I
I hold with Story and others whose talents and accomplishments so
brilliantly illustrate their faith, that the great artist is almost
necessarily a man of high attainments in general knowledge and in
more than one branch of art. He who knows but one art knows none. The
Muses do not singly disclose themselves; for the favor of one you
must sue to all. Consider the great Italian painters, from Angelo and
Rafael down the line of merit to the modern masters. As a rule they
were men of wisdom, accomplished in all the learning of their time.
They were statesmen, scientists, engineers—men of affairs. They knew
literature, architecture, sculpture and music, as well as painting.
With here and there a notable exception—more notable as an exception
than as a painter—the same is true in many a country besides Italy, and
many an age besides that in which the genius of her sons kindled the
imperishable splendor that burns about her name.
Perception is not the same as discernment, and he who sees with his
eyes only will paint with nothing but his hand. Ruskin says the
artist is the man who knows “what is going on.” To him the primrose
is a primrose and something more—a primrose plus what it is doing,
saying, thinking, and what is being done, said, thought by its whole
environment. The great artist makes everything live; he gives to death
itself and desolation a personality and a breathing soul. The rooted
rock could move if it wished; trees understand one another; the river
is prescient of the sea. Not a pebble, not a grass-blade but is alert
with a significant life to further the general conspiracy.
Understand me. This activity is entirely distinct from muscular action,
locomotion, motion of any kind or any of the coarser sorts of energy
flagrantly depicted. The portrait of a corpse may be full of it, the
picture of a bounding horse altogether destitute.
Everything in nature—every single object, every group, every landscape,
has a visible expression, as a face has. This can generally be denoted
in terms of human emotion. We all know what is meant by an “angry”
sky or a “threatening” billow, for we have observed what follows. But
we are not all equally sensitive to the joyous aspect of a tree, the
sulking of a rock, the menace or the benediction that may speak from a
hillside, the reticence of one building and the garrulity of another,
the pathos of a blank window, the tendernesses and the terrors that
smile and glower everywhere about us. These are no fancies. True, they
are but the outward and visible signs of an inner mood; but the objects
that bear them beget the mood. No true artist but feels it, and all
feel it nearly alike. To discern, to feel, to seize upon this dominant
expression and make it predominant in his picture—this, as Taine
rightly says, is the painter’s function.
I stood once upon the slope of a deep gulch; with me a friend, the
quick certainty of whose artistic insight was always to me a source
of surprise and delight. Across the gulch, a quarter-mile away, stood
two trees, a giant oak, whose great roots corded the rocks like the
tentacles of a devil-fish, and a slender pine, springing from clear
ground nearby. The oak reached out a long, muscular arm toward the
other tree, which, leaning sharply away from the contact, had all its
branches on the opposite side. I studied the group for some minutes
while my friend had her eyes and thoughts elsewhere. I was endeavoring
to interpret the sentiment, which finally I succeeded in doing to my
satisfaction; it remained only to test the validity of my conclusion.
I said to myself: “Menace and terror”; to my companion: “What is the
matter over yonder?” She glanced at the group and replied, without an
instant’s hesitation, in the first words that came to call: “The little
tree is trying to get away from the old scoundrel among the rocks.”