who have taught us architecture, that we have adopted likewise their
ornaments; and though we are satisfied that neither nature nor reason
are the foundation of those beauties which we imagine we see in that
art, yet if anyone, persuaded of this truth, should therefore invent new
orders of equal beauty, which we will suppose to be possible they would
not please; nor ought he to complain, since the old has that great
advantage of having custom and prejudice on its side. In this case we
leave what has every prejudice in its favour, to take that which will
have no advantage over what we have left, but novelty: which soon
destroys itself, and at any rate is but a weak antagonist against
custom.
Ancient ornaments, having the right of possession, ought not to be
removed, unless to make room for that which not only has higher
pretensions, but such pretensions as will balance the evil and confusion
which innovation always brings with it.
To this we may add, that even the durability of the materials will often
contribute to give a superiority to one object over another. Ornaments
in buildings, with which taste is principally concerned, are composed of
materials which last longer than those of which dress is composed; the
former therefore make higher pretensions to our favour and prejudice.
Some attention is surely due to what we can no more get rid of, than we
can go out of ourselves. We are creatures of prejudice; we neither can
nor ought to eradicate it; we must only regulate it by reason; which
kind of regulation is indeed little more than obliging the lesser, the
local and temporary prejudices, to give way to those which are more
durable and lasting.
He, therefore, who in his practice of portrait-painting wishes to
dignify his subject, which we will suppose to be a lady, will not paint
her in the modern dress, the familiarity of which alone is sufficient to
destroy all dignity. He takes care that his work shall correspond to
those ideas and that imagination which he knows will regulate the
judgment of others; and therefore dresses his figure something with the
general air of the antique for the sake of dignity, and preserves
something of the modern for the sake of likeness. By this conduct his
works correspond with those prejudices which we have in favour of what
we continually see; and the relish of the antique simplicity corresponds
with what we may call the more learned and scientific prejudice.
There was a statue made not long since of Voltaire, which the sculptor,
not having that respect for the prejudices of mankind which he ought to
have had, made entirely naked, and as meagre and emaciated as the
original is said to be. The consequence was what might have been
expected; it remained in the sculptor’s shop, though it was intended as
a public ornament and a public honour to Voltaire, for it was procured
at the expense of his contemporary wits and admirers.
Whoever would reform a nation, supposing a bad taste to prevail in it,
will not accomplish his purpose by going directly against the stream of
their prejudices. Men’s minds must be prepared to receive what is new to
them. Reformation is a work of time. A national taste, however wrong it
may be, cannot be totally changed at once; we must yield a little to the
prepossession which has taken hold on the mind, and we may then bring
people to adopt what would offend them, if endeavoured to be introduced
by violence. When Battista Franco was employed, in conjunction with
Titian, Paul Veronese, and Tintoret, to adorn the library of St. Mark’s,
his work, Vasari says, gave less satisfaction than any of the others:
the dry manner of the Roman school was very ill calculated to please
eyes that had been accustomed to the luxuriance, splendour, and richness
of Venetian colouring. Had the Romans been the judges of this work,
probably the determination would have been just contrary; for in the
more noble parts of the art, Battista Franco was perhaps not inferior to
any of his rivals.
Gentlemen, It has been the main scope and principal end of this
discourse to demonstrate the reality of a standard in taste, as well as
in corporeal beauty; that a false or depraved taste is a thing as well
known, as easily discovered, as anything that is deformed, mis-shapen,
or wrong, in our form or outward make; and that this knowledge is
derived from the uniformity of sentiments among mankind, from whence
proceeds the knowledge of what are the general habits of nature; the
result of which is an idea of perfect beauty.
If what has been advanced be true,--that besides this beauty or truth,
which is formed on the uniform, eternal, and immutable laws of nature,
and which of necessity can be but _one_; that besides this one immutable
verity there are likewise what we have called apparent or secondary
truths, proceeding from local and temporary prejudices, fancies,
fashions or accidental connection of ideas; if it appears that these
last have still their foundation, however slender, in the original
fabric of our minds; it follows that all these truths or beauties
deserve and require the attention of the artist, in proportion to their
stability or duration, or as their influence is more or less extensive.
And let me add, that as they ought not to pass their just bounds, so
neither do they, in a well-regulated taste, at all prevent or weaken the
influence of those general principles, which alone can give to art its
true and permanent dignity.
To form this just taste is undoubtedly in your own power, but it is to
reason and philosophy that you must have recourse; from them you must
borrow the balance, by which is to be weighed and estimated the value of
every pretension that intrudes itself on your notice.
The general objection which is made to the introduction of philosophy
into the regions of taste, is, that it checks and restrains the flights
of the imagination, and gives that timidity, which an over-carefulness
not to err or act contrary to reason is likely to produce. It is not so.
Fear is neither reason nor philosophy. The true spirit of philosophy, by
giving knowledge, gives a manly confidence, and substitutes rational
firmness in the place of vain presumption. A man of real taste is
always a man of judgment in other respects; and those inventions which
either disdain or shrink from reason, are generally, I fear, more like
the dreams of a distempered brain, than the exalted enthusiasm of a
sound and true genius. In the midst of the highest flights of fancy or
imagination, reason ought to preside from first to last, though I admit
her more powerful operation is upon reflection.
Let me add, that some of the greatest names of antiquity, and those who
have most distinguished themselves in works of genius and imagination,
were equally eminent for their critical skill. Plato, Aristotle, Cicero,
and Horace; and among the moderns, Boileau, Corneille, Pope, and Dryden,
are at least instances of genius not being destroyed by attention or
subjection to rules and science. I should hope therefore that the
natural consequence of what has been said, would be to excite in you a
desire of knowing the principles and conduct of the great masters of our
art, and respect and veneration for them when known.
DISCOURSE VIII
_Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the
Distribution of the Prizes, December 10, 1778._
The Principles of Art, whether Poetry or Painting, have their
Foundation in the Mind; such as Novelty, Variety, and Contrast;
these in their Excess become Defects.--Simplicity. Its Excess
Disagreeable.--Rules not to be always observed in their Literal
Sense: Sufficient to preserve the Spirit of the Law.--Observations
on the Prize Pictures.
GENTLEMEN,
I have recommended in former discourses,[15] that artists should learn
their profession by endeavouring to form an idea of perfection from the
different excellences which lie dispersed in the various schools of
painting. Some difficulty will still occur, to know what is beauty, and
where it may be found: one would wish not to be obliged to take it
entirely on the credit of fame; though to this, I acknowledge, the
younger students must unavoidably submit. Any suspicion in them of the
chance of their being deceived, will have more tendency to obstruct
their advancement, than even an enthusiastic confidence in the
perfection of their models. But to the more advanced in the art, who
wish to stand on more stable and firmer ground, and to establish
principles on a stronger foundation than authority, however venerable or
powerful, it may be safely told, that there is still a higher tribunal,
to which those great masters themselves must submit, and to which indeed
every excellence in art must be ultimately referred. He who is ambitious
to enlarge the boundaries of his art must extend his views, beyond the
precepts which are found in books or may be drawn from the practice of
his predecessors, to a knowledge of those precepts in the mind, those
operations of intellectual nature, to which everything that aspires to
please must be proportioned and accommodated.
Poetry having a more extensive power than our art, exerts its influence
over almost all the passions; among those may be reckoned one of our
most prevalent dispositions, anxiety for the future. Poetry operates by
raising our curiosity, engaging the mind by degrees to take an interest
in the event, keeping that event suspended, and surprising at last with
an unexpected catastrophe.
The painter’s art is more confined, and has nothing that corresponds
with, or perhaps is equivalent to, this power and advantage of leading
the mind on, till attention is totally engaged. What is done by
painting, must be done at one blow; curiosity has received at once all
the satisfaction it can ever have. There are, however, other
intellectual qualities and dispositions which the painter can satisfy
and affect as powerfully as the poet: among those we may reckon our love
of novelty, variety, and contrast; these qualities, on examination, will
be found to refer to a certain activity and restlessness, which has a
pleasure and delight in being exercised and put in motion: art therefore
only administers to those wants and desires of the mind.
It requires no long disquisition to show, that the dispositions which I
have stated actually subsist in the human mind. Variety reanimates the
attention, which is apt to languish under a continual sameness. Novelty
makes a more forcible impression on the mind, than can be made by the
representation of what we have often seen before; and contrasts rouse
the power of comparison by opposition. All this is obvious; but, on the
other hand, it must be remembered, that the mind, though an active
principle, has likewise a disposition to indolence; and though it loves
exercise, loves it only to a certain degree, beyond which it is very
unwilling to be led, or driven; the pursuit therefore of novelty and
variety may be carried to excess. When variety entirely destroys the
pleasure proceeding from uniformity and repetition, and when novelty
counteracts and shuts out the pleasure arising from old habits and
customs, they oppose too much the indolence of our disposition: the mind
therefore can bear with pleasure but a small portion of novelty at a
time. The main part of the work must be in the mode to which we have
been used. An affection to old habits and customs I take to be the
predominant disposition of the mind, and novelty comes as an exception:
where all is novelty, the attention, the exercise of the mind is too
violent. Contrast, in the same manner, when it exceeds certain limits,
is as disagreeable as a violent and perpetual opposition; it gives to
the senses, in their progress, a more sudden change than they can bear
with pleasure.
It is then apparent, that those qualities, however they contribute to
the perfection of art, when kept within certain bounds, if they are
carried to excess, become defects, and require correction: a work
consequently will not proceed better and better as it is more varied;
variety can never be the groundwork and principle of the performance--it
must be only employed to recreate and relieve.
To apply these general observations, which belong equally to all arts,
to ours in particular. In a composition, when the objects are scattered
and divided into many equal parts, the eye is perplexed and fatigued,
from not knowing where to rest, where to find the principal action, or
which is the principal figure; for where all are making equal
pretensions to notice, all are in equal danger of neglect.
The expression which is used very often on these occasions is, the piece
wants repose; a word which perfectly expresses a relief of the mind from
that state of hurry and anxiety which it suffers, when looking at a work
of this character.
On the other hand, absolute unity, that is, a large work, consisting of
one group or mass of light only, would be as defective as an heroic poem
without episode, or any collateral incidents to recreate the mind with
that variety which it always requires.
An instance occurs to me of two painters (Rembrandt and Poussin), of
characters totally opposite to each other in every respect, but in
nothing more than in their mode of composition, and management of light
and shadow. Rembrandt’s manner is absolute unity; he often has but one
group, and exhibits little more than one spot of light in the midst of a
large quantity of shadow: if he has a second mass, that second bears no
proportion to the principal. Poussin, on the contrary, has scarce any
principal mass of light at all, and his figures are often too much
dispersed, without sufficient attention to place them in groups.
The conduct of these two painters is entirely the reverse of what might
be expected from their general style and character; the works of Poussin
being as much distinguished for simplicity, as those of Rembrandt for
combination. Even this conduct of Poussin might proceed from too great
an affection to simplicity of _another kind_; too great a desire to
avoid that ostentation of art, with regard to light and shadow, on which
Rembrandt so much wished to draw the attention: however, each of them
ran into contrary extremes, and it is difficult to determine which is
the most reprehensible, both being equally distant from the demands of
nature, and the purposes of art.
The same just moderation must be observed in regard to ornaments;
nothing will contribute more to destroy repose than profusion, of
whatever kind, whether it consists in the multiplicity of objects, or
the variety and brightness of colours. On the other hand, a work without
ornament, instead of simplicity, to which it makes pretensions, has
rather the appearance of poverty. The degree to which ornaments are
admissible must be regulated by the professed style of the work; but we
may be sure of this truth,--that the most ornamental style requires
repose to set off even its ornaments to advantage. I cannot avoid
mentioning here an instance of repose in that faithful and accurate
painter of nature, Shakspeare; the short dialogue between Duncan and
Banquo, whilst they are approaching the gates of Macbeth’s castle. Their
conversation very naturally turns upon the beauty of its situation, and
the pleasantness of the air: and Banquo, observing the martlets’ nests
in every recess of the cornice, remarks, that where those birds most
breed and haunt, the air is delicate. The subject of this quiet and easy
conversation gives that repose so necessary to the mind, after the
tumultuous bustle of the preceding scenes, and perfectly contrasts the
scene of horror that immediately succeeds. It seems as if Shakspeare
asked himself, What is a prince likely to say to his attendants on such
an occasion? The modern writers seem, on the contrary, to be always
searching for new thoughts, such as never could occur to men in the
situation represented. This is also frequently the practice of Homer;
who, from the midst of battles and horrors, relieves and refreshes the
mind of the reader, by introducing some quiet rural image, or picture of
familiar domestic life. The writers of every age and country, where
taste has begun to decline, paint and adorn every object they touch; are
always on the stretch; never deviate or sink a moment from the pompous
and the brilliant. Lucan, Statius, and Claudian (as a learned critic has
observed), are examples of this bad taste and want of judgment; they
never soften their tones, or condescend to be natural: all is
exaggeration and perpetual splendour, without affording repose of any
kind.
As we are speaking of excesses, it will not be remote from our purpose
to say a few words upon simplicity; which, in one of the senses in which
it is used, is considered as the general corrector of excess. We shall
at present forbear to consider it as implying that exact conduct which
proceeds from an intimate knowledge of simple unadulterated nature, as
it is then only another word for perfection, which neither stops short
of, nor oversteps, reality and truth.
In our inquiry after simplicity, as in many other inquiries of this
nature, we can best explain what is right, by showing what is wrong;
and, indeed, in this case it seems to be absolutely necessary:
simplicity, being only a negative virtue, cannot be described or
defined. We must therefore explain its nature, and show the advantage
and beauty which is derived from it, by showing the deformity which
proceeds from its neglect.
Though instances of this neglect might be expected to be found in
practice, we should not expect to find in the works of critics precepts
that bid defiance to simplicity and everything that relates to it. De
Piles recommends to us portrait-painters to add grace and dignity to the
characters of those whose pictures we draw: so far he is undoubtedly
right; but, unluckily, he descends to particulars, and gives his own
idea of grace and dignity. “_If_,” says he, “_you draw persons of high
character and dignity, they ought to be drawn in such an attitude that
the portraits must seem to speak to us of themselves, and, as it were,
to say to us, ‘Stop, take notice of me, I am that invincible King,
surrounded by Majesty’_: _‘I am that valiant commander, who struck
terror everywhere’_; _‘I am that great minister, who knew all the
springs of politics’_: _‘I am that magistrate of consummate wisdom and
probity.’_” He goes on in this manner, with all the characters he can
think on. We may contrast the tumour of this presumptuous loftiness with
the natural unaffected air of the portraits of Titian, where dignity,
seeming to be natural and inherent, draws spontaneous reverence, and
instead of being thus vainly assumed, has the appearance of an
unalienable adjunct; whereas such pompous and laboured insolence of
grandeur is so far from creating respect, that it betrays vulgarity and
meanness, and new-acquired consequence.
The painters, many of them at least, have not been backward in adopting
the notions contained in these precepts. The portraits of Rigaud are
perfect examples of an implicit observance of these rules of De Piles;
so that though he was a painter of great merit in many respects, yet
that merit is entirely overpowered by a total absence of simplicity in
every sense.
Not to multiply instances, which might be produced for this purpose,
from the works of history-painters, I shall mention only one,--a picture
which I have seen, of the Supreme Being by Coypell.
This subject the Roman Catholic painters have taken the liberty to
represent, however indecent the attempt, and however obvious the
impossibility of any approach to an adequate representation: but here
the air and character, which the painter has given, and he has doubtless
given the highest he could conceive, are so degraded by an attempt at
such dignity as De Piles has recommended, that we are enraged at the
folly and presumption of the artist, and consider it as little less than
profanation.
As we have passed to a neighbouring nation for instances of want of this
quality, we must acknowledge, at the same time, that they have produced
great examples of simplicity, in Poussin and Le Sueur. But as we are
speaking of the most refined and subtle notion of perfection, may we not
inquire, whether a curious eye cannot discern some faults, even in those
great men? I can fancy, that even Poussin, by abhorring that affectation
and that want of simplicity, which he observed in his countrymen, has,
in certain particulars, fallen into the contrary extreme, so far as to
approach to a kind of affectation;--to what, in writing, would be called
pedantry.
When simplicity, instead of being a corrector, seems to set up for
herself; that is, when an artist seems to value himself solely upon this
quality; such an ostentatious display of simplicity becomes then as
disagreeable and nauseous as any other kind of affectation. He is,
however, in this case, likely enough to sit down contented with his own
work; for though he finds the world look at it with indifference or
dislike, as being destitute of every quality that can recreate or give
pleasure to the mind, yet he consoles himself, that it has simplicity, a
beauty of too pure and chaste a nature to be relished by vulgar minds.
It is in art as in morals; no character would inspire us with an
enthusiastic admiration of his virtue, if that virtue consisted only in
an absence of vice; something more is required; a man must do more than
merely his duty, to be a hero.
Those works of the ancients, which are in the highest esteem, have
something beside mere simplicity to recommend them. The Apollo, the
Venus, the Laocoon, the Gladiator, have a certain composition of action,
have contrasts sufficient to give grace and energy in a high degree; but
it must be confessed of the many thousand antique statues which we have,
that their general characteristic is bordering at least on inanimate
insipidity.
Simplicity, when so very inartificial as to seem to evade the
difficulties of art, is a very suspicious virtue.
I do not, however, wish to degrade simplicity from the high estimation
in which it has been ever justly held. It is our barrier against that
great enemy to truth and nature, affectation, which is ever clinging to
the pencil, and ready to drop in and poison everything it touches.
Our love and affection to simplicity proceeds in a great measure from
our aversion to every kind of affectation. There is likewise another
reason why so much stress is laid upon this virtue; the propensity which
artists have to fall into the contrary extreme; we therefore set a guard
on that side which is most assailable. When a young artist is first
told, that his composition and his attitudes must be contrasted, that he
must turn the head contrary to the position of the body, in order to
produce grace and animation; that his outline must be undulating, and
swelling, to give grandeur; and that the eye must be gratified with a
variety of colours; when he is told this, with certain animating words,
of spirit, dignity, energy, grace, greatness of style, and brilliancy of
tints, he becomes suddenly vain of his newly acquired knowledge, and
never thinks he can carry those rules too far. It is then that the aid
of simplicity ought to be called in, to correct the exuberance of
youthful ardour.
The same may be said in regard to colouring, which in its pre-eminence
is particularly applied to flesh. An artist, in his first essay of
imitating nature, would make the whole mass of one colour, as the oldest
painters did; till he is taught to observe not only the variety of
tints, which are in the object itself, but the differences produced by
the gradual decline of light to shadow: he then immediately puts his
instruction in practice, and introduces a variety of distinct colours.
He must then be again corrected and told, that though there is this
variety, yet the effect of the whole upon the eye must have the union
and simplicity of the colouring of nature.
And here we may observe that the progress of an individual student bears
a great resemblance to the progress and advancement of the art itself.
Want of simplicity would probably be not one of the defects of an artist
who had studied nature only, as it was not of the old masters, who lived
in the time preceding the great art of painting; on the contrary, their
works are too simple and too inartificial.