where it ought to be, you can only lengthen the tibia at the expense of
the femur; and although a great length from the knee to the instep may
be desirable, yet a very short thigh is certainly not an element of
beauty. In short, and even in medium-sized models, the middle of the
figure is generally too low, so that you may increase the length of the
leg without at all diminishing the proportions of the thigh. It is a
curious fact, that sitting and especially kneeling figures by the side
of standing ones always appear small if represented of their exact
relative size. I have always found this to be the case, and have
invariably had to increase the dimensions of my kneeling figures,
although by so doing I knew I was violating strict truth. As another
instance of a case where a departure from perfect accuracy is necessary,
I may mention the drawing of foreshortened arms and legs, particularly
when they are only slightly foreshortened. Unless the outline and
muscular development are kept rather fuller than it is in nature, the
limbs will look withered and poor.
Style in drawing is not synonymous with correctness. There can be no
true style without a certain amount of correctness, but, on the other
hand, a drawing may be very correct and yet deficient in style.
Photographs are a good illustration of the distinction.
No one will dispute the general accuracy of photography, and yet how few
photographs possess the element of style!
A fine style of drawing may be defined as the delineation of beautiful
forms in a masterly and simple manner. It must be founded on nature, but
purified and refined by the continual study of the antique.
The execution should not be timid and labored, and on the other hand it
should not obtrude itself by its dexterity. Michael Angelo and Raffaele
are generally accepted as the great masters of style in drawing, and it
is very noticeable how simple and unobtrusive their execution is.
Michael Angelo’s departure from natural proportions, and his often
forced attitudes, give great offence to many modern artists,
particularly to the mediævalists; and instead of recognizing in him (as
Sir Joshua did) the great master (_par excellence_) of style in
drawing, they strongly object to his peculiarities. For myself, I cannot
say that I worship him to the extent that Sir Joshua did; but when I
recollect the timid and meagre drawing of the Florentine and Umbrian
schools of the period, and compare these poor forms with Michael
Angelo’s “Creation of Adam and Eve” in the panels of the Sistine Chapel,
I must acknowledge that his great reputation as a draughtsman and
designer is fully deserved.
Sir J. Reynolds, in his discourses, with which most of you are familiar,
has entered very fully into the question of style, or of what used in
his day to be called the great style or the grand style.
I am not going to inflict on you many quotations from the celebrated
discourses, but there is one sentence which I shall quote, as it will
serve as a text on which to graft my own remarks on the subject of
style. The passage is this:
“The whole beauty and grandeur of the art consists in being able to get
above all singular forms, local customs, particularities, and details of
every kind.”
It appears to me that Sir Joshua ought to have added at the end of his
condemnation of “singular forms, particularities, and details of every
kind,” the words, “when they are mean or trivial.” Forms may be full of
character, and even beautiful, though singular. Many of the antique
fawns’ heads, though singular enough, have the elements of style in
them. Raffaelle’s cripple at the Beautiful Gate of the Temple is
singular to the verge of grotesqueness, but he in no way detracts from
the grand style of the cartoon. Many other examples of singular forms
might be given from the works of acknowledged masters of style.
Then, again, if by “details” ugly details are meant, I quite agree with
Sir Joshua in thinking them incompatible with a grand style, but it is
detail which gives individuality to a figure; and in the fighting
gladiator, the dancing fawn, and indeed in all the masterpieces of
antiquity, the detail is most elaborate.
Neglect of detail is the besetting sin of those painters who aim at the
grand style. They fail to see that the same process of selection may be
applied to the detail, as well as to the general proportions of the
figure.
In a portrait you must of course copy your sitter. You must take him as
you do a wife, for better, for worse. He may have a cast in his eye or a
conspicuous pimple on his nose, which, of course, as a faithful
portraitist you are bound to reproduce. You are under no such obligation
if you are painting an ideal head from the same individual. You may omit
the pimple, and make him look straight. But your same sitter may have
finely-formed furrows across his brow, or delicate expressive wrinkles
extending from the corners of his eyes. Are you, in painting an ideal
head, to neglect these landmarks of age and wisdom? I say, by no means,
neither in painting nor sculpture.
The word “ideal,” from a misconception of its meaning, has come to be
almost a term of reproach, and at a recent lecture at the Royal
Institution some ridiculous parody of Canova was nick-named “Ideal,” and
contrasted unfavorably with a masterly portrait bust by Donatello.
This is about as fair as if I, holding a brief on the other side, were
to produce the Theseus as a specimen of the ideal, and Madame Tussaud’s
effigy of the Claimant, of the realistic.
The “ideal,” or what Sir Joshua calls the grand style, means a
generalization of beautiful forms, but it has nothing to do with neglect
of detail, except when such detail is trivial, ugly, or superfluous.
It must also be remembered that detail does not mean furrows, wrinkles,
and veins alone; it means also minute correctness in rendering of form.
The outward contour of any portion of the human form is never perfectly
spherical, nor perfectly elliptic, nor perfectly straight, and it is the
delicate perception and artistic execution of form which constitutes
beauty.
Take the original of “The Laocoon,” and a common fourth-rate garden cast
of the statue which has stood half-a-dozen English winters, and has had
the benefit of several good coats of paint. In this cast all the
beautiful passages of the original have disappeared, and the neglecters
of detail get what they think so desirable, namely, a general want of
precision and individuality. Michael Angelo himself, who is Sir Joshua’s
high-priest of the grand style, gives plenty of detail whenever his work
is not meant to be seen at a distance. In his “Moses” and other statues
even the veins are carefully studied.
It is the custom, in this as in most other academies, for the student to
begin with the Antique, and finish with the Life. The object of this is
of course to avoid multiplying difficulties at first, and to accustom
him to draw from an inanimate object before he proceeds to copy one that
is always more or less moving.
I should, however, very much wish that those who are ambitious of
following the highest walk of art would supplement their life studies by
a return to the antique.
They would then perceive beauties which they little dreamt of during
their apprenticeship. They would acquire a fine taste for form, and
would learn to generalize the knowledge they had acquired in the life
schools.
I would make this class of students the highest in the Academy, so that
no one should feel that by returning to the antique he was being
subjected to degradation. In this last stage of the student’s
education, artistic studies from the antique should be made, and not
what are called finished drawings, such as are at present executed to
compete for prizes. The character and beauty of the antique should be
given rapidly, and by simple means.
Before proceeding to speak of the difficult problem of drawing objects
in motion, I should wish to impress on your minds the importance of
being able to draw tolerably from memory.
All drawing is, strictly speaking, an effort of memory. You cannot look
at your model and trace lines on your paper at one and the same time;
there must be an interval of a second or two, and all that you have to
do to acquire facility in drawing from memory, is gradually to prolong
this interval.
If you visit a large forge, you are sure to see men in violent action,
either working the rolling-mill, or forging large masses of iron under
the Nasmyth hammer. You may be certain that their action is perfectly
natural, and that it is not only natural but most appropriate to the
work they are about. Men who have been rolling boiler-plate for years
are sure to set about their work in the most practical way. Sketching on
these occasions is impossible, except, perhaps, to a newspaper
correspondent, but there is nothing to prevent your watching the action
of these men intently.
You will notice the various positions the body arms, and legs assume to
accomplish various tasks; how each action is fitted to the work. You
will endeavor to draw from memory what you have noticed. Your drawings
will doubtless be very imperfect, but they will be infinitely better
than what you could have produced before taking stock of what you saw at
the forge.
In London you may not have opportunities of seeing much in the way of
action that is worth drawing, but even in London people skate, play lawn
tennis, and other games which give rise to action, and in the country
there is always plenty to observe if you keep your weather eye open.
Every one cannot become a Horace Vernet, but I think that any fairly
good draughtsman may, after examining an object carefully, learn to
reproduce it two or three hours later when he reaches home; and this
kind of power (though never cultivated in academic schools) is one which
every young artist ought to endeavor to acquire. Very young children
(unless they are asleep) cannot be studied in the deliberate manner in
which a professional grown-up model is studied. Wild animals, again, are
difficult things to draw, because they cannot be depended upon to retain
the same position for any length of time.
It is in these cases that an artist who has exercised his memory has an
enormous advantage over one who is merely a good academic draughtsman.
* * * * *
I will now turn to the question of how to represent objects which are
meant to appear in motion, as a man walking, running, or striking, a
horse galloping, etc. I do not intend to investigate the laws of motion,
nor to point out the muscles which are brought into action by violent
movement, but simply to analyze the appearance to our sense of vision of
these various actions.
In drawing inanimate objects which are at rest, that which is apparent
to the eye really exists, and therefore by drawing what you see, you
will be mathematically correct; but even this apparent truism does not
hold good in every case.
For example, take the usual pictorial method of representing a star,
which, although astronomically incorrect, gives the impression a bright
star produces on our organs of sight, and is therefore the proper
method. Seen through a telescope the planets become round disks, and the
brightest fixed stars mere points, and there can be no doubt of the
non-existence of any radiation; and yet the _appearance_ of it is so
constant that the terms “star-shaped,” “star-fish,” etc., are always
used to designate objects of this form; and it is quite consistent with
the soundest principles of art to represent what _appears_ to be, rather
than what _is_.
When we come to consider moving objects, we find plenty of contradiction
between what appears to be and what is. There are many moving objects
which present no difficulty. Driving clouds or a ship in full sail are
easily drawn, because, although moving rapidly through the air, their
form varies very little as they proceed, and their apparent form is in
no way different from their true form. Even the ever-heaving waves of
the open sea, though by no means easy to draw correctly, offer no
discrepancy between what you see and what _is_.
The big Atlantic rollers, and particularly the short, steep, irregular
waves one sometimes meets with in the Channel, are awkward things to
draw, especially to a sea-sick artist; but, at any rate, unless he is
very far gone, he sees nothing which does not really exist, and no
effect of wind on the waves is so rapid that he cannot see it.
The case, however, is widely different if you have to represent a
rotating wheel. The spokes of the wheel are there, but it is impossible
to see them. All you will be able to make out is a kind of flickering
radiation, with perhaps some faint traces of concentric circles caused
by mud spots or other marks on the spokes.
Even when the wheel turns very slowly the spokes become blurred and
confused, and when it revolves briskly they are lost sight of
altogether.
This is an extreme case, in which nothing in the way of spokes is
distinguishable, and therefore nothing can be done; but when we see a
man running or a horse galloping we _do_ distinguish the legs both of
man and horse. We get a decided impression both of form and action, and
it is our business as artists to convey that impression on paper or
canvas. It is _not_ our business to draw man or horse in positions which
may be true, but which are contrary to our own impressions. That there
are plenty of such positions I hope to prove by means of these diagrams.
We have here two men walking, one of whom has his left leg forward and
the other his right leg.
[Illustration]
This diagram represents them going along fair heel-and-toe, perhaps not
very elegantly, but at any rate it conveys the idea of walking.
Now it is self-evident that, in walking, the legs must pass each other
at every step. Let us endeavor to draw our pedestrian at the moment when
one leg is passing in front of the other, and we shall find it
impossible to give the idea of fair heel-and-toe walking.
[Illustration]
Now, why is this? The reason appears to me to be twofold; in the first
place, at each step there is a momentary pause when both feet are on
the ground; and the eye seizes on this pause, and naturally associates
the position the legs are in with the action of walking. Secondly, it is
only in this position that any idea can be given of the length of the
step and the rate of the man’s progress. A photograph taken at the
moment when one leg is passing the other, would not convey the
impression of forward movement.
In nature it is the actual motion of the leg which causes the attitude
to appear all right; but if we could arrest it instantaneously, the
action would appear as cramped in nature as it does on paper.
During a thunder-storm at night, if you should ever happen to see a
walking or a running man illumined by a flash of lightning, you will
notice that he does not appear to be moving at all, unless the flash
occurs just at the time when his legs are fully extended. I have myself
seen the curious effect of a sudden flash of light on a moving carriage
and horses. The horses, though trotting fully eight miles an hour, did
not seem to be moving, and every spoke in the wheels was as plainly seen
as if they had not been rotating.
What I have said about the action of walking applies equally to running.
The attitude appears always more or less cramped unless the moment is
seized when the runner’s legs are fully extended.
The illustration of running given in Flaxman’s lectures is wrong in more
than one particular. In the first place, the heel ought not to touch
the ground; it never does in running. Secondly, the figure appears
poised on his right foot; indeed, he would fall rather backward than
forward; and it is essentially necessary, in expressing the action of
running, that the figure should appear to fall forward whenever one foot
is on the ground.
[Illustration]
In drawing the human figure either running or walking, this must always
be attended to, otherwise the figure looks like an academy model, with
his hind foot comfortably propped up on a box. It is possible that for a
fractional part of a second, a running man’s leg might assume the
vertical position given it by Flaxman; but this position, even if true,
is one of those which ought never to be selected.
[Illustration]
In the next fractional part of the second, the foot being arrested by
the ground, and the body moving rapidly forward, the leg must assume a
slanting position, and our man will be off his balance, and under the
necessity of rapidly bringing to the front his other leg; and thus the
idea of running is given, as in the preceding diagram.
Flaxman’s floating and aërial female figures are exquisitely graceful,
and here he is seen at his best; but I think that the action of his male
figures is rather academic; that is, they suggest too much the
life-school, where the model is placed in a position which he can hold
for a considerable length of time.
I am quite aware that in a severe bas-relief composition, or in a grave
historical picture, a runner should not be represented as he might
appear at Lilliebridge grounds, or racing after a cricket-ball at
Lord’s. He should proceed more by comparatively slow bounds than by
quick steps, but the sentiment of forward impetus should be just the
same. There is a fine example of a running figure in one of Raffaelle’s
_stanze_. I think it is in the “Heliodorus Expelled from the Temple.”
In the next diagram, the action approximates to Flaxman’s, but there is
this important difference, that the left foot is in the air, and we feel
that before it gets a good grip of the ground, the body will have moved
on considerably, and the balance of the figure will have a strong
forward tendency, as in the last illustration.
Any attempt to represent a man running whilst one leg is crossing the
other, will be just as hopeless as to give the idea of walking under
similar conditions.
[Illustration]
In the action of striking, the proper moment for the draughtsman to
seize is either just before or just after the blow has been given. Here,
again, if the arm were arrested midway, the attitude of the striker
would appear cramped and absurd. Moreover, there would be nothing in the
position of the arm to indicate whether the blow was a heavy or a light
one.
Exactly the same remarks apply to the action of throwing. By accurately
giving the thrower’s preparatory position, the power of the throw can be
indicated; and the same may to a certain extent be done by taking him
after the stone or ball has left his hand, but nothing satisfactory can
come of attempting to draw him in an intermediate stage.
If we have to represent men rowing, the best way is to draw them leaning
forward and with outstretched arms, the oars just catching the water.
[Illustration]
The degree in which they are reaching forward is the key to the length
of the stroke, and, therefore, in great measure, to the velocity of the
boat. If they are rowing a race, or spurting, their arms and backs would
be almost horizontal; if they are merely paddling, their bodies would be
only gently inclined forward. We have no means in painting, drawing, or
photography, of indicating the number of strokes per minute, any more
than we have of timing the rapidity of a man’s steps when he is walking
or running; but we can in both cases indicate clearly the _length_ of
the stroke or step, and the length is generally a pretty good index of
the rapidity.
Supposing that, with the idea of being original, an artist should choose
to represent the moment when the stroke is half rowed through, when the
bodies of the crew are comparatively upright, and the arms beginning to
bend, can any one suppose that his drawing would have the same spirit
as if he had taken the previous moment, when the men were all extended?
From these examples we may deduce the rule, that to represent action of
any kind, the figure should be extended to the full limit of the
position necessary to produce that action.
Having established this rule, we will now consider how far it is
applicable to the action of animals.
We find but little amongst the works of the old Italian masters which
can by any stretch of fancy be called a galloping horse.
But few of them attempted horse-painting at all, and those who did make
the attempt were content to reproduce with more or less skill the heavy
shapeless war-horse of Roman sculpture. These portly animals were
represented either at rest or pawing the ground. Sometimes, as in
Leonardo da Vinci’s “Fight for the Standard,” they are rearing, kicking,
biting, and displaying every form of equine vice; but we very seldom
come across a real galloping or even a trotting horse, until the end of
the sixteenth century.
Rubens’ horses are often represented galloping, but it must be confessed
that they are not getting over the ground very fast. The hind legs are
invariably on the ground and the fore legs well bent; just straighten
them a little, and you have the prototype of the modern rocking-horse.
This old-fashioned way of representing a horse galloping was blindly
adopted by successive generations of artists through the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries. I believe that Carl Vernet (the father of Horace)
was the first to innovate. His studies of horses are admirable. Whether
walking, trotting, or galloping, their action is always spirited and
suggestive. His method has never been improved upon, and probably never
will.
It is now about two years since a very remarkable series of
instantaneous photographs, representing a horse at full gallop, were
brought over to England from America. They were executed with great
skill and care by an ingenious gentleman of San Francisco, and have been
tested in London by means of an instrument called the praxinoscope,
which brings them in succession and at regular intervals before the eye.
Their effect seen in this way is marvellous. The grotesque, absurd
figures start into life, and the result is a wonderful representation of
a race-horse at full speed.
There is therefore no room for doubting the absolute correctness of
every one of these diagrams, which I have had enlarged for this lecture.
I need not describe in detail the manner in which the original negatives
were taken. It will be sufficient to say that electricity was absolutely
indispensable for the operation.
Twelve cameras were set up in a line with the track; they were placed
twenty-seven inches apart, and each negative was taken instantaneously
as soon as the galloping horse was opposite the camera. The word
“instantaneously” does not at all represent the rapidity with which the
negatives were taken. It was calculated that the time for each operation
was under 1/2000th Part of a second. The interval between the production
of the negatives was one twenty-fifth of a second, which, if multiplied
by twelve, will give about half a second for the completion of the
series. The original photographs are of course mere dark silhouettes,
but it is very wonderful that any result at all should have been
obtained in the 1/2000th part of a second. We are told that the
“celebrated flyer Sally Gardner was ridden by the jockey Domm at a 1:40
gait in front of the apparatus.” The 1:40 gait translated into English
means that Sally Gardner was going at the rate of a mile in one minute
forty seconds, which certainly is a great pace even for a Derby winner.
Now, it has been known for a great many years that the usual sporting
way of representing a racer at full gallop is not correct. Stonehenge,
in his book on the horse, published more than twenty years ago, says:--
“To represent the gallop pictorially in a perfectly correct manner is
almost impossible; at all events it has never yet been accomplished; the
ordinary and received interpretation being altogether erroneous. When
carefully watched, the horse in full gallop will be seen to extend
himself very much, but not nearly to the length which is assigned to him
by artists. To give the idea of high speed, the hind legs are thrust
backward and the forelegs forward in a most unnatural position, which,
if it could be assumed in reality, would inevitably lead to a fall and
most probably to a broken back.”
Stonehenge goes on to observe that “many artists have tried to break
through the time-honored recipe for drawing a galloping horse, but that
the eye at once rebels. The new version may be scientifically correct,
but the mind refuses its assent to the idea of great pace which is
desired to be given.”
Amongst the “many artists” alluded to by Stonehenge I may mention my old
acquaintance John Leech. Leech was far too keen an observer to be
satisfied with the absolute truth of the ordinary method of representing
a horse going across country, and accordingly he tried all kinds of
positions for the legs, but always had to go back to some modification
of the usually accepted one, viz., all four legs off the ground, and all
more or less extended. He remarked to me thirty years ago how
impracticable it was to represent the true action of a galloping horse
satisfactorily.