sculpture. In sculpture remain almost all the excellent specimens of
ancient art. We have so far associated personal dignity to the persons
thus represented, and the truth of art to their manner of
representation, that it is not in our power any longer to separate
them. This is not so in painting; because, having no excellent ancient
portraits, that connection was never formed. Indeed, we could no more
venture to paint a general officer in a Roman military habit than we
could make a statue in the present uniform. But since we have no
ancient portraits, to show how ready we are to adopt those kind of
prejudices, we make the best authority among the moderns serve the
same purpose. The great variety of excellent portraits with which
Vandyke has enriched this nation, we are not content to admire for
their real excellence, but extend our approbation even to the dress
which happened to be the fashion of that age. We all very well
remember how common it was a few years ago for portraits to be drawn
in this fantastic dress; and this custom is not yet entirely laid
aside. By this means it must be acknowledged very ordinary pictures
acquired something of the air and effect of the works of Vandyke, and
appeared therefore at first sight to be better pictures than they
really were; they appeared so, however, to those only who had the
means of making this association; and when made, it was irresistible.
But this association is nature, and refers to that secondary truth
that comes from conformity to general prejudice and opinion; it is
therefore not merely fantastical. Besides the prejudice which we have
in favour of ancient dresses, there may be likewise other reasons for
the effect which they produce; among which we may justly rank the
simplicity of them, consisting of little more than one single piece of
drapery, without those whimsical capricious forms by which all other
dresses are embarrassed.
Thus, though it is from the prejudice we have in favour of the
ancients, who have taught us architecture, that we have adopted
likewise their ornaments; and though we are satisfied that neither
nature nor reason are the foundation of those beauties which we
imagine we see in that art, yet if any one, persuaded of this truth,
should therefore invent new orders of equal beauty, which we will
suppose to be possible, they would not please; nor ought he to
complain, since the old has that great advantage of having custom and
prejudice on its side. In this case we leave what has every prejudice
in its favour, to take that which will have no advantage over what we
have left, but novelty; which soon destroys itself, and at any rate is
but a weak antagonist against custom.
Ancient ornaments, having the right of possession, ought not to be
removed, unless to make room for that which not only has higher
pretensions, but such pretensions as will balance the evil and
confusion which innovation always brings with it.
To this we may add, that even the durability of the materials will
often contribute to give a superiority to one object over another.
Ornaments in buildings, with which taste is principally concerned, are
composed of materials which last longer than those of which dress is
composed; the former, therefore, make higher pretensions to our favour
and prejudice.
Some attention is surely due to what we can no more get rid of than we
can go out of ourselves. We are creatures of prejudice; we neither can
nor ought to eradicate it; we must only regulate it by reason; which
kind of regulation is indeed little more than obliging the lesser, the
local and temporal prejudices, to give way to those which are more
durable and lasting.
He, therefore, who in his practice of portrait-painting wishes to
dignify his subject, which we will suppose to be a lady, will not
paint her in the modern dress, the familiarity of which alone is
sufficient to destroy all dignity. He takes care that his work shall
correspond to those ideas and that imagination which he knows will
regulate the judgment of others; and, therefore, dresses his figure
something with the general air of the antique for the sake of
dignity, and preserves something of the modern for the sake of
likeness. By this conduct his works correspond with those prejudices
which we have in favour of what we continually see; and the relish of
the antique simplicity corresponds with what we may call the more
learned and scientific prejudice.
There was a statue made not long since of Voltaire, which the
sculptor, not having that respect for the prejudices of mankind which
he ought to have had, made entirely naked, and as meagre and emaciated
as the original is said to be. The consequence was what might have
been expected: it remained in the sculptor's shop, though it was
intended as a public ornament and a public honour to Voltaire, for it
was procured at the expense of his contemporary wits and admirers.
Whoever would reform a nation, supposing a bad taste to prevail in it,
will not accomplish his purpose by going directly against the stream
of their prejudices. Men's minds must be prepared to receive what is
new to them. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however
wrong it may be, cannot be totally changed at once; we must yield a
little to the prepossession which has taken hold on the mind, and we
may then bring people to adopt what would offend them, if endeavoured
to be introduced by violence. When Battista Franco was employed, in
conjunction with Titian, Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, to adorn the
library of St. Mark, his work, Vasari says, gave less satisfaction
than any of the others: the dry manner of the Roman school was very
ill calculated to please eyes that had been accustomed to the
luxuriancy, splendour, and richness of Venetian colouring. Had the
Romans been the judges of this work, probably the determination would
have been just contrary; for in the more noble parts of the art
Battista Franco was perhaps not inferior to any of his rivals.
It has been the main scope and principal end of this discourse to
demonstrate the reality of a standard in taste, as well as in
corporeal beauty; that a false or depraved taste is a thing as well
known, as easily discovered, as any thing that is deformed, misshapen,
or wrong in our form or outward make; and that this knowledge is
derived from the uniformity of sentiments among mankind, from whence
proceeds the knowledge of what are the general habits of nature; the
result of which is an idea of perfect beauty.
If what has been advanced be true--that beside this beauty or truth,
which is formed on the uniform, eternal, and immutable laws of nature,
and which of necessity can be but _one_; that beside this one
immutable verity there are likewise what we have called apparent or
secondary truths, proceeding from local and temporary prejudices,
fancies, fashions, or accidental connection of ideas; if it appears
that these last have still their foundation, however slender, in the
original fabric of our minds; it follows that all these truths or
beauties deserve and require the attention of the artist, in
proportion to their stability or duration, or as their influence is
more or less extensive. And let me add, that as they ought not to pass
their just bounds, so neither do they, in a well-regulated taste, at
all prevent or weaken the influence of those general principles which
alone can give to art its true and permanent dignity.
To form this just taste is undoubtedly in your own power, but it is to
reason and philosophy that you must have recourse; from them you must
borrow the balance, by which is to be weighed and estimated the value
of every pretension that intrudes itself on your notice.
The general objection which is made to the introduction of Philosophy
into the regions of taste, is, that it checks and restrains the flights
of the imagination, and gives that timidity, which an over-carefulness
not to err or act contrary to reason is likely to produce. It is not so.
Fear is neither reason nor philosophy. The true spirit of philosophy, by
giving knowledge, gives a manly confidence, and substitutes rational
firmness in the place of vain presumption. A man of real taste is always
a man of judgment in other respects; and those inventions which either
disdain or shrink from reason are generally, I fear, more like the
dreams of a distempered brain than the exalted enthusiasm of a sound and
true genius. In the midst of the highest flights of fancy or
imagination, reason ought to preside from first to last, though I admit
her more powerful operation is upon reflection.
Let me add, that some of the greatest names of antiquity, and those
who have most distinguished themselves in works of genius and
imagination, were equally eminent for their critical skill. Plato,
Aristotle, Cicero, and Horace; and among the moderns, Boileau,
Corneille, Pope, and Dryden, are at least instances of genius not
being destroyed by attention or subjection to rules and science. I
should hope, therefore, that the natural consequence of what has been
said would be, to excite in you a desire of knowing the principles and
conduct of the great masters of our art, and respect and veneration
for them when known.
FOOTNOTES:
5: Dr. Goldsmith.
6: "Nulla ars, non alterius artis, aut mater, aut popinqua
est."--TERTULL as cited by JUNIUS.
7: "Omnes artes quæ ad humanitatem pertinent, habent quoddam
commune vinculum, et quasi cognatione inter se continentur."--CICERO.
8: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place
whereon thou standest is holy ground."--EXODUS iii. 5.
DISCOURSE VIII.
_Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution
of the Prizes, December 10, 1778._
THE PRINCIPLES OF ART, WHETHER POETRY OR PAINTING, HAVE THEIR
FOUNDATION IN THE MIND; SUCH AS NOVELTY, VARIETY, AND CONTRAST;
THESE IN THEIR EXCESS BECOME DEFECTS.--SIMPLICITY, ITS EXCESS
DISAGREEABLE.--RULES NOT TO BE ALWAYS OBSERVED IN THEIR LITERAL
SENSE: SUFFICIENT TO PRESERVE THE SPIRIT OF THE LAW.--OBSERVATIONS
ON THE PRIZE PICTURES.
I have recommended in former[9] discourses that Artists should learn
their profession by endeavouring to form an idea of perfection from the
different excellencies which lie dispersed in the various schools of
painting. Some difficulty will still occur, to know what is beauty, and
where it may be found: one would wish not to be obliged to take it
entirely on the credit of fame; though to this, I acknowledge, the
younger students must unavoidably submit. Any suspicion in them of the
chance of their being deceived will have more tendency to obstruct their
advancement than even an enthusiastic confidence in the perfection of
their models. But to the more advanced in the art, who wish to stand on
more stable and firmer ground, and to establish principles on a stronger
foundation than authority, however venerable or powerful, it may be
safely told that there is still a higher tribunal, to which those great
masters themselves must submit, and to which, indeed, every excellence
in art must be ultimately referred. He who is ambitious to enlarge the
boundaries of his art, must extend his views beyond the precepts which
are found in books or may be drawn from the practice of his
predecessors, to a knowledge of those precepts in the mind, those
operations of intellectual nature--to which everything that aspires to
please must be proportioned and accommodated.
Poetry having a more extensive power than our art, exerts its
influence over almost all the passions; among those may be reckoned
one of our most prevalent dispositions--anxiety for the future. Poetry
operates by raising our curiosity, engaging the mind by degrees to
take an interest in the event, keeping that event suspended, and
surprising at last with an unexpected catastrophe.
The painter's art is more confined, and has nothing that corresponds
with, or perhaps is equivalent to, this power and advantage of leading
the mind on, till attention is totally engaged. What is done by
Painting must be done at one blow; curiosity has received at once all
the satisfaction it can ever have. There are, however, other
intellectual qualities and dispositions which the Painter can satisfy
and affect as powerfully as the poet: among those we may reckon our
love of novelty, variety, and contrast; these qualities, on
examination, will be found to refer to a certain activity and
restlessness which has a pleasure and delight in being exercised and
put in motion. Art, therefore, only administers to those wants and
desires of the mind.
It requires no long disquisition to show that the dispositions which I
have stated actually subsist in the human mind. Variety reanimates the
attention, which is apt to languish under a continual sameness.
Novelty makes a more forcible impression on the mind than can be made
by the representation of what we have often seen before; and
contrasts rouse the power of comparison by opposition. All this is
obvious; but, on the other hand, it must be remembered, that the mind,
though an active principle, has likewise a disposition to indolence;
and though it loves exercise, loves it only to a certain degree,
beyond which it is very unwilling to be led or driven; the pursuit,
therefore, of novelty and variety may be carried to excess. When
variety entirely destroys the pleasure proceeding from uniformity and
repetition, and when novelty counteracts and shuts out the pleasure
arising from old habits and customs, they oppose too much the
indolence of our disposition; the mind, therefore, can bear with
pleasure but a small portion of novelty at a time. The main part of
the work must be in the mode to which we have been used. An affection
to old habits and customs I take to be the predominant disposition of
the mind, and novelty comes as an exception; where all is novelty, the
attention, the exercise of the mind is too violent. Contrast, in the
same manner, when it exceeds certain limits, is as disagreeable as a
violent and perpetual opposition; it gives to the senses, in their
progress, a more sudden change than they can bear with pleasure.
It is then apparent, that those qualities, however they contribute to
the perfection of Art, when kept within certain bounds, if they are
carried to excess, become defects, and require correction: a work
consequently will not proceed better and better as it is more varied;
variety can never be the groundwork and principle of the
performance--it must be only employed to recreate and relieve.
To apply these general observations which belong equally to all arts,
to ours in particular. In a composition, when the objects are
scattered and divided into many equal parts, the eye is perplexed and
fatigued, from not knowing where to find the principal action, or
which is the principal figure; for where all are making equal
pretensions to notice, all are in equal danger of neglect.
The expression which is used very often on these occasions is, the
piece wants repose; a word which perfectly expresses a relief of the
mind from that state of hurry and anxiety which it suffers when
looking at a work of this character.
On the other hand, absolute unity--that is, a large work, consisting
of one group or mass of light only--would be as defective as an heroic
poem without episode, or any collateral incidents to recreate the mind
with that variety which it always requires.
An instance occurs to me of two painters (Rembrandt and Poussin), of
characters totally opposite to each other in every respect, but in
nothing more than in their mode of composition, and management of light
and shadow. Rembrandt's manner is absolute unity; he often has but one
group, and exhibits little more than one spot of light in the midst of a
large quantity of shadow: if he has a second mass, that second bears no
proportion to the principal. Poussin, on the contrary, has scarce any
principal mass of light at all, and his figures are often too much
dispersed, without sufficient attention to place them in groups.
The conduct of these two painters is entirely the reverse of what
might be expected from their general style and character; the works of
Poussin being as much distinguished for simplicity as those of
Rembrandt for combination. Even this conduct of Poussin might proceed
from too great an affection to simplicity of _another kind_; too great
a desire to avoid that ostentation of art, with regard to light and
shadow, on which Rembrandt so much wished to draw the attention;
however, each of them ran into contrary extremes, and it is difficult
to determine which is the most reprehensible, both being equally
distant from the demands of nature and the purposes of art.
The same just moderation must be observed in regard to ornaments;
nothing will contribute more to destroy repose than profusion, of
whatever kind, whether it consists in the multiplicity of objects, or
the variety and brightness of colours. On the other hand, a work
without ornament, instead of simplicity, to which it makes
pretensions, has rather the appearance of poverty. The degree to which
ornaments are admissible must be regulated by the professed style of
the work; but we may be sure of this truth,--that the most ornamental
style requires repose to set off even its ornaments to advantage. I
cannot avoid mentioning here an instance of repose, in that faithful
and accurate painter of nature, Shakespeare--the short dialogue
between Duncan and Banquo, whilst they are approaching the gates of
Macbeth's castle. Their conversation very naturally turns upon the
beauty of its situation, and the pleasantness of the air; and Banquo,
observing the martlets' nests in every recess of the cornice, remarks,
that where those birds most breed and haunt the air is delicate. The
subject of this quiet and easy conversation gives that repose so
necessary to the mind, after the tumultuous bustle of the preceding
scenes, and perfectly contrasts the scene of horror that immediately
succeeds. It seems as if Shakespeare asked himself, What is a prince
likely to say to his attendants on such an occasion? The modern
writers seem, on the contrary, to be always searching for new
thoughts, such as never could occur to man in the situation
represented. This is also frequently the practice of Homer, who from
the midst of battles and horrors relieves and refreshes the mind of
the reader, by introducing some quiet rural image, or picture of
familiar domestic life. The writers of every age and country, where
taste has begun to decline, paint and adorn every object they touch;
are always on the stretch; never deviate or sink a moment from the
pompous and the brilliant. Lucan, Statius, and Claudian (as a learned
critic has observed) are examples of this bad taste and want of
judgment; they never soften their tones, or condescend to be natural;
all is exaggeration and perpetual splendour, without affording repose
of any kind.
As we are speaking of excesses, it will not be remote from our purpose
to say a few words upon simplicity; which, in one of the senses in
which it is used, is considered as the general corrector of excess. We
shall at present forbear to consider it as implying that exact conduct
which proceeds from an intimate knowledge of simple unadulterated
nature, as it is then only another word for perfection, which neither
stops short of, nor oversteps reality and truth.
In our inquiry after simplicity, as in many other inquiries of this
nature, we can best explain what is right by showing what is wrong;
and, indeed, in this case it seems to be absolutely necessary;
simplicity being only a negative virtue, cannot be described or
defined. We must therefore explain its nature, and show the advantage
and beauty which is derived from it, by showing the deformity which
proceeds from its neglect.
Though instances of this neglect might be expected to be found in
practice, we should not expect to find in the works of critics
precepts that bid defiance to simplicity and everything that relates
to it. De Piles recommends to us portrait-painters, to add grace and
dignity to the characters of those whose pictures we draw: so far he
is undoubtedly right; but, unluckily, he descends to particulars, and
gives his own idea of grace and dignity. "_If_," says he, "_you draw
persons of high character and dignity, they ought to be drawn in such
an attitude that the Portraits must seem to speak to us of themselves,
and, as it were, to say to us, 'Stop, take notice of me, I am that
invincible King, surrounded by Majesty:' 'I am that valiant commander,
who struck terror everywhere:' 'I am that great minister, who knew all
the springs of politics:' 'I am that magistrate of consummate wisdom
and probity.'_" He goes on in this manner with all the characters he
can think on. We may contrast the tumour of this presumptuous
loftiness with the natural, unaffected air of the portraits of Titian,
where dignity, seeming to be natural and inherent, draws spontaneous
reverence, and instead of being thus vainly assumed, has the
appearance of an unalienable adjunct; whereas such pompous and
laboured insolence of grandeur is so far from creating respect, that
it betrays vulgarity and meanness, and new-acquired consequence.
The painters, many of them at least, have not been backward in
adopting the notions contained in these precepts. The portraits of
Rigaud are perfect examples of an implicit observance of these rules
of De Piles; so that though he was a painter of great merit in many
respects, yet that merit is entirely overpowered by a total absence of
simplicity in every sense.
Not to multiply instances, which might be produced for this purpose,
from the works of history-painters, I shall mention only one,--a
picture which I have seen, of the Supreme Being, by Coypell.
This subject the Roman Catholic painters have taken the liberty to
represent, however indecent the attempt, and however obvious the
impossibility of any approach to an adequate representation; but here
the air and character which the Painter has given, and he has
doubtless given the highest he could conceive, are so degraded by an
attempt at such dignity as De Piles has recommended, that we are
enraged at the folly and presumption of the artist, and consider it as
little less than profanation.
As we have passed to a neighbouring nation for instances of want of
this quality, we must acknowledge at the same time that they have
produced great examples of simplicity, in Poussin and Le Sueur. But as
we are speaking of the most refined and subtle notion of perfection,
may we not inquire, whether a curious eye cannot discern some faults,
even in those great men? I can fancy that even Poussin, by abhorring
that affectation and that want of simplicity which he observed in his
countrymen, has, in certain particulars, fallen into the contrary
extreme, so far as to approach to a kind of affectation:--to what, in
writing, would be called pedantry.
When simplicity, instead of being a corrector, seems to set up for
herself; that is, when an artist seems to value himself solely upon this
quality; such an ostentatious display of simplicity becomes then as
disagreeable and nauseous as any other kind of affectation. He is,
however, in this case likely enough to sit down contented with his own
work, for though he finds the world look at it with indifference or
dislike, as being destitute of every quality that can recreate or give
pleasure to the mind, yet he consoles himself that it has simplicity, a
beauty of too pure and chaste a nature to be relished by vulgar minds.
It is in art as in morals; no character would inspire us with an
enthusiastic admiration of his virtue, if that virtue consisted only
in an absence of vice; something more is required; a man must do more
than merely his duty to be a hero.