COLOR (_Continued_)--VALUES--SUBTLETY
So far in our talk on color we have laid stress on three points: first,
that color is light; secondly, that color is affected by light; thirdly,
that the painter who is a colorist arranges color in relation to other
colors, so as to produce a harmony.
The reason was, that I wished you not to think of color as paint.
Paints, or as artists call them, pigments, are only the materials that
man has invented to imitate the real thing. The real thing is nature’s
color. Pigments we will speak of later.
From early ages man has been attracted by nature’s colors and has tried
to imitate them in order to brighten up his own person and his
surroundings. He began by smearing his own body with some form of dye or
pigment, either to make himself more attractive or to strike terror into
his enemies. As he became more civilised and learned to weave wool and
cotton and flax, he dyed his blankets and clothing, and added gay
borders and patterns to the local color. Growing more skilful in the
fashioning of clay pots, and bows and arrows, and other articles of war
and domestic use, he decorated them with colored designs. Little by
little he learned how to imitate the beauty of nature’s coloring. But,
at first, it seems to have been the brightness of color that attracted
him; just as to-day, a great many children and, for that matter,
grown-ups as well, prefer gay colors. Manufacturers and merchants know
this. Accordingly, to suit the taste of a great many customers who still
have the primitive child-man’s love of gay-colored things, they fill the
markets with gaudy-colored carpets and wall-papers, and gaudily
upholstered furniture, gaudy curtains, cushions and so forth. And people
buy them, so that thousands of households are furnished in a way that to
any one who loves nature’s coloring, seems horrible. Yes, this is a
strong word. But if you will believe me, not too strong to express the
feelings of distress that such parlors excite in people whose taste is
more civilised. They are as much distressed, as if the parlor were
filled with roosters, parrots and monkeys, all crowing, and screeching
and chattering together in a horrible discord of sound.
Perhaps you do not like my hinting that people who prefer these noisy
colors are not yet fully civilised. You have been taught that we are
living in a very civilised age, with all sorts of modern improvements
that the people of the past never thought of, much less enjoyed. This of
course is perfectly true. Science and mechanical inventions have made
living easier; travel is cheaper, education has advanced, books are
within the reach of everybody and, best of all, we have more pity for
the poor, and the sick and the afflicted, and try to make their lot
less terrible. Yes, and in thousands of other ways we are more
civilised. Yet, even so, we may be far from enjoying all the
opportunities of civilisation that this wonderful age offers.
How many girls and boys, I wonder, who have enjoyed the benefits of a
good education, when they reach the age in which they can choose for
themselves what they will read, select the best books? I mean by the
best books, those that in history, poetry, biography, travel, science,
and fiction, really give us the best kind of knowledge of men and life.
Are there not thousands of readers who are satisfied to read nothing
else but the latest novel, no matter how trashy it may be? Thousands,
indeed, who are not bettering their minds and lives, as really civilised
people should try to do; but allowing the garden of their hearts and
souls to become laid waste and barren, just as your flower garden would
soon be, if you turned loose in it the poultry and the pigs.
The truth with such readers is, that, though they enjoy the blessings of
civilisation, they have missed one of civilisation’s finest products.
They have not _good taste_, their _taste_ is _bad_. And bad taste is
like a poison. If it is allowed to remain in the system it will in time
affect the whole body. None of us can make a habit of reading trash
without sooner or later becoming trashy and cheap and commonplace in our
thoughts, conversation, choice of friends and conduct.
However, as you are reading this book, I hope it is a sign that you do
not care for trashy reading. So let us get back to the subject of taste
in matters of color. If one looks back over the past, there is no doubt
that as people became more civilised, one of the ways in which they
showed improvement was in color taste. They gradually ceased to be
attracted only by the brightness of color; they began to find beauty in
the relation of one color to another; to try to produce a harmony of
colors.
I wonder whether, as you have been reading, it has occurred to you to
think: Why does the author object to bright colors? He says we learn to
love color by studying nature’s coloring. Are there not bright colors in
nature? Is it wrong to like them?
Certainly not; nor do I object to bright colors. I am often delighted
with them. But, in the first place, bright colors do not look the same
in nature as they do in a parlor. Secondly, art, as we have said before,
is different to nature. The artist does not imitate everything he sees
in nature, but from it selects this and that to make his work of art.
Nothing in our garden makes a brighter spot than the giant poppy. Its
wide and flaring crimson cup, stained with the purple of its stamens,
burns like a flame. I love the brave show poppies make, ranged at
intervals along the borders or massed in a clump with a setting of
greenery around them. For, to prevent their brilliance overpowering the
garden, they need plenty of space and abundance of contrasting colors. I
cannot imagine anything more noisy and gaudy than a little yard entirely
filled with them. The reason they need space is that they may be
surrounded with plenty of atmosphere. It is this which makes so great a
difference between effects of color out of doors and indoors. Out of
doors the atmosphere acts like a veil, softening the sharpness of colors
and forms and helping to draw them together into a unity of effect. It
is indeed, more like a succession of veils, for between us and nearby
objects is a certain amount of atmosphere; while objects further off,
and still further off, and further off still, are separated from us by
continually increasing quantities of atmosphere. And these planes of
atmosphere, as we called them in Chapter IV, act like veils of gauze
through which everything is seen. As I have said, they help to subdue
the colors and draw them into relation with one another, and so suggest
an effect of harmony. In a room, however, especially a small one, we
cannot get far enough away from objects to permit much atmosphere to
come in between. There is not so much distance to lend enchantment to
the view. Consequently, though we may enjoy the beauty of a few of those
poppies in a bowl on our table, we should find a carpet or curtains or
sofa of the same color much too gaudy and overpowering. The effect would
be much as if, while the piano was being played, someone should blow
loudly on a tin horn. The noise would disturb the harmony of the music;
we should shut our ears or turn the tin horn disturber out of the room.
So when we enter a gaudily furnished room, we should like to shut our
eyes to the discord of color, and, if we had our way, would banish the
disturbing objects to the junk-shop.
But now for the second reason why some of nature’s colors, beautiful in
themselves, may be less so when introduced into a room or picture. For
the furnishing of a room, like the composing of a picture, should, as
far as possible, be a work of art, and the artist, as you recollect,
does not imitate nature. He selects from nature. Out of her unlimited
storehouse of form and color he chooses for his purpose some few effects
at a time and combines them in his work of art; guided in his choice and
arrangement by the principles of beauty he has discovered in nature,
particularly by the principle of harmony. And in this respect he has an
advantage over nature. For the light and atmosphere cannot choose the
colors and objects which they help to harmonise. Even after they have
done their best, there may be so many of those poppies that, while their
colors are subdued and brought into some relation with the other colors,
the relationship is still too distant--the difference between the two
colors too wide--to produce a perfect harmony. But the artist, since he
can pick and choose what he will put into his picture, is able to avoid
this difficulty; just as a young couple when they start housekeeping can
generally avoid having things that will disturb the harmonious
arrangement of their parlor. I say “generally,” for sometimes,
notwithstanding their own taste, they receive from some kind but
tasteless friend, the present of a piece of furniture that plays the
tin-horn to all their ideas of harmony. This is a hard case. They do not
wish to offend Mrs. So-and-so or Aunt Jane, and yet they do not like
having to live with something offensive to their own feelings!
We have said so much about the artist working for a harmony of colors,
that I ought to warn you that you will not see color harmonies in all
pictures. For a great many painters are not colorists. Bouguereau, for
example, was interested chiefly in form. If he represented a young girl,
drawing water from a well, he painted her flesh pink; her dress,
perhaps, blue; the stone-work of the wall, gray; the wood work of the
bucket, brown; and, if there was a bush in the picture, of course,
painted it green. His only purpose in choosing this color or that color
was to represent the general appearances of the figure and other
objects. He only _saw_ color, never _felt_ it. He never even saw it, as
it really is; or he would hardly have painted all his girls and women
the same kind of pinky or creamy china-color. In fact, color to him was
quite unimportant. If he could _draw_ the girl beautifully he was
satisfied. So it is beautiful form we must look for in his pictures; the
color does not count.
Then there is another kind of painter; Vibert, for example, whose
pictures were popular in this country. He liked to paint a cardinal in a
scarlet cassock, either in or out of doors. The scarlet makes a big
bright spot in the pictures. Vibert was evidently fond of color; but in
a very crude or unrefined sort of way. He had the primitive man’s or
child’s fondness for gay or brilliant hues; and since there are many
people with the same child-like instinct, he sold his pictures easily.
He too, for the most part only _saw_ color. Or, if he felt it at all,
only in the very simple way of liking one color better than another.
Color never stirred in him deep feelings. He never felt it as a musician
feels sound. He never wove the related colors into a harmony. He was a
gay painter, but not a colorist.
I wonder whether you are beginning to understand the difference? What I
have said may help to point the way to an understanding, but no amount
of reading can make you feel the beauty of color, or enter into the
feelings of an artist who is a colorist; and enjoy his work. This you
can only do for yourself by using your own eyes. Nor do I mean by this
that you should now and then look at a picture, or once in a while open
your eyes to the beauty of nature. What I suggest is that you should get
into the habit of keeping your eyes open to the beauty of the world. If
you do, you will have your reward. And the more you watch out for
beauty, and so train your feeling and taste, the more you will discover
beauty in unexpected directions. Especially you will find that some of
the most beautiful color harmonies are made up of colors, that a little
while ago you would not have felt to be beautiful.
It is not difficult, for example, to enjoy the beauty of nature’s
coloring when the sun is shining brightly. But, because it is so easy,
some painters who are colorists will not care to represent it in their
pictures. They will wait for what they call a gray day--when the sun is
hidden behind clouds of mist. Or, like Corot, they will prefer the early
morning or late evening, when the sky is very pale, and the colors of
nature are very subdued. Or, like Whistler, who painted _The White
Girl_, a girl in white, standing on a white rug in front of a white
wall, they will choose some subject in which the difference between the
colors is very slight. In a word they are looking, not for splendid but
for subtle harmonies. Those grand Venetian colorists of the Sixteenth
Century, Titian, Tintoretto, and Paul Veronese, and the great Flemish
colorist of the Seventeenth Century, Peter Paul Rubens, for the most
part gloried in harmonies of splendour, Velasquez, however, Rubens’s
contemporary, whose life was spent in the service of Philip IV of Spain,
proved himself to be one of the world’s greatest colorists by the
soberness and subtlety of his harmonies. A large part of his work
consisted in painting the portraits of the King, the Royal Family, and
the chief State officers. The taste of the Court was opposed to bright
colored costumes; indeed the prevailing colors were black and gray, with
occasional touches of relief, such as blue or pale rose. Yet out of
these few colors he made wonderful harmonies. To his sensitive eye a
black cloak was not a mass of thick darkness. As the light shone upon
the various surfaces at different angles, he discovered all sorts of
nuances, as the French say, or
[Illustration: Prince Balthazar Carlos. _Velasquez._]
shades and degrees of lighter and darker black, in fact, a scale of
tints out of which he composed a harmony. It was the same way with the
grays and drabs. We often call these neutral colors, by which we mean
that there is no particular color in them. But Velasquez did not look at
grays and drabs in this way. Having to paint them he searched them for
possibilities of beauty, and found them in the nuances, occasioned by
the action of light. And out of the scale of these nuances he composed
harmonies.
To these nuances artists have given a name--values. We know the ordinary
use of the word. It represents the relation of something to a certain
fixed standard. Thus, we take a dollar as a standard; and say the value
of this knife is fifty cents, or of that two dollars. These knives
differ in value; or, on the other hand, we may have two or more knives
that correspond in value. Or, again, if some of you are arranging a
picnic as a Dutch treat, one of the party may undertake to bring ten
cents’ worth of eggs, another ten cents’ worth of crackers, and so on.
Though every one of twenty boys and girls brings something different,
the value of each contribution is the same.
Now applying this to colors, you may see that the point to which I am
leading you is this. Just as the knife varies in value from other
knives, so may one tint of black vary from another tint of black; one
tint of red from another tint of red; one tint of yellow from another
tint of yellow. Equally, since a certain quantity of crackers may have
the same value as a certain quantity of cheese, so may a certain tint
of red have the same value as a certain tint of yellow. But what is the
standard by which one kind of color can be compared with another?
The standard of value adopted by a painter, is light. The value of any
color depends upon the amount of light reflected from it. Thus, if you
look at a man dressed in black, you will notice that the black upon the
shoulder, or the chest, or whatever part receives the greatest quantity
of light, will seem less black than those parts which receive less
light. And it may be only in the hollows or shaded parts that the black
looks really black. Well, each one of these separate degrees of black
represents to the painter a separate value of black.
Perhaps you will say--Why this is only a repetition of what was said
about the painting of reflections of light and the shadows on the blue
skirt! You are right. Then--why, you ask, this new term--values? Well,
it was when the modern man discovered that the painting of these
reflections and shadows could be made a means of producing harmonies of
color; that, indeed, harmonies could be produced out of the reflections
alone, that they invented this new name. They had discovered a new
principle of harmony, depending upon the varieties of light on color,
and they gave to these varieties the new name of values. Not that the
principle was really a new one. It was an old one discovered by
Velasquez and at the same time by the Dutch--Vermeer among them.[10]
But about 1860 some modern artists from studying the works of these men
made a new discovery of the principle.
Before discussing the importance of the rediscovery, let us turn back to
the other use of that word values. If you remember, the word is used not
only of the differences in degree in tint of some one color; for
example, the different values of black, of green, of red and so on, but
it is also used as a standard to compare a color of one hue with a color
of another hue. Let me remind you of that Dutch treat picnic to which
everybody brought a contribution of equal value. I need not tell you
that the ten cents’ worth of soda crackers will make a bigger parcel
than the ten cents’ worth of cheese, while ten cents’ worth of----’s
“fine chocolate” would make a very small parcel indeed. Now, colors
differ in the same way. All colors throw off a certain quantity of
light, but the amount varies.
You remember, we said that the cause of color was the fact, that light
which is made up of all colors penetrates every object in nature; that
each object absorbs a certain quantity of the color and throws off the
remainder. And that this remainder is what appears to our eyes as the
color of the object. But while we think of this remainder as color, do
not let us forget that it is light. And, recollecting that color is
light, we can understand that one color has more or less light in it
than another.
I wish to make sure that you do understand this, so let us try to
illustrate it. We are in the habit of estimating things by percentage.
Suppose then that we think of the light of the sun as representing one
hundred points. Scientists have discovered that objects which we call
yellow absorb only some twenty of these points; that, in fact, the
quantity of light thrown off by what we call yellow, or in other words
its value, is some eighty per cent. What we call red, however,
represents some sixty per cent. of light; green, about forty per cent.
Now supposing an artist wishes to combine these colors in a Dutch
picnic; if he wishes, that is to say, to combine these colors, so that
they will contribute equally to the whole composition of color. He will
use a great deal less yellow than red, and less of either of these
colors than green. The packet of green, like the crackers; will be
bigger than the cheese, or red; the yellow, or chocolate, smallest of
all.
Let us imagine a picture that will illustrate this. But before we do so
I must remind you that what we are talking about is color harmonies, and
particularly those harmonies of color in which the modern artist
delights. He learned them, as I have said, from Velasquez, who was
debarred from using brilliant colors, he learned them also from the old
pictures of the Dutchmen, like Vermeer; lastly he learned them from
studying the pictures and prints of the Japanese. The effect of all
these examples was to make him prefer subtlety to splendour.
I have already explained the meaning of subtlety and subtle. Both are
derived from a Latin word which means “finely woven”--fine spun threads
of silk or linen, woven closely together into a strong but very delicate
and thin fabric. So when we speak of a subtle distinction we have in
mind a distinction that is very slight; as between two tints of yellow.
To many eyes they will seem the same; whereas an eye more subtly
sensitive to degrees of color can distinguish the difference. We may say
of such an eye, that it has a very delicate sense of sight, or subtlety
of vision. Subtlety implies delicacy; and when we speak of the subtlety
of an artist’s color harmonies--how subtle they are--we have in mind a
delicate, exquisite, refined use of color. He has not used many colors;
nor obtained his effects by force of strong contrasts. On the contrary,
it is by subtle relation of a few colors, by the subtle differences in
their values that a harmony, distinguished by its exquisite delicacy, is
produced.
Our own American artist, the late James McNeill Whistler, was one of the
first of the modern artists to paint this sort of harmony. He painted
four pictures of a girl in a white dress, which he afterwards entitled
“Symphonies in White,” numbering them one, two, three, and four, just as
a musician’s works are distinguished by a number. For Whistler felt that
there is some similarity between the harmonies of color and those of
sound notes, and tried in his pictures to produce subtle effects as
musicians do. In one of this series he represents the girl in a white
dress, standing on a white rug, before a white wall. The only variation
from the white is afforded by her dark hair and the flesh coloring of
her face and hands. These are what we may call “accents”--notes of color
that stand out with prominence and decision. The rest is a symphony in
white.
He might have made his problem easier by throwing a strong light upon
the figure from one side. This would have made some parts of the dress
shine out with the brightness of very high lights, and would have caused
the figure to cast a shadow on the wall. This would have produced a
harmony of contrasts; a bold contrast of color values, easier to paint.
But Whistler was intent on something very subtle--a harmony of
similarities. So he placed the figure in a dull light, that was evenly
distributed over the rug, the figure, and the wall, with the result that
the distinctions between the color values were very slight, very subtle.
This means that it was difficult to make the different masses of white
distinct from one another. The artist, you see, had to make it appear
that the girl’s white figure was nearer to us than the white wall; to
make us feel that, while the wall is flat, the figure has roundness and
bulk; and that, while the wall is an upright surface, the rug represents
a horizontal one. Yes it was indeed a very difficult problem, because
the only possible way of solving it was to render the very slight
differences in the quantity of light, reflected from each and every
part of the white surfaces, according to the angle at which the light
reached any part, and the distance each part was from the eye of the
artist. And no doubt the keen mind of Whistler was interested in the
subtlety of the problem. But this was not all. His feeling as an artist
was equally subtle. It delighted in the subtleties of color values.
However, he also enjoyed effects of brighter color. I have asked you to
imagine this picture of Whistler’s because it illustrates the first
meaning of “values”--namely the different quantities of light that may
be contained in one and the same color. I wish to illustrate now the
other meaning of “values”--which has to do with the quantity of light
contained in one color as compared with that in another color; for
example, with the percentage of light contained in red as compared with
that contained in blue, or green, or white, or any other color. For this
purpose I have chosen the second in Whistler’s series of symphonies in
white: _The Little White Girl_. You can look at the reproduction and see
for yourself that part of the color scheme, or color harmony, certainly
the most important part, consists of the figure of the girl in white.
You will notice how it illustrates what we have been saying about the
other white girl. It is evenly lighted, there are no contrasts of
extreme light and dark; the dress is a woven tissue of subtly different
values of white. But in this case Whistler has treated the white dress
as the theme or chief motive, as a musician would say, and has woven
around it a composition of variations. It is the variations that I wish
you now particularly to notice. They may be put under two heads. First,
the reflection of the girl’s head in the mirror; second, the various
spots of color that surround her.
Suppose we begin with the latter. On the mantel-shelf, close to the
flesh-color of the girl’s hand and the white of her sleeve is a Japanese
jar, decorated in white and blue, and beside it a Japanese box covered
with that smooth shiny surface called lacquer, and of a scarlet color,
like a geranium. Down below appear the sprays of camelias with dark
green glossy leaves and white and rosy blossoms. The fan repeats these
colors, but with a difference. There is red in it, but of a different
value to the red of the box and flowers; blue, but of another value than
that on the vase; green, which differs in value from the leaves.
Secondly, in the mirror is a repetition of the girl’s head and of
certain colors in the room. But the reflected head, as you can see in
the reproduction, is in a lower key than the real one. The colors are
lower in value; there is not so much light in them; for the mirror has
absorbed some of it. You may test a mirror’s appetite for light by
holding your handkerchief close to it. You will see that the white of
the reflection is much greyer than the handkerchief, or according to the
quality of the glass, it may seem slightly blue. At any rate its value
will be lower than that of the handkerchief; just as in this picture,
the reflected colors of the
[Illustration: The Little White Girl. _J. M. Whistler._]
flesh and hair are lower in value than the actual head.
Now, looking at the picture, we note that the figure occupies about one
half of the composition. It illustrates, as did _The Sower_, the use of
a main diagonal line, though the feeling suggested by it is different.
In _The Sower_, you will remember, the diagonal helped to give vigor and
alertness to the figure; while here, on the contrary, its suggestion is
one of very gracious quiet. For the slope of this diagonal is not so
steep as in the other picture; nor do the directions of the arms and
head present such abrupt contrasts. The left arm it is true, is nearly
at right angles--itself a strong contrast; but it is so quietly laid
along the mantel-shelf, which supports its weight, that there is no
suggestion of effort. Meanwhile, the other arm, hanging so easily, is
almost parallel to the main diagonal. The line also of the neck gently
carries on the lines of the shoulders, and, as the head is slightly
tilted back, its downward pressure is supported by the shoulder that
rests on the shelf. The whole suggestion of the figure, in fact, is one
of rest. There is no conscious bodily effort to interfere with the
reverie in which the girl’s mind is wrapt. She may be buried in her
thoughts or she may be absorbed in the beauty of the box and vase, at
which she seems to be looking. “Seems,” I say, for it is difficult to be
sure that she is conscious of them. Her gaze seems fixed to a far
vision, as if she had begun by looking at these objects, and then, as
her thoughts passed beyond them, had let the gaze of her eyes follow.
She seems buried in some girlish reverie, wrapt “in maiden meditation,
fancy free.” To me it is a very lovely figure not because of the
features of the face--opinions may differ about the face being beautiful
in the ordinary sense of having beautiful features. Its beauty to me
lies in its expression; in its expression of some lovely mood of a
girl’s spirit. And I find the figure beautiful, because all through it
is the movement of the same expression. This must have been in
Whistler’s mind when he painted her. But he was conscious, perhaps, of
another side of her nature; that she had moods of brightness as well. At
any rate he chose to contrast with the pensive calm of the girl herself
the bright animated spots of color that surround her.
These spots of color, if you examine the picture carefully, really play
the part of the shadows in the chiaroscuro of old pictures. Chiaroscuro,
you remember, is the pattern of light and dark. Here the red box and the
blue of the vase and the green and rose, of the camelias, yes, and even
the face in the mirror, the marble shelf and fireplace--all represent
the dark spots. But not dark in the old way of being shadows. They are
dark as compared with the white of the dress, because their colors
reflect less light than the white; their values are lower. Thus they
serve the purposes of a dark contrast and yet they themselves are very
light. This, in a nutshell, is what the new study of values, that was
learnt from Velasquez and from Vermeer, and the other Dutchmen, really
means. It has enabled the artist to be even more true to life in the
representation of objects, and at the same time to make his
color-harmonies purer, clearer and more transparent; in one word,
luminous; permeated, that is to say, with a suggestion of light, that in
nature permeates the atmosphere and brings all objects into an
appearance of harmonious unity.
How this particular picture is helped by a contrast, not of the old
fashioned dark and light, as in the _Descent from the Cross_ but of
values of color, you can see for yourself, even from the reproduction.
Still more would you realize it could you see the freshness and purity
and gladsomeness of the original. Contrasts are needful in the
composition of a work of art--they are one of the sources of its beauty.
But imagine if you can, having shadows and darkness brought into
contrast with this white robed figure! How they would contradict the
expression of its exquisite purity and loveliness! As it is, the
contrast of lower values does not in the least jar upon the expression;
on the contrary, it gives it a greater meaning, since it suggests the
atmosphere of happiness and brightness that has helped to color the
beauty of the girl’s spirit.