The idea of the Greeks having painted their statues is so repugnant to
all our modern prejudgments, that the mind is slow in familiarising
itself with the fact, even when indisputable evidence is brought
forward. The Greeks were artists of such exquisite taste, and of
principles so severe, that to accuse them of having _painted statues_,
is to accuse them of committing what in our day is regarded as pure
“barbarism.” The Greeks did not aim at reality, but at ideality; and the
painting of statues is thought to be only an attempt to imitate reality.
Nevertheless, however startling, the fact remains: the Greeks _did_
paint their statues. Living eyes have seen the paint. Living testimony
supports the testimony of ancient writers, and all that will be
necessary in these pages is to furnish some of the principal points of
evidence.
In the first place, the reader must get out of all sculpture galleries,
erase from his mind all preconceptions derived from antique remains and
modern practices. Having done so, let him reflect on the historical
development of sculpture, and he will see this idea of painted figures
falling in its true place.
Sculpture of course began in Greece, as elsewhere, with idols. It is the
custom of all barbarous nations to colour their idols. The Egyptians, as
we know beyond all doubt, not only coloured, but dressed theirs. So did
the Greeks. It may be a question, whether the Greeks borrowed their art
from the Egyptians, improving it, as they did everything else. Let
scholars decide that question. This, however, is certain, that in either
case the Egyptian practice would obtain—
1st. If the Greeks borrowed from the Egyptians, they would borrow the
painting and dressing.
2nd. If they did not borrow—if their art was indigenous—then it would
come under the universal law of barbarian art; and painting would, at
any rate in the earlier epochs, have been employed. (We know that both
painting and dressing were employed in all epochs.)
This being so, and the custom being universal, unless the change from
painted to unpainted statues had been very gradual, insensibly so, the
man who first produced a marble statue without any addition would have
been celebrated as an innovator. No such celebrity is known.
Ancient literature abounds with references and allusions to the
practices of painting and dressing statues. Space prevents their being
copiously cited here. Moreover, many of them are too vague for _direct_
evidence. Of those which are _unequivocal_ a few will be given.
_Dressing Statues._—Pausanias describes a nympheum, where the women
assembled to worship, containing figures of Bacchus, Ceres, and
Proserpine, the heads of which alone were visible, the rest of the body
being hidden by draperies. And this explains a passage in Tertullian
(“De Jejun.,” 16), where he compares the goddesses to rich ladies having
their attendants specially devoted to dress them—_suas habebant
ornatrices_. For it must be borne in mind that the Greek idols, like the
saints in Catholic cathedrals, were kept dressed and ornamented with
religious care. Hence Homer frequently alludes to the offerings of
garments made to propitiate a goddess; thus, to cite but one, Hector
tells Hecuba to choose the most splendid _peplos_ to offer to Minerva
for her aid and favour. Dionysius, the Tyrant of Syracuse, according to
a well known anecdote, stripped the Jupiter of his golden cloak,
mockingly declaring that it was too heavy for summer, and too cold for
winter.
“The golden cloak of the Sicilian Jupiter seems scarcely to illustrate
the subject of dressing statues—as it was probably not drapery, not
cloth enriched with gold—but solid, like the golden Ægis of the
Minerva of Phidias, which could be removed and replaced.”—W. W. LLOYD.
These _dressed_ statues were for the most part _dolls_, however large.
The reader must remember that the dolls of his nursery are the lineal
descendants of ancient idols. Each house had its lares or household
gods; each house had its dressed idols. Statues, in our sense of the
word, were, it may be supposed, not dressed; but that they were painted
and ornamented there seems to be ample evidence.
_Coloured Statues._—If we had no other evidence than is afforded in the
great _variety_ of materials employed—ivory, gold, ebony, silver, brass,
bronze, amber, lead, iron, cedar, pear-tree, &c., it would suffice to
indicate that the prejudice about “purity of marble” _is_ a prejudice.
The critic may declare that a severe taste repudiates all colour, all
mingling of materials; but the Greek sculptors addressed the senses and
tastes of the Greek nation, and did so with a view to _religious_
effect, just as in Catholic cathedrals painted windows, pictures, and
jewelled madonnas appeal to the senses of the populace.
The Greeks made statues of ivory and gold combined. They also combined
various metals with a view of producing the effect of _colour_. One
example will suffice here. Pliny tells us (lib. xxxiv. cap. 14) that the
sculptor of the statue of Athamas, wishing to represent the blush of
shame succeeding his murder of his son, made the head of a metal
composed of copper and iron, the dissolution of the ferruginous material
giving the surface a red glow—_ut rubigine ejus per nitorem æris
relucente, exprimeretur verecundiæ rubor_. Twenty analogous examples of
various metals employed for colouring purposes might be cited.
Quatremère de Quincey, in his great work, “Le Jupiter Olympien,” has
collected many.
The reader may, however, admit that statues were made of various
materials, and that the bronze statues—which were incomparably more
numerous than the marble, may have been tinted, but still feel
disinclined to believe that the _marble_ statues were ever painted. A
few _decisive_ passages shall be adduced.
Let it be remembered that Socrates was the son of a sculptor, and that
Plato lived in Athens, acquainted with the great sculptors and their
works; then read this passage, wherein Socrates employs, by way of
simile, the practice of painting statues: “Just as if, when painting
statues, a person should blame us for not placing the most beautiful
colours on the most beautiful parts of the figure—inasmuch as the eyes,
the most beautiful parts, were not painted purple, but black—we should
answer him by saying, Clever fellow, do not suppose we are to paint eyes
so beautifully that they should not appear to be eyes.” (_Plato_, “De
Repub.” _lib._ iv., near the beginning.)
This passage would long ago have settled the question, had not the
moderns been pre-occupied with the belief that the Greeks did _not_
paint their statues. They, therefore, read the passage in another sense;
many translators read “pictures” for “statues.” But the Greek word
ανδριας signifies “statue,” and is _never_ used to signify “picture.” It
means statue, and a statuary is called the maker of such statues,
ανδριαντοποιος. (Mr. Davis, in Bohn’s English edition of Plato, avoids
the difficulty by translating it “human figures.”)
“This passage is decisive as far as it goes, but it does not touch the
question of colouring the flesh. It proves that as late as Plato’s
time it was usual to apply colour to the eyes of statues; and
assuming, what is not stated, that marble statues are in question, we
are brought to the same point as by the Æginetan marbles, of which the
eyes, lips, portions of the armour and draperies were found coloured.
I forget whether the hair was found to be coloured, but the absence of
traces of colour on the flesh, while they were abundant elsewhere,
indicates that if coloured at all it must have been by a different and
more perishable process—by a tint, or stain, or varnish. The Æginetan
statues being archaic, do not give an absolute rule for those of
Phidias. The archaic Athenian bas-relief of a warrior in excellent
preservation, shows vivid colours on drapery and ornaments of armour,
and the eye-balls were also coloured; but again, there is no trace of
colour on the flesh.”—W. W. LLOYD.
Here is a passage which not only establishes the sense of the one in
Plato, but while unequivocally declaring that the ancients painted their
statues gives the reason why the paint is so seldom discoverable in the
antique remains. It is from Plutarch (“Quæst. Roman.” xcviii., at the
end): “It is necessary to be very careful of statues, otherwise the
_vermilion with which the ancient statues were coloured will quickly
disappear_.”
“This passage refers to archaic sacred figures, and at Rome (not in
Greece), where after providing for the sacred geese and ganders, the
first duty of certain officials on taking office was to furbish the
_agalma_, or statue, which was necessary on ‘_account of the quick
fading of the vermilion with which they used to tinge the archaic
statues_.’ This is an accurate translation and a literal—and implies a
difference between the archaic and the more modern in respect of
colour, though not necessarily excluding all colour from the
latter.”—W. W. LLOYD.
Had this passage been generally known the dispute could never have
maintained itself. There is nothing equivocal in the use of the word
μιλτινον, which means “vermilion;” nothing which admits of doubt in the
phrase ῳ τα παλαια των αγαλματων εχρωζον. And there are abundant notices
extant which illustrate it. One will suffice. The celebrated marble
statue of a Bacchante by Scopas is described as holding, in lieu of the
Thyrsus, a dead roebuck which is cut open, and the marble represents
living flesh. People have tried to explain this by saying that Scopas
discovered coloured veins in the marble, which he used to indicate
living flesh. The explanation is absurd. In the first place veins do not
so run in marble as to represent flesh; in the second, unless statues
_were_ usually coloured, such veins, if they existed, would be regarded
as terrible blemishes, and the very thing the Greeks are supposed to
have avoided—viz., colour as representing reality—would have been shown.
But colour _was_ used, as we know, and Pausanias (“Arcad.” lib. viii.,
cap. 39) describes a statue of Bacchus as having all those portions not
hidden by draperies, painted vermilion, the body being of gilded wood.
He also distinctly says that the statues made of gypsum were painted,
describing a statue of Bacchus γυψου πεποιημενον, which was—the language
is explicit—“_ornamented_ with paint” επικεκοσμημενον γραφη.
“This statue was apparently ithyphallic, and probably archaic. Not
drapery, but ivy and laurel, concealed the lower part of it. The
colour of the exposed part was not local, but applied to the whole of
it.”—W. W. LLOYD.
Virgil, in an epigram, not only offers Venus a _marble_ statue of Amor,
the wings of which shall be many-coloured and the quiver painted, but he
intimates that this shall be so because it is customary—
Marmoreusque tibi, Dea, _versicoloribus alis
In morem_ pictâ stabit Amor pharetrâ.
And in the seventh Eclogue, Virgil, speaking of the statue of Diana,
describes it as of marble with _scarlet_ sandals bound round the leg as
high as the calf.
Si proprium hoc fuerit, levi de marmore tota
Puniceo stabis suras evincta cothurno.
And there is a passage in Pliny which is decisive, as soon as we
understand the allusion. Speaking of Nicias (lib. xxxv. cap. 11), he
says, that Praxiteles, when asked which of his marble works best
satisfied him, replied, “Those which Nicias has had under his hands.”
“So much,” adds Pliny, “did he prize the finishing of Nicias”—_tantum
circumlitioni ejus tribuebat_.
The meaning of this passage hangs on the word _circumlitio_. Winckelmann
follows the mass of commentators in understanding this as referring to
some mode of _polishing_ the statues; but Quatremère de Quincey, in his
magnificent work “Le Jupiter Olympien,” satisfactorily shows this to be
untenable, not only because no sculptor could think of preferring such
of his statues as had been better polished, but also because Nicias
being a _painter_, not a sculptor, his services must have been those of
a painter.
What were they? Nicias was an _encaustic painter_, and hence it seems
clear that his _circumlitio_—his mode of finishing the statues, so
highly prized by Praxiteles—must have been the application of encaustic
painting to those parts which the sculptor wished to have ornamented.
For it is quite idle to suppose a sculptor like Praxiteles would allow
another sculptor to _finish_ his works. The rough work may be done by
other hands, but the finishing is always left to the artist. The statue
completed, there still remained the painter’s art to be employed, and
for that Nicias was renowned.
Even Winckelmann (“Geschichte der Kunst,” buch I. kap. 2), after noting
how the ancients were accustomed to dress their statues, adds, “This
gave rise to the painting of those parts of the marble statues which
represented the clothes, as may be seen in the Diana found at
Herculanæum in 1760. The hair is blonde; the draperies white, with a
triple border, one of gold, the other of purple, with festoons of
flowers, the third plain purple.”
There are still traces visible of gilding in the hair of statues. Even
the Venus de’ Medici has such. And the bored ears speak plainly of
earrings.
While the testimony of antiquity is thus explicit, there is the still
more convincing testimony of living eyes, which have seen this painting
on statues. The celebrated Swedish traveller, Akerblad, says, “I am
convinced that the practice of colouring marble statues and buildings
was much more frequent than is supposed. The second time I visited
Athens, I had opportunity of narrowly inspecting the frieze of the
Temple of Theseus, and I came away convinced it had been painted.”
Quatremère de Quincey mentions statues he has seen, and refers
especially to the Apollo in the Louvre, made of Pentelic marble, almost
all over the naked surfaces of which a trace of red was faintly
perceptible. The same with a Diana at Versailles; but he adds, “these
traces grow daily fainter.” The eyes and mouth of the colossal Pallas de
Velletri still retain the violet colour.
Such are a few of the evidences. On examining them, we find them not
only unequivocal in themselves, but complementary of each other. Living
testimony, supposing it to be accepted without demur, would not suffice
to settle the question of what was the ancient practice; for it might
not unreasonably be argued that these traces of painting on the statues
are only evidences of a degenerate taste—like our whitewashing of
cathedrals—and no evidences of Greek artists having perpetrated such
offences against taste. But when it is seen, by the testimony of ancient
writers, such as Plato, Pliny, Plutarch, and Virgil, that the Greek
artists _did_ colour their statues, the fact of the statues being
discovered with traces of colour is explained, while on the other hand
this fact helps to clear away all trace of doubt which might linger in a
supposed equivocalness in the passages from ancient writers.