OF TURNERIAN LIGHT.
Sec. 1. Having in the preceding chapter seen the grounds on which to
explain and justify Turner's _choice_ of facts, we proceed to examine
finally those modes of _representing_ them introduced by him;--modes so
utterly at variance with the received doctrines on the subject of art,
as to cause his works to be regarded with contempt, or severe blame, by
all reputed judges, at the period of their first appearance. And,
chiefly, I must confirm and farther illustrate the general statements
made respecting light and shade in the chapters on Truth of Tone,[13]
and on Infinity,[14] deduced from the great fact (Sec. 5. chapter on Truth
of Tone) that "nature surpasses us in power of obtaining light as much
as the sun surpasses white paper." I found that this part of the book
was not well understood, because people in general have no idea how much
the sun _does_ surpass white paper. In order to know this practically,
let the reader take a piece of pure white drawing-paper, and place it in
the position in which a drawing is usually seen. This is, properly,
upright (all drawings being supposed to be made on vertical planes), as
a picture is seen on a room wall. Also, the usual place in which
paintings or drawings are seen is at some distance from a window, with a
gentle side light falling upon them, front lights being unfavorable to
nearly all drawing. Therefore the highest light an artist can ordinarily
command for his work is that of white paint, or paper, under a gentle
side light.[15] But if we wished to get as much light as possible, and
to place the artist under the most favorable circumstances, we should
take the drawing near the window. Put therefore your white paper
upright, and take it to the window. Let _ac_, _cd_, be two sides of
your room, with a window at _bb_. Under ordinary circumstances your
picture would be hung at _e_, or in some such position on the wall _cd_.
First, therefore, put your paper upright at _e_, and then bring it
gradually to the window, in the successive positions _f_, _g_, and
(opening the window) finally at _p_. You will notice that as you come
nearer the window the light gradually _increases_ on the paper; so that
in the position at _p_ it is far better lighted than it was at _e_. If,
however, the sun actually falls upon it at _p_, the experiment is
unfair, for the picture is not meant to be seen in sunshine, and your
object is to compare pure white paper, as ordinarily used, _with_
sunshine. So either take a time when the sun does not shine at all, or
does not shine in the window where the experiment is to be tried; or
else keep the paper so far within the window that the sun may not touch
it. Then the experiment is perfectly fair, and you will find that you
have the paper at _p_ in full, serene, pictorial light, of the best
kind, and highest attainable power.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
Sec. 2. Now, leaning a little over the window sill, bring the edge of the
paper at _p_ against the sky, rather low down on the horizon (I suppose
you choose a fine day for the experiment, that the sun is high, and the
sky clear blue, down to the horizon). The moment you bring your white
paper against the sky you will be startled to find this bright white
paper suddenly appear in shade. You will draw it back, thinking you have
changed its position. But no; the paper is not in shade. It is as bright
as ever it was; brighter than under ordinary circumstances it ever can
be. But, behold, the blue sky of the horizon is far brighter. The one is
indeed blue, and the other white, but the _white_ is _darkest_,[16] and
by a great deal. And you will, though perhaps not for the first time in
your life, perceive that though black is not easily proved to be white,
white, may, under certain circumstances, be very nearly proved black, or
at all events brown.
Sec. 3. When this fact is first show to them, the general feeling with most
people is, that, by being brought against the sky, the white paper is
somehow or other brought "into shade." But this is not so; the paper
remains exactly as it was; it is only compared with an actually brighter
hue, and looks darker by comparison. The circumstances are precisely
like those which affect our sensations of heat and cold. If, when by
chance we have one hand warm, and another cold, we feel, with each hand,
water warmed to an intermediate degree, we shall first declare the water
to be cold, and then to be warm; but the water has a definite heat
wholly independent of our sensations, and accurately ascertainable by a
thermometer. So it is with light and shade. Looking from the bright sky
to the white paper, we affirm the white paper to be "in shade,"--that
is, it produces on us a sensation of darkness, by comparison. But the
hue of the paper, and that of the sky, are just as fixed as temperatures
are; and the sky is actually a brighter thing than white paper, by a
certain number of degrees of light, scientifically determinable. In the
same way, every other color, or force of color, is a fixed thing, not
dependent on sensation, but numerically representable with as much
exactitude as a degree of heat by a thermometer. And of these hues, that
of open sky is one not producible by human art. The sky is not blue
_color_ merely,--it is blue _fire_, and cannot be painted.
Sec. 4. Next, observe, this blue fire has in it _white_ fire; that is, it
has white clouds, as much brighter than itself as _it_ is brighter than
the white paper. So, then, above this azure light, we have another
equally exalted step of white light. Supposing the value of the light of
the pure white paper represented by the number 10, then that of the blue
sky will be (approximately) about 20, and of the white clouds 30.
But look at the white clouds carefully, and it will be seen they are not
all of the same white; parts of them are quite grey compared with other
parts, and they are as full of passages of light and shade as if they
were of solid earth. Nevertheless, their most deeply shaded part is
that already so much lighter than the blue sky, which has brought us up
to our number 30, and all these high lights of white are some 10 degrees
above that, or, to white paper, as 40 to 10. And now if you look from
the blue sky and white clouds towards the sun, you will find that this
cloud white, which is four times as white as white paper, is quite dark
and lightless compared with those silver clouds that burn nearer the sun
itself, which you cannot gaze upon,--an infinite of brightness. How will
you estimate that?
And yet to express all this, we have but our poor white paper after all.
We must not talk too proudly of our "truths" of art; I am afraid we
shall have to let a good deal of black fallacy into it, at the best.
Sec. 5. Well, of the sun, and of the silver clouds, we will not talk for
the present. But this principal fact we have learned by our experiment
with the white paper, that, taken all in all, the calm sky, with such
light and shade as are in it, is brighter than the earth; brighter than
the whitest thing on earth which has not, at the moment of comparison,
heaven's own direct light on it. Which fact it is generally one of the
first objects of noble painters to render. I have already marked one
part of their aim in doing so, namely, the expression of infinity; but
the opposing of heavenly light to earth-darkness is another most
important one; and of all ways of rendering a picture generally
impressive (see especially Sec. 12. of the chapter just referred to), this
is the simplest and surest. Make the sky calm and luminous, and raise
against it dark trees, mountains, or towers, or any other substantial
and terrestrial thing, in bold outline, and the mind accepts the
assertion of this great and solemn truth with thankfulness.
Sec. 6. But this may be done either nobly or basely, as any other solemn
truth may be asserted. It may be spoken with true feeling of all that it
means; or it may be declared, as a Turk declares that "God is great,"
when he means only that he himself is lazy. The "heaven is bright," of
many vulgar painters, has precisely the same amount of signification; it
means that they know nothing--will do nothing--are without
thought--without care--without passion. They will not walk the earth,
nor watch the ways of it, nor gather the flowers of it. They will sit
in the shade, and only assert that very perceptible, long-ascertained
fact, "heaven is bright." And as it may be _asserted_ basely, so it may
be _accepted_ basely. Many of our capacities for receiving noblest
emotion are abused, in mere idleness, for pleasure's sake, and people
take the excitement of a solemn sensation as they do that of a strong
drink. Thus the abandoned court of Louis XIV. had on fast days its
sacred concerts, doubtless entering in some degree into the religious
expression of the music, and thus idle and frivolous women at the
present day will weep at an oratorio. So the sublimest effects of
landscape may be sought through mere indolence; and even those who are
not ignorant, or dull, judge often erroneously of such effects of art,
because their very openness to all pleasant and sacred association
instantly colors whatever they see, so that, give them but the feeblest
shadow of a thing they love, they are instantly touched by it to the
heart, and mistake their own pleasurable feeling for the result of the
painter's power. Thus when, by spotting and splashing, such a painter as
Constable reminds them somewhat of wet grass and green leaves, forthwith
they fancy themselves in all the happiness of a meadow walk; and when
Gaspar Poussin throws out his yellow horizon with black hills, forthwith
they are touched as by the solemnity of a real Italian twilight,
altogether forgetting that wet grass and twilight do not constitute the
universe; and prevented by their joy at being pleasantly cool, or
gravely warm, from seeking any of those more precious truths which
cannot be caught by momentary sensation, but must be thoughtfully
pursued.
Sec. 7. I say "more precious," for the simple fact that the sky is brighter
than the earth is _not_ a precious truth unless the earth itself be
first understood. Despise the earth, or slander it; fix your eyes on its
gloom, and forget its loveliness; and we do not thank you for your
languid or despairing perception of brightness in heaven. But rise up
actively on the earth,--learn what there is in it, know its color and
form, and the full measure and make of it, and if _after that_ you can
say "heaven is bright," it will be a precious truth, but not till then.
Giovanni Bellini knows the earth well, paints it to the full, and to the
smallest fig-leaf and falling flower,--blue hill and white-walled
city,--glittering robe and golden hair; to each he will give its lustre
and loveliness; and then, so far as with his poor human lips he may
declare it, far beyond all these, he proclaims that "heaven is bright."
But Gaspar, and such other landscapists, painting all Nature's flowery
ground as one barrenness, and all her fair foliage as one blackness, and
all her exquisite forms as one bluntness; when, in this sluggard gloom
and sullen treachery of heart, they mutter their miserable attestation
to what others had long ago discerned for them,--the sky's
brightness,--we do not thank them; or thank them only in so far as, even
in uttering this last remnant of truth, they are more commendable than
those who have sunk from apathy to atheism, and declare, in their dark
and hopeless backgrounds, that heaven is NOT bright.
Sec. 8. Let us next ascertain what are the colors of the earth itself.
A mountain five or six miles off, in a sunny summer morning in
Switzerland, will commonly present itself in some such pitch of dark
force, as related to the sky, as that shown in Fig. 4. Plate +25+, while
the sky itself will still, if there are white clouds in it, tell as a
clear dark, throwing out those white clouds in vigorous relief of light;
yet, conduct the experiment of the white paper as already described, and
you will, in all probability, find that the darkest part of the
mountain--its most vigorous nook of almost black-looking shadow--_is
whiter than the paper_.
The figure given represents the _apparent_ color[17] of the top of the
Aiguille Bouchard (the mountain which is seen from the village of
Chamouni, on the other side of the Glacier des Bois), distant, by
Forbes's map, a furlong or two less than four miles in a direct line
from the point of observation. The observation was made on a warm sunny
morning, about eleven o'clock, the sky clear blue; the mountain seen
against it, its shadows grey purple, and its sunlit parts greenish. Then
the darkest part of the mountain was _lighter than pure white paper_,
held upright in full light at the window, parallel to the direction in
which the light entered. And it will thus generally be found impossible
to represent, in any of its _true_ colors, scenery distant more than two
or three miles, in full daylight. The deepest shadows are whiter than
white paper.
Sec. 9. As, however, we pass to nearer objects, true representation
gradually becomes possible;--to what degree is always of course
ascertainable accurately by the same mode of experiment. Bring the edge
of the paper against the thing to be drawn, and on that edge--as
precisely as a lady would match the colors of two pieces of a
dress--match the color of the landscape (with a little opaque white
mixed in the tints you use, so as to render it easy to lighten or darken
them). Take care not to imitate the tint as you believe it to be, but
accurately as it is; so that the colored edge of the paper shall not be
discernible from the color of the landscape. You will then find (if
before inexperienced) that shadows of trees, which you thought were dark
green or black, are pale violets and purples; that lights, which you
thought were green, are intensely yellow, brown, or golden, and most of
them far too bright to be matched at all. When you have got all the
imitable hues truly matched, sketch the masses of the landscape out
completely in those true and ascertained colors; and you will find, to
your amazement, that you have painted it in the colors of Turner,--in
those very colors which perhaps you have been laughing at all your
life,--the fact being that he, and he alone, of all men, _ever painted
Nature in her own colors_.
Sec. 10. "Well, but," you will answer, impatiently, "how is it, if they are
the true colors, that they look so unnatural?"
Because they are not shown in true contrast to the sky, and to other
high lights. Nature paints her shadows in pale purple, and then raises
her lights of heaven and sunshine to such height that the pale purple
becomes, by comparison, a vigorous dark. But poor Turner has no sun at
his command to oppose his pale colors. He follows Nature submissively as
far as he can; puts pale purple where she does, bright gold where she
does; and then when, on the summit of the slope of light, she opens her
wings and quits the earth altogether, burning into ineffable sunshine,
what can he do but sit helpless, stretching his hands towards her in
calm consent, as she leaves him and mocks at him!
Sec. 11. "Well," but you will farther ask, "is this right or wise? ought
not the contrast between the masses be given, rather than the actual
hues of a few parts of them, when the others are inimitable?"
Yes, if this _were_ possible, it ought to be done; but the true
contrasts can NEVER be given. The whole question is simply whether you
will be false at one side of the scale or at the other,--that is,
whether you will lose yourself in light or in darkness. This necessity
is easily expressible in numbers. Suppose the utmost light you wish to
imitate is that of serene, feebly lighted, clouds in ordinary sky (not
sun or stars, which it is, of course, impossible deceptively to imitate
in painting by any artifice). Then, suppose the degrees of shadow
between those clouds and Nature's utmost darkness accurately measured,
and divided into a hundred degrees (darkness being zero). Next we
measure our own scale, calling our utmost possible black, zero;[18] and
we shall be able to keep parallel with Nature, perhaps up to as far as
her 40 degrees; all above that being whiter than our white paper. Well,
with our power of contrast between zero and 40, we have to imitate her
contrasts between zero and 100. Now, if we want true contrasts, we can
first set our 40 to represent her 100, our 20 for her 80, and our zero
for her 60; everything below her 60 being lost in blackness. This is,
with certain modifications, Rembrandt's system. Or, secondly, we can put
zero for her zero, 20 for her 20, and 40 for her 40; everything above 40
being lost in _white_ness. This is, with certain modifications, Paul
Veronese's system. Or, finally, we can put our zero for her zero, and
our 40 for her 100; our 20 for her 50, our 30 for her 75, and our ten
for her 25, proportioning the intermediate contrasts accordingly. This
is, with certain modifications, Turner's system;[19] the modifications,
in each case, being the adoption, to a certain extent, of either of the
other systems. Thus, Turner inclines to Paul Veronese; liking, as far as
possible, to get his hues perfectly true up to a certain point,--that is
to say, to let his zero stand for Nature's zero, and his 10 for her 10,
and his 20 for her 20, and then to expand towards the light by quick but
cunning steps, putting 27 for 50, 30 for 70, and reserving some force
still for the last 90 to 100. So Rembrandt modifies his system on the
other side, putting his 40 for 100, his 30 for 90, his 20 for 80; then
going subtly downwards, 10 for 50, 5 for 30; nearly everything between
30 and zero being lost in gloom, yet so as still to reserve his zero for
zero. The systems expressed in tabular form will stand thus:--
NATURE. REMBRANDT. TURNER. VERONESE.
0 0 0 0
10 1 10 10
20 3 20 20
30 5 24 30
40 7 26 32
50 10 27 34
60 13 28 36
70 17 30 37
80 20 32 38
90 30 36 39
100 40 40 40
Sec. 12. Now it is evident that in Rembrandt's system, while the
_contrasts_ are not more right than with Veronese, the _colors_ are all
wrong, from beginning to end. With Turner and Veronese, Nature's 10 is
their 10, and Nature's 20 their 20; enabling them to give pure truth up
to a certain point. But with Rembrandt _not one color_ is absolutely
true, from one side of the scale to the other; only the contrasts are
true at the top of the scale. Of course, this supposes Rembrandt's
system applied to a subject which shall try it to the utmost, such as
landscape. Rembrandt generally chose subjects in which the real colors
were very nearly imitable,--as single heads with dark backgrounds, in
which Nature's highest light was little above his own; her 40 being then
truly representable by his 40, his picture became nearly an absolute
truth. But his system is only right when applied to such subjects:
clearly, when we have the full scale of natural light to deal with,
Turner's and Veronese's convey the greatest sum of truth. But not the
most complete deception, for people are so much more easily and
instinctively impressed by force of light than truth of color, that they
instantly miss the relative power of the sky, and the upper tones; and
all the true local coloring looks strange to them, separated from its
adjuncts of high light; whereas, give them the true contrast of light,
and they will not observe the false local color. Thus all Gaspar
Poussin's and Salvator's pictures, and all effects obtained by leaving
high lights in the midst of exaggerated darkness, catch the eye, and are
received for true, while the pure truth of Veronese and Turner is
rejected as unnatural; only not so much in Veronese's case as in
Turner's, because Veronese confines himself to more imitable things, as
draperies, figures, and architecture, in which his exquisite truth at
the bottom of the scale tells on the eye at once; but Turner works a
good deal also (see the table) at the _top_ of the natural scale,
dealing with effects of sunlight and other phases of the upper colors,
more or less inimitable, and betraying therefore, more or less, the
artifices used to express them. It will be observed, also, that in order
to reserve some force for the top of his scale, Turner is obliged to
miss his gradations chiefly in middle tints (see the table), where the
feebleness is sure to be felt. His principal point for missing the
midmost gradations is almost always between the earth and sky; he draws
the earth truly as far as he can, to the horizon; then the sky as far as
he can, with his 30 to 40 part of the scale. They run together at the
horizon; and the spectator complains that there is no distinction
between earth and sky, or that the earth does not _look solid enough_.
Sec. 13. In the upper portions of the three pillars 5, 6, 7, Plate +25+,
are typically represented these three conditions of light and shade,
characteristic, 5, of Rembrandt, 6, of Turner, and 7, of Veronese. The
pillar to be drawn is supposed, in all the three cases, white; Rembrandt
represents it as white on its highest light; and, getting the true
gradations between this highest light and extreme dark, is reduced to
his zero, or black, for the dark side of the white object. This first
pillar also represents the system of Leonardo da Vinci. In the room of
the Louvre appropriated to Italian drawings is a study of a piece of
drapery by Leonardo. Its lights are touched with the finest white
chalk, and its shadows wrought, through exquisite gradations, to utter
blackness. The pillar 6 is drawn on the system of Turner; the high point
of light is still distinct: but even the darkest part of the shaft is
kept pale, and the gradations which give the roundness are wrought out
with the utmost possible delicacy. The third shaft is drawn on
Veronese's system. The light, though still focused, is more diffused
than with Turner; and a slight flatness results from the determination
that the fact of the shaft's being _white_ shall be discerned more
clearly even than that it is round; and that its darkest part shall
still be capable of brilliant relief, as a white mass, from other
objects round it.
Sec. 14. This resolution, on Veronese's part, is owing to the profound
respect for the _colors_ of objects which necessarily influenced him, as
the colorist at once the most brilliant and the most tender of all
painters of the elder schools; and it is necessary for us briefly to
note the way in which this greater or less respect for local color
influences the system of the three painters in light and shade.
Take the whitest piece of note-paper you can find, put a blot of ink
upon it, carry it into the sunshine, and hold it fully fronting the
sunshine, so as to make the paper look as dazzling as possible, but not
to let the wet blot of ink _shine_. You will then find the ink look
_intensely_ black,--blacker, in fact, than any where else, owing to its
vigorous contrast with the dazzling paper.
Remove the paper from the sunshine. The ink will not look so black.
Carry the paper gradually into the darkest part of the room, and the
contrast will as gradually appear to diminish; and, of course, in
darkness, the distinction between the black and the white vanishes. Wet
ink is as perfect a representative as is by any means attainable of a
perfectly dark color; that is, of one which absorbs all the light that
falls on it; and the nature of such a color is best understood by
considering it as a piece of portable night. Now, of course, the higher
you raise the daylight about this bit of night, the more vigorous is the
contrast between the two. And, therefore, as a general rule, the higher
you raise the light on any object with a pattern or stain upon it, the
more distinctly that pattern or stain is seen. But observe: the
distinction between the full black of ink, and full white of paper, is
the utmost reach of light and dark possible to art. Therefore, if this
contrast is to be represented truly, no deeper black can ever be given
in any shadow than that offered at once; as local color, in a full black
pattern, on the highest light. And, where color is the principal object
of the picture, that color must, at all events, be as right as possible
_where it is best seen_, i.e. in the lights. Hence the principle of Paul
Veronese, and of all the great Venetian colorists, is to use full black
for full black in high light, letting the shadow shift for itself as
best it may; and sometimes even putting the local black a little darker
in light than shadow, in order to give the more vigorous contrast noted
above. Let the pillars in Plate +25+ be supposed to have a black mosaic
pattern on the lower part of their shafts. Paul Veronese's general
practice will be, as at 7, having marked the rounding of the shaft as
well as he can in the white parts, to paint the pattern with one even
black over all, reinforcing it, if at all, a little in the _light_.
Sec. 15. Repeat the experiment on the note-paper with a red spot of carmine
instead of ink. You will now find that the contrast in the sunshine
appears about the same as in the shade--the red and white rising and
falling together, and dying away together into the darkness. The fact,
however, is, that the contrast does actually for some time increase
towards the light; for in utter darkness the distinction is not
visible--the red cannot be distinguished from the white; admit a little
light, and the contrast is feebly discernible; admit more, it is
distinctly discernible. But you cannot increase the contrast beyond a
certain point. From that point the red and white for some time rise very
nearly equally in light, or fall together very nearly equally in shade;
but the contrast will begin to _diminish_ in very high lights, for
strong sunlight has a tendency to exhibit particles of dust, or any
sparkling texture in the local color, and then to diminish its power; so
that in order to see local color well, a certain degree of shadow is
necessary: for instance, a very delicate complexion is not well seen in
the sun; and the veins of a marble pillar, or the colors of a picture,
can only be properly seen in comparative shade.
Sec. 16. I will not entangle the reader in the very subtle and curious
variations of the laws in this matter. The simple fact which is
_necessary_ for him to observe is, that the paler and purer the color,
the more the great Venetian colorists will reinforce it in the shadow,
and allow it to fall or rise in sympathy with the light; and those
especially whose object it is to represent sunshine, nearly always
reinforce their local colors somewhat in the shadows, and keep them both
fainter and feebler in the light, so that they thus approach a condition
of universal glow, the full color being used for the shadow, and a
delicate and somewhat subdued hue of it for the light. And this to the
eye is the loveliest possible condition of color. Perhaps few people
have ever asked themselves why they admire a rose so much more than all
other flowers. If they consider, they will find, first, that red is, in
a delicately gradated state, the loveliest of all pure colors; and
secondly, that in the rose there is _no shadow_, except what is composed
of color. All its shadows are fuller in color than its lights, owing to
the translucency and reflective power of its leaves.
The second shaft, 6, in which the local color is paler towards the
light, and reinforced in the shadow, will therefore represent the
Venetian system with respect to paler colors, and the system, for the
most part, even with respect to darker colors, of painters who attempt
to render effects of strong sunlight. Generally, therefore, it
represents the practice of Turner. The first shaft, 5, exhibits the
disadvantage of the practice of Rembrandt and Leonardo, in that they
cannot show the local color on the dark side, since, however energetic,
it must at last sink into their exaggerated darkness.
Sec. 17. Now, from all the preceding inquiry, the reader must perceive more
and more distinctly the great truth, that all forms of right art consist
in a certain _choice_ made between various classes of truths, a few only
being represented, and others necessarily excluded; and that the
excellence of each style depends first on its consistency with
itself,--the perfect fidelity, as far as possible, to the truths it has
chosen; and secondly, on the breadth of its harmony, or number of truths
it has been able to reconcile, and the consciousness with which the
truths refused are acknowledged, even though they may not be
represented. A great artist is just like a wise and hospitable man with
a small house: the large companies of truths, like guests, are waiting
his invitation; he wisely chooses from among this crowd the guests who
will be happiest with each other, making those whom he receives
thoroughly comfortable, and kindly remembering even those whom he
excludes; while the foolish host, trying to receive all, leaves a large
part of his company on the staircase, without even knowing who is there,
and destroys, by inconsistent fellowship, the pleasure of those who gain
entrance.
Sec. 18. But even those hosts who choose well will be farther distinguished
from each other by their choice of nobler or inferior companies; and we
find the greatest artists mainly divided into two groups,--those who
paint principally with respect to local color, headed by Paul Veronese,
Titian, and Turner; and those who paint principally with reference to
light and shade irrespective of color, headed by Leonardo da Vinci,
Rembrandt, and Raphael. The noblest members of each of these classes
introduce the element proper to the other class, in a subordinate way.
Paul Veronese introduces a subordinate light and shade, and Leonardo
introduces a subordinate local color. The main difference is, that with
Leonardo, Rembrandt, and Raphael, vast masses of the picture are lost in
comparatively colorless (dark, grey, or brown) shadow; these painters
_beginning_ with the _lights_, and going _down_ to blackness; but with
Veronese, Titian, and Turner, the whole picture is like the
rose,--glowing with color in the shadows, and rising into paler and more
delicate hues, or masses of whiteness, in the lights; they having
_begun_ with the _shadows_, and gone up _to_ whiteness.
Sec. 19. The colorists have in this respect one disadvantage, and three
advantages. The disadvantage is, that between their less violent hues,
it is not possible to draw all the forms which can be represented by the
exaggerated shadow of the chiaroscurists, and therefore a slight
tendency to flatness is always characteristic of the greater colorists,
as opposed to Leonardo or Rembrandt. When the form of some single object
is to be given, and its subtleties are to be rendered to the utmost, the
Leonardesque manner of drawing is often very noble. It is generally
adopted by Albert Durer in his engravings, and is very useful, when
employed by a thorough master, in many kinds of engraving;[20] but it is
an utterly false method of _study_, as we shall see presently.
Sec. 20. Of the three advantages possessed by the colorists over the
chiaroscurists, the first is, that they have in the greater portions of
their pictures _absolute_ truth, as shown above, Sec. 12, while the
chiaroscurists have no absolute truth anywhere. With the colorists the
shadows are right; the lights untrue: but with the chiaroscurists lights
and shadows are both untrue. The second advantage is, that also the
_relations_ of color are broader and vaster with the colorists than the
chiaroscurists. Take, for example, that piece of drapery studied by
Leonardo, in the Louvre, with white lights and black shadows. Ask
yourself, first, whether the real drapery was black or white. If white,
then its high lights are rightly white; but its folds being black, it
could not _as a mass_ be distinguished from the black or dark objects in
its neighborhood. But the fact is, that a white cloth or handkerchief
always is distinguished in daylight, as a _whole white thing_, from all
that is colored about it: we see at once that there is a white piece of
stuff, and a red, or green, or grey one near it, as the case may be: and
this relation of the white object to other objects _not_ white, Leonardo
has wholly deprived himself of the power of expressing; while, if the
cloth were black or dark, much more has he erred by making its lights
white. In either case, he has missed the large relation of mass to mass,
for the sake of the small one of fold to fold. And this is more or less
the case with all chiaroscurists; with all painters, that is to say, who
endeavor in their studies of objects to get rid of the idea of color,
and give the abstract shade. They invariably exaggerate the shadows, not
with respect to the thing itself, but with respect to all around it; and
they exaggerate the lights also, by leaving pure white for the high
light of what in reality is grey, rose-colored, or, in some way, not
white.
Sec. 21. This method of study, being peculiarly characteristic of the Roman
and Florentine schools, and associated with very accurate knowledge of
form and expression, has gradually got to be thought by a large body of
artists the _grand_ way of study; an idea which has been fostered all
the more because it was an unnatural way, and therefore thought to be a
philosophical one. Almost the first idea of a child, or of a simple
person looking at anything, is, that it is a red, or a black, or a
green, or a white thing. Nay, say the artists; that is an
unphilosophical and barbarous view of the matter. Red and white are mere
vulgar appearances; look farther into the matter, and you will see such
and such wonderful other appearances. Abstract those, _they_ are the
heroic, epic, historic, and generally eligible appearances. And acting
on this grand principle, they draw flesh white, leaves white, ground
white, everything white in the light, and everything black in the
shade--and think themselves wise. But, the longer I live, the more
ground I see to hold in high honor a certain sort of childishness or
innocent susceptibility. Generally speaking, I find that when we first
look at a subject, we get a glimpse of some of the greatest truths about
it: as we look longer, our vanity, and false reasoning, and
half-knowledge, lead us into various wrong opinions; but as we look
longer still, we gradually return to our first impressions, only with a
full understanding of their mystical and innermost reasons; and of much
beyond and beside them, not then known to us, now added (partly as a
foundation, partly as a corollary) to what at first we felt or saw. It
is thus eminently in this matter of color. Lay your hand over the page
of this book,--any child or simple person looking at the hand and book,
would perceive, as the main fact of the matter, that a brownish pink
thing was laid over a white one. The grand artist comes and tells you
that your hand is not pink, and your paper is not white. He shades your
fingers and shades your book, and makes you see all manner of starting
veins, and projecting muscles, and black hollows, where before you saw
nothing but paper and fingers. But go a little farther, and you will get
more innocent again; you will find that, when "science has done its
worst, two and two still make four;" and that the main and most
important facts about your hand, so seen, are, after all, that it has
four fingers and a thumb--showing as brownish pink things on white
paper.
Sec. 22. I have also been more and more convinced, the more I think of it,
that in general _pride is at the bottom of all great mistakes_. All the
other passions do occasional good, but whenever pride puts in _its_
word, everything goes wrong, and what it might really be desirable to
do, quietly and innocently, it is mortally dangerous to do, proudly.
Thus, while it is very often good for the artist to make _studies_ of
things, for the sake of knowing their forms, with their high lights all
white, the moment he does this in a haughty way, and thinks himself
drawing in the great style, because he leaves high lights white, it is
all over with him; and half the degradation of art in modern times has
been owing to endeavors, much fostered by the metaphysical Germans, to
see things without color, as if color were a vulgar thing, the result
being, in most students, that they end by not being able to see anything
at all; whereas the true and perfect way of studying any object is
simply to look what its color is in high light, and put that safely
down, if possible; or, if you are making a chiaroscuro study, to take
the grey answering to that color, and cover the _whole_ object at once
with that grey, firmly resolving that no part of it shall be brighter
than that; then look for the darkest part of it, and if, as is probable,
its darkest part be still a great deal lighter than black, or than other
things about it, assume a given shade, as dark as, with due reference to
other things, you can have it, but no darker. Mark that for your extreme
dark on the object, and between those limits get as much drawing as you
can, by subtlety of gradation. That will tax your powers of drawing
indeed; and you will find this, which seems a childish and simple way of
going to work, requires verily a thousandfold more power to carry out
than all the pseudo-scientific abstractions that ever were invented.
Sec. 23. Nor can it long be doubted that it is also the most impressive way
to others; for the third great advantage possessed by the colorists is,
that the delightfulness of their picture, its sacredness, and general
nobleness, are increased exactly in proportion to the quantity of light
and of lovely color they can introduce in _the shadows_, as opposed to
the black and grey of the chiaroscurists. I have already, in the Stones
of Venice, vol. ii. chap. v., insisted upon the fact of the sacredness of
color, and its necessary connection with all pure and noble feeling. What
we have seen of the use of color by the poets will help to confirm this
truth; but perhaps I have not yet enough insisted on the simplest and
readiest to hand of all proofs,--the way, namely, in which God has
employed color in His creation as the unvarying accompaniment of all that
is purest, most innocent, and most precious; while for things precious
only in material uses, or dangerous, common colors are reserved. Consider
for a little while what sort of a world it would be if all flowers were
grey, all leaves black, and the sky _brown_. Imagine that, as completely
as may be, and consider whether you would think the world any whit more
sacred for being thus transfigured into the hues of the shadows in
Raphael's Transfiguration. Then observe how constantly innocent things
are bright in color; look at a dove's neck, and compare it with the grey
back of a viper; I have often heard talk of brilliantly colored serpents;
and I suppose there are such,--as there are gay poisons, like the
foxglove and kalmia--types of deceit; but all the venomous serpents I
have really _seen_ are grey, brick-red, or brown, variously mottled; and
the most awful serpent I have seen, the Egyptian asp, is precisely of the
color of gravel, or only a little greyer. So, again, the crocodile and
alligator are grey, but the innocent lizard green and beautiful. I do not
mean that the rule is invariable, otherwise it would be more convincing
than the lessons of the natural universe are intended ever to be; there
are beautiful colors on the leopard and tiger, and in the berries of the
night-shade; and there is nothing very notable in brilliancy of color
either in sheep or cattle (though, by the way, the velvet of a brown
bull's hide in the sun, or the tawny white of the Italian oxen, is, to my
mind, lovelier than any leopard's or tiger's skin); but take a wider view
of nature, and compare generally rainbows, sunrises, roses, violets,
butterflies, birds, gold-fish, rubies, opals, and corals, with
alligators, hippopotami, lions, wolves, bears, swine, sharks, slugs,
bones, fungi,[21] frogs, and corrupting, stinging, destroying things in
general, and you will feel then how the question stands between the
colorists and chiaroscurists,--which of them have nature and life on
their side, and which have sin and death.
Sec. 24. Finally: the ascertainment of the sanctity of color is not left to
human sagacity. It is distinctly stated in Scripture. I have before
alluded to the sacred chord of color (blue, purple, and scarlet, with
white and gold) as appointed in the Tabernacle; this chord is the fixed
base of all coloring with the workmen of every great age; the purple and
scarlet will be found constantly employed by noble painters, in various
unison, to the exclusion in general of pure crimson;--it is the harmony
described by Herodotus as used in the battlements of Ecbatana, and the
invariable base of all beautiful missal-painting; the mistake
continually made by modern restorers, in supposing the purple to be a
faded crimson, and substituting full crimson for it, being instantly
fatal to the whole work, as, indeed, the slightest modification of any
hue in a perfect color-harmony must always be.[22] In this chord the
scarlet is the powerful color, and is on the whole the most perfect
representation of abstract color which exists; blue being in a certain
degree associated with shade, yellow with light, and scarlet, as
absolute _color_, standing alone. Accordingly, we find it used, together
with cedar wood, hyssop, and running water, as an emblem of
purification, in Leviticus xiv. 4, and other places, and so used not
merely as the representative of the color of blood, since it was also to
be dipped in the actual blood of a living bird. So that the cedar wood
for its perfume, the hyssop for its searchingness, the water for its
cleansing, and the scarlet for its kindling or enlightening, are all
used as tokens of sanctification;[23] and it cannot be with any force
alleged, in opposition to this definite appointment, that scarlet is
used incidentally to illustrate the stain of sin,--"though thy sins be
as scarlet,"--any more than it could be received as a diminution of the
authority for using snow-whiteness as a type of purity, that Gehazi's
leprosy is described as being as "white as snow." An incidental image
has no authoritative meaning, but a stated ceremonial appointment has;
besides, we have the reversed image given distinctly in Prov. xxxi.:
"She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household
are clothed with _scarlet_." And, again: "Ye daughters of Israel, weep
over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights." So, also,
the arraying of the mystic Babylon in purple and scarlet may be
interpreted exactly as we choose; either, by those who think color
sensual, as an image of earthly pomp and guilt, or, by those who think
it sacred, as an image of assumed or pretended sanctity. It is possible
the two meanings may be blended, and the idea may be that the purple and
fine linen of Dives are worn in hypocritical semblance of the purple and
fine linen of the high priest, being, nevertheless, themselves, in all
cases typical of all beauty and purity. I hope, however, to be able some
day to enter farther into these questions with respect to the art of
illumination; meantime, the facts bearing on our immediate subject may
be briefly recapitulated. All men, completely organized and justly
tempered, enjoy color; it is meant for the perpetual comfort and delight
of the human heart; it is richly bestowed on the highest works of
creation, and the eminent sign and seal of perfection in them; being
associated with _life_ in the human body, with _light_ in the sky, with
_purity_ and hardness in the earth,--death, night, and pollution of all
kinds being colorless. And although if form and color be brought into
complete opposition,[24] so that it should be put to us as a matter of
stern choice whether we should have a work of art all of form, without
color (as an Albert Durer's engraving), or all of color, without form
(as an imitation of mother-of-pearl), form is beyond all comparison the
more precious of the two; and in explaining the essence of objects, form
is essential, and color more or less accidental (compare Chap. v. of the
first section of Vol. I.); yet if color be introduced at all, it is
necessary that, whatever else may be wrong, _that_ should be right; just
as, though the music of a song may not be so essential to its influence
as the meaning of the words, yet if the music be given at all, _it_ must
be right, or its discord will spoil the words; and it would be better,
of the two, that the words should be indistinct, than the notes false.
Hence, as I have said elsewhere, the business of a painter is to paint.
If he can color, he is a painter, though he can do nothing else; if he
cannot color, he is no painter, though he may do everything else. But it
is, in fact, impossible, if he can color, but that he should be able to
do more; for a faithful study of color will always give power over form,
though the most intense study of form will give no power over color. The
man who can see all the greys, and reds, and purples in a peach, will
paint the peach rightly round, and rightly altogether; but the man who
has only studied its roundness, may not see its purples and greys, and
if he does not, will never get it to look like a peach; so that great
power over color is always a sign of large general art-intellect.
Expression of the most subtle kind can be often reached by the slight
studies of caricaturists;[25] sometimes elaborated by the toil of the
dull, and sometimes by the sentiment of the feeble, but to color well
requires real talent and earnest study, and to color perfectly is the
rarest and most precious power an artist can possess. Every other gift
may be erroneously cultivated, but this will guide to all healthy,
natural, and forcible truth; the student may be led into folly by
philosophers, and into falsehood by purists; but he is always safe if he
holds the hand of a colorist.
FOOTNOTES
[13] Part II. Sec. II. Chap I.
[14] Part III. Sec. I. Chap. V.
[15] Light from above is the same thing with reference to our
present inquiry.
[16] For which reason, I said in the Appendix to the third volume,
that the expression "finite realization of infinity" was a
considerably less rational one than "black realization of white."
[17] The _color_, but not the form. I wanted the contour of the top
of the Breven for reference in another place, and have therefore
given it instead of that of the Bouchard, but in the proper depth of
tint.
[18] Even here we shall be defeated by Nature, her utmost darkness
being deeper than ours. See Part II. Sec. II. Chap. I. Sec. 4-7. etc.
[19] When the clouds are brilliantly lighted, it may rather be, as
stated in Sec. 4. above, in the proportion of 160 to 40. I take the
number 100 as more calculable.
[20] It is often extremely difficult to distinguish properly between
the Leonardesque manner, in which local color is denied altogether,
and the Turneresque, in which local color at its highest point in
the picture is merged in whiteness. Thus, Albert Durer's noble
"Melancholia" is entirely Leonardesque; the leaves on her head, her
flesh, her wings, her dress, the wolf, the wooden ball, and the
rainbow, being all equally white on the high lights. But my drawing
of leaves, facing page 120, Vol. III., is Turneresque; because,
though I leave pure white to represent the pale green of leaves and
grass in high light, I give definite increase of darkness to four of
the bramble leaves, which, in reality, were purple, and leave a dark
withered stalk nearly black, though it is in light, where it crosses
the leaf in the centre. These distinctions could only be properly
explained by a lengthy series of examples; which I hope to give some
day or other, but have not space for here.
[21] It is notable, however, that nearly all the poisonous agarics
are scarlet or speckled, and wholesome ones brown or gray, as if to
show us that things rising out of darkness and decay are always most
deadly when they are well drest.
[22] Hence the intense absurdity of endeavoring to "restore" the
color of ancient buildings by the hands of ignorant colorists, as at
the Crystal Palace.
[23] The redeemed Rahab bound for a sign a _scarlet_ thread in the
window. Compare Canticles iv. 3.
[24] The inconsistency between perfections of color and form, which
I have had to insist upon in other places, is exactly like that
between articulation and harmony. We cannot have the richest harmony
with the sharpest and most audible articulation of words: yet good
singers will articulate clearly: and the perfect study of the
science of music will conduct to a fine articulation; but the study
of pronunciation will not conduct to, nor involve, that of harmony.
So, also, though, as said farther on, _subtle_ expression can be got
without color, perfect expression never can; for the color of the
face is a part of its expression. How often has that scene between
Francesca di Rimini and her lover been vainly attempted by
sculptors, simply because they did not observe that the main note of
expression in it was in the fair sheet-lightning--fading and flaming
through the cloud of passion!
Per piu flate gli occhi ci sospinse
Quella lettura, _e scolorocci il viso_.
And, of course, in landscape, color is the principal source of
expression. Take one melancholy chord from the close of Crabbe's
Patron:
"Cold grew the foggy morn; the day was brief,
Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf.
The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods
Roared with strong blasts; with mighty showers, the floods
All green was vanished, save of pine and yew
That still displayed their melancholy hue;
Save the green holly, with its berries red
And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread."
[25] See Appendix 1. Modern Grotesque.