Such is the use which the poet makes of ugliness of form. How can the
painter legitimately employ it?
Painting as imitative skill can express ugliness; painting as a fine art
will not express it. In the former capacity its sphere extends over all
visible objects; in the latter it confines itself to those which produce
agreeable impressions.
But do not disagreeable impressions please in the imitation? Not all. An
acute critic has already remarked this in respect of disgust.[154]
“Representations of fear,” he says, “of sadness, horror, compassion,
&c., arouse painful emotions only in so far as we believe the evil to be
actual. The consideration that it is but an illusion of art may resolve
these disagreeable sensations into those of pleasure. But, according to
the laws of imagination, the disagreeable sensation of disgust arises
from the mere representation in the mind, whether the object be thought
actually to exist or not. No matter how apparent the art of the
imitation, our wounded sensibilities are not relieved. Our discomfort
arose not from the belief that the evil was actual, but from the mere
representation which is actually present. The feeling of disgust,
therefore, comes always from nature, never from imitation.”
The same criticism is applicable to physical ugliness. This also wounds
our sight, offends our taste for order and harmony, and excites aversion
without regard to the actual existence of the object in which we
perceive it. We wish to see neither Thersites himself nor his image. If
his image be the less displeasing, the reason is not that ugliness of
shape ceases to be ugly in the imitation, but that we possess the power
of diverting our minds from this ugliness by admiration of the artist’s
skill. But this satisfaction is constantly disturbed by the thought of
the unworthy use to which art has been put, and our esteem for the
artist is thereby greatly diminished.
Aristotle adduces another reason[155] for the pleasure we take in even
the most faithful copy of what in nature is disagreeable. He attributes
this pleasure to man’s universal desire for knowledge. We are pleased
when we can learn from a copy τί ἕκαστον, what each and every thing is,
or when we can conclude from it ὅτι οὗτος ἐκεῖνος, that it is the very
thing we already know. But this is no argument in favor of the imitation
of ugliness. The pleasure which arises from the gratification of our
desire for knowledge is momentary and only incidental to the object with
regard to which it has been satisfied, whereas the discomfort which
accompanies the sight of ugliness is permanent, and essential to the
object causing it. How, then, can one counterbalance the other? Still
less can the trifling entertainment of tracing a likeness overcome the
unpleasant impression produced by ugliness. The more closely I compare
the ugly copy with the ugly original, the more I expose myself to this
influence, so that the pleasure of the comparison soon disappears,
leaving nothing behind but the painful impression of this twofold
ugliness.
From the examples given by Aristotle he appears not to include ugliness
of form among the disagreeable things which may give pleasure in the
imitation. His examples are wild beasts and dead bodies. Wild beasts
excite terror even when they are not ugly; and this terror, not their
ugliness, may be made to produce sensations of pleasure through
imitation. So also of dead bodies. Keenness of sympathy, the dreadful
thought of our own annihilation, make a dead body in nature an object of
aversion. In the imitation the sense of illusion robs sympathy of its
sharpness, and, by the addition of various palliating circumstances,
that disturbing element may be either entirely banished or so
inseparably interwoven with these softening features, that terror is
almost lost in desire.
Since, then, ugliness of form, from its exciting sensations of pain of a
kind incapable of being converted by imitation into pleasurable
emotions, cannot in itself be a fitting subject for painting as a fine
art, the question arises whether it may not be employed in painting as
in poetry as an ingredient for strengthening other sensations.
May painting make use of deformity in the attainment of the ridiculous
and horrible?
I will not venture to answer this question absolutely in the negative.
Unquestionably, harmless ugliness can be ridiculous in painting also,
especially when united with an affectation of grace and dignity. Equally
beyond question is it that hurtful ugliness excites terror in a picture
as well as in nature, and that the ridiculous and the terrible, in
themselves mixed sensations, acquire through imitation an added degree
of fascination.
But I must call attention to the fact that painting and poetry do not
stand upon the same footing in this respect. In poetry, as I have
observed, ugliness of form loses its disagreeable effect almost entirely
by the successive enumeration of its coexistent parts. As far as effect
is concerned it almost ceases to be ugliness, and can thus more closely
combine with other appearances to produce new and different impressions.
But in painting ugliness is before our eyes in all its strength, and
affects us scarcely less powerfully than in nature itself. Harmless
ugliness cannot, therefore, long remain ridiculous. The disagreeable
impression gains the mastery, and what was at first amusing becomes at
last repulsive. Nor is the case different with hurtful ugliness. The
element of terror gradually disappears, leaving the deformity unchanging
and unrelieved.
Count Caylus was therefore right in omitting the episode of Thersites
from his series of Homeric pictures. But are we justified in wishing it
out of Homer? I perceive with regret that this is done by one critic
whose taste is otherwise unerring.[156] I postpone further discussion of
the subject to a future occasion.