Both rules and principles are the healthy results of thought,
notwithstanding.--Condensation and simplification--shorter methods, and
conclusive deductions, are among the results obtained from them.
'There are rules for the conduct of the artist, which are fixed and
invariable. The arts would lie open for ever to caprice and casualty, if
those who are to judge of their excellencies had no settled principles
by which they are to regulate their decisions, and their merits or
defects were to be determined by unguided fancy;' which, in the end,
would deprive art of its existence.
Reynolds says, 'Whatever is done well is done by some certain rule,
otherwise it could not be repeated.'
Rules, pursued beyond their _intention_, become the fetters of the mind:
among architects for instance--whose very profession should be a matter
of light and shade--I have never known, nor heard of one in my life, who
ever obtained even the veriest mediocrity in painting, however otherwise
talented. This can only be attributable to their adherence to the
rigidity of their rules in their details, beyond their _general_
intention.
Much should oftentimes be conceded to the suggestions of strong
inclination in an ingenious and intelligent mind, whose impulses are
irresistible, and which any peculiar method would only clog and fetter,
by thwarting its particular turn--which, after all succeeds best its own
way; and arrives at the same end by its own impulses. Rules apply more
properly to such as are not invested with these powers: or, with the
same incentives, have not the strength.
ON COPYING.
A SYSTEM of copying, or rather borrowing from the works of others, some
_point_, 'from which the imagination may rise and take flight,' is a
manner commonly pursued by our best painters. This method is that of
really making it our own, by judicious efforts, without the risk of the
imputation of plagiarism, which I shall endeavour to make appear.
By the contemplation of what is good in others, 'a sense of the higher
excellencies of art will by degrees dawn on the imagination; at every
review that sense will become more and more assured, and the artist will
then find no difficulty in fixing in his own mind the principles by
which the impression is produced; which he will feel and practice,
though they are perhaps too delicate and refined to be conveyed to the
mind by any other means.'
Sir Joshua, speaking of the great examples of Art, says, 'These are the
materials on which Genius is to work, and without which the strongest
intellect may be fruitlessly or deviously employed. By studying these
authentic models, that idea of excellence which is the result of the
accumulated experience of past ages, may be at once acquired; and the
tardy and obstructed progress of our predecessors may teach us a shorter
and easier way. The student perceives at one glance the principles which
many artists have spent their whole lives in ascertaining; and,
satisfied with their effect, is spared the painful investigation by
which they came to be known and fixed.'
The greatest painters are continually making such memoranda as may be
called copying, either from the works of antiquity, or those of their
cotemporaries.
Beginning with nothing, we _must_ borrow until we can pay the debt.
'The sagacious imitator does not content himself with merely remarking
what distinguishes the different manner or genius of each master; he
enters into the contrivance in the composition, how the masses of lights
are disposed, the means by which the effect is produced, how artfully
some parts are lost in the ground, others boldly relieved, and how all
these are mutually altered and interchanged, according to the reason and
scheme of the work. He admires not the harmony of colouring alone, but
examines by what artifice one colour is a foil to its neighbour; he
looks close into the tints, examines of what colours they are composed,
till he has formed clear and distinct ideas, and has learnt to see in
what harmony and good colouring consists. What is learned in this manner
from the works of others becomes really our own, sinks deep, and is
never forgotten.
'If the excellence of a picture consists in its general effect, it would
be proper to make slight sketches of the machinery and general
management of the work. Those sketches should be kept always by you for
the regulation of your style. Instead of copying the touches of those
great masters, copy only their conceptions. Instead of treading in their
footsteps, endeavour only to keep the same road. Labour to invent on
their general principles and way of thinking. Possess yourself with
their spirit: and work yourself into a belief that your picture is to be
seen and criticised by them, when completed. Even an attempt of this
kind will rouse your powers.' Again--'But as mere enthusiasm will carry
you but a little way, what I propose is, that you should enter into a
kind of competition, by painting a similar subject, and making a
companion to any picture that you consider as a model; place them
together and compare them carefully, and you will detect the
deficiencies in your own more sensibly than by any other means of
instruction. The true principles of painting will mingle with your
thoughts, which will be certain and definitive, and sink deep into the
mind. This method of comparing your own efforts with those of some great
master, is indeed a severe and mortifying task; to go voluntarily to a
tribunal where he knows his vanity must be humbled, and all
self-approbation must vanish, requires not only great resolution, but
great humility! but it is attended with this alleviating circumstance,
which abundantly compensates for the mortification of present
disappointment, every discovery he makes, every acquisition to knowledge
he attains, seems to proceed from his _own_ sagacity, and thus he
acquires confidence in himself, sufficient to keep up the resolution of
perseverance. And we prefer those instructions which we have given to
ourselves, from our affection to the instructor.'
The perception of errors shortens the road to truth. 'Cease to follow
any master when he ceases to excel.' Avoid that narrowness and poverty
of conception which attends a bigoted admiration of a single master! We
will suppose 'those perfections which lie scattered among various
masters, are now united in one general idea, which is henceforth to
regulate his taste and enlarge his imagination, extending his capacity
to more general instructions, he must now consider the _art_ itself as
his master. At all times, and in all places, he should be employed in
laying up materials for the exercise of his art, to be combined and
varied as occasion may require; seeking only to know and combine
excellence, wherever it is to be found, into one idea of perfection; and
employing the most subtle disquisition to discriminate perfections that
are incompatible with each other. The habitual dignity which long
converse with the _greatest minds_ has imparted to him, will display
itself in all his attempts, and he will stand among his instructors, not
as an imitator, but a rival. The more extensive your acquaintance is
with the works of those who have excelled, the more extensive will be
your powers of invention; and, what will appear still more like a
paradox, the more original will be your conceptions.'
Again:--'By the devotion with which many study a particular master, they
acquire a habit of thinking the same way; therefore, let his faults
always be your best instructors.'
The firm, correct and determined pencil of many of the Dutch masters,
cannot be too strongly recommended for imitation. I speak of the
mechanism of painting: the expression, force and energy they gave to
their works, from the decision of touch and handling, which enabled them
to give that look of nature and freshness of reality to their studies,
that forms so great an excellence in their performances. The study of
Ostade, Teniers, and many others of that school, cannot fail to enrich
our own works with variety of invention, and 'those who have not looked
out for themselves in this manner from time to time, have not only
ceased to advance and improve, but have invariably gone backward, from
being left without resources;' and having gathered nothing, have nothing
to work upon--from an inability to infuse into their own works what they
have neglected to learn from the contemplation of the works of others.
It places you under the guidance of your own judgment and discretion by
comparison with the best efforts of others; it enables you 'to
criticise, compare, and rank their works in your own estimation, as they
approach to, or recede from, the standard of perfection which you have
formed in your own mind--but which those masters themselves have taught
you to make, and which you will cease to make with correctness when you
cease to study them. It is their excellencies which have taught you
their defects, and you will, henceforth, be your own teacher.' Be
cautious against the 'imaginary powers of native genius, and sufficiency
in yourself, which seldom fails to produce either a vain confidence or a
sluggish despair, both equally fatal to all proficiency.
'Study, therefore, the great masters for ever: study nature attentively,
but always with those masters in your company; consider them as models
which you are to imitate, and, at the same time, as _rivals_ with whom
you are to contend;' and you will insensibly come to feel and reason
like them, and find taste imperceptibly formed in _your own mind_.
By the industry of the hand you will acquire good manner, but it is to
the industry of the mind you will be indebted for any solid reputation.
'He who does not know others, knows himself very imperfectly.'
_Wrongly directed_ industry is a dangerous delusion. Too much copying
will, on the other hand, greatly tend to impair our mental exertions,
render them servile and mechanical, and confine, at the most, our
aspirings to a very limited sphere, while it is utterly at variance in
establishing any claim of our own to originality or distinction.
Studying the _genius_ of a fine work of art, its _general_ forms, its
combinations, its chiaroscuro, its colour and effect; and with all these
on our minds, going home and making a companion to it, is a noble and
lofty aim, frequently attended with entire success. This excellent
practice, diligently persevered in, at length brings our sympathies
into a corresponding train of ideas with those we would emulate; and if
we cannot reach them in their various excellencies, so we succeed in
lighting our torch at those glorious beams of old, our advances are at
least entitled to that respect they universally meet with. An abject
imitation is of all things that I should avoid. But that _reading of_,
and conversing with a picture, that almost places us under a delusion,
during the time we are under its influence; that associating our
feelings and ideas--that blending of our aspirations with the master
mind that thought and wrought so well, is the surest hemisphere in which
we can hope to think and paint like them. The student's perceptions
become annealed by the influence of the charm that invests him: he
aspires to a higher latitude of excellence: he beholds before him the
ripest fruit on the topmost palm, and he knows the principles and the
laws by which he _can_ reach it, and _does_ reach it, by the agency of,
and the gradual developement of the simple rules he commenced with.
It often happens, and it is my opinion, that a careless scribbler, who
dashes at everything, stands quite as good a chance of becoming
original, as the most careful copyist ever will; after the very first
attempts, too much precision stands sadly in the way of boldness,
freedom and dexterity. After being enabled to draw with some degree of
accuracy, _mannerism_ will invariably be the result of the extreme care
so universally recommended by most writers on the subject; and hence
that excess of it we daily observe; for it requires but a very
common-place observer, on entering an exhibition, to point to a picture
and name the painter at the same moment: presuming he had ever seen a
work by the same artist before.
Reynolds says of copying, 'I consider general copying as a delusive kind
of industry; the student falls into the dangerous habit of imitating,
without selecting, and of labouring without any determinate object; as
it requires no effort of the mind, he sleeps over his work, and those
powers of invention and composition which ought particularly to be
called out, and put in action, lie torpid and lose their energy for want
of exercise. How incapable those are of producing anything of their own
who have spent much of their time in making finished copies, is well
known to all who are conversant with our art.'
ON THE LIGHT AND SHADE OF COLOUR: AND REFLEXES.
COLOUR is called in aid of Light and Shade, to dress and ornament it;
but not to distort and disfigure it.
Extending either the light or shadow by means of _colour_, is perhaps
one of the best ways of combining both.
Breadth of light and shade may involve _many_ colours in its
arrangement, so they are divided into imposing masses; variety of colour
is often necessary to explain the localities of a work; and, that they
may not appear confused, light colours should be sociable with light
colours; and dark ones with others of equal density: their repetitions
invading each other throughout the chain.
Great _intimacy_ of union, in the colour of the lights, will likewise
produce breadth; so as to make a large and connected mass appear, at a
little distance, as one graduated light.
Colours may stand either for colours or shadows; so that they be of
sufficient density, and sufficiently opposed to light ones.
But, if you do not depend on the colour of the picture for effect of
light and shade, _much less_ intensity of colours will be sufficient.
The _strongest_ colours are sometimes most successfully employed in
uniting the light with the shade.
In the conduct of light, I conceive the objects which receive its
influence, should, of all things, as much as possible, partake of the
colour of that light, as seeming more like an extension of it, and
looking more natural:--thus, in a church, all the parts receiving the
light from a painted glass window, would partake of its varieties of
colour. The rising and setting of the sun turns all to gold, by the same
alchymy, while it acts as an uniting link in carrying the colour through
the picture: these, in their turn, throw their radiating reflects in a
thousand other directions, keeping up and sustaining the communicative
principle of the whole--imparted by the primitive cause and its agency.
The colouring of a picture should always be in _harmony_ with its light
and shade.
The lights will require to be overcharged with colour, if the shadows
are too heavy and loaded; on their transparency depends the beauty of
both.
The shadows must be _darker_ than the shadowed sides of the objects
which project them; for the reason explained in the article on Light and
Shade.
The masses of light should be of warm colours, yellow or red, supported
by blue or grey in the shadows; a very small proportion of which will
generally be found sufficient.
The _real_ colour of an object is only seen in the light. All shadows
should partake, more or less, of the colour of the light. That shadow
will appear the darkest that is surrounded by the brightest light.
The nearer a colour is to the eye, the purer it will appear; arraying
itself as it retires, with the colour of the air interposed between it;
consequently, the purest colours should only occur in foregrounds,--where
the shadows, for the same reason, would likewise be darkest.
The colour of a light will be stopped at the part where any reflex
reaches it. We see mountains covered with snow, at sunset, from the
effulgence of its rays, make the horizon appear all on fire.
Distant mountains appear more deeply blue, according to the extent of
the azure of the air interposed between them and the eye. All masses in
the distance partake, more or less, of this quality.
'The vapours mixing with the air, in the lower region near the earth,
render it thick, and apt to reflect the sun's rays on all sides, while
the air above remains dark; and because light (white) and darkness
(black) mixed together, compose the azure that becomes the colour of the
sky--which is lighter or darker, in proportion as the air is more or
less mixed with damp vapours.'
Shadows produced by the redness of the setting sun, will be blue; from
the reflexes of that part of the air not illumined by its rays.
If the sun is overcast, the lights will be general; so will the shadows.
If the sunbeams burst out, and strike the objects in a landscape, the
shadows will then be dark in _proportion_ to the lights. The brilliant
edges of the clouds all assist the general illumination; and all objects
in the light, will participate of _their_ colour from reflexion. On the
contrary, those parts not included in the range of rays, remain the
colour of the _air_.
The air partakes less of the azure of the sky as it approaches the
horizon, being more remote from the sun than that part of it above our
heads, which receives a larger portion of its rays. The horizon will be
light, while, in ascending to the meridian, it becomes, from this cause,
deeper and bluer. So the nature of all colours diminish in proportion as
density of air is interposed between them and the eye.
Reflected colours, thrown from, and upon, equal angles, will be the
strongest: the most distinct, being produced by the shortest ray.
No reflected colour will have the brilliance of a direct one. For, if a
reflected light from a blue object be thrown on a yellow one, the result
would be green:--green being composed of blue and yellow. This
circumstance refers to most mixtures.
It only happens to those colours which are on a _level_ with the eye,
that their gradation is in proportion to their distance. As to those of
elevation, they are influenced by the quality of the air they are seen
through.
Colours, whose nearest approach is to black, as they retire into
distance, partake most of the azure of the air:--and those colours most
dissimilar to black, preserve their proper colour as they recede. The
golden lights on distant mountains or fields will best explain this.
'The green, therefore, of the fields will change sooner into blue, than
yellow or white, which will preserve their natural colour at a greater
distance than that, or even red.'
'It may happen that a colour does not alter, though placed at different
distances, when the thickness of the air and the distance are in the
same inverse proportion.'
_Masses_ of shadow carry the strongest part of their colour to the
greatest distance; as when trees appear thick together, accumulating the
shadow on each other, they become darker by multiplying those shadows.
'The darker a mountain is in itself,' says Leonardo, 'the bluer it will
appear at a great distance. The highest part will be the darkest, being
more woody; because woods cover a great many shrubs and other plants,
which never receive the light. Near the tops of those mountains, where
the air is thinner and purer, the darkness of the woods will make it
appear of a deeper azure than at the bottom, where the air is thicker.'
'In general, all objects that are darker or lighter than the air are
discoloured by distance, which changes their quality, so that the
lighter appears darker, and the darker lighter.'
Colours are more or less _entirely_ lost at a great distance from the
eye, according to the purity or density of the air through which they
are revealed, or as they are more or less elevated from the earth,
merging as they retire into a general grey, occasioned by the quantity
of the intervening air. In countries where the air is thin, colours are
discernible at great distances, but still tinged with the colour of that
air.
The _darkest_ colours, in distance, will be most of all impregnated with
the colour of the air. So will the _strongest_ real or accidental
shadows.
Colours and outline are best defined on objects placed _out_ of the
strong light of the sun, and its reflexes. In sunshine, both are
operated on by refraction, which occasions that chaotic indistinctness
so painful for the eye to dwell on long together.
Every body, on which light falls, reflects a part of it back again. Any
thing red, held before a looking-glass, gives back a portion of its own
colour with great vividness; as a glass would throw the sun's ray on a
wall.
The real colour of polished surfaces are lost in the colour of the light
that falls on them. This likewise applies to all metals.
All smooth or shining surfaces repel the light they receive, throwing
their reflexes on any thing opposed to them.
Polished surfaces, as in plate or armour, do not show their real
colours. The reflected colours of the sun or air that shines on them
confuse their own. Rough surfaces, on the contrary, retain their natural
colours most.
Suppose the sun to equally illumine two sides of a street, as it passes
its centre, and on one side is a red house, and opposite to it a white
one, the white one would be impinged with the reflection from the action
of the light on the red one: thus, all proximity of colours affect each
other, in the light, in the manner of reflexes, declining as they
recede. The reflected lights in folds of silk draperies illustrate this
phenomenon best.
Compare the shadows thrown on different colours with each other, by
placing a number of coloured materials in a dark place, the colours of
shadows being regulated by the objects giving and receiving them.
Examine well the colours in the shadows of flowers; they present the
most excellent combinations.
All colours, as at night, may be lost in that of the general shadow,
presuming it dark enough to destroy all reflexes.
Colours reflected on by their _opposites_ will become neutralized; as
green against red, purple against yellow, &c.
The shadows on all objects partake of the colour of the light, or are
qualified by other lights throwing their reflects into them.
The lightness or darkness of shadows are entirely regulated by the
colour of the objects on which they fall.
An object painted in a light colour will be more or less light,
according to the strength of its shadow, from the consequences attending
opposition.
So a light figure, laid upon a light background, but differing in
colour--as a warm object on a grey sky--assists, in the greatest degree,
the preservation of the breadth. Opposition of colour is, perhaps, of
most use under these circumstances.
Colours on the figures or parts brought into notice by opposition may be
sometimes applied with sufficient _depth_ and intensity as to
advantageously take the place of _shadows_ or darks.
Light and shade may be produced by the influence of _colours alone_,
judiciously applied; the reds and yellows supporting the lights, while
the blues, greys, and cold colours form the retiring portions, or such
as would otherwise be in shadow.
Suppose a picture, composed of one part shade and the other light--the
light being warm, and the shadow composed of cold colours--a red or
warm-coloured figure laid against the shadowed side, and a blue one
brought out from the light, would, in addition to possessing the
greatest force of colour, have a spirited and imposing effect. But the
_contrary_ treatment would possess the greatest breadth and repose;--a
dark figure laid on the mass of shadow (a point of which, being darker
than the rest, would gather it together), and a light one on the light,
having a point still higher in colour than the ground.
Rich, deep, and warm shadows are required to support strong coloured
lights. So, strong colours are equally useful in focussing the shadows,
or in giving them variety.