and not to mature artists, but the habit of imitating others, when once
acquired, is not easily got rid of. A certain degree of excellence may
doubtless be attained by following this method, provided the masters
imitated are excellent, but, after all, it is only a kind of reflected
light, and not to be compared to the electric light of original genius.
Besides, the student who follows Sir Joshua’s advice may begin by
honestly attempting to paint his pictures in the _style_ of Raffaelle
without downright imitation of the figures, but he soon learns to adopt
Raffaelle’s attitudes, Raffaelle’s expression, and even Raffaelle’s
mannerisms. He becomes, in short, a mere copyist. If this be deplorable
in the case of the imitator of Raffaelle, how much more deplorable is it
to adopt the modes of thought and expression of an inferior master! It
may be thought by some that in these lectures I often speak
disrespectfully of the old masters, but it is certainly not my intention
so to do. I have the greatest respect for many of them, though not for
all; but I respect nature and truth still more, and it appears to me
that the true artist should go to the fountain-head for his ideas and
inspiration, and not to second-hand sources.
It may be answered that it is all very well saying that an artist should
go to nature and rely on his own powers of creation and invention, but
supposing he is relying on a broken reed; suppose he cudgels his brain
in vain for ideas, what is he to do? In this case I should advise him,
instead of borrowing from the old masters, that he should turn his
attention to portrait-painting, landscape, or some branch of the
profession where the creative and imaginative faculties are not much
required. He may have great imitative power with a dexterous execution;
he may be a charming colorist, or, again, he may be a refined and
accomplished draughtsman, and yet be totally unable to give dramatic
vitality to a scene he has not himself witnessed.
It has always been the fashion to apply the term “high art” to heroic or
Scriptural figure-subjects, but I think there is almost as much high art
in a noble portrait of Titian or a fine landscape by Claude as in any
historical painting whatever. I object to the term altogether; but if it
means any thing, it ought to mean a dignified and poetic view of nature,
in contradistinction to a trivial or prosaic view. It ought certainly
never to be applied to a pasticcio of the old masters, however plausible
such an imitation may be.
In my opinion there is high art in Turner’s early pictures, because in
them we get the man’s own poetic interpretation of nature, but in those
works where he attempts to rival Claude I can see nothing but the labor
of a skilful imitator.
I have wandered away from the proper subject of this lecture, and have
but little time left; but before concluding I should wish to explain
that although I am continually urging the extreme importance of
_originality_ in painting, I do not mean forced singularity or oddity. I
mean by the word, the expression of the painter’s own sober ideas. A
sane man should produce sane work. It may not be very powerful, it may
in no way recall Michael Angelo, but it will have qualities of its own.
How charming, simple, and unaffected are Flaxman’s designs until he got
inoculated with the Sistine Chapel lymph! After this inoculation we
notice (at least I do) a great change for the worse in his compositions.
To graft successfully, the parent stem ought to be of the same nature as
the scion or graft. Now Flaxman’s nature was gentle, and very
appreciative of beauty and grace. With such a nature he ought to have
abstained from attempting the grand and the terrible.
If Flaxman erred in grafting Michael Angelo’s manner on his own, what
shall we say about Blake? Flaxman was at any rate a good draughtsman,
but Blake’s ignorance of the first principles of drawing makes his
Michael Angelesque imitations simply ludicrous. The successful attempts
which have been made of late years to rehabilitate Blake, and to elevate
him into a kind of British Michael Angelo, make me almost despair of
high art in this country. I do not wish to speak contemptuously of Blake
as a poet, but in his pictures (even supposing he had grand ideas) I
cannot accept the will for the deed. The frog in the fable had grand
ideas when he wished to rival the ox in size, and yet he only made
himself ridiculous. Were I to express all I think about the Blake
revival, I could hardly confine myself to parliamentary language. I
will, therefore, in closing my lecture, simply protest to the best of my
power against this strange infatuation.
LECTURE XII.
COMPOSITION OF INCIDENT PICTURES.
In my last lecture I treated the art of composition as applied to
decorative or semi-decorative work--of work intended rather to cover a
given wall-space with noble and picturesque forms than to give a
dramatic version of any particular incident. My present lecture will be
devoted to the composition and arrangement of figure-pictures, whether
Biblical, historical, or anecdotic, whose object is to represent in the
most forcible way any given incident.
We are far more particular now about the arrangement, or what the French
call the _mise en scène_, of a picture, than the old masters ever were.
We may not be able to paint like Titian or Correggio, but we attempt an
approximation to truth which they never did; and not only is a modern
historical painter more truthful about the costumes of his personages
and the architecture of his backgrounds, but in the disposition and
action of his figures he honestly endeavors to represent the scene as it
actually may have occurred. When I say that the modern painter does
this, I mean that in my opinion he _ought_ to do it. I am quite aware
that many artists prefer to look at nature through the spectacles of
the old masters, but it appears to me that all art should be in some
measure representative of the age in which it exists. When we come upon
a Romanesque, Umbrian, Venetian, Flemish, or eighteenth-century work of
art, we can tell at a glance to what period it belongs, and I think that
our own time, being one of original thought and research, should in some
measure be similarly reflected in our painting.
I have no objection to Gothic architects repeating in modern buildings
the narrow staircases, the dim lighting, and other inconvenient
peculiarities of the style.
Were they to give us large plate-glass windows and noble flights of
steps, they would cease to be Gothic architects; but I don’t think that,
however much we painters may admire the old masters, we ought to adopt
their modes of composition when we know them to be the result of
ignorance, error, or carelessness.
The present graphic method of treating figure-pictures is of quite
modern growth, and the innovation extends to all kinds of subjects.
Compare any of Giulio Romano’s, Rubens’, or Lebrun’s battle-pieces with
those of Raffet, Horace Vernet, or, better still, De Neuville. How
unreal the old masters appear!
Recall to mind the Romans of David and his school, and compare them with
the best modern representations of Roman manners and customs. In the
one case we may admire the noble drawing and even the classical lines of
the composition, but we are never transported back to the scene; whereas
in certain modern pictures we feel on much more intimate terms with the
personages. We fancy we are actually a spectator at the Colosseum or a
participator in a _fête intime_.
The realism of modern art is due partly to a greater knowledge of, and a
greater attention to, costume, architecture, furniture, and all the
properties of the stage on which we place our personages, but it is also
due to our making truth a primary object.
An incident may be treated truthfully in fifty different ways, but some
of these versions of it will be dull, some obscure, and some vulgar, and
it is for the artist to select a rendering which, though perfectly
truthful, shall be neither dull, obscure, nor vulgar. As soon as he
loses sight of truth he ceases to be a realistic painter. He may produce
a beautiful picture, but it will partake more or less of what I call
semi-decorative work. It is sometimes very difficult to fix a
boundary-line between realistic and decorative painting. To which class,
for instance, belong the cartoons of Raffaelle? Although designed for
tapestry, and therefore for decorative purposes, there is too much truth
and reality about them to allow of their being classed among purely
decorative works; whilst, on the other hand, we can hardly admit that
they are like the scenes they are meant to represent.
The heads are Italian rather than Jewish or Oriental, and sometimes (as,
for instance, in the “Miraculous Draught of Fishes”) pictorial liberties
are taken which are quite inadmissible in realistic work.
I may here observe that in this lecture I shall not use the word
realistic in the bad sense in which it has generally come to be used.
The term is now generally employed to designate some ugly or offensive
piece of reality which is prominently thrust upon our notice by the
artist; as when Quintin Matseys gives us wrinkled and abnormally ugly
old men, or when a modern French painter throws all his talent into
depicting the thick viscosity of a pool of arterial blood. Reality is
only in rare instances repellent, and I can see no good reason for
confining the word to these exceptional cases.
In historical, or what may be called incident pictures, the main object
of the artist ought to be to tell his story forcibly, clearly, and
pathetically.
We have seen that in work partaking of a decorative character the
principal object of the designer should be to group his figures in a
noble and picturesque manner, to attend to his drawing, and if possible
to add the charm of agreeable color to his work.
In realistic historical painting he has something else to occupy his
thoughts. He must by no means neglect the lines of his groups, he must
avoid disagreeable angles, equidistant heads, convergent lines where
they are not wanted, and all the other rocks and shoals on which many a
composition has been wrecked, but in addition to this he must tell his
story truthfully and clearly.
Much more latitude in the matter of arrangement may be allowed him than
would be conceded to the painter of decorative subjects.
He may (if he thinks fit) huddle up all his figures into a corner of the
canvas, or he may place them all in the centre, leaving the sides
unoccupied.
In short, he may take great liberties with the laws of composition,
provided always these liberties tend to assist in giving reality to the
scene.
The more picturesque or melodramatic the subject, the more he may depart
from the usual rules of composition.
Paul Delaroche was, I think, the first of the numerous cohort of modern
painters who have striven to combine truthful sentiment with pictorial
fitness, and of all his works the “Assassination of the Duc de Guise” is
perhaps the most striking.
The arrangement of this picture is as dramatic as it is truthful. On one
side of the picture we have the murdered duke lying on his back, stone
dead. The group of assassins are quite separated from their victim, and
are giving themselves no further trouble about him; and yet the greatest
ignoramus, who knew nothing whatever about the story, would have no
hesitation in divining it, so graphically is the incident told.
Again, if we recall to mind another and a better known picture by the
same master, I mean that known as “Les Enfants d’Edouard,” we find the
same subtle taste displayed.
I may here note that the color of neither of these pictures is in any
way remarkable. Indeed, that of the “Princes” is positively bad, being
very purple and inky; but their enduring popularity rests on a more
solid foundation than mere color. It rests entirely on their truthful
and poetic treatment. I call the treatment “poetic,” because a dull
prose reading of both these subjects would have represented the murders
as actually being committed, whereas by choosing the moment in the one
case immediately _after_ the murder, and in the other just _before_, the
artist avoids all the stabbing, hacking, and smothering business, and
increases rather than diminishes our interest in the victims. Gerome’s
“Death of Cæsar” is another example of novel treatment of a hackneyed
subject. He also represents the deed as done. The conspirators have
sneaked off. The benches of the senate-house are all but deserted, the
only occupant being a very fat senator, who is fast asleep on one of the
benches, somewhere near the centre of the amphitheatre. How much more
empty the senate-house looks, with this portly old Roman snoring on his
bench, than it would do if entirely deserted!
I do not wish to lecture on modern pictures, but I mention this “Death
of Caesar” by Gerome as an instance of a happy departure from the usual
treatment of the subject. Indeed, it appears to me that all
assassinations, martyrdoms, executions, and such-like subjects, if
painted at all, should be approached in some roundabout way.
The action of stabbing, cutting a head off, or sending a bullet through
a man’s body, is instantaneous; and although an executioner, with his
drawn sword and uplifted arm about to decapitate his victim, may be
startling and sensational at first sight, yet after a time the feeling
of horror or of pity gives place to a sort of impatience that he is so
long before striking the blow.
One of the Orleans princes had a picture of a military execution, which
he admired very much at first. By and by, however, he got tired of it,
and ultimately sold it or gave it away, not because it was too much for
his feelings, but because he was heartily sick of seeing the squad
taking aim day after day and month after month, and never firing.
Although the best modern masters of dramatic composition have probably
been guided by sentiment rather than by rule, still a few observations
on the treatment of certain subjects may not be out of place in this
lecture. Thus, if the subject be a departure of pilgrims or emigrants,
the figures should be placed on that side of the canvas which is
opposed to the direction in which they are going. If it be an arrival,
they should be placed on the side opposed to the direction whence they
came. In both these cases, the large portion of canvas without figures
is not wasted; it assists materially in telling the story.
In the first case, it represents the journey to be undertaken, and in
the second the journey just performed. If we had to paint a shipwrecked
sailor who has just reached the shore, we ought to let very little of
the shore be seen, but plenty of raging sea. Here the interest of the
subject lies in the formidable dangers he has escaped, so we ought to
devote the greater portion of our canvas to the breakers, and relegate
our mariner and the bit of slippery rock to which he is clinging to a
corner.
If, on the other hand, we wished to represent our shipwrecked man
clinging to a spar in the open sea, with no land visible, we ought to
place him right in the middle of the canvas, so as to give the
impression of hopeless isolation; and if we wished to convey the idea
that he might possibly be rescued, we would paint a sail on the horizon,
and near the edge of the picture. I should place it near the edge, in
order that it might appear to have just come in sight, and that hope of
rescue was dawning. If we were to put the same vessel in the middle of
the picture, and bearing down upon the drowning man, we might feel
equally certain that he would be saved, but the effect would hardly be
as dramatic.
Again, let us suppose that we have an elongated space to fill, and that
the subject is a “fugitive escaping.” Where ought we to place him on the
canvas? If we place him in the middle, he will look too much like a
professional runner doing his ten miles within the hour, and we should
feel inclined to pull out our watches and time him. Supposing him to be
running from right to left, if we place him near the right side of the
picture we shall not know whether his pursuers are not close at hand,
and as our sympathies are always with the fugitive, whether he be a
prisoner of war, a convict, or a fox, we should be glad to see him safe
over to the other side of the picture.
If we place him near the left edge our wish is gratified. There is now
the whole width of the picture intervening between him and any sign of
pursuit, and we feel naturally, though perhaps illogically, that he has
a better chance of escape.
The word “artful” has come to signify cunning, and is always taken in a
bad sense, but I suppose that originally it meant literally “full of
art,” full of that curious compound of observation, good-sense, and
poetic feeling which is so noticeable in Raffaelle, Poussin, and all the
great masters of composition.
In the examples I have given you there has always been some good reason
for placing the figures on one side of the picture, but where no good
reason exists, it ought not to be done.
It may not be out of place here to say something about the size of the
figures in proportion to the canvas. This is a very important element in
the composition of a picture, and many a good and careful work has been
spoiled by the figures being either too large or too small for the
canvas.
In these days, when the general destination of pictures is to decorate
dining-rooms or to fill small galleries, space ought to be economized.
We should avoid, as a rule, large areas of background; but, on the other
hand, when the figures are too large for the canvas the effect is very
unpleasant. An erect figure with the head bent down should have space
enough above it to allow of the head being raised, otherwise the figure
has an uncomfortable look, as if she could not lift up her head without
rapping it against the frame.
[Illustration]
Indeed all stooping, sitting, or kneeling figures should have space
enough allowed them to stand up in. They should not, in short, look as
if they had been put into those attitudes in order to pack them into the
picture.
The mannerism of introducing figures too large for the canvas originated
probably with the old German masters of the Albert Durer school. With
them, however, it was not a mannerism but a habit contracted by
wood-engraving.
In those early days the graving tools were very rude and coarse;
moreover, the blocks were small, hence it became imperative to design
the figures as large as possible; and the habit thus acquired spread to
drawings and pictures.
When, on the other hand, the figures are too small, the picture
generally looks stagey, as if the artist had taken his composition from
some genteel comedy-scene at a theatre. Cases frequently occur where it
is desirable to keep the figures small, as in a caravan march across the
desert, or in a procession moving down a cathedral nave.
In the one case it is desirable to give an idea of the boundless waste
of sand, and in the other the architecture of the cathedral is probably
more interesting than the individual action of the priests composing the
procession, and therefore the figures should be very small for the
canvas.
As to the _actual_ dimensions of the figures in historical or “genre”
subjects, there is only one size which I think objectionable, and that
is rather smaller than life. Figures of four and a half or five feet
high seldom look well. Half life-size, or rather more, is a very good
proportion, and any size below this, down to the microscopic figures of
Breughel or Meissonnier, is equally good.
In my former lectures on composition, I gave you several examples of the
kind of mental analysis which ought to be brought to bear on every
subject you wish to design. It will, I think, be unnecessary to go
through all this again, as you are, I trust, more skilled in the art of
composition than you were five years ago.
Nevertheless it may not be unprofitable to some of you, if I work out
again one or two of my old subjects. One of the themes I selected was
from Exodus:--
“When Moses was grown, he went out unto his brethren, and looked on
their burdens, and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, and he looked
this way, and that way, and when he saw that there was no man, he slew
the Egyptian.”
The subject to be the first part of the quotation, that is, where Moses
is watching the Egyptian smiting the Hebrew.
Very well. Now there are two distinct centres of interest in this
subject. One is the brutal treatment of the Hebrew by his taskmaster,
and the other is the indignation of Moses. Under any circumstances, it
would be advisable to sacrifice one of those centres of interest to the
other; but the context absolutely prohibits all idea of uniting the
three figures together in one group. Moses was certainly not visible to
the two men. We must, therefore, allow a considerable space between the
figures, and the question now arises: Which is to be our foreground
group?
Either mode of treatment seems to me equally good, but supposing I fancy
making the Moses the principal figure in the picture, how am I to
express what is passing in his mind? The other two figures will be in
violent action, therefore it will be well to represent Moses in a quiet
attitude, but with an expression of concentrated indignation about him.
I just hastily sketch an erect figure (any indication of a human figure
will do) to represent Moses. I have some ideas floating in my mind about
making him clutching at his dagger, and about the expression I will
throw into his eyes, and so on; but, for the present, I leave all this
alone, and occupy myself with the general arrangement of the picture.
I find that with my erect figure of Moses, it will be better to make the
picture an upright one, and it will be necessary to make him in hiding,
or partly concealed by some building, otherwise he would be in full view
of the Egyptian, and I should not be in keeping with the word “spied” of
the text. I, therefore, put in a line or two to represent a building
behind which he might be hiding.
Now for the two men. I don’t at present elaborate the group at all.
I think the most natural reading is to suppose the Israelite on the
ground, having fallen under his burden, and the Egyptian standing over
him, and beating him; but for the present, I make a kind of scrawl which
might mean any thing. I do not quite like the place I have put it in; I
rub it out, and shift it. I am better pleased with the place now, but
the group looks too large; I rub it out again, and make it smaller. Now
I find the Moses is not quite in his right place, I shift _him_ about
until I get him right; and here let me point out the great advantage of
a rough indication at first. Had I drawn my principal figure carefully,
with all the expression I meant to convey, I should have hesitated about
rubbing him out, and my composition would eventually have suffered.
Designing a subject is like drawing a figure. In figure-drawing you do
not begin (at least you ought not) with sketching the eyes, nose, and
mouth. It is sheer waste of time to do so, as the chances are ten to one
in favor of your having to shift the head or to alter its inclination.
You make a simple oval with a line down the centre to indicate the
inclination, and then you go on with the rest of the figure. If you have
to change the head, you can do so in two or three strokes. The same
method applies to the hands and feet. Students will often draw the
fingers and toes, and when the master comes round he finds that the
hands and feet are in their wrong places, and the work has to be done
again. Never begin the detail of a figure until you feel sure that every
thing is in its right place, and that the general proportions are
correct. In the same way, in composition never begin to elaborate the
figures until you feel sure that your groups are in their right places
and of the proper size.
To return to our subject. I will suppose now that I have got my figures
where I want them to be. I can go ahead now in all confidence. I can try
various attitudes for my striking and prostrate figures. I can try
different modes of giving to Moses the kind of expression I wish him to
have. I stick to the ground plan of my design, and also to the general
features of the arrangement, but I select my details as I go on.