Life; the second is, you must see her as the Lady of Wisdom; or [Greek:
sophia]--and this is the chief matter of all. I cannot but think that,
after the considerations into which we have now entered, you will find
more interest than hitherto in comparing the statements of Aristotle, in
the Ethics, with those of Plato in the Polity, which are authoritative
as Greek definitions of goodness in art, and which you may safely hold
authoritative as constant definitions of it. You remember, doubtless,
that the [Greek: sophia], or [Greek: arete pechnes], for the sake of
which Phidias is called [Greek: sophos] as a sculpture, and Polyclitus
as an image-maker, Eth. 6. 7. (the opposition is both between ideal and
portrait sculpture, and between working in stone and bronze), consists
in the "[Greek: nous ton timiotaton t e physei]," "the mental
apprehension of the things that are most honorable in their nature."
Therefore, what is indeed most lovely, the true image-maker will most
love; and what is most hateful, he will most hate; and in all things
discern the best and strongest part of them, and represent that
essentially, or, if the opposite of that, then with manifest detestation
and horror. That is his art wisdom; the knowledge of good and evil, and
the love of good, so that you may discern, even in his representation of
the vilest thing, his acknowledgment of what redemption is possible for
it, or latent power exists in it; and, contrariwise, his sense of its
present misery. But, for the most part, he will idolize, and force us
also to idolize, whatever is living, and virtuous, and victoriously
right; opposing to it in some definite mode the image of the conquered
[Greek: herpeton].
113. This is generally true of both the great arts; but in severity and
precision, true of sculpture. To return to our illustration: this poor
little girl was more interesting to Edward Frere, he being a painter,
because she was poorly dressed, and wore these clumsy shoes, and old red
cap, and patched gown. May we sculpture her so? No. We may sculpture her
naked, if we like; but not in rags.
But if we may not put her into marble in rags, may we give her a pretty
frock with ribbons and flounces to it, and put her into marble in that?
No. We may put her simplest peasant's dress, so it be perfect and
orderly, into marble; anything finer than that would be more
dishonorable in the eyes of Athena than rags. If she were a French
princess, you might carve her embroidered robe and diadem; if she were
Joan of Arc, you might carve her armor--for then these also would be
"[Greek: ton timiotaton]," not otherwise.
114. Is not this an edge-tool we have got hold of, unawares? and a
subtle one too; so delicate and cimeter-like in decision. For note that
even Joan of Arc's armor must be only sculptured, _if she has it on_; it
is not the honorableness or beauty of it that are enough, but the direct
bearing of it by her body. You might be deeply, even pathetically,
interested by looking at a good knight's dinted coat of mail, left in
his desolate hall. May you sculpture it where it hangs? No; the helmet
for his pillow, if you will--no more.
You see we did not do our dull work for nothing in last Lecture. I
define what we have gained once more, and then we will enter on our new
ground.
115. The proper subject of sculpture, we have determined, is the
spiritual power seen in the form of any living thing, and so represented
as to give evidence that the sculptor has loved the good of it and hated
the evil.
"_So_ represented," we say; but how is that to be done? Why should it
not be represented, if possible, just as it is seen? What mode or limit
of representation may we adopt? We are to carve things that have
life;--shall we try so to imitate them that they may indeed seem
living,--or only half living, and like stone instead of flesh?
It will simplify this question if I show you three examples of what the
Greeks actually did: three typical pieces of their sculpture, in order
of perfection.
116. And now, observe that in all our historical work, I will endeavor
to do, myself, what I have asked you to do in your drawing exercises;
namely, to outline firmly in the beginning, and then fill in the detail
more minutely. I will give you first, therefore, in a symmetrical form,
absolutely simple and easily remembered, the large chronology of the
Greek school; within that unforgettable scheme we will place, as we
discover them, the minor relations of arts and times.
I number the nine centuries before Christ thus, upwards, and divide them
into three groups of three each.
{9
A. ARCHAIC. {8
{7
----
{6
B. BEST. {5
{4
----
{3
C. CORRUPT. {2
{1
Then the ninth, eighth, and seventh centuries are the period of archaic
Greek art, steadily progressive wherever it existed.
The sixth, fifth, and fourth are the period of Central Greek art; the
fifth, or central, century producing the finest. That is easily
recollected by the battle of Marathon. And the third, second, and first
centuries are the period of steady decline.
Learn this A B C thoroughly, and mark, for yourselves, what you, at
present, think the vital events in each century. As you know more, you
will think other events the vital ones; but the best historical
knowledge only approximates to true thought in that matter; only be
sure that what is truly vital in the character which governs events, is
always expressed by the art of the century; so that if you could
interpret that art rightly, the better part of your task in reading
history would be done to your hand.
117. It is generally impossible to date with precision art of the
archaic period--often difficult to date even that of the central three
hundred years. I will not weary you with futile minor divisions of time;
here are three coins (Plate VII.) roughly, but decisively,
characteristic of the three ages. The first is an early coin of
Tarentum. The city was founded, as you know, by the Spartan Phalanthus,
late in the eighth century. I believe the head is meant for that of
Apollo Archegetes; it may however be Taras, the son of Poseidon; it is
no matter to us at present whom it is meant for, but the fact that we
cannot know, is itself of the greatest import. We cannot say, with any
certainty, unless by discovery of some collateral evidence, whether this
head is intended for that of a god, or demigod, or a mortal warrior.
Ought not that to disturb some of your thoughts respecting Greek
idealism? Farther, if by investigation we discover that the head is
meant for that of Phalanthus, we shall know nothing of the character of
Phalanthus from the face; for there is no portraiture at this early
time.
118. The second coin is of AEnus in Macedonia; probably of the fifth or
early fourth century, and entirely characteristic of the central period.
This we know to represent the face of a god--Hermes. The third coin is a
king's, not a city's. I will not tell you, at this moment, what king's;
but only that it is a late coin of the third period, and that it is as
distinct in purpose as the coin of Tarentum is obscure. We know of this
coin, that it represents no god nor demigod, but a mere mortal; and we
know precisely, from the portrait, what that mortal's face was like.
[Illustration: VII.
ARCHAIC, CENTRAL AND DECLINING ART OF GREECE.]
119. A glance at the three coins, as they are set side by side, will now
show you the main differences in the three great Greek styles. The
archaic coin is sharp and hard; every line decisive and numbered, set
unhesitatingly in its place; nothing is wrong, though everything
incomplete, and, to us who have seen finer art, ugly. The central coin
is as decisive and clear in arrangement of masses, but its contours are
completely rounded and finished. There is no character in its execution
so prominent that you can give an epithet to the style. It is not hard,
it is not soft, it is not delicate, it is not coarse, it is not
grotesque, it is not beautiful; and I am convinced, unless you had been
told that this is fine central Greek art, you would have seen nothing at
all in it to interest you. Do not let yourselves be anywise forced into
admiring it; there is, indeed, nothing more here than an approximately
true rendering of a healthy youthful face, without the slightest attempt
to give an expression of activity, cunning, nobility, or any other
attribute of the Mercurial mind. Extreme simplicity, unpretending vigor
of work, which claims no admiration either for minuteness or dexterity,
and suggests no idea of effort at all; refusal of extraneous ornament,
and perfectly arranged disposition of counted masses in a sequent order,
whether in the beads, or the ringlets of hair; this is all you have to
be pleased with; neither will you ever find, in the best Greek Art,
more. You might at first suppose that the chain of beads round the cap
was an extraneous ornament; but I have little doubt that it is as
definitely the proper fillet for the head of Hermes, as the olive for
Zeus, or corn for Triptolemus. The cap or petasus cannot have expanded
edges; there is no room for them on the coin; these must be understood,
therefore; but the nature of the cloud-petasus is explained by edging it
with beads, representing either dew or hail. The shield of Athena often
bears white pellets for hail, in like manner.
120. The third coin will, I think, at once strike you by what we moderns
should call its 'vigor of character.' You may observe also that the
features are finished with great care and subtlety, but at the cost of
simplicity and breadth. But the _essential_ difference between it and
the central art, is its disorder in design--you see the locks of hair
cannot be counted any longer--they are entirely disheveled and
irregular. Now the individual character may, or may not, be a sign of
decline; but the licentiousness, the casting loose of the masses in the
design, is an infallible one. The effort at portraiture is good for art
if the men to be portrayed are good men, not otherwise. In the instance
before you, the head is that of Mithridates VI. of Pontus, who had,
indeed, the good qualities of being a linguist and a patron of the arts;
but, as you will remember, murdered, according to report, his mother,
certainly his brother, certainly his wives and sisters, I have not
counted how many of his children, and from a hundred to a hundred and
fifty thousand persons besides; these last in a single day's massacre.
The effort to represent this kind of person is not by any means a method
of study from life ultimately beneficial to art.
121. This, however, is not the point I have to urge to-day. What I want
you to observe is, that though the master of the great time does not
attempt portraiture, he _does_ attempt animation. And as far as his
means will admit, he succeeds in making the face--you might almost
think--vulgarly animated; as like a real face, literally, 'as it can
stare.' Yes: and its sculptor meant it to be so; and that was what
Phidias meant his Jupiter to be, if he could manage it. Not, indeed, to
be taken for Zeus himself; and yet, to be as like a living Zeus as art
could make it. Perhaps you think he tried to make it look living only
for the sake of the mob, and would not have tried to do so for
connoisseurs. Pardon me; for real connoisseurs he would, and did; and
herein consists a truth which belongs to all the arts, and which I will
at once drive home in your minds, as firmly as I can.
122. All second-rate artists--(and remember, the second-rate ones are a
loquacious multitude, while the great come only one or two in a century;
and then, silently)--all second-rate artists will tell you that the
object of fine art is not resemblance, but some kind of abstraction more
refined than reality. Put that out of your heads at once. The object of
the great Resemblant Arts is, and always has been, to resemble; and to
resemble as closely as possible. It is the function of a good portrait
to set the man before you in habit as he lived, and I would we had a few
more that did so. It is the function of a good landscape to set the
scene before you in its reality; to make you, if it may be, think the
clouds are flying, and the streams foaming. It is the function of the
best sculptor--the true Daedalus--to make stillness look like breathing,
and marble look like flesh.
123. And in all great times of art, this purpose is as naively expressed
as it is steadily held. All the talk about abstraction belongs to
periods of decadence. In living times, people see something living that
pleases them; and they try to make it live forever, or to make something
as like it as possible, that will last forever. They paint their
statues, and inlay the eyes with jewels, and set real crowns on the
heads; they finish, in their pictures, every thread of embroidery, and
would fain, if they could, draw every leaf upon the trees. And their
only verbal expression of conscious success is that they have made their
work 'look real.'
124. You think all that very wrong. So did I, once; but it was I that
was wrong. A long time ago, before ever I had seen Oxford, I painted a
picture of the Lake of Como, for my father. It was not at all like the
Lake of Como; but I thought it rather the better for that. My father
differed with me; and objected particularly to a boat with a red and
yellow awning, which I had put into the most conspicuous corner of my
drawing. I declared this boat to be 'necessary to the composition.' My
father not the less objected, that he had never seen such a boat, either
at Como or elsewhere; and suggested that if I would make the lake look a
little more like water, I should be under no necessity of explaining its
nature by the presence of floating objects. I thought him at the time a
very simple person for his pains; but have since learned, and it is the
very gist of all practical matters, which, as Professor of Fine Art, I
have now to tell you, that the great point in painting a lake is--to
get it to look like water.
125. So far, so good. We lay it down for a first principle that our
graphic art, whether painting or sculpture, is to produce something
which shall look as like Nature as possible. But now we must go one step
farther, and say that it is to produce what shall look like Nature to
people who know what Nature is like! You see this is at once a great
restriction, as well as a great exaltation of our aim. Our business is
not to deceive the simple; but to deceive the wise! Here, for instance,
is a modern Italian print, representing, to the best of its power, St.
Cecilia, in a brilliantly realistic manner. And the fault of the work is
not in its earnest endeavor to show St. Cecilia in habit as she lived,
but in that the effort could only be successful with persons unaware of
the habit St. Cecilia lived in. And this condition of appeal only to the
wise increases the difficulty of imitative resemblance so greatly, that,
with only average skill or materials, we must surrender all hope of it,
and be content with an imperfect representation, true as far as it
reaches, and such as to excite the imagination of a wise beholder to
complete it; though falling very far short of what either he or we
should otherwise have desired. For instance, here is a suggestion, by
Sir Joshua Reynolds, of the general appearance of a British
Judge,--requiring the imagination of a very wise beholder indeed to fill
it up, or even at first to discover what it is meant for. Nevertheless,
it is better art than the Italian St. Cecilia, because the artist,
however little he may have done to represent his knowledge, does,
indeed, know altogether what a Judge is like, and appeals only to the
criticism of those who know also.
126. There must be, therefore, two degrees of truth to be looked for in
the good graphic arts; one, the commonest, which, by any partial or
imperfect sign, conveys to you an idea which you must complete for
yourself; and the other, the finest, a representation so perfect as to
leave you nothing to be farther accomplished by this independent
exertion; but to give you the same feeling of possession and presence
which you would experience from the natural object itself. For instance
of the first, in this representation of a rainbow,[26] the artist has no
hope that, by the black lines of engraving, he can deceive you into any
belief of the rainbow's being there, but he gives indication enough of
what he intends, to enable you to supply the rest of the idea yourself,
providing always you know beforehand what a rainbow is like. But in this
drawing of the falls of Terni,[27] the painter has strained his skill to
the utmost to give an actually deceptive resemblance of the iris,
dawning and fading among the foam. So far as he has not actually
deceived you, it is not because he would not have done so if he could;
but only because his colors and science have fallen short of his desire.
They have fallen so little short, that, in a good light, you may all but
believe the foam, and the sunshine are drifting and changing among the
rocks.
127. And after looking a little while, you will begin to regret that
they are not so: you will feel that, lovely as the drawing is, you would
like far better to see the real place, and the goats skipping among the
rocks, and the spray floating above the fall. And this is the true sign
of the greatest art--to part voluntarily with its greatness;--to make
_itself_ poor and unnoticed; but so to exalt and set forth its theme,
that you may be fain to see the theme instead of it. So that you have
never enough admired a great workman's doing, till you have begun to
despise it. The best homage that could be paid to the Athena of Phidias
would be to desire rather to see the living goddess; and the loveliest
Madonnas of Christian art fall short of their due power, if they do not
make their beholders sick at heart to see the living Virgin.
128. We have then, for our requirement of the finest art, (sculpture, or
anything else,) that it shall be so like the thing it represents as to
please those who best know or can conceive the original; and, if
possible, please them deceptively--its final triumph being to deceive
even the wise; and (the Greeks thought) to please even the Immortals,
who were so wise as to be undeceivable. So that you get the Greek, thus
far entirely true, idea of perfectness in sculpture, expressed to you by
what Phalaris says, at first sight of the bull of Perilaus, "It only
wanted motion and bellowing to seem alive; and as soon as I saw it, I
cried out, it ought to be sent to the god,"--to Apollo, for only he, the
undeceivable, could thoroughly understand such sculpture, and perfectly
delight in it.
129. And with this expression of the Greek ideal of sculpture, I wish
you to join the early Italian, summed in a single line by Dante--"non
vide me' di me, chi vide 'l vero." Read the twelfth canto of the
Purgatory, and learn that whole passage by heart; and if ever you chance
to go to Pistoja, look at La Robbia's colored porcelain bas-reliefs of
the seven works of Mercy on the front of the hospital there; and note
especially the faces of the two sick men--one at the point of death, and
the other in the first peace and long-drawn breathing of health after
fever--and you will know what Dante meant by the preceding line, "Morti
li morti, e i vivi paren vivi."
130. But now, may we not ask farther,--is it impossible for art such as
this, prepared for the wise, to please the simple also? Without entering
on the awkward questions of degree, how many the wise can be, or how
much men should know, in order to be rightly called wise, may we not
conceive an art to be possible, which would deceive _everybody_, or
everybody worth deceiving? I showed you at my First Lecture, a little
ringlet of Japan ivory, as a type of elementary bas-relief touched with
color; and in your rudimentary series you have a drawing, by Mr.
Burgess, of one of the little fishes enlarged, with every touch of the
chisel facsimiled on the more visible scale; and showing the little
black bead inlaid for the eye, which in the original is hardly to be
seen without a lens. You may, perhaps, be surprised when I tell you that
(putting the question of _subject_ aside for the moment, and speaking
only of the mode of execution and aim at resemblance,) you have there a
perfect example of the Greek ideal of method in sculpture. And you will
admit that, to the simplest person whom we could introduce as a critic,
that fish would be a satisfactory, nay, almost a deceptive, fish; while,
to any one caring for subtleties of art, I need not point out that every
touch of the chisel is applied with consummate knowledge, and that it
would be impossible to convey more truth and life with the given
quantity of workmanship.
131. Here is, indeed, a drawing by Turner, (Edu. 131), in which, with
some fifty times the quantity of labor, and far more highly educated
faculty of sight, the artist has expressed some qualities of luster and
color which only very wise persons indeed could perceive in a John Dory;
and this piece of paper contains, therefore, much more, and more subtle,
art, than the Japan ivory; but are we sure that it is therefore
_greater_ art? or that the painter was better employed in producing this
drawing, which only one person can possess, and only one in a hundred
enjoy, than he would have been in producing two or three pieces on a
larger scale, which should have been at once accessible to, and
enjoyable by, a number of simpler persons? Suppose, for instance, that
Turner, instead of faintly touching this outline, on white paper, with
his camel's-hair pencil, had struck the main forms of his fish into
marble, thus, (Fig. 7); and instead of coloring the white paper so
delicately that, perhaps, only a few of the most keenly observant
artists in England can see it at all, had, with his strong hand, tinted
the marble with a few colors, deceptive to the people, and harmonious to
the initiated; suppose that he had even conceded so much to the spirit
of popular applause as to allow of a bright glass bead being inlaid for
the eye, in the Japanese manner; and that the enlarged, deceptive, and
popularly pleasing work had been carved on the outside of a great
building,--say Fishmongers' Hall,--where everybody commercially
connected with Billingsgate could have seen it, and ratified it with a
wisdom of the market;--might not the art have been greater, worthier,
and kinder in such use?
[Illustration: FIG. 7.]
132. Perhaps the idea does not at once approve itself to you of having
your public buildings covered with ornaments; but, pray remember that
the choice of _subject_ is an ethical question, not now before us. All I
ask you to decide is whether the method is right, and would be pleasant,
in giving the distinctiveness to pretty things, which it has here given
to what, I suppose it may be assumed, you feel to be an ugly thing. Of
course, I must note parenthetically, such realistic work is impossible
in a country where the buildings are to be discolored by coal-smoke; but
so is all fine sculpture whatsoever; and the whiter, the worse its
chance. For that which is prepared for private persons, to be kept under
cover, will, of necessity, degenerate into the copyism of past work, or
merely sensational and sensual forms of present life, unless there be a
governing school addressing the populace, for their instruction, on the
outside of buildings. So that, as I partly warned you in my Third
Lecture, you can simply have _no_ sculpture in a coal country. Whether
you like coals or carvings best, is no business of mine. I merely have
to assure you of the fact that they are incompatible.
But, assuming that we are again, some day, to become a civilized and
governing race, deputing ironmongery, coal-digging, and lucre-digging,
to our slaves in other countries, it is quite conceivable that, with an
increasing knowledge of natural history, and desire for such knowledge,
what is now done by careful, but inefficient, wood-cuts, and in
ill-colored engravings, might be put in quite permanent sculptures, with
inlay of variegated precious stones, on the outside of buildings, where
such pictures would be little costly to the people; and in a more
popular manner still, by Robbia ware and Palissy ware, and inlaid
majolica, which would differ from the housewife's present favorite
decoration of plates above her kitchen dresser, by being every piece of
it various, instructive, and universally visible.