential, as they talked on American art and the different works of different men, and at last said: 'Well, you know you're a curious fellow, cutting a canvas off a stretcher like that.' 'I thought,' said my friend, 'it would be easier to carry; and besides it doesn't matter-I am going to paint it over again.' ‘Ah! that's a good idea you go home and paint twenty of those, and maybe you'll get a good one.' 'Could I show you my next attempt, Mr. Whistler?' 'Certainly, certainly; I shall be pleased to see anything you do. Good gracious! it's after twelve, and I've done nothing you have wasted my time most horribly. Good morning-good morning.'

I can hardly leave the subject of the Académie Whistler without referring to the girl students, whom he considered his stronger class. He never had a more ardent lot of followers; they adored him, and, being more susceptible to the emotional side of his influence, under his tuition they turned out really charming studies. On certain days the girls appeared more smartly dressed than usual- some were even resplendent and to the uninitiated in the Quarter these gay toilettes almost suggested a festive occasion; but no, it was merely that Mr. Whistler was expected. Only a few worked at their painting, blouses were discarded, and there was a general air of nervous expectation.

On these days visitors were denied admittance, and it was almost as much as a man's life was worth to be found in the place. By mistake one day I opened the door, and was rushing in, when I was stopped short by many angry eyes turned on me. I fled out of the room as I became aware that Mr. Whistler was criticising. The picture has made an indelible impression on me there he was in his tightly buttoned black frock-coat, his monocle gleaming in his eye, surrounded by a bevy of girls who hung on his slightest word. He was daintily wiping his finger-tips on a snowy handkerchief which the massier held before him. I heard him utter the momentous words, in his most working manner, 'And is that what they taught you at the Slade?'

The career of the Academy came to an end mainly due to the fact of Mr. Whistler's infrequent visits owing to his bad health. The students dwindled away, and eccentricity reigned supreme. Foolish quarrels arose, and in one instance a fight partly took place because an American student would insist on coming to work in knickerbockers and painting with flat brushes. He was considered no artist, and was asked to leave the class. The school received its death blow when, for some reason that I fail to remember, Mr. Whistler was absent for a month or more. The proprietor then promptly closed the school.”

Obituaries

The Mail

“Mr. Cyrus Cuneo, the artist and illustrator, died in London yesterday at the age of 37. He recently described himself as an Englishman by preference and adoption, an American by birth and citizenship, and an Italian of unmixed blood by parentage." He was born in San Francisco, and his first published drawings appeared in an Italian paper when he was 16. For the next three years he worked for the San Francisco Press generally, and then, with £40 he had saved, sailed for Paris. In Paris, where he studied for four years, he worked in Whistler's studio, and afterwards started a class of his own for illustration.

On leaving Paris he went to America for six months, and then came to England. His work in the Illustrated London News, his illustrations of Rider Haggard's stories, and of numerous novels and tales published on both sides of the Atlantic made his work and name familiar to a very large public. One of his most recent pictures was of the landing of the Australians at Anzac.

Mr. Cuneo was a man of fine physique and a notable athlete, and as a boxer was famous both on the Pacific slope and in Paris and London. He leaves a widow, herself a painter and illustrator, and two young sons.”

Birmingham Daily Post

“The death is announced of Mr. Cyrus Cincinatto Cuneo, the well-known illustrator. Born thirty- seven years ago in San Francisco of Italian parentage, Mr. Cuneo studied art in Paris under Girado, Prenet, and Whistler, and about fifteen years ago became known in London as an illustrator for weekly and monthly periodicals. He was a member of the Royal Institute of Oil Painters and of the Langham Sketching Club, and exhibited at the Royal Academy.”

The Illustrated London News

“Many interested in the world of art will have heard with regret that the clever artist, Cyrus Cuneo, whose work is so familiar to our readers through the medium of many striking pictures in this paper, died on July 23, after a very short illness, at the early age of thirty-seven. His bold, vigorous style, clever characterisation, and vivid contrasts of light and shadow, gave strength to his drawings, which, too, were always inspired by some healthy human feeling. Cyrus Cincinnato Cuneo was born in San Francisco, of Italian parents, and studied in Paris with Whistler and other masters - a combination of influences which may account for the cosmopolitan range of his art. His colleagues mourn him sincerely.”