clothed; there must be a background; there must be light and shadow;
but none of these ought to appear to have taken up any part of the
artist's attention. They should be so managed as not even to catch
that of the spectator. We know well enough, when we analyse a piece,
the difficulty and the subtlety with which an artist adjusts the
background drapery and masses of light; we know that a considerable
part of the grace and effect of his picture depends upon them; but
this art is so much concealed, even to a judicious eye, that no
remains of any of these subordinate parts occur to the memory when the
picture is not present.
The great end of the art is to strike the imagination. The Painter,
therefore, is to make no ostentation of the means by which this is
done; the spectator is only to feel the result in his bosom. An
inferior artist is unwilling that any part of his industry should be
lost upon the spectator. He takes as much pains to discover, as the
greater artist does to conceal, the marks of his subordinate
assiduity. In works of the lower kind everything appears studied and
encumbered; it is all boastful art and open affectation. The ignorant
often part from such pictures with wonder in their mouths and
indifference in their hearts.
But it is not enough in Invention that the Artist should restrain and
keep under all the inferior parts of his subject; he must sometimes
deviate from vulgar and strict historical truth, in pursuing the
grandeur of his design.
How much the great style exacts from its professors to conceive and
represent their subjects in a poetical manner, not confined to mere
matter of fact, may be seen in the Cartoons of Raffaelle. In all the
pictures in which the painter has represented the apostles, he has
drawn them with great nobleness; he has given them as much dignity as
the human figure is capable of receiving; yet we are expressly told
in Scripture they had no such respectable appearance; and of St. Paul,
in particular, we are told, by himself, that his _bodily_ presence was
_mean_. Alexander is said to have been of a low stature: a Painter
ought not so to represent him. Agesilaus was low, lame, and of a mean
appearance: none of these defects ought to appear in a piece of which
he is the hero. In conformity to custom, I call this part of the art
History Painting; it ought to be called Poetical, as in reality it is.
All this is not falsifying any fact; it is taking an allowed poetical
license. A painter of portraits retains the individual likeness; a
painter of history shows the man by showing his action. A Painter must
compensate the natural deficiencies of his art. He has but one
sentence to utter, but one moment to exhibit. He cannot, like the poet
or historian, expatiate, and impress the mind with great veneration
for the character of the hero or saint he represents, though he lets
us know, at the same time, that the saint was deformed or the hero
lame. The Painter has no other means of giving an idea of the dignity
of the mind, but by that external appearance which grandeur of thought
does generally, though not always, impress on the countenance; and by
that correspondence of figure to sentiment and situation, which all
men wish, but cannot command. The Painter who may in this one
particular attain with ease what others desire in vain, ought to give
all that he possibly can, since there are so many circumstances of
true greatness that he cannot give at all. He cannot make his hero
talk like a great man; he must make him look like one. For which
reason he ought to be well studied in the analysis of those
circumstances which constitute dignity of appearance in real life.
As in Invention, so likewise in Expression, care must be taken not to
run into particularities. Those expressions alone should be given to
the figures which their respective situations generally produce. Nor
is this enough; each person should also have that expression which men
of his rank generally exhibit. The joy, or the grief, of a character
of dignity is not to be expressed in the same manner as a similar
passion in a vulgar face. Upon this principle, Bernini, perhaps, may
be subject to censure. This sculptor, in many respects admirable, has
given a very mean expression to his statue of David, who is
represented as just going to throw the stone from the sling; and, in
order to give it the expression of energy, he has made him biting his
under lip. This expression is far from being general, and still
farther from being dignified. He might have seen it in an instance or
two; and he mistook accident for generality.
With respect to Colouring, though it may appear at first a part of
painting merely mechanical, yet it still has its rules, and those
grounded upon that presiding principle which regulates both the great
and the little in the study of a painter. By this, the first effect of
the picture is produced; and as this is performed, the spectator, as
he walks the gallery, will stop, or pass along. To give a general air
of grandeur at first view, all trifling, or artful play of little
lights, or an attention to a variety of tints, is to be avoided; a
quietness and simplicity must reign over the whole work; to which a
breadth of uniform and simple colour will very much contribute.
Grandeur of effect is produced by two different ways, which seem
entirely opposed to each other. One is, by reducing the colours to
little more than chiaro-oscuro, which was often the practice of the
Bolognian schools; and the other, by making the colours very distinct
and forcible, such as we see in those of Rome and Florence; but still,
the presiding principle of both those manners is simplicity.
Certainly, nothing can be more simple than monotony; and the distinct
blue, red, and yellow colours which are seen in the draperies of the
Roman and Florentine schools, though they have not that kind of
harmony which is produced by a variety of broken and transparent
colours, have that effect of grandeur which was intended. Perhaps
these distinct colours strike the mind more forcibly, from there not
being any great union between them; as martial music, which is
intended to rouse the nobler passions, has its effect from the sudden
and strongly-marked transitions from one note to another which that
style of music requires; whilst in that which is intended to move the
softer passions, the notes imperceptibly melt into one another.
In the same manner as the historical painter never enters into the
detail of colours, so neither does he debase his conceptions with
minute attention to the discriminations of drapery. It is the inferior
style that marks the variety of stuffs. With him the clothing is
neither woollen, nor linen, nor silk, satin, or velvet: it is drapery;
it is nothing more. The art of disposing the foldings of the drapery
makes a very considerable part of the painter's study. To make it
merely natural is a mechanical operation, to which neither genius nor
taste are required; whereas it requires the nicest judgment to dispose
the drapery, so that the folds shall have an easy communication, and
gracefully follow each other with such natural negligence as to look
like the effect of chance, and at the same time show the figure under
it to the utmost advantage.
Carlo Maratti was of opinion that the disposition of drapery was a
more difficult art than even that of drawing the human figure; that a
student might be more easily taught the latter than the former; as the
rules of drapery, he said, could not be so well ascertained as those
for delineating a correct form. This, perhaps, is a proof how
willingly we favour our own peculiar excellence. Carlo Maratti is said
to have valued himself particularly upon his skill in this part of his
art; yet in him, the disposition appears so ostentatiously artificial,
that he is inferior to Raffaelle, even in that which gave him his best
claim to reputation.
Such is the great principle by which we must be directed in the nobler
branches of our art. Upon this principle, the Roman, the Florentine,
the Bolognese schools have formed their practice; and by this they
have deservedly obtained the highest praise. These are the three great
schools of the world in the epic style. The best of the French school,
Poussin, Le Sueur, and Le Brun, have formed themselves upon these
models, and consequently may be said, though Frenchmen, to be a colony
from the Roman school. Next to these, but in a very different style of
excellence, we may rank the Venetian, together with the Flemish and
Dutch schools; all professing to depart from the great purposes of
painting, and catching at applause by inferior qualities.
I am not ignorant that some will censure me for placing the Venetians
in this inferior class, and many of the warmest admirers of painting
will think them unjustly degraded; but I wish not to be misunderstood.
Though I can by no means allow them to hold any rank with the nobler
schools of painting, they accomplished perfectly the thing they
attempted. But as mere elegance is their principal object, as they
seem more willing to dazzle than to affect, it can be no injury to
them to suppose that their practice is useful only to its proper end.
But what may heighten the elegant may degrade the sublime. There is a
simplicity, and, I may add, severity, in the great manner, which is,
I am afraid, almost incompatible with this comparatively sensual style.
Tintoret, Paul Veronese, and others of the Venetian school, seem to
have painted with no other purpose than to be admired for their skill
and expertness in the mechanism of painting, and to make a parade of
that art, which, as I before observed, the higher style requires its
followers to conceal.
In a conference of the French Academy, at which were present Le Brun,
Sabastian Bourdon, and all the eminent Artists of that age, one of the
Academicians desired to have their opinion on the conduct of Paul
Veronese, who, though a painter of great consideration, had, contrary
to the strict rules of art, in his picture of Perseus and Andromeda,
represented the principal figure in shade. To this question no
satisfactory answer was then given. But I will venture to say, that,
if they had considered the class of the Artist, and ranked him as an
ornamental Painter, there would have been no difficulty in
answering--"It was unreasonable to expect what was never intended. His
intention was solely to produce an effect of light and shadow;
everything was to be sacrificed to that intent, and the capricious
composition of that picture suited very well with the style which he
professed."
Young minds are indeed too apt to be captivated by this splendour of
style; and that of the Venetians is particularly pleasing; for by them
all those parts of the Art that gave pleasure to the eye or sense have
been cultivated with care, and carried to the degree nearest to
perfection. The powers exerted in the mechanical part of the Art have
been called _the language of Painters_; but we may say, that it is but
poor eloquence which only shows that the orator can talk. Words should
be employed as the means, not as the end: language is the instrument,
conviction is the work.
The language of Painting must indeed be allowed these masters; but
even in that they have shown more copiousness than choice, and more
luxuriancy than judgment. If we consider the uninteresting subjects of
their invention, or at least the uninteresting manner in which they
are treated; if we attend to their capricious composition, their
violent and affected contrasts, whether of figures or of light and
shadow, the richness of their drapery, and, at the same time, the mean
effect which the discrimination of stuffs gives to their pictures; if
to these we add their total inattention to expression; and then
reflect on the conceptions and the learning of Michel Angelo, or the
simplicity of Raffaelle, we can no longer dwell on the comparison.
Even in colouring, if we compare the quietness and chastity of the
Bolognese pencil to the bustle and tumult that fills every part of a
Venetian picture, without the least attempt to interest the passions,
their boasted art will appear a mere struggle without effect; _a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing_.
Such as suppose that the great style might happily be blended with the
ornamental, that the simple, grave, and majestic dignity of Raffaelle
could unite with the glow and bustle of a Paolo or Tintoret, are totally
mistaken. The principles by which each is attained are so contrary to
each other, that they seem, in my opinion, incompatible, and as
impossible to exist together, as that in the mind the most sublime ideas
and the lowest sensuality should at the same time be united.
The subjects of the Venetian Painters are mostly such as give them an
opportunity of introducing a great number of figures; such as feasts,
marriages, and processions, public martyrdoms, or miracles. I can
easily conceive that Paul Veronese, if he were asked, would say, that
no subject was proper for an historical picture, but such as admitted
at least forty figures; for in a less number, he would assert, there
could be no opportunity of the Painter's showing his art in
composition, his dexterity of managing and disposing the masses of
light and groups of figures, and of introducing a variety of Eastern
dresses and characters in their rich stuffs.
But the thing is very different with a pupil of the greater schools.
Annibale Caracci thought twelve figures sufficient for any story; he
conceived that more would contribute to no end but to fill space; that
they would be but cold spectators of the general action, or, to use
his own expression, that they would be _figures to be let_. Besides,
it is impossible for a picture composed of so many parts to have that
effect so indispensably necessary to grandeur, that of one complete
whole. However contradictory it may be in geometry, it is true in
taste, that many little things will not make a great one. The Sublime
impresses the mind at once with one great idea; it is a single blow:
the Elegant, indeed, may be produced by repetition; by an accumulation
of many minute circumstances.
However great the difference is between the composition of the Venetian
and the rest of the Italian schools, there is full as great a disparity
in the effect of their pictures as produced by colours. And though in
this respect the Venetians must be allowed extraordinary skill, yet even
that skill, as they have employed it, will but ill correspond with the
great style. Their colouring is not only too brilliant, but, I will
venture to say, too harmonious, to produce that solidity, steadiness,
and simplicity of effect, which heroic subjects require, and which
simple or grave colours only can give to a work. That they are to be
cautiously studied by those who are ambitious of treading the great
walk of history, is confirmed, if it wants confirmation, by the greatest
of all authorities, Michel Angelo. This wonderful man, after having seen
a picture by Titian, told Vasari, who accompanied him, "that he liked
much his colouring and manner;" but then he added, "that it was a pity
the Venetian painters did not learn to draw correctly in their early
youth, and adopt a better _manner of study_."
By this it appears that the principal attention of the Venetian
painters, in the opinion of Michel Angelo, seemed to be engrossed by
the study of colours, to the neglect of the _ideal beauty of form_, or
propriety of expression. But if general censure was given to that
school from the sight of a picture of Titian, how much more heavily
and more justly would the censure fall on Paolo Veronese, and more
especially on Tintoret? And here I cannot avoid citing Vasari's
opinion of the style and manner of Tintoret. "Of all the extraordinary
geniuses," says he, "that have practised the art of painting, for
wild, capricious, extravagant, and fantastical inventions, for furious
impetuosity and boldness in the execution of his work, there is none
like Tintoret; his strange whimsies are even beyond extravagance; and
his works seem to be produced rather by chance than in consequence of
any previous design, as if he wanted to convince the world that the
art was a trifle, and of the most easy attainment."
For my own part, when I speak of the Venetian painters, I wish to be
understood to mean Paolo Veronese and Tintoret, to the exclusion of
Titian; for though his style is not so pure as that of many other of
the Italian Schools, yet there is a sort of senatorial dignity about
him, which, however awkward in his imitators, seems to become him
exceedingly. His portraits alone, from the nobleness and simplicity
of character which he always gave them, will entitle him to the
greatest respect, as he undoubtedly stands in the first rank in this
branch of the art.
It is not with Titian, but with the seducing qualities of the two
former, that I could wish to caution you against being too much
captivated. These are the persons who may be said to have exhausted
all the powers of florid eloquence, to debauch the young and
unexperienced; and have, without doubt, been the cause of turning off
the attention of the connoisseur and of the patron of art, as well as
that of the painter, from those higher excellencies of which the art
is capable, and which ought to be required in every considerable
production. By them, and their imitators, a style merely ornamental
has been disseminated throughout all Europe. Rubens carried it to
Flanders; Voet to France; and Lucca Giordano to Spain and Naples.
The Venetian is indeed the most splendid of the schools of elegance;
and it is not without reason that the best performances in this lower
school are valued higher than the second-rate performances of those
above them; for every picture has value when it has a decided
character, and is excellent in its kind. But the student must take
care not to be so much dazzled with this splendour as to be tempted to
imitate what must ultimately lead from perfection. Poussin, whose eye
was always steadily fixed on the sublime, has been often heard to say,
"that a particular attention to colouring was an obstacle to the
student, in his progress to the great end and design of the art; and
that he who attaches himself to this principal end will acquire by
practice a reasonably good method of colouring."
Though it be allowed that elaborate harmony of colouring, a brilliancy
of tints, a soft and gradual transition from one to another, present
to the eye what an harmonious concert of music does to the ear, it
must be remembered that painting is not merely a gratification of the
sight. Such excellence, though properly cultivated, where nothing
higher than elegance is intended, is weak and unworthy of regard, when
the work aspires to grandeur and sublimity.
The same reasons that have been urged to show that a mixture of the
Venetian style cannot improve the great style, will hold good in
regard to the Flemish and Dutch schools. Indeed, the Flemish school,
of which Rubens is the head, was formed upon that of the Venetian;
like them, he took his figures too much from the people before him.
But it must be allowed in favour of the Venetians, that he was more
gross than they, and carried all their mistaken methods to a far
greater excess. In the Venetian school itself, where they all err from
the same cause, there is a difference in the effect. The difference
between Paolo and Bassano seems to be only, that one introduced
Venetian gentlemen into his pictures, and the other the boors of the
district of Bassano, and called them patriarchs and prophets.
The painters of the Dutch school have still more locality. With them a
history-piece is properly a portrait of themselves; whether they
describe the inside or outside of their houses, we have their own
people engaged in their own peculiar occupations; working or drinking,
playing or fighting. The circumstances that enter into a picture of
this kind are so far from giving a general view of human life, that
they exhibit all the minute particularities of a nation differing in
several respects from the rest of mankind. Yet let them have their
share of more humble praise. The painters of this school are excellent
in their own way; they are only ridiculous when they attempt general
history on their own narrow principles, and debase great events by the
meanness of their characters.
Some inferior dexterity, some extraordinary mechanical power, is
apparently that from which they seek distinction. Thus, we see that
school alone has the custom of representing candle-light, not as it
really appears to us by night, but red, as it would illuminate objects
to a spectator by day. Such tricks, however pardonable in the little
style, where petty effects are the sole end, are inexcusable in the
greater, where the attention should never be drawn aside by trifles,
but should be entirely occupied by the subject itself.
The same local principles which characterise the Dutch school extend
even to their landscape painters; and Rubens himself, who has painted
many landscapes, has sometimes transgressed in this particular. Their
pieces in this way are, I think, always a representation of an
individual spot, and each in its kind a very faithful but a very
confined portrait. Claude Lorrain, on the contrary, was convinced that
taking nature as he found it seldom produced beauty. His pictures are
a composition of the various draughts which he had previously made
from various beautiful scenes and prospects. However, Rubens in some
measure has made amends for the deficiency with which he is charged;
he has contrived to raise and animate his otherwise uninteresting
views, by introducing a rainbow, storm, or some particular accidental
effect of light. That the practice of Claude Lorrain, in respect to
his choice, is to be adopted by Landscape-painters in opposition to
that of the Flemish and Dutch schools, there can be no doubt, as its
truth is founded upon the same principle as that by which
the Historical-painter acquires perfect form. But whether
landscape-painting has a right to aspire so far as to reject what the
painters call Accidents of Nature, is not easy to determine. It is
certain Claude Lorrain seldom, if ever, availed himself of those
accidents; either he thought that such peculiarities were contrary to
that style of general nature which he professed, or that it would
catch the attention too strongly, and destroy that quietness and
repose which he thought necessary to that kind of painting.
A Portrait-painter likewise, when he attempts history, unless he is
upon his guard, is likely to enter too much into the detail. He too
frequently makes his historical heads look like portraits; and this
was once the custom amongst those old painters, who revived the art
before general ideas were practised or understood. A History-painter
paints man in general; a Portrait-painter, a particular man, and
consequently a defective model.
Thus an habitual practice in the lower exercises of the art will
prevent many from attaining the greater. But such of us who move in
these humbler walks of the profession are not ignorant that, as the
natural dignity of the subject is less, the more all the little
ornamental helps are necessary to its embellishment. It would be
ridiculous for a painter of domestic scenes, of portraits, landscapes,
animals, or still life, to say that he despised those qualities which
has made the subordinate schools so famous. The art of colouring, and
the skilful management of light and shadow, are essential requisites
in his confined labours. If we descend still lower, what is the
painter of fruit and flowers without the utmost art in colouring, and
what the painters call handling; that is, a lightness of pencil that
implies great practice, and gives the appearance of being done with
ease? Some here, I believe, must remember a flower-painter whose boast
it was, that he scorned to paint for the _million_: no, he professed
to paint in the true Italian taste; and, despising the crowd, called
strenuously upon the _few_ to admire him. His idea of the Italian
taste was to paint as black and dirty as he could, and to leave all
clearness and brilliancy of colouring to those who were fonder of
money than immortality. The consequence was such as might be expected.
For these petty excellencies are here essential beauties; and without
this merit the artist's work will be more short-lived than the objects
of his imitation.