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tive bar. Realizing the solitary incompleteness of his life, he tried to develop hobbies. For a while he devoted himself to sketching — an artistic urge that seems to find lodgings in a good many actors. John Barrymore began his career as a cartoonist, his brother Lionel is a painter of exceptional diligence. Numerous toilers in the Hollywood vineyard now range their crisp, dried hills with brush and easel. Starting with a pencil and a notebook, Fields sought the elusive line. He sat in parks and studied the genus homo. His findings were unflattering. The species emerged as grotesque, its faces clownish, its figures warped. As his talent sharpened, he moved to pen and proceeded to crayon, slandering his fellows in bold, black lines. At length, in an impartial humor, he turned viciously on himself. The stockpiles of artists are rich in self-portraits. With any creative person, the present indicative is important, with the actor-artist it sometimes reaches an obsession. Van Gogh captured the saffron spirit of Aries, but he was equally content with the spirit of Van Gogh, frayed ear and all. Fields reproduced himself in caricature many, many times, and several of the works survive. They are deft and humorous, with a real feeling for disparagement. The line is sharp, arresting, strong with animation.
Mainly, he drew himself in tramp costume. To an adroit reporter he finally acknowledged his new enterprise, and gave over a sketch of himself for publication. Thereafter, many papers printed Fields' caricatures of himself, in connection with interviews. Commenting on Fields' life in this period, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, for example, said, "How a man of the routine imposed upon W. C. Fields at the Hippodrome makes to be lonely when his activities in the theater take up most of the afternoons and evenings is surprising. Nevertheless, Fields confesses that he is one of the loneliest of men. When good books are not available, Fields makes time merrily pass by drawing sketches. Strolling
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