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James Abbott McNeill Whistler

He never lost his loathing for critics.
Often he wore his monocle
when seated across from them,

studying them through his lens
as if they were jewels,
dismissing them as imitations.

Dinner invitations disappeared,
along with most of his disciples:
followers with uneasy stomachs,

whom he had bullied
for having the brushwork
of house painters.

In his old age his frequent companion
was despair, his love Trixie
dead from cancer.

He moved in with his sister-in-law--
but what did she know of art?
Worse, no one dropped by to argue.

His heart faltering in his last days,
Jemie was finally indifferent
to the churlishness of critics,

thinking only of Trixie,
her memories beckoning him
like his beloved Nocturnes


Note: This is an old poem, long ago published, but significantly revised

I can see why it was accepted . Near where I live is the Biltmore House .Vanderbilt was a patron of Whistler and I've seen the pieces on display.He did portraits of the family in 1897

He was a great painter, and imho aside from the iconic Whistler’s Mother portrait, under appreciated

Bob, this is interesting, I know very little about Whistler
other than he loved his mother. No wonder that this
has already been published.