figures an elongated rectangular space or frieze.
The most obvious method is to set up a row of figures of the same size
and all in profile, as was done by the ancient Egyptians. Now this mode
of treatment, though suitable enough for the Nile temples, would
obviously be unfit for buildings of the nineteenth century.
The figures should preserve a certain regularity, a certain frieze-like
arrangement, and yet the attitudes should be varied, and the work should
not look as if it had been done by machinery.
The first improvement on the Egyptian method would be to break the
monotony by here and there grouping two or even three figures together.
As in these groups of two or three one figure must be behind the others,
and therefore farther off from the spectator, it would be smaller, the
head would be lower, and you would at once get a little variety in the
line of heads. To vary your line of heads simply by arguing that some
people are six feet high whilst others are only five, does not answer in
decorative painting. You _may_ assume that the male figures are bigger
than the female, but you must proceed as if your men were all of the
same (or very nearly) of the same height, and your women ought also to
vary very little in stature. Children you may introduce of any size,
from the infant in arms to the youth or maiden of fifteen; but let them
be unmistakably children, and not little men and women.
The individual action of the figures would of course depend very much on
the destination of the work. If it were intended for the decoration of a
church, the figures would of course represent patriarchs, apostles, or
martyrs, and a severe and simple arrangement would be necessary. If, on
the other hand, your frieze were to decorate a theatre or ball-room, the
figures should have more action, and naturally the lines would be more
broken. Whatever the subject, however,--whether maskers, musicians, or
morris-dancers,--there should be a certain frieze-like symmetry in the
composition. You should never forget that you are engaged on a
decorative work, and not on an easel picture.
A rule which it is well to observe in all decorative work is to avoid
cutting off any portion of the figures. This is quite unavoidable in
many easel pictures. If you have a crowd of people to represent, you
cannot isolate some of them so completely that no portion of the others
should be visible.
An easel or gallery picture is bounded on every side by the frame, and
the eye is not shocked at all by seeing portions of the figures cut off.
Although every one knows that the figures do not extend behind the
frame, yet it is easy to suppose that they do, and the eye allows itself
to be cheated into this belief; but in decorative or mural painting
there is no solid framework round the picture isolating it from the
surrounding wall. There may be an ornamental border or possibly a light
moulding, but this is not enough to permit the practice. Michael Angelo,
in his decorations of the Sistine Chapel, often carried his figures and
draperies right out of the panels allotted to them, and this boldness
adds to the grand, free character of the work.
The problem of how to fill up the irregular-shaped wall spaces which
continually occur both in Gothic and Palladian architecture is of course
more complex.
These spaces have generally curved sides, and in many of them--as, for
instance, the spandrels of arches--the curve is concave. Straight
horizontal lines of heads which are generally so desirable for long
rectilinear spaces here become very objectionable.
Bold convex outlines for the groups, and an arrangement for the heads
which does not suggest either horizontal or vertical lines, ought to be
the rule in these cases.
Nothing can be finer than M. Angelo’s treatment of the sybils and
prophets in the Sistine Chapel. There is a majestic dignity about them
which is due rather to their full convex outlines than to their colossal
proportions.
On the other hand, in many of the compositions by the early Florentines
we have long horizontal rows of heads which seem out of harmony with the
arched space they fill. The circular nimbi take off somewhat from the
meagre character of these lines, and there is considerable beauty about
the individual figures, but viewed as decorative works they are very
unsatisfactory.
It is, of course, impossible to devise rules for all conditions of
decorative and historical painting, but a few general hints may be
useful to you.
1st. Beware of concave lines for the outlines of your groups.
2d. Avoid sharp angles, and particulary right angles, unless you wish to
draw special attention to them.
3d. Be very careful about the relative position of the heads, so that
viewed as points of interest they do not form any regular geometrical
pattern.
These three rules seem to me the most important ones to be observed in
the composition of decorative figure-pictures, and we will examine them
_seriatim_.
The first rule I have given is to avoid concave forms for the general
outline of the groups. There is no rule without exceptions, and to this
one there are a good many; still it will be found that, speaking
generally, convex outlines give grandeur wherever they are introduced.
This convexity in the form of the groups need not be dependent on the
outlines of the figures themselves; it may be got by introducing drapery
or other accessories. I know of no example showing the value of full
convex outlines more strikingly than the Madonna di S. Sisto. In the
pictures of the Umbrian school, on the contrary, we find extreme poverty
of line. The figures themselves are not particularly attenuated, but
they are not sufficiently connected together nor enveloped in those
useful pieces of flowing drapery which give such grandeur and fulness to
the works of Fra Bartholomeo, Sebastian del Piombo, and other painters
of the Roman school.
I have in former lectures entered fully into the subject of convex lines
being almost always associated with forward movement, and concave with
retreat, and need not go over the same ground again.
I would, however, observe that the terms boldness and convexity are
almost synonymous when applied to outline; thus when we speak of a
mountain having a bold outline, we mean that though steep and
precipitous it is bluff or convex in form. A mountain with a depression
on the top, or surmounted by a sharp-pointed cone, would hardly ever be
noted for its bold outline.
The second rule to which I wish to call your attention is the avoidance
of right angles in the composition of your figures.
All angles, unless they be obtuse ones, are to be deprecated, but the
most objectionable of all are the right angles. In a single figure,
rectangular outlines are not so unpleasant, but I cannot agree with
those who think that the big seated Egyptian figures with which we are
all familiar, owe their grandeur to their rectangular contour. I have no
doubt but that these gigantic figures in their native swamp, and
illumined by an Egyptian moon, would look very imposing, but the solemn
grandeur of their aspect would be due to their size and to their
surroundings, and not to their harsh rectangular outline. If the “Moses”
of Michael Angelo could be magnified to the size of these figures and
transported to the banks of the Nile, I fully believe he would be far
more impressive.
Simplicity and grandeur are often bracketed together as though the terms
were almost synonymous; but they certainly are not so. The street and
chapel architecture of the Georgian era was simple even to baldness, but
no one can call it grand.
It is not, however, in single figures that right angles are so much to
be avoided, as in complicated groups of several figures. Here they
arrest and distract the eye, giving harshness to the composition, and
destroying the look of spontaneous action and easy-flowing movement
which figures always should have.
Rubens in his “Descent from the Cross” has avoided these disagreeable
angles, but in many of his more careless compositions, where there is
violent action, they are painfully conspicuous, in spite of his liberal
use of flying draperies. Hence his cavalry skirmishes, though full of
violence and contortion, are quite wanting in spontaneous “go.”
Right angles in a group of figures convey the idea of immovability.
Hence, although generally undesirable, it is well sometimes to introduce
them.
[Illustration]
Thus a kneeling warrior firmly planted to resist onslaught might with
propriety have both knees right angles.
[Illustration]
In this case we wish to give the idea of fixture, and therefore
rectangular forms are not only allowable but very useful. Again, in the
case of a wounded man endeavoring to raise himself, the angle formed by
his right arm might with propriety be a right angle, because we want to
show that the man is wounded and cannot raise himself without
difficulty.
[Illustration]
If he were uninjured and in full possession of his strength, we ought to
represent his springing up in some other way.
In the very frequent case of two arms crossing each other, they should
not cross at right angles.
There is no reason here for expressing immovability at the point where
the arms cross, and therefore the formality of right angles should be
avoided.
We will now pass on to the third rule, namely, that relating to the
heads of the figures.
Whatever the subject of the picture, the eye is always attracted to the
heads. It is therefore of the highest importance that their relative
positions should be carefully considered.
[Illustration]
In the annexed diagram, it is of no use arguing that one of the heads is
a full face, another three-quarters, a third a profile, and the fourth a
back view of the head. The four heads are all points of interest. They
are equidistant, and placed on a segment of the same circle, and, turn
them whichever way you will, you cannot get rid of the unpleasantness of
the arrangement, so long as you keep them in their present relative
positions.
[Illustration]
In the next figure we have four heads suggesting a quadrilateral of
lozenge shape.[4] This is also very objectionable, and it is a case of
frequent occurrence. In both these diagrams, by shifting the position of
one of the heads, we should break up the symmetrical arrangement which
so much offends the cultivated eye.
[Illustration]
There is no objection, in a composition of many figures, to placing two
or more heads on the same horizontal line. Indeed, in many cases it is
most advantageous to do so; but what ought to be avoided is having heads
on the same _vertical_ line. If you have a kneeling or sitting figure in
front of an erect one, arrange your kneeling figure so that the one head
shall not be perpendicularly below the other.
[Illustration]
If you have two erect figures, arrange your kneeling figure so that the
head shall not come on the same vertical line as either of the other
heads, or half-way between the two.[5] I might urge a good deal more
about the extreme importance of a picturesque and irregular arrangement
of the heads; but I have probably said enough to call your attention to
this very prominent feature in good designing, and will now give a few
hints about other kindred matters.
[Illustration]
Converging lines are to be avoided, unless there is something of
interest to which you wish to direct attention at the point of
convergence. This is by no means an exaggerated specimen of the evil;
but the effect of these four arms all converging toward one point is
unpleasant. If the personages were disputing over a manuscript, or
trying to clutch a bag of gold lying on the table, then the manuscript
or the gold would be the centre of interest in the picture; and
converging lines would not only be excusable, but absolutely necessary.
Where there is nothing of particular interest at the point where the
lines meet, the eye feels disappointed at being misled.
[Illustration]
Although converging lines are generally to be avoided, it often happens
that a repetition of the same kind of curve gives force and unity of
purpose to a group. Observe the convex curves formed by the backs of
these suppliants. Their repetition gives unity of purpose. A
perpendicular kneeling figure might individually be just as expressive,
but as one of a group he would take away somewhat from the general
character of unity in supplication.
One of the most difficult problems the designer of large mural pictures
has to solve, is to introduce with good effect raised arms and hands,
especially when they belong to the background figures. When possible, it
is better to keep them out of sight altogether; but in some subjects you
would by so doing inevitably lose expression and animation, and it
becomes necessary to introduce here and there an upraised arm with
extended hand. This is easy enough to do if you are reckless about the
lines of your composition, but if you are fastidious, it is a very
difficult problem.
In the first place, they distract the eye, destroying the full bold
outline of your groups, and, secondly, there is a comic element about
them which it is rather difficult to avoid. When, as in many of
Raffaelle’s Loggie, the whole of the figures which are raising their
arms are seen, the effect is bad and trivial; but there is nothing
particularly comical about it. When, however, an arm crops up here and
there from the unseen figures of the background, it is difficult to
avoid the ludicrous. Cases may occur when a whole forest of hands will
have to be raised, as in an oath of allegiance; but here the action of
raising the arms is inseparable from the subject.
My remarks apply only to upraised arms as indicative of wonder, joy, or
grief.
All these hints about designing may appear to some of you rather
far-fetched, but if ever you get experience in decorative painting, I
think you will find they are not far from the truth.
The art of good grouping is not of spontaneous growth. You may have a
general idea of how you are to fill your canvas or wall-space, and that
idea may be a good one, but all the details of the groups have to be
worked out bit by bit. A change in the attitude of one figure will be
almost sure to entail a change in a good many others, and it often
happens that, after giving yourself a good deal of trouble, you will
have to go back to your first idea.
A conscientious and fastidious designer may be compared to an Arctic
explorer picking his way in an ice-pack. He will have to saw through one
ice-barrier, to blow up another with gunpowder, to circumvent a third,
and when, after surmounting all these difficulties, he thinks his course
clear and open water at hand, he may have to retrace his steps and seek
some other channel.
I am perfectly aware that in painting small easel pictures all this
groping after fine lines may be unnecessary, nay, even detrimental to
the life-like spirit of the composition.
“Our own correspondent’s” sketches at the seat of war (if done on the
spot, which I am afraid they not always are) will be not only more
interesting but better composed than if he had sat at home and trusted
to his imagination; but in this lecture I am not dealing with easel
pictures and realistic subjects, and I repeat that in decorative
figure-painting excellence can only be obtained by a continuous process
of altering, modifying, adding, and omitting.
In the same way that the lines and general grouping of a picture should
be arranged with a view to expressing the subject with dignity and
grandeur, so the management of light and shade should tend toward the
same end, and it is as impossible to lay down strict rules for light and
shade as for outline designing. Didactic writers on art will tell you
that the principal light ought to fall on the principal figure--
“Fair in the front in all the blaze of light,
The hero of thy piece should meet the sight.”
Sir Joshua Reynolds remarks very justly on this piece of doggerel, that
there is no necessity for the principal figure to be placed in the
middle of the picture, or receive the principal light. He goes on to say
that “this conduct, if always observed, would reduce the art of
composition to too great a uniformity,” and that “it is sufficient if
the place he holds, or the attention of the other figures to him, denote
him the hero of the piece.”
In works which partake strongly of a decorative character this axiom
about “Fair in the front in all the blaze of light” for the principal
figure may be tolerably true, but in historical pictures something more
unforeseen is wanted.
In the often-painted subject of the “Death of Cæsar,” I should be very
much inclined to put the Cæsar in the shade, and the tyrannicides with
their flashing daggers in the light. It appears to me that to throw a
shade over the face of the prostrate emperor would somehow or other
convey the idea of the shadow of death, which is overspreading him, and
the reproachful “Et tu Bruté” would come with greater pathos from a
figure half-veiled in shadow than from one in broad daylight. We will
suppose now that instead of having the death of Cæsar to paint we have
the “Stoning of St. Stephen.” The subject is analogous. The young man
named Saul and the Jewish executioners of Stephen were not common
assassins any more than the murderers of Cæsar. Shall we, therefore,
adopt the same plan with the figure of Stephen as we did with that of
Cæsar and put him in the shade? I say, Certainly not. Stephen was the
first Christian martyr. We read that his face was as that of an angel,
and he ought to be surrounded by an angelic halo of light, and this
treatment need not be dictated by the text. We should come to the same
conclusion simply on the grounds of pictorial fitness. Stephen was a
voluntary martyr, and gloried in his own death. Cæsar was assassinated
much against his will; and although we are told that he covered his face
with his toga and died with dignity, yet he certainly cannot be called
a martyr.
I have introduced these two subjects to show you how hopeless it is to
attempt to lay down general rules such as old Du Fresnoy gives us in his
poem on the art of painting. Every new theme you undertake to illustrate
ought to have a treatment special to itself if you wish to produce a
fresh and original picture. When the master of a vessel is starting on a
voyage, he would not steer S. W. by W. ½ W. because that happened to be
the course he steered the last time he was at sea, nor would he run up
his skyscrapers and set his studding-sails because he carried all his
light canvas the last voyage out.
He would consult his chart, the state of the tide, the direction of the
wind, and act accordingly. In short, for this new voyage, the condition
of the wind, tide, and barometer being new, he would give new orders to
his mate and crew.
Substituting the brain for the master, the hand for the mate, and the
brushes for the crew, we ought to set about our pictures much in the
same way.
After giving the subject of light and shade a good deal of thought, it
appears to me that there is only _one_ rule which invariably applies to
all pictures, and that is, that there should be a uniform scale of tone
throughout the work. The gradient, from light to shade, may be very
steep as in Rembrandt, or very gentle as in P. Veronese, but this
gradient or transition should not be abrupt in one part of the picture,
and gentle in another. The whole work (whatever scale you adopt) should
be homogeneous.
Sir. J. Reynolds and others have endeavored to ascertain the proportion
of light to shade in the works of the old masters. I believe these
experimental blots have been made rather with a view to black and white
than legitimate light and shade; but whatever their object, I don’t
think that any theory can be built up on them. I am convinced that what
the old masters called the _chiaro-oscuro_ of their pictures was a
matter of feeling, and sometimes of accident, but never of calculation.
Theorists often talk learnedly about secondary and tertiary lights, but
the artist never dreamt of them. They are nothing more than the efforts
he has made, and the means to which he has resorted, in order to connect
the highest light of his principal group with the gloom of his
background.
Rembrandt’s vigorous light and shade and Correggio’s luminous breadth
ought to be ascribed to the natural idiosyncrasies of the painters,
intensified probably by the conditions under which their works were
executed. They were assuredly not the results of calculation or
learning.
Modern artists are often credited by their critics with subtleties of
which they are perfectly innocent. They introduce into their pictures
certain harmonies of tone or color by a kind of pictorial instinct, but
certainly not in obedience to theoretical laws.
In designing a composition of many figures, it is natural to begin with
the principal group or centre of interest. When you have got this
satisfactorily arranged, you proceed with the less important figures,
and it is here that beginners (and some who are by no means beginners)
often come to grief.
They get a fine action or a noble attitude for some accessory figure,
and they are so much in love with it that they _must_ introduce it,
whether it is in keeping with the principal group or not. It may (viewed
as a single figure) be very good, and yet be injurious to the general
harmony of the composition.
Recollect that accessory figures, however good in themselves, if they
mar the general effect, ought to be sacrificed.
By so doing you will doubtless raise a cry of lamentation from your
friends. They will say, “What _could_ have induced you to have scraped
out that figure? Why, it was the best thing in the picture,” and so on.
To which you might reply that you did not want it to be the best thing
in the picture, and therefore you erased it.
It was this tendency to introduce some favorite figure where it was not
wanted, which rather mars Raffaelle’s latest manner, as exemplified in
the “Transfiguration,” and in the “Incendio del Borgo”; and what in
Raffaelle was only an incipient tendency became a confirmed habit in
the work of his imitators.
Sir J. Reynolds, in his discourses, is continually urging the student of
composition to think how the old masters would have treated the subject
he is engaged upon, and advises him to imitate their style and manner.
Indeed, the sixth discourse is devoted entirely to this principle of
imitation. Now, if we were vastly superior to M. Angelo, Raffaelle, and
Titian, and held the same relative position to them that they did to
their predecessors, I could understand our occasionally adopting their
figures, after greatly improving them; but as we should not be likely to
improve any figure we had appropriated, we had much better leave the old
masters alone. Plagiarism, or, to use a plainer word, “stealing,” can
only be excused when the plagiarist makes a better use of the property
he has appropriated than the original possessor did.
Sir Joshua certainly says that you should “imitate,” and not copy
servilely. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and if
Philippino Lippi could have seen Raffaelle transferring _his_ St. Paul
into the famous cartoon of the saint preaching at Athens, no doubt he
would have felt flattered. But how about Raffaelle? Is it not true that
this plagiarism on Raffaelle’s part detracts somewhat from his fame?
Does not every one, on seeing the Carmine Chapel at Florence, and
recognizing the familiar figure of St. Paul, think somewhat more of
Philippino Lippi and somewhat less of Raffaelle? I believe that nothing
can be more fatal to the career of an artist than _intentional_
imitation of another man’s work. I say “intentional,” because we are all
more or less imitators quite unconsciously. We often confound a
reminiscence of something we have seen in a picture with a reminiscence
of nature, and so become unconscious imitators; but this is a very
different thing from deliberately setting aside our own ideas and
endeavoring to fancy what would be the ideas of some one else.