person of broad culture, who knows nothing of the tools of painting and
sculpture, than when wielded by a half-educated student of art with his
development all on one side. Ruskin warns us of young critics.
As a short cut, the camera fills a place for the many who _feel_ pictures
and wish to create them, but at small cost of time and effort. A little
art school for the public has the small black box become, into which
persons have been looking searchingly and thoughtfully for the past dozen
years. To those who have thus regarded it and exhibit work in
competition, revelations have come. Non-composition ruins their chances.
Good composition is nine-tenths of the plot. When this is conceded the
whole significance of their art is deepened. Then and not until then does
photography become allied with art, for this is the only point at which
_brains may be mixed_ with the photographic product.
Any one who has experienced a lantern slide exhibition of art, where
picture after picture follows rapidly and the crowd expresses judgment by
applause, will not long be in doubt what pictures make the strongest
appeal. The “crowd” applauds three types; something recognized as
familiar, the “happy hit,” especially of title, and, (not knowing why) all
pictures, without regard to subject, _which express unity._ The first two
classes are not a part of this argument, but of the last, the natural,
spontaneous attraction of the healthy mind by what is complete through
unity contains such reason as cannot be ignored. Subjects of equal or
greater interest which antagonize unity fall flat before this jury.
There is no opportunity more valuable to the amateur photographer than the
lantern slide exhibition, and the fact that even now no more than ten or
twelve per cent. of what is shown is pictorially good should provoke a
search for the remedy.
For the student, to fill the eye full of good compositions and to know why
good, is of equal value with the study of faulty composition to discover
why bad.
The challenge of compositions neither good nor bad to discover wherein
they could be improved is better practice than either.
This is the constant exercise of every artist, the ejection of the sand
grains from his easy running machinery.
Before photography became a fashion it was the writer’s privilege to meet
a county physician who had cultivated for himself a critical picture
sense. The lines of his circuit lay among the pleasantest of pastoral
scenes. Stimulated by their beauty it became his habit, as he travelled,
to mark off the pictures of his route, to note where two ran together, to
decide what details were unnecessary, or where, by leaving the highway and
approaching or retiring he discovered new ones. After a time he bought a
Claude Lorraine glass. It was shortly after this purchase that I met him.
His enthusiasm was delightful. With this _framing of his views_ his
judgment grew sensitive and as he showed these mirrored pictures to
friends who rode with him he was most particular at just what point he
stopped his horse. The man for whom picture galleries were a rarity,
talked as intelligently upon the fundamental structure of pictures as most
artists.
“I buy the pictures of Mauve,” remarked a clergyman in Paris, “because he
puts into them what I try to get into my sermons; simplicity,
suggestiveness and logical sequence.”
CHAPTER XVI - COLOR, HARMONY, TONE
In viewing a picture exhibition the average man, woman and child would be
attracted by different aspects of it; the man by the tone of the pictures,
the woman by their color, the child almost wholly by the form or subject.
The distinction is of course epigrammatic, but there is a basis for it in
the daily associations of each of the three, the man with the conventional
appointments of his dress and his business equipment, the woman with her
gowns, her house decorations and flowers, the child with the world of
imagination and fancy in which he dwells.
The distinction has much to do with the method and the degree of one’s
æsthetic development. That a picture must have a subject is the first
pons asinorum to be crossed, the child usually preferring to remain on the
farther side. The delight in color belongs to the lighter, freer or more
barbaric part of the race. Tone best fits the sobriety of man.
The distinction is the difference in preference for an oak leaf as it
turns to bronze, and a maple as it exchanges its greens for yellow and
scarlet.
In the latter case two primaries are evolved from a secondary color and in
the other a tertiary from a secondary. In the case of the oak bronze
there is more harmony, for the three primaries are present.
In the case of the yellow and red, there is contrast and effect, but less
harmony, since but two primaries appear.
As the walls are studied that sort of color art is found to be most
conspicuously prominent which is in the minority and probably one’s
unsophisticated choice, from the point of view of color, would be that
which has the distinction of rarity, as the red haired woman is at a
premium in the South Sea isles. If, however, the tonal and the coloresque
art were in even interchange, the former would have much of its strength
robbed, to the degree of the excessive color of its neighbors. If,
however, the pictures of tone and of color, instead of being hung together
were placed apart, it would be found that the former expressed the greater
unity and presented a front of composure and dignity and that the varied
color combinations would as likely quarrel among themselves as with their
former neighbors.
That a just distinction may be had between tonal and coloresque and
impressionist art, the purpose of each must be stated. The “tonist” aims
primarily at unified color, to secure which he elects a tone to be
followed, which shall dominate and modify every color of his subject.
This is accomplished by either painting into a thin glaze of color,
administered to the whole canvas so that every brushful partakes of some
of it; or by modifying the painting subsequently by transparent glazes of
the same tone.
The conscientious impressionist, on the contrary, produces harmony by
juxtapositions of pure color. Harmony results when the three primary
colors are present either as red, yellow and blue or as a combination of a
secondary and primary: green with red, orange with blue or purple with
yellow.
The impressionist goes farther, knowing that the complementary of a color
will tend to neutralize it, supplying as it does the lacking element to
unity, he creates a vivid scheme of color on this basis. In representing
therefore a gray rock he knows that if red be introduced, a little blue
and yellow will kill it, and the three colors together at a distance will
produce gray. Instead, therefore, of mixing upon his palette three
primaries to produce the tertiary gray, he so places them on the canvas
that at the proper distance (though this consideration is of small concern
to him) the _spectator_ will _mix_ them—which he often does. The
advantage of this method of color presentation lies in the degree of
purity which the pigment retains. Its disadvantage appears in its
frequent distortion of fact and aspect of nature, sacrificed to a
scientific method of representation. An estimate of impressionism is
wholly contained in the reply to the question, “Do you like impressions?
Yes, when they are good;” and in the right hands they are.
They are good only when the real intention of impressionism has been
expressed, when the synthesis of color has actually produced light and
air, and an impression of nature is quickened. But the voice from the
canvas more frequently cries “nature be hanged—but this is impressionism.”
The little people of impressionism finding it possible to represent more
light than even nature shows in very many of her aspects, delight in
exhibiting the disparity existing between nature and, forsooth,
impressionism. Thus we see attempts to “_knock out_” with these
scientific brass knuckles all those who refuse to fight with them. The
rumpus grows out of the different attitudes in which nature is approached.
The one, drawn by her beauty, kneels to her, touching her resplendent
garments; the other grasps her with the mailed hand, bedecking her with a
mantle of his own. The knights wooing the same mistress are therefore
lorn rivals.
For effect, no one can deny that produced by the savage in war paint and
feathers is more startling than the man wearing the conventional garb of
civilization, or that the stars and stripes have greater attraction than
the modified tones of a gobelin tapestry or a Persian rug. We put the
flag outside the building but the daily course of our lives is more easily
spent with the tapestry and rug.
An “impression”(19) among tonal pictures appears as foolish as a tonal
picture among impressions and the sane conclusion is that the attempt to
combine them should not be made.
The clear singing tones of the upper register are better rendered under
this formula than by any other, but the feeling of solidity and the tonal
depth of nature are qualities which it compromises. Impressionism
expresses frankly by the use of smaller methods what the tonists attain by
larger and freer ones. The individual must decide whether he prefers to
tell the time as he watches the movement of the works or will take this
for granted if he gets the result.
For charm in color no one will deny that in the works of old masters this
is found in greater degree than in painting of more recent production, and
the reason is, not because the pigments of the fourteenth century are
better than ours, but it is to be found in the alterative and refining
influences of time and varnish, which have crowned them with the glorious
aureole of the centuries.
Guided by this fact the modern school of tonists seeks to shorten the
period between the date of production and this final desirable quality, by
setting in motion these factors at once. They therefore paint with
varnish as a medium, multiplying the processes of glazing with pure color
so that under a number of surfaces of varnish the same chemical action may
be precipitated which in the earlier art came about with but few
exceptions as a happening through the simple necessary acts of
preservation. The consequence of this adoption of kindred processes is
that the tonal pictures and the old masters join hands naturally and can
stand side by side in the gallery of the collector.
This, though a wholly practical reason for the growing popularity of tonal
art is one of the powerful considerations for the trend from that sort
which is liable to create discord. The simplest illustration of harmony,
and unity and tone may be had in nature herself, for though these
qualities have their scientific exposition, the divisions of the color
scale are not so easily comprehended by many people as the chart which may
be conceived in extended landscape. The sky, inasmuch as it spreads
itself over the earth and reflects its light upon it, dictates the _tone_
of the scene. The surface of the lake reveals this fact beyond dispute,
for the water takes on any tone which the sky may have. The sky’s power
of reflection is no less potent in the landscape.
Reflection is observable in that degree in which the surface, reflected
upon, is rough or smooth. The absorbent surface allows the light to fall
in and disappear and under this condition we see the true or local color.
Note, for example, the effect of light on velvet or the hide of a cow in
winter. When the hair points toward the light the mass is rich and dark,
but when it turns away in any direction its polished surface reflects
light, which like the lake becomes a mirror to it.
Light falling upon a meadow will influence it by its own color only in
those places where the grass is turned at an angle from its rays.
From these few observations it becomes obvious that unity of tone is a
simple matter when understood by the painter and that unity, being a most
important part of his color scheme, may be increased by additions of
objects bearing the desirable color which nature fails to supply in any
particular subject. Thus if the day be one in which a warm mellow haze
pervades the air, those tones of the sky repeated upon the backs of
cattle, a roadway, clothing, or what not, may effect a more positive
tonality than the lesser items would give which also reflect it. Herein
then is the principle of Tonality: That all parts of the picture should be
bound together by the dominating color or colors of the picture.
With the indoor subject the consideration is equally strong. Let the
scheme be one as coloresque as the Venetian school took delight in, vivid
primaries in close juxtaposition (see small reproduction in _Fundamental
forms—The Cross_). The central figure, that of St. Peter is clothed in
dark blue with a yellow mantle. The Virgin’s dress is deep red, her
mantle a blue, lighter than that of Peter’s robe. Through the pillars is
seen the blue sky of still lighter degree. Thus the sky enters the
picture by graded approaches and focalizes upon the central figure. In
like manner do the light yellow clouds repeat their color in the side of
the building, in the yellow spot in the flag and the mantle of the central
figure. The red of the Virgin’s robe and the yellow mantle together form a
combination of a yellow red in the flag, the blue and red of the central
figures become purple and garnet in the surplices of the kneeling
churchmen and doges. The repetition of a given color in different parts
of the figure is pushed still further in the blue gray hair of the
kneeling figures, the red brown tunics of the monks and the yellow bands
upon the draperies.
In the _picture by Henry Ranger_ (the crossing of horizontals effected
without a line), a canvas in which the color is particularly reserved and
gray, the tone is created by precisely the same means. The cool gray and
warm white clouds are reflected into the water and concentrated with
greater force in the pool in the foreground, the greens and drabs of the
bushes being strikingly modified by both of the tones noted in the sky.
In landscape a cumulative force may be given the progress of the sky tones
by the use of figures, the blue or gray of the sky being brought down in
stronger degree upon the clothing of the peasant, his cart or farm
utensils. Just here inharmony easily insinuates itself through the
introduction of elements having no antiphonal connection.
Fancy a single spot of red without its echo. Our sense of tonal harmony
is unconsciously active when between two figures observed too far away for
sight of their faces we quickly make our conclusions concerning their
social station, if one be arrayed in a hat trimmed with purple and green,
a garnet waist and a buff skirt, while the other, though dressed in strong
colors expresses the principles of coloration herewith defined. The
purple and green hat may belong to her suit if their colors be repeated by
modification, in it; or the garnet and buff become the foundation for
unity if developed throughout the rest of the costume.
The purchaser of a picture may be sure of the tone of his new acquisition
if he will hang it for a day or two upside down. This is one of the
simplest tests applied by artists, and many things are revealed thereby.
Form is lost and the only other thing remains—color.
Harmony being dependent only on the interrelations of colors, their degree
or intensity are immaterial.
On this basis it is a matter of choice whether our preference be for the
coloresque or the more sober art.
It must however be borne in mind that the danger lies in the direction of
color. Inharmony is more frequently found here than in the picture of
sober tone.
Precisely the same palette is used to produce an autumnal scene on a blue
day, when the colors are vivid and the outline on objects is hard and the
form pronounced, as on an overcast day with leaden clouds and much of the
life and color gone from the yellow and scarlet foliage.
The reason why chances for harmony in the first are less than in the
second is that the synthetic union of the colors is not as obvious or as
simple as in the latter, in which to produce the gray sky, red and yellow
have been added to the blue, and the sky tones are more apparently added
to the bright hues by being mixed into dull colors upon the palette. The
circle of harmony is therefore more easily apparent to our observation.
It is for this reason that tonality is more easily understood when applied
to the green and copper bronze of the oak tree against a cool gray sky
than the red and yellow hillside and the blue sky.
VALUES.
Another important consideration in an estimate of a picture is its truth
of values. The color may be correct and harmonious but the degree of its
light and shade be faulty. This is a consideration more important to the
student than the connoisseur as but few pictures see the light of an
exhibition which carry this fault. It is the one most dwelt upon in the
academies after the form in outline has been mastered. On it depends the
correctness of surface presentation. If, for instance, the values of a
face are false, the character will be disturbed. This point has been made
evident to all in the retouching, which many photographs receive.
Likeness is so dependent on those surfaces connecting the features or upon
the light and shade of the features, that any tampering with them in a
sensitive part is ruinous.
Values represent the degree of light and shade which the picture demands,
the relations of one part to another on the scale assumed. Thus with the
same light affecting various objects in a room, if one be represented as
though illumined by a different degree of light it is out of value; or, in
a landscape, if an object in the distance is too strong in either color or
degree of light and shade for its particular place in perspective, it is
out of value. There are therefore values of color and of chiaroscuro,
which may be illustrated in a piece of drapery. A light pink silk will be
out of value in its shadow if these are too dark for the degree of light
represented, and out of color value, if, instead of a salmon tone in the
crease which a reflection from the opposing surface of the fold creates,
there be a purplish hue which properly belongs to the outer edge of the
fold in shadow, where, from the sky or a cool reflecting surface near by,
it obtains this change of color by reflection.
The most objectionable form of false values is the isolated sort, whereby
the over accentuation of a part is made to impress itself unduly; “to
jump” in the technical phraseology of the school.
The least objectionable and often permitted form is that where a large
section is put out of its value with the intent of accenting the light of
a contiguous part.
In landscape the whole foreground is frequently lowered in tone beyond the
possibility of any cloud shadow, for the sake of the light beyond, which
may be the color motif of the picture and which thereby is glorified.
CHAPTER XVII - ENVELOPMENT AND COLOR PERSPECTIVE
Allied to values is the idea of envelopment: of a kindred notion to this
is aerial perspective. On these two depends the proper presentation of a
figure _in air._
If at any place on the contour of a figure the background seems to stick,
the detachment from its surroundings, which every figure should have, is
wanting.
The reason for it is to be found in a false value which has deprived it of
rotundity of envelopment.
The solid object which resists the attempt to put one’s hand around it or
to stretch beyond into the background, lacks this quality. A fine
distinction must be here drawn between simple envelopment and relief,
which is a more positive and less important quality.
However flatly and in mass figures may be conceived, the impression of
aerial envelopment must be unmistakable. Here a nice adjustment of values
or relative tones will accomplish it.
Naturally, the greater space between the spectator and an object, the more
air will be present. To the painter the color of air is the color of the
sky. This then will be _mixed_ with the local color of the object, giving
it atmosphere.
Envelopment is unmistakably represented by the out of door Dutch painters,
for in the low countries atmosphere _is seen_ in its density, and at very
short range. Holland is therefore an ideal sketching ground for the
painter and the best in the world for the student, since the ideas of
values and envelopment are ever present. In this saturated air the minute
particles of moisture which, in the case of rain or fog can affect the
obliteration of objects, partially accomplishes it at all times, with the
result that objects seem to _swim in atmosphere._
In such a landscape perspective of value and color is easily observed,
making positive the separation of objects. The painter, under these
conditions, is independent of linear perspective to give depth to his
work, which being one of the cheap devices of painting he avoids as much
as possible.
It is because aerial perspective is paintable and the other sort is not
that artists shun the clear altitudes of Colorado where all the year one
can see for eighty miles and, on the Atlantic border, wait the summer
through for the fuller atmosphere which the fall will bring, that by its
tender envelopment the vividness and detail which is characteristic of the
American landscape may give place to what is serviceable to the purposes
of painting.
It is because of misunderstanding on this point that we of the Western
Hemisphere may wrongly challenge foreign landscape, judging it upon the
natural aspect of our own country. The untravelled American or he who
has “been there” without seeing things, is not aware that distinctly
different conditions prevail in Europe than with us, especially above
latitude 40°.
Advantage in the paintability of subject therefore lies distinctly with
the European artist, and it may be because he has to labor against these
odds that the American landscapist has forged to the front and is now
leading his European brethren. It must, however, be acknowledged that he
acquired what he knows concerning landscape from the art and nature of
Europe—from Impressionism with its important legacy of color, which has
been acknowledged in varying degree by all our painters, and from the
“school of 1830,” on which is based the tonal movement of the present.
Other than perspective of values, no importance should be attached to that
which, with the inartistic mind, is regarded so important a quality. The
art instruction which the common school of the past generation offered was
based on perspective, its problems, susceptible of never ending
circumventions, being spread in an interminable maze before the student.
Great respect for this “lion in the path” was a natural result and “at
least a two years’ study” of these problems was thought necessary before
practical work in art could commence. (See Appendix.)
Mr. Ruskin’s fling at the perspective labyrinth would have been more
authoritative than it proved, had he not too often lessened our faith by
the cry of wolf when it proved a false alarm.
There is a single truth which, though simple, was never known to Oriental
art, namely; that in every picture there must be a real or understood
horizon—the level of the painter’s eye,—that all lines above this will
descend and all lines below will rise to it as they recede.
But upon aerial perspective depends the question of detail in the receding
object and this to the painter is of first importance. To temper a local
color so that it shall settle itself to a nicety at any distance, in the
perspective scheme, and to express the exact degree of shadow which a
given color shall have under a given light and at a given distance are
problems which absorb four-fifths of the painter’s attention.
If the features of a man a hundred yards away be painted with the same
fidelity as though he stood but ten yards distant the aerial balance is
disturbed, the man being brought nearer than his place on the perspective
plan allows.
At a mile’s range a tree to the painter is not an object expressing a
combination of leaves and branches, but a solid colored mass having its
light and shade and perhaps perforated by the sky. It is with natural
_aspect_ and not natural _fact_ that the painter deals.
Pre-Raphaelite art practised this phase of honesty, which, in our own day
was revived in England. In this later coterie of pre-Raphaelite brethren
was but one painter, the others, men of varying artistic perceptions and
impulses. To the painter it in time became evident that he was out of
place in this company and the commentary of his withdrawal proved more
forcible than any to be made by an outsider.
When, therefore, judgment be applied to a work of painting it must be with
a knowledge of natural aspect in mind, not necessarily related, even
vaguely, to the scene under consideration, but such as has come _by_ the
absorption of nature’s moods, whereby, with the cause given, the effect
may be known as a familiar sequence. The public too should be
sufficiently knowing to catch the code signals of each artist whereby
these natural facts are symbolled.
Herein has now been set forth, as concisely as possible, the few
considerations which are ever present to the painter. The connoisseur who
would judge of his work, either subjectively or technically, must follow
in his footprints and be careful to follow closely. He must appreciate
the differences in the creeds of workers in color and not apply the
formulas of impressionism to works in tone. He must not emphasize the
importance of drawing in the work which clearly speaks of color and by its
technique ignores all else; nor expect the miracle of luscious,
translucent color in a work demanding the minute drawing of detail. He
can, however, be sure that the criteria of judgment which under all
circumstances will apply are:
Balanced and unified composition, both of line and mass.
Harmony of color, expressed by the correlation of all colors throughout
the picture.
Tone, or the unification of all colors upon the basis of a given hue.
Values, or the relation of the shades of an object to each other and the
degree of relation between one object and another.
Envelopment, or the sense of air with which objects are surrounded.
With these five ideas in mind the critic of Philistia may enter the
gallery, constituting himself a jury of one, assured he is armed with
every consideration which influenced the artist in his work and the art
committee in its acceptance thereof.
Judgment however does not end here. These constitute the tables of the
law, and law finds its true interpretation only in the spirit of the
living principle.
CHAPTER XVIII - THE BIAS OF JUDGMENT
If discernment was ours to trace through the maze of fashion and
experimental originality the living principle of true art, the caprice of
taste would have little to do with the comfort of our convictions or the
worth of our investments.
Fallacy has its short triumphs and the persuasive critic or the creator of
art values may effect real value but for a day. The limit of the
credulity of the public, which Lincoln has immortalized, is the basis of
hope.
The public in time rights itself.
Error in discerning this living principle in art is cause for the deepest
contrition at the confessional of modern life. Unsigned and unrecognized
works by modern masters have been rejected by juries to whom in haste the
doors of the _Salon_ or _Society_ have been reopened with apologies. The
nation which assumes the highest degree of aesthetic perception turned its
back on Millet and Corot and Courbet and Manet and Puvis de Chavannes,
rejecting their best, and has honored yesterday what it spurns to-day. The
feverish delirium of the upper culture demands “some new thing,” and
Athens, Paris, London and New York concede it.
But what has lived? What successive generations have believed in may be
believed by us; a thought expressed by the author of “Modern Painters” in
one magnificent sentence, containing 153 words and too long for quotation.
The argument is based on the common sense of mankind. It has however this
objection. Judgment by such agreement is bound to be cumulative. What is
good in the beginning is better to-day, still better to morrow, then
great, then wonderful, then divine.
This is the Raphaelesque progression, and if fifty persons were asked who
was the greatest painter, forty-nine would say Raphael, without
discrimination. The fiftieth might have observed what all painters know,
that Raphael was not a great painter, either as colorist or technician.
The opinion in this contention of Velasquez that of all painters he
studied at Rome, Raphael pleased him least, is a judgment of a colorist
and a technician, the more valuable because rendered before the
ministrations of oil and granular secretion had enveloped his work in the
mystery from which it speaks to us. As a painter and draughtsman Raphael
is perhaps outclassed by Bouguereau, Cabanel or Lefevre of our own time,
and as a composer of either decorative or pictorial design he has had
superiors. But the work of Raphael possesses the loving unction of real
conviction and nothing to which he put his well trained hand failed of the
baptism of genius. Through this mark, therefore, it will live forever.
Nor should any work require more than this for continuous life. Each age
should be distinctive.
The bias of judgment through the cumulative regard of successive centuries
is what has created the popular disparity between the old and modern
masters, and it must not be forgotten that the harmony of color and its
glowing quality is largely the gift of these centuries, a fact made
cruelly plain to those who have restored pictures and tampered with their
secrets.
It will be a surprise to the average man in that realm of perfect truth
which lies beyond, to mark, in the association of artists of all ages,
when the divisions of schools, periods and petty formulas are forgotten,
that Raphael will grasp the hand of Abbott Thayer, saying to him in the
never dying fervor of art enthusiasm and with the acknowledgment of
limitations, which is one of the signs of greatness;
“O, that I had had thy glorious quality of technical subtlety in place of
the mechanical directness in which I labored!” and he in turn to be
reminded that had he paused for this, the span of his short life were
measured long before he had accomplished half his work.
A kindred bias is the eventual acceptance of whatever is persisted in.
Almost any form in which a technically good artist may express his idea
will in time find acceptance. It has the persuasion of the advertisement,
offering what we do not want. In time we imagine we do. Duplications of
Cuyp’s very puerile arrangement of parts, as in the “Departure for the
Chase” to be found in others of his pictures, work in our minds mitigation
for those faults. The belief in self has the singular magnetic potency of
drawing and turning us. A stronger magnet must then be the living
principle. We find it in unity. Originality compromises this at its
peril.
And that discrimination against the prophet in his own country! Under its
ban the native artist left his home and dwelt abroad; but the expatriation
which produced pictures of Dutch and French peasants by native painters
was in time condemned. The good of the foreign experience lay in the
medals which were brought back out of banishment. These turned the tide
of thoughtless prejudice, and international competitions have kept it
rising.
But the worth of the foreign signature is now of the lesser reckonings;
for with the same spirit in which the native artist would annihilate the
tariff on foreign art, have the best painters of Europe declared “there
shall be no nationality in art”; for art is individual and submits to the
government stamp only by courtesy.
Happy that nation which, when necessary, can believe in its own, not to
exclusion, from clannish pride, but on the basis of that simple canon
adopted by the world of sport; “Let the best win.”
The commonest bias to judgment is also the most vulgar—price. The reply
of the man of wealth to the statement that a recent purchase was an
inferior example of an artist’s work; “I paid ten thousand for it. Of
course it’s all right,” was considered final to the critic. The man whose
first judgment concerning an elaborate picture of roses was turned to
surprise and wonder when told the price, which in time led to respect and
then purchase, may find parallels in most of the collections of Philistia.
“The value of a picture is what some one will pay for it” is a maxim of
the creators of picture values and upon it the “picture business” has its
working basis. And so together with the good of foreign art have the
Meyer Von Bremens and the Verbeckhovens, the creations of the school of
smiles and millinery, and the failures and half successes of
impressionism, together with its good, been cornered, and unloaded upon
the ingenuous collector.
The most insidious bias of judgment is that developed by the art
historian, the man who really knows.
Serene and above the petty matters which concern the buyer of art and
perplex the producer, he pours forth his jeremiads upon the age and its
art, subjecting them to indefensible comparisons with the fifteenth
century and deploring the materialism of modern times.
The argument is that out of the heart the mouth must speak; can men gather
figs from thistles: is it reasonable to expect great art when men and
messages are transported by steam and electricity, in the face of
Emerson’s contention that art is antagonistic to hurry? The argument
neglects the fact that this present complex life is such because it has
added one by one these separate interests to those which it has received
as an inheritance, each of which in its own narrowing niche having been
preserved under the guardianship of the specialist.
The art instinct has never died out; but art, which aforetime was the only
thought of the humanists, has been obliged to move up and become
condensed. But mark, the priests who keep alive her fires can still show
their ordination from the hands of the divine Raphael. The age may be
unsympathetic, but for those who will worship, the fire burns. Whereas
art was once uplifted by the joyous acclaim of the whole people, she must
now fight for space in a jostling competition. But is it not more
reasonable that the prophet lay aside his sackcloth and accept the
conditions of the new era, acknowledging that art has had its day in the
sanctuary and has now come to adorn the home and that of necessity
therefore the conditions of subject and of size must be altered? The
impulse which aforetime expressed itself in ideals is now satisfied to
become reflective of the emotions. The change which has restricted the
range in the grander reaches of the ideal has resulted in the closer and
more intimate friendship with nature. The effort which was primarily
ideal now turns its fervor into the quality of its means.
CHAPTER XIX - THE LIVING PRINCIPLE
If there be a basis of reliance for continuous life and consequent value,
a search for the living principle must be made in those works which the
world will not let die. And this labor will be aided by the exclusion of
such as have had their day and passed. Although the verdict suggested in
the fostering care of the people or in its lack, may be wrong, as future
ages may show, yet for us in our inquiry in the twentieth century this
jury is our only court of appeal and its dictum must be final.
We command a view of the long line of art unfolding as a river flows, in
winding course from meagre sources, and through untoward obstructions into
a natural bed which awaits it, now deep and swollen, now slender, now
graceful, now turbid, here breaking into smaller threads stretching into
opposed directions, here again uniting and deepening, and we mark in all
of its variety of course and depth, the narrow line of the channel. A
slender line there is touching hands through all generations from the
painters of the twilight of Art to the painters of the present who have
seen all of its light and for whom too much of its brilliancy has proved
bewildering. The history of art is perforce full of the chronicles of
unfruitful effort and the galleries as replete with unprofitable pictures.
Our ardent though rapid quest will, unaided by the catalogue, discover for
us the real, and sift it free of the spurious if we have settled with
ourselves what art _is_ and what its purpose. If we hold to the present
popular notion that art is imitation, the results will come out at
variance with the popular opinion of five centuries. If, on the other
hand, we delegate to its proper place fidelity to the surface of nature,
we must of necessity seek still further for its essence. This is
subjective and not objective.
To make apparent a statement the edge of which strikes dull from much use
in purely philosophical lingo, let us take the case of a picture
representing a laborer with his horse. The idea for the expression of
which the few elements of field, man and beast, are employed is _Toil._
Whether then the man and beast be in actual labor or not, the dominant
idea in the artist’s mind is that they are or have been laboring; that
that is what they stand for, _that idea_ to be presented in the strongest
possible way. “The strongest possible way” is the question to be debated.
Individual artists interpret this as suits their temperament, the jury
therefore sits in judgment upon the temperament as the exponent of “the
strongest possible way.” With the idea of toil in mind one artist is
moved to present its unadorned force, careful not to weaken the conception
by the addition of anything superfluous or extraneous to the idea. Its
force is therefore ideal force and the presentation appeals to and moves
us on this basis. Another will see in the subject of a landscape, a man
and a horse, an opportunity presented of detail and of surfaces and will
delight in expressing what he knows to do cleverly. Under this impulse
the dexterity of his art is poured forth; the long training of the
workshop aids him. He paints the horse and makes it look not only like a
real horse, but a particular one. The bourgeois claps his hands
exclaiming, “See it is unmistakably old Dobbin, the white spot on his
fetlock is there and his tail ragged on the end; and the laborer, I know
him at once. How true to life with side whiskers and that ugly cut across
the forehead and his hat with the hole in it. The field too is all there,
the stones, the weeds, the rows of stubble, nothing slighted. And the
action of the light too, what a relief the figures possess, how like
colored photographs they stand out, clear, sharp and unmistakable.”
A third artist, without sacrificing the individual character of the horse
will yet represent him in such a way that one feels first the idea, of a
laboring horse and afterward notes that he is a particular horse, and in
like manner with the man of the picture. This artist’s conception lies
midway between the two extremes and in consequence expresses greater truth
than either. He poises himself on the magic line spanning the chasm
between these opposing walls, supported by the balancing pole of the real
and ideal, lightly gripped in the centre.
But to return to the first in the spirit of nature-love and truth to prove
if it be worthy. Judged on this scale does it stand? Coordinately with
the idea of toil, does it violate the laws of the universe; do the
surfaces thereof reflect the light of day; is the color probable; is the
action possible? If under this scrutiny the work fails, its acceptable
idealistic expression cannot save it.
It is here that the idealist pleads in vain for the painters of the
groping periods of art, or for the pre-Raphaelites of the nineteenth
century, who in their spirit beg that we accept their unctuous will for
the deed completely wrought. When however they do fill the condition of
natural aspect in its fundamental essence, in its condition of
non-violation of physical law, when, uncompromised by such discrepancy,
the presentment of the idea is complete and this alone engages us, the
work by virtue of its higher motive takes higher rank in the scale of art
than that in which the idea has been delegated to a place second to the
shell which encloses it. It is the art which fulfills both requirements
_with the idea paramount_ that has survived in all ages. The reverse
order is not sustained by the history of art. Mark the line from the
early masters to the present, do you not find the description includes
“the idealists” _who could paint?_ The list would be a long and involved
one, taking its start in Italy with Botticelli, Giotto, Fra Angelico,
Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Andrea del Sarto, Fra
Bartolomeo, Titian, Giorgione, and extending thence to our own time
inclusive of Millet, Corot, Watts, Turner, Blake, Rousseau, Mauve, Puvis
de Chavannes and Ryder—men of all complexions in art, and typical of many
more quite as diverse in their subjects and modes of expression but who
place the idea, the motive, the emotion, the type, before the thing
depicted. For them the letter of the law killeth, but the spirit giveth
life. This of course raises issue with the naturalistic school—a school
which believes in rendering Nature as she is, without rearrangement,
addition, substraction or idealization; a school presuming the artist to
be a copyist, and founded not on the _principles of design,_ but the _love
of nature._
Says W. J. Stillman in his impassioned polemic on “The Revival of Art”:
“The painter whose devotion to nature is such that he never leaves or
varies from her, may be, and likely is, a happier man than if he were a
true artist...To men of the other type, the external image disturbs the
ideal which is so complete that it admits no interference. To them she
may offer suggestions, but lays down no law.”
The complaint of Turner that Nature so frequently _put him out_ contains
for us what it should have expressed to Ruskin, the real attitude which he
held toward nature, but which Ruskin in his enthusiastic love of nature
did not, or would not perceive. What the master artist saw and utilized
in nature were forms for his designs and sentiment for emotional
expression. Yet the recorder of his labors followed after, verifying his
findings with near-sighted scrutiny, lauding him with commendations for
keen observation in noting rock fractures, the bark of trees, grass, or
the precise shape of clouds, undismayed when his hero neglected all these
if they interfered with his art.
The point of the argument as stated by the idealists can be understood
only save through the element in our nature from which art draws its
vitality. Its deduction is thus bluntly expressed; “the nearest to
nature, the farther from art,” an apparent paradox paralleled by the
epigram, “the nearer the church, the farther from God.”
Both of them, out of their hollow clamor, echo back a startling truth: Not
_form,_ but _spirit._ Thus did Rembrandt work for the spirit of the man
and _the art to be got_ from the waiting subject. Thus did Millet reveal
in his representation of a single toiler the type of all labor. Thus did
Corot stop, when he had produced the spirit of the morning, knowing well
his nymphs would have vanished if the mystery of their hiding-places was
entirely laid bare, nor ever come to him again had he exposed the full
truth of form and feature.
It is the touch of poesy which has glorified these works and those of
their kind, the spring of the unwritten law yielding preeminence to the
emotional arts. Impulse is the life of it: it dies when short tethered by
specific limitations.
On this basis the way seems opened to settle the changeful formulas of
taste; why the rejection of what for the moment has held the pinnacle of
popular favor; why, for instance, the waning of interest in the detailists
of the brilliant French-Spanish School, the school of Fortuny, Madrazzo,
Villegas, Rico, or of the work of Meissonier, who as a detailist eclipsed
them all. A simple analysis of their work in toto will prove that their
best pictures are those in which a sentiment has dominated and in which
breadth and largeness of effect is strongest. Thus Meissonier’s “Return
of Napoleon from Moscow,” is a better picture than his “Napoleon III
surrounded by his staff in Sicily,” which latter is only a marvellous
achievement at painting detail in the smallest possible size, and lacks
entirely the forceful composition of mass and light and shade of the
former. Thus does the “Spanish Marriage” of Fortuny outclass his
“Academicians Choosing a Model,” which besides lacking the reserve force
of the former has its source in flippant imagination; and so may the many
other shifts of time and tide in the graphic arts be measured and
chronicled upon the basis of the emotions and the formative touch of the
poetic, upon the sequence of the artist’s regard for the ideal and the
real, and the degree of his approach toward either. The concensus of the
ages regarding finish, dexterity, cleverness, and _chic_ is that in the
scale of art they weigh less than the simple breadth of effect which they
so frequently interrupt. The school of Teniers with all of its detail was
preservative of this.
It is on the question of detail and the careful anxiety concerning the
surface that the art instinct avoids science, refusing her microscope in
preference for the unaided impression of normal sight. The living art of
the ages is that in which the painter is seen to be greater than his
theme, in which we acknowledge the power first, and afterward the product.
It is the unfettered mode allowing the greatest individualism of
expression; it is, in short, the man end of it which lives, for his is the
immortal life.
APPENDIX
The argument of the book is here reduced to a working basis.
The Concept
The first point settled in the making of a picture after the subject has
germinated, is the shape into which the items of the concept are to be
edited; the second is the arrangement of those items within the proscribed
limits; the third is the defining of the dark and light masses. This
consideration forces the question whence the light, together with its
answer, hence the shadow.
The Procedure
The detail of the direction of light and the action of the shadows cuts
the pictorial intention clear of the decorative design. Design is a good
basis, its simplicity yielding favorably to the settlement of spaces and
the construction of lines, but its chief purpose ends when it has cleared
the field of little things and reduced the first conception, which usually
comes as a bundle of items, to a broad and dignified foundation into which
these little things are set.
Design
A severe, space-filling design in three tones or four will place the
student in a position of confidence to proceed with detail which, until
the design has settled well into its four sides, should be persistently
excluded. It may, however, be found that the _essence_ of certain
subjects lies in a small item of detail. This, when known, must be allowed
for in the design.
Line
Of first importance in composition is the notion of Light and Dark, to
which Line is second. In the tone design line is but the edge of the
masses. Line as the basis of the form of the design is reduced to a few
forms which with modifications become the framework for all pictorial
structure. (See _Fundamental Forms._) Line as an element of beauty
sufficient of itself to become subjective is rare, an exception in
pictorial art. (See _Line_)
The æsthetics of Line must be comprehended and felt in its symbolism. The
form into which lines may lead the subject should have the full knowledge
of the composer.
The Vertical
The uplift of the _simple vertical_ is spiritual as well as mechanical.
It may carry the thought to higher levels or may support therewith an
opposed line. In either case its strength is majestic and in so far as
this line dominates does the picture receive its quality.
The Horizontal
A group of pines or the columns of the Greek or Egyptian temple alike
induce solemnity, quietude and dignity. The horizontal is a line less
commanding than the vertical with its upright strength, the symbol of
repose, serenity, and reserved motion.
The Diagonal
The _diagonal_ being an unsupported line naturally suggests instability,
change, motion, transit. Its purpose frequently is to connect the stabler
forms of the composition or lead therefrom.
The _curvilinear line_ is the basis of variety and graceful movement. As
an adjunct, it assists the sequence of parts. In the latter capacity it
is of great importance to the composer. It is of course the basis of the
circle as well as the important notion of circular construction and
observation.
Given the subject and means of expression the final labor is the restraint
or enforcement of parts in the degree of their importance. This requires
ingenuity and knowledge and frequently demands a reconstruction of the
original scheme.
Principality and Sacrifice
The most absolute and the most important idea in the production of art is
_Principality,_ that one object or idea shall be supreme. Its correlative
idea contains in it the hardships of composition, namely, Sacrifice. This
forces a graded scale of importance or attraction throughout the entire
work.
The idea has complete exposition in the vase or baluster in which the
commanding lines of the body find both support and extension through the
lesser associated parts. These stand as types of complete art revealing
the uncompromising principles of domination and subordination.
[Stable Interior--A. Mauve (A simple picture containing all the principles
of composition); Her Last Moorings--From a Photograph]
In the picture, complete in its chiaroscuro, these principles are as
easily apprehended as with the more tangible line and space of the solid
form. The _“__Cow in a Stable,__”_ by Mauve, contains by his management
of this rude and simple subject all the possibilities opened to and
demanded by compositions involving many elements. It might stand as the
light and dark scheme for some of the allegories of Rubens, Wiertz or
Correggio, or for many genre interiors, or for an “arrangement” of
flowers.
When once the importance of this principle is realized many of the
pitfalls into which beginners are so prone to fall are covered, and that
forever. Time and regrets are both saved to the student who will pause
for the absorption of the few principles on which all the arts are
founded.
This idea may seem to disturb the notion of balance across the centre,
especially when the object which receives our first consideration occupies
one side of the picture. A study of the postulates together with the
principle of the steelyard and the knowledge of picture balance will clear
any apprehension of conflict.
The Dominant Idea
Above and beyond the object which dominates all others is the idea which
dominates the picture. Such may be light, gloom, space, action, passion,
repose, communion, humor, or whatever has stimulated and therefore must
govern the composition. If with the sentiment of Repose as subjective,
the principal object expresses action, there must necessarily be conflict
between the idea and the reality.
Action, however, may very appropriately be introduced into a conception of
repose, its contrast heightening this emotion; the creeping baby, the
frolicking kitten, the swinging pendulum, the distant toilers observed by
a nearer group at rest.
The point where a counter emotion weakens and where it strengthens the
idea is determined on a scale of degree, many necessary parts taking
precedence thereto before the opposed sentiment shall attract us. These
ideas, correlative to their principal, have also their scale of
attraction, and only in the formal arrangement of allegory and decoration
may two units be allowed the same degree of attraction. This is one of
the most frequent forms in which weak composition develops, leaving the
mind uncertain as to the sequence, and the eye wavering between the equal
claims of separated parts. The neglect of leading lines, or of forcing a
logical procedure from part to part, so that no part may escape the
continuous inspection of all, produces _decomposition._ The avoidance of
inharmony must of course yield harmony.
Harmony
Harmony, therefore, though a necessary principle in all art, does not push
herself to the front as does Principality. She follows naturally, if
allowed to.
The Must Be’s and May Be’s of Composition
Of the other _principles_, Consistency or breadth, Continuity and its
complement, Contrast, associate themselves in greater or less degree with
Principality and Harmony, which are the must be’s; while Repetition,
Radiation, Curvature and Interchange are reckoned as the may be’s of
composition.
Perspective
The basis of all plane presentation is founded on perspective, an absolute
science giving absolute satisfaction to all who would have it. _Knowing_
that a figure must be of a certain height if it occupy a given space is
often a shorter road to the fact even though it demand a perspective
working plan than _feeling_ for it with the best of artistic intentions.
One may feel all around the spot before finding it, and meanwhile the
scientist has been saving his temper.
In all compositions demanding architectural environment or many figures,
perspective becomes essential, at least as a time saver. Yet if the
science never existed such art as embraces many figures and architecture
could find adequate expression at the hands of the discerning artist.
The science of perspective does no more than acquaint the artist with any
given angle. His knowledge of cause and effect in the universe, with an
added art instinct, are equipment sufficient to obtain this.
No part of art expression commands more of the mysterious reverence of the
_atechnic_ than perspective. It is that universal art term that includes
very much to many people. When, after writing a thorough treatise on the
subject, Mr. Ruskin remarked the essence of the whole thing can be known
in twenty minutes, it was doubtless in rebuke of the unqualified
suppositions of the artless public.
Balance
The conception of balance clearly understood in the length, the height and
the depth of a picture contains the whole truth of pictorial composition.
The elements which war against unity and which we seek to extract, reveal
themselves as the disturbers of balance and are to be found when the
principles of balance are put into motion.
Does divided interest vex us, the foreground absorbing so much interest
that the background, where the real subject may lie, struggles in vain for
its right; then we may know that the balance through the depth of the
picture has been disturbed. Does the middle distance attract us too much
in passing to the distance where the real subject may lie; then we may
know that its attachment to the foreground or its sacrifice to the
background is insufficient and that its shift in the right direction will
restore balance. Do we feel that one side of the picture attracts our
entire attention and the other side plays no part in the pictorial scheme,
then we may know that the items of the lateral balance are wanting.
It is rare to find apart from formality a composition which develops to a
finish in an orderly procedure. Once separated from the even balance the
picture becomes a sequence of compromises, the conciliation of each new
element by the reconstruction of what is already there or the introduction
of the added item which unity necessitates.
The argument reminds the picture maker that he is in like case with the
voyageur who loads his canoe, sensible of the exquisite poise which his
craft demands. Along its keelson he lays the items of his draught,
careful for instance that his light and bulky blanket on one side is
balanced by the smaller items of heavier weight in opposed position. The
bow under its load may be almost submerged and the onlooker ventures a
warning. But again balance is restored when the seat at the other end is
occupied as a final act in the calculation.(20)
The degree of attraction of objects in the balanced scheme must be a
matter of individual decision as are many other applied principles in
temperamental art.
Color representing the natural aspect of objects, color containing “tone,”
and color containing tone quality or “tonal quality,” are three aspects of
color to be met with in accepted art.
Color
As with the sentiment of the art idea, whether it incline toward the real
or the ideal, so the distinction applies between what is reflective only
of nature and what is reflective also of the artist’s temperament. It is
a simple proposition in the scale of value and it works as truly when
applied to color as to the art concept: the more of the man the better the
art. Were it not so the color-photograph would have preeminence.
The first degree in the scale of color is represented by that sort which
applied to canvas to imitate a surface seems satisfying to the artist as
nature-color. The second degree is that in which the color is made to
harmonize with all other colors of the picture on the basis of a given
hue. This tonal harmony may fail to reveal itself in many subjects in
nature or in such arrangements of objects as the still-life painter might
and often does collect, and is therefore clearly a quality with which the
artist endows his work. Such painters as Whistler and his following see
to it that this tonality inheres in all subjects which may be governed in
the composition of color (such as his “arrangements” in the studio), so
that the production of this harmony results naturally by following the
subject.
Tone
The color key is given in that selected hue which influences to a greater
or less degree all the colors, even when these make violent departures in
the scheme of harmony. Solicitous only of the quality of unified color,
the majority of these painters (though this frequently does not include
Mr. Whistler himself) concern themselves wholly with that thought,
employing their pigment so directly that the _vibration_ of color is
sacrificed.
The production of this vibration is by agreement on the part of all great
colorists impossible through impasted color or that applied flatly to the
surface, which they declare cannot be as powerful, as significant or as
beautiful as that which vibrates, either by reason of the juxtaposition of
color plainly seen, as with the impressionists, or of its broken tone, or
by virtue of the influence of a transparent glaze of color which enables
two colors to be seen at once.
The last method is that of Titian, the second in combination with the last
that of Rembrandt in his latest and best period, the first that of Monet,
which contains the principle of coloration in its scientific analysis.
The chasm between these men is not known in any such degree as a
superficial notion of their respective arts might presuppose. The real
disparity in color presentation exists between all such painters and those
who paint directly on white canvas, neglecting the influence of the
undertone and the enrichment which enters into color by glazes
(transparent color).
Such painters may be able to represent most faithfully the true tints of
Nature but not the true impression, for Nature is always expressive of
that depth and strength which lies far in and which the painter of
“quality” insists to render. To him it is that something containing the
last word of a thorough statement, and without it the statement is a
surface one.
Technically, it may mean the labor of many repaintings, of color glazes,
and of procedure from one process to another, so that the first statement
on the canvas becomes the general but not the final dictum. Through these
the work takes on that unctuousness of depth and strength by which one
experiences the same thrill as through the deep reverberations of a
musical tone from many instruments, simple tone being producible by one
instrument. Practically, it is the pulsation of color in every part of
the picture felt by either the play of one color through another or by
such broken color as may be administered by a single brush stroke loaded
with several colors or by a single color so dragged across another as to
leave some of the under color existent.
Quality
Such technique produces the highest tonal quality. It cannot be
supposed that Rembrandt glazed and repainted on his portraits for a lesser
reason than to supply them with a quality which direct painting denied,
nor that Frank Holl, of our own times, employed a like method _for the
sake of being like Rembrandt._
Natural Color; Tonal Color, representing nature; and Tonality plus
“Quality” (the last a vague term denoting depth and fullness of color) are
three grades represented, the first by Meissonier in his _“__1807__”_, a
picture devoid of tone; the second by the portraits of Alice, by Chase,
and _Lady Archibald Campbell_, by Whistler; and the last or tonal quality,
by the later works of George Fuller and Albert Ryder. Under these
specified classes the lists of names in art are now lengthening and
shortening, the indications of our present art pointing to a revival of
the color quality of a former age.
[Alice--W.M. Chase (Verticals Diverted); Lady Archibald Campbell--Whistler
(Verticals Obliterated); The Crucifixion--Amie Morot (Verticals Opposed)]
Don’ts
It was stated in the introduction that the commandments of this book would
be the “must nots,” yet for him who apprehends principles, commandments do
not exist. A few conclusions from the foregoing arguments may, however,
be of service to beginners in the practice of composition.
Structures to be avoided are:—
Those in which the lines all run one way without opposition:
Those especially in which the bottom of the frame is paralleled:
Those in which the perspective of a line or the edge of a mass happens to
be a vertical:
Those in which an opposing plane or attractive mass barricades the
entrance of the picture:
Those in which two masses in different planes happen to be the same size:
Those in which objects of equal interest occur in the same picture:
Those in which an object awkwardly prolongs a line:
Those in which the line of the background duplicates the lines of the
subject:
Those in which the picture is cut by lines too long continued in any
direction:
Those in which radial lines fail to lead to a focal object:
Those in which the items of a picture fail to present a natural sequence:
Those in which the subject proper is not dignified by a conspicuous
placement or is swamped by too attractive surroundings:
Those in which the most energetic forms of construction are not allied to
the principal but to secondary parts of the picture:
Those formal compositions in which greater interest is shown at the sides
than in the centre:
Those in which the aesthetic principle of the constructive form is
antagonistic to the sentiment of the subject.