Flandrin. They have acquired other qualities, but they seem to me to
have lost the art of expressing beautiful form. Of course, in my remarks
to-night I shall speak of the _general_ tendency of the schools. In
every school there are exceptions to the rule, and amongst the French
painters of the day there are at least one or two striking exceptions to
the general decline of drawing power.
To return to the English galleries. It would be impossible to retail to
you the unfavorable remarks that were made without becoming disagreeably
personal. This adverse criticism of a few pictures gave perhaps more
value to the verdict that, speaking generally, the English school was
distinguished by its intellectual, refined, and, above all, thoroughly
national character.
Let us hope that as years roll on we may gain more power in drawing and
more manliness of execution, without losing any of those national
qualities which have carried us so creditably through the ordeal of an
International Exhibition.
We will now leave the British section, and proceed to the French
galleries. French art seems to me to be in a transition state. Public
taste has been unsettled by the enormous success of Fortuny, Regnault,
Corot, Daubigny, and other still more eccentric painters. Eccentricity
is too often mistaken for genius, and coarseness for power. The last
Salon (or annual exhibition) was the worst I ever saw. Of course, the
French section of the International was rich both in quantity and
quality, but I did not notice a single really fine picture that had been
painted within the last three years. To what are we to attribute this
unsatisfactory state of things? Although it has often been said that
republicanism is fatal to art, it is difficult to believe that the
present French Government can have any influence either for good or evil
on artists’ studios. Indeed, French sculpture, which is certainly
improving, is there to negative any such theory.
The reason of the decline of the _older_ men is obvious enough. They
have ceased to paint for fame; they paint for money. Country-houses,
carriages, horses, and last, but perhaps not least, madame’s toilette,
must be paid for, and the consequence is the production of what in a
humbler sphere of art would be called pot-boilers. These inferior works
are eagerly purchased at very high prices, and the artist, finding he
can coin as much money as he likes, takes less and less pains, till
finally decadence sets in, and the men who from their age ought to be in
the zenith of their artistic power, find themselves quite incapable of
rivalling the productions of their youth.
The cause for the manifest dearth of rising talent amongst the younger
men must be looked for elsewhere. That this dearth really exists there
can be no doubt. The French themselves allow it. Medals which used to be
given at the close of the Salon for painting are now given for
sculpture. There must be some reason for this marked decline. My old
friends shrug their shoulders and say: “Oh, the kind of teaching which
we had in our youth is now voted rococo. Sensational art” (by which they
mean art that will produce a sensation) “is now the fashion.” The press
has great power in France, and French critics, with few exceptions, like
what is strange and eccentric. There are symptoms, however, that this
quackery in art has had its day. The last two Salons have been too queer
even for the new school of critics, and we may therefore hope that the
sensational fit is over, and that the school may return again to the
sound principles of design and drawing for which it has hitherto always
been distinguished. I wish it understood that the deterioration I have
been mentioning was not very noticeable on the walls of the
International Exhibition. We had there the cream of all that had been
painted in France for the last ten years; and although the pictures
bearing the greatest names were rather disappointing, there was evidence
of abundance of talent in all departments of oil-painting.
The last years of the Empire and the first years of the Republic seem to
have been particularly prolific in good work. The portraits of that
period, the battle episodes, the nude figures, the still-life pictures,
are all characterized by a solidity and thoroughness which we rarely
find now. The most unsatisfactory feature in the work of this period is,
to my mind, the landscape. I confess to a want of appreciation of either
Corot or Daubigny; and as almost every landscape-painter is an imitator
of either one or the other, as a matter of course I cannot like their
pictures.
The landscape school of which I am speaking appears to me never to get
beyond a sketch, and _le culte du laid_ (the worship of ugly subjects)
is carried too far.
The greatest modern landscape-painters France ever had were Marillat and
Theodore Rousseau, and I think they are much better models to follow
than Corot or Daubigny.
As I am criticising, I may observe that much as I admire French pictures
of a few years back, I must say that I think the key in which these
works are painted too low; and there is another more serious fault
which I have often noticed; namely, the want of _naïveté_. The colors
are simple enough, but the execution is obtrusive. In the portraits
especially, one thinks more of the artist than of the sitter, whereas in
certain portraits of the Belgian and German galleries at the
International, the artist and his execution were completely forgotten,
so life-like and natural were the heads.
In speaking of French painting it is as difficult to generalize as it
would be of English. One man paints his whole picture in a low key,
another paints white figures on a black background, one plasters his
color on with a trowel, another models it rather thin. Still I think I
may safely say that the majority of French pictures are painted with
thick, opaque color and in a very low key.
Mannerism is perhaps the rock on which most rising reputations are
shipwrecked, not only in France but everywhere else. A clever young
artist paints a really fine picture, full of feeling, originality, and
poetry, but rather low in tone. He has an immense success; a success
which he too often ascribes to the wrong cause. The consequence is that
his next picture will probably be less poetical, but still darker in
color. His friends and admirers, instead of pulling him up sharp, are
more prodigal than ever in their praise. He gets a higher price for the
second picture than he did for the first. It is, therefore, not
surprising that our promising artist paints lower and lower in color
every year, until at last he becomes a confirmed mannerist.
The same danger exists in every department of the art. A young
portrait-painter will perhaps have exhibited a full-length,
distinguished by great character and breadth, but coarsely painted. The
praise which he justly earns for this portrait prompts him to paint his
next still more coarsely, and he too degenerates into a mannerist.
Mannerisms of various kinds are rampant in the present French school,
and are in the present state of public opinion too strong for the more
sober truthful work, which I am happy to say is not yet altogether
extinct.
Unfortunately the encouragement given to these mannerists (or
“impressionists” as they love to be called) is not wholly derived from
their friends of the press; it proceeds also from artists of real talent
who ought to know better.
This seems to me the gravest symptom in the present condition of the
French school. It is of little importance how enthusiastic the various
literary or dilettanti cliques may be about their favorites. These are
mere fashions, which sooner or later die a natural death, but when
artists of standing give in to the prevailing delusions, the mischief
becomes serious.
I can hardly believe that these artists of talent really admire the
productions of which I am speaking, but they are afraid of going
against the stream of journalism, or else they wish to appear liberal in
approving what is so diametrically opposed to their own practice. At any
rate they acquiesce, and humbug flourishes. Before leaving the French
painters, I ought, perhaps, to say something about the subjects
principally affected by them.
No one can go through a French exhibition without being struck by the
number of ghastly and horrible subjects which meet the eye on every
side, and which seem to vie with each other in cruelty and brutality.
Death and suffering in every form have always been favorite subjects
with French artists. Delaroche was continually painting murders and
executions, but the comparatively mild form of horrors affected by him
is not sensational enough for the modern school.
“Scene of the Inquisition--A man being Tortured to Death”; “Rizpah
Driving away the Vultures from the Bodies of her Seven Sons, who are
Swinging in the Wind”; “Roman Conspirators Drinking the Blood of a Slave
whom they have just Murdered for this Festive Purpose”; “Nero
Experimentalizing with Poison on his Slaves”; “Apollo Flaying Marsyas
alive,”--are a few of the many pretty subjects which were conspicuous in
the French galleries of the International Exhibition. One artist (and a
very distinguished one too) has improved even upon these subjects, and
delights in painting not only death but decomposition.
At the Ecole des Beaux Arts the subject given last year to the students
for their diploma pictures was “Augustus Causes the Tomb of Alexander
the Great to be Opened, and Places a Crown of Gold on the Head of the
Corpse.”
When we reflect that Alexander had been dead some three hundred years,
it will easily be understood that his body was in that half-putrid,
half-mummified condition which is apparently so attractive to the
artistic world in France.
Another marked characteristic of a French exhibition is the number of
nude female figures. This is notoriously very objectionable to many
English visitors, but for my part I would rather see a dozen nude nymphs
than a decapitated figure or a putrid corpse. Many of these figures are
done by young painters as a kind of supplement to their art education;
and instead of being offended at their frequency, I am always glad to
see so much laudable ambition. I only wish we had a few more similar
efforts in our English exhibitions. The Hanging Committee would, of
course, eliminate those which were objectionable either from want of
technical skill or from any other cause, and the remainder might be
allowed to hang on our walls and irritate Mrs. Grundy.
A third characteristic of a French exhibition is the general excellence
of what are called rustic pictures. The peasants are real peasants, and
not models dressed up as such.
There is almost always in this class of subjects an honest attempt to
give a truthful version of nature. There is a completeness about them
that is very charming.
The pictures of flowers, fruit, fish, and every thing coming under the
head of _nature morte_, seem to me equally good. In fact, one hardly
ever sees a bad still-life picture in a French exhibition. I suppose the
jury is more strict about fruit, oysters, and copper kettles than about
humanity, and particularly female humanity.
Pictures of animal life are, I think, less common than in English
exhibitions. Dogs especially are seldom painted. This may be partly
owing to the currish aspect of French dogs. Our bloodhounds, mastiffs,
newfoundlands, deerhounds, and all the aristocracy of the canine race,
are hardly ever seen in France; and it must be confessed that a
stumpy-tailed mongrel or a clipped poodle is not a very tempting model.
The French are not a doggy nation. A well-off Parisian will often keep a
couple of ugly pointers, but it is always understood that “Stop” and
“Komeer” are indispensable “pour la chasse,” and not to be regarded as
pets or companions.
Finally, in every modern French exhibition the influence of Fortuny is
very perceptible; I believe, however, that almost all the disciples of
this school are Spaniards or Italians residing in Paris, and that the
French artists who devote themselves to microscopic painting have the
good taste to follow the lines of Meissonier rather than those of
Fortuny.
We will now examine the Belgian pictures.
Belgian art is derived entirely from France. At the International
Exhibition one passed from the French to the Belgian galleries without
being aware of the change of nationality. I think, however, that the
branch is at present in a healthier state than the parent stem. When I
compare the recent mural paintings which have been executed in Belgium
with similar work done in Paris, I am struck with the vast superiority
of the Belgian. Again, in landscape the Belgians are far in advance of
their neighbors. Comparisons are proverbially odious, so I will not
incur odium by comparing English landscape with Belgian, but I should
recommend those who think that we specially excel in this branch of the
art to go and look at what the Belgians are doing. The great men of the
Belgian school--the men whose names are familiar to every artistic
circle in Europe--are declining in power even more rapidly than their
colleagues in France, but there seems to me to be more hope about the
younger men. The Belgian portrait-painters are, I think, inferior to the
French as a rule, but there were one or two portraits in the Belgian
galleries which attracted a great deal of attention from their
unaffected simplicity, and in this respect contrasted very favorably
with some more showy French work. The history pictures, again, were more
careful and better drawn than analogous French work. There was less
striving after effect and singularity, and much better composition. They
reminded me more of what French painting used to be before the school
became afflicted with what may be called “sentimental radicalism” in
art.
I was glad to notice that Baron Leys, the painter of the strange
mediæval pictures of the Antwerp town-hall, has not left a school of
mediævalists behind him. The quaint ugliness of an old Flemish picture
is interesting because it is real, but in these modern works the uncouth
drawing and constrained stiff attitudes of the early Flemings are
assumed, and therefore offensive. No doubt there are several excellent
artists living who have studied under Leys, but they have all of them
abandoned the affectation of their master.
The influence of Rubens and his school is not perceptible in modern
Belgian work. This is rather curious when we consider the immense amount
of Rubens-worship which is perpetually going on at Antwerp. Rembrandt,
Franz Hals, and Vanderhelst have had much more influence on the Belgian
school than Rubens, but the modern artists of Brussels are not a race
of copyists. They evidently study nature a good deal, and this, it
appears to me, is the secret of their strength. On the whole I have
formed a very favorable opinion of the Belgian school, and when I recall
to mind the excellent mural paintings at Ypres and Courtray, I must say
that the old Parisian sneer about the “contrefaçon Belge” is quite
inapplicable at the present day.
It is manifestly unfair to compare the German gallery of the Great
Exhibition with the French, English, or Belgian section. The pictures
sent by Germany were hastily got together at the eleventh hour, and were
notoriously inadequate specimens of German art. Still they were
interesting, as showing the tendency of the school.
The first impression on entering the German gallery was a favorable one.
It was like entering a gallery of old masters after a surfeit of garish,
crude modern pictures. A closer examination led one, however, to form a
less favorable opinion of the peculiarities of German art. The imitation
of the old masters is, in my opinion, carried too far. Reminiscences of
Holbein and Albert Durer crop up everywhere, and many pictures which are
not directly imitative of the old masters have a brown old-varnished
appearance. There may not have been any thing offensively bad or
ludicrously absurd in the German gallery, but on the other hand, with a
few exceptions, there appeared to me to be a sad want of originality.
These exceptional pictures were humble and unpretentious enough both in
subject and dimensions, but full of truth and character.
The artist, Knaus, enjoys a great reputation both in Germany and Europe
generally. His color, though true, is not very attractive. There is no
great charm in his execution. The nature of his subjects precludes fine,
classical drawing or noble composition. It may be asked, What, then, is
his great merit? It is simply the intense realism of his figures. We
always feel that we must have seen and known his peasants, his children,
and his Jews. He has the same power of seizing types which John Leech so
eminently possessed. Whether he quite deserves to be in the front rank
of European painters is another question, but it is interesting to note
the reputation such an artist has obtained in Germany, where art, though
often learned, is seldom truthful or harmonious.
It has often been said that German art is never seen at its best in
easel pictures, and that to express an opinion about it one ought to go
to Germany, and study the mural paintings which abound there. It is more
than twenty-five years since I visited either Munich or Berlin, and I am
therefore not qualified to give an opinion about the _present_ state of
art in Germany. I confess I was not favorably impressed with what I
_then_ saw; and have often in the course of these lectures found fault
with Kaulbach and his school for neglecting Horace’s well-known
precept, “Artis est celare artem.”
The large mural works at Munich and Berlin used to be considered by
Germans as the highest development of heroic painting. They asserted
that their country was at the top of the ladder in high art, just as it
undoubtedly was in music, and my criticisms on their great painters have
always been provoked by this assertion. I have never stigmatized these
decorative paintings as being absolutely bad or contemptible, but as
being unworthy of the great esteem in which they were held.
I hear that at the present time other artists have in great measure
superseded those of the school of Kaulbach, and that the highly
artificial style of thirty years ago has been almost abandoned.
Scandinavian and Danish art are derived from Germany, as Belgian and
Swiss are derived from France. In the case of Norway and Sweden,
however, all the best artists emigrate to more southern regions; and
small blame to them, for when daylight begins at ten and ends at two,
there is not much time for painting pictures. These artists, who are
mostly landscape-painters, return to their native countries in summer
and make their sketches and studies; but the pictures themselves are
painted either in Germany, Belgium, or France.
In Denmark the winter days are rather longer, and we find at Copenhagen
a feeble attempt at a native school, bearing about the same relation to
Dusseldorf or Berlin, that Birmingham or Liverpool would to London.
Leaving these humble followers of the German school, we will now enter
the Austrian and Hungarian galleries.
Some French critic compared Austrian art to a noisy brass band, and the
comparison is not inapt. No doubt the band is a very good one; the
trumpets are loud, the trombones sonorous, and the big drum
unexceptionable. Still it is not the kind of harmony which would please
a musician. Austrian and Hungarian art, though apparently fascinating to
the multitude, is too rich and cloying for a more fastidious taste. If
you can fancy a mixture of plum-pudding and lobster-sauce, you will form
a good idea of the most celebrated Austrian pictures. As the French
school has a weakness for the horrible, and the English for the homely,
so the Austrian delights in the showy. Pageants, royal receptions, and
ceremonies of mediæval times are the subjects which the leading Austrian
artists revel in; subjects in which there is not much story to tell, no
human emotions to portray, nothing but silks, velvets, armor, and
trappings to paint. All these accessories are marvellously well
executed, a great deal too well indeed for the heads and the flesh; but
it is this overpowering execution, united with a pseudo-Venetian
coloring, which captivates the French bourgeois, just as it would
captivate the London cockney.
I wish to observe that I am speaking of the large Austrian and Hungarian
pictures which attracted so much attention at the Paris exhibition.
Amongst the portraits and the smaller pictures there were some which
would have done credit to any school. Vigorous in drawing and execution,
full of character, and harmonious though rather dark in color, they
appeared to me far superior to the kindred pictures from North Germany.
I should have formed a very high estimate of the Austrian school if two
or three of the principle pictures had been absent.
It may be asked why, if these large pictures were so offensively
meretricious, the jury awarded them medals of honor?
I should be very sorry to have to defend all the decisions of the
international jury, but in the present case I think I may say with truth
that it was not admiration for this kind of art which dictated the
award.
Before leaving the Austrian and Hungarian galleries, I would observe,
that whatever may be thought of the pretentious richness of these large
pictures, there exists at any rate an Austrian school, and that this
school seems full of power and vitality. Austrians, do not, as a rule,
paint their pictures in Paris or Rome. Others may, like myself, deplore
the overpowering gorgeousness of a good deal of their work, but amongst
the canvasses of more modest proportion there was abundant evidence of
sound training and original invention.
Dutch art is very national; that is, the subjects are national. Muddy
seas, flat meadows with groups of cattle, canal and street scenes--in
short, the same kind of subjects which were formerly painted by Teniers,
Vandevelde, De Hoogh, and Paul Potter, are still the favorites with the
Dutch artists.
In the Dutch school, as seen at the Great Exhibition, there was a
laudable absence of priggishness or sensationalism, but the pictures
appeared to me to lack the neat precision of touch and the delicacy of
color which distinguished the old Dutchmen.
Pathos will cover a multitude of sins, and in some of the best modern
Dutch work this quality is not wanting; but in subjects which do not
admit of pathos, such as the old familiar scenes of Teniers and Ostade,
something more is wanted than indifferent execution and dull,
inoffensive color. I am inclined to think that Dutch art was not only
fairly, but even favorably represented at the Paris Exhibition, for in
several recent visits to Holland I was always struck by the want of
development of modern art. There are no great mural painters as in
Belgium; the Church, being Protestant, does nothing for art. The rich
Dutch citizens and merchants are equally unsympathetic; in short, there
is no demand for a high class of art, so there is no supply.
I never heard of a Dutch collector who patronized modern painters. His
rooms are always filled with Ostades, Wouvermans, Vanderveldes, etc., or
more frequently with wretched copies of these masters; but in these
private collections, which are scattered all over Holland, one never
meets with a good picture by a modern artist. Under these circumstances
I think it very creditable to Dutch artists that painting should not
have declined more than it has in Holland.