and simple. But this kind of barbarous simplicity would be better named
penury, as it proceeds from mere want; from want of knowledge, want of
resources, want of abilities to be otherwise: their simplicity was the
offspring, not of choice, but necessity.
In the second stage they were sensible of this poverty; and those who
were the most sensible of the want were the best judges of the measure
of the supply. There were painters who emerged from poverty without
falling into luxury. Their success induced others, who probably never
would of themselves have had strength of mind to discover the original
defect, to endeavour at the remedy by an abuse; and they ran into the
contrary extreme. But however they may have strayed, we cannot recommend
to them to return to that simplicity which they have justly quitted; but
to deal out their abundance with a more sparing hand, with that dignity
which makes no parade, either of its riches, or of its art. It is not
easy to give a rule which may serve to fix this just and correct medium;
because when we may have fixed, or nearly fixed the middle point, taken
as a general principle, circumstances may oblige us to depart from it,
either on the side of simplicity or on that of variety and decoration.
I thought it necessary in a former discourse, speaking of the difference
of the sublime and ornamental style of painting,--in order to excite
your attention to the more manly, noble, and dignified manner, to leave
perhaps an impression too contemptuous of those ornamental parts of our
art, for which many have valued themselves, and many works are much
valued and esteemed.
I said then, what I thought it was right at that time to say; I supposed
the disposition of young men more inclinable to splendid negligence,
than perseverance in laborious application to acquire correctness; and
therefore did as we do in making what is crooked straight, by bending
it the contrary way, in order that it may remain straight at last.
For this purpose, then, and to correct excess or neglect of any kind, we
may here add, that it is not enough that a work be learned; it must be
pleasing: the painter must add grace to strength, if he desires to
secure the first impression in his favour. Our taste has a kind of
sensuality about it, as well as a love of the sublime; both these
qualities of the mind are to have their proper consequence, as far as
they do not counteract each other; for that is the grand error which
much care ought to be taken to avoid.
There are some rules, whose absolute authority, like that of our nurses,
continues no longer than while we are in a state of childhood. One of
the first rules, for instance, that I believe every master would give to
a young pupil, respecting his conduct and management of light and
shadow, would be what Lionardo da Vinci has actually given; that you
must oppose a light ground to the shadowed side of your figure, and a
dark ground to the light side. If Lionardo had lived to see the superior
splendour and effect which has been since produced by the exactly
contrary conduct,--by joining light to light, and shadow to
shadow,--though without doubt he would have admired it, yet, as it ought
not, so probably it would not, be the first rule with which he would
have begun his instructions.
Again: in the artificial management of the figures, it is directed that
they shall contrast each other according to the rules generally given;
that if one figure opposes his front to the spectator, the next figure
is to have his back turned, and that the limbs of each individual figure
be contrasted; that is, if the right leg be put forward, the right arm
is to be drawn back.
It is very proper that those rules should be given in the Academy; it is
proper the young students should be informed that some research is to
be made, and that they should be habituated to consider every excellence
as reducible to principles. Besides, it is the natural progress of
instruction to teach first what is obvious and perceptible to the
senses, and from hence proceed gradually to notions large, liberal, and
complete, such as comprise the more refined and higher excellences in
art. But when students are more advanced, they will find that the
greatest beauties of character and expression are produced without
contrast; nay, more, that this contrast would ruin and destroy that
natural energy of men engaged in real action, unsolicitous of grace. St.
Paul preaching at Athens in one of the cartoons, far from any affected
academical contrast of limbs, stands equally on both legs, and both
hands are in the same attitude: add contrast, and the whole energy and
unaffected grace of the figure is destroyed. Elymas the sorcerer
stretches both hands forward in the same direction, which gives
perfectly the expression intended. Indeed you never will find in the
works of Raffaelle any of those schoolboy affected contrasts. Whatever
contrast there is, appears without any seeming agency of art, by the
natural chance of things.
What has been said of the evil of excesses of all kinds, whether of
simplicity, variety, of contrast, naturally suggests to the painter the
necessity of a general inquiry into the true meaning and cause of rules,
and how they operate on those faculties to which they are addressed: by
knowing their general purpose and meaning, he will often find that he
need not confine himself to the literal sense; it will be sufficient if
he preserve the spirit of the law.
Critical remarks are not always understood without examples: it may not
be improper therefore to give instances where the rule itself, though
generally received, is false, or where a narrow conception of it may
lead the artist into great errors.
It is given as a rule by Fresnoy, that _the principal figure of a
subject must appear in the midst of the picture, under the principal
light, to distinguish it from the rest_. A painter who should think
himself obliged strictly to follow this rule would encumber himself with
needless difficulties; he would be confined to great uniformity of
composition, and be deprived of many beauties which are incompatible
with its observance. The meaning of this rule extends, or ought to
extend, no further than this: that the principal figure should be
immediately distinguished at the first glance of the eye; but there is
no necessity that the principal light should fall on the principal
figure, or that the principal figure should be in the middle of the
picture. It is sufficient that it be distinguished by its place, or by
the attention of other figures pointing it out to the spectator. So far
is this rule from being indispensable, that it is very seldom practised,
other considerations of greater consequence often standing in the way.
Examples in opposition to this rule are found in the cartoons, in
Christ’s Charge to Peter, the Preaching of St. Paul, and Elymas the
Sorcerer, who is undoubtedly the principal object in that picture. In
none of those compositions is the principal figure in the midst of the
picture. In the very admirable composition of the Tent of Darius, by Le
Brun, Alexander is not in the middle of the picture, nor does the
principal light fall on him; but the attention of all the other figures
immediately distinguishes him, and distinguishes him more properly; the
greatest light falls on the daughter of Darius, who is in the middle of
the picture, where it is more necessary the principal light should be
placed.
It is very extraordinary that Felibien, who has given a very minute
description of this picture, but indeed such a description as may be
rather called panegyric than criticism, thinking it necessary (according
to the precept of Fresnoy) that Alexander should possess the principal
light, has accordingly given it to him; he might with equal truth have
said that he was placed in the middle of the picture, as he seemed
resolved to give this piece every kind of excellence which he conceived
to be necessary to perfection. His generosity is here unluckily
misapplied, as it would have destroyed in a great measure the beauty of
the composition.
Another instance occurs to me, where equal liberty may be taken in
regard to the management of light. Though the general practice is to
make a large mass about the middle of the picture surrounded by shadow,
the reverse may be practised, and the spirit of the rule may still be
preserved. Examples of this principle reversed may be found very
frequently in the works of the Venetian school. In the great composition
of Paul Veronese, the Marriage at Cana, the figures are for the most
part in half shadow; the great light is in the sky; and indeed the
general effect of this picture, which is so striking, is no more than
what we often see in landscapes, in small pictures of fairs and country
feasts; but those principles of light and shadow, being transferred to a
large scale, to a space containing near a hundred figures as large as
life, and conducted to all appearance with as much facility, and with an
attention as steadily fixed upon _the whole together_, as if it were a
small picture immediately under the eye, the work justly excites our
admiration; the difficulty being increased as the extent is enlarged.
The various modes of composition are infinite; sometimes it shall
consist of one large group in the middle of the picture, and the smaller
groups on each side; or a plain space in the middle, and the groups of
figures ranked round this vacuity.
Whether this principal broad light be in the middle space of ground, as
in the School of Athens, or in the sky, as in the Marriage at Cana, in
the Andromeda, and in most of the pictures of Paul Veronese; or whether
the light be on the groups; whatever mode of composition is adopted,
every variety and licence is allowable: this only is indisputably
necessary, that to prevent the eye from being distracted and confused by
a multiplicity of objects of equal magnitude, those objects, whether
they consist of lights, shadows, or figures, must be disposed in large
masses and groups properly varied and contrasted; that to a certain
quantity of action a proportioned space of plain ground is required;
that light is to be supported by sufficient shadow; and, we may add,
that a certain quantity of cold colours is necessary to give value and
lustre to the warm colours: what those proportions are cannot be so well
learnt by precept as by observation on pictures, and in this knowledge
bad pictures will instruct as well as good. Our inquiry why pictures
have a bad effect may be as advantageous as the inquiry why they have a
good effect; each will corroborate the principles that are suggested by
the other.
Though it is not my _business_ to enter into the detail of our art, yet
I must take this opportunity of mentioning one of the means of producing
that great effect which we observe in the works of the Venetian
painters, as I think it is not generally known or observed. It ought, in
my opinion, to be indispensably observed, that the masses of light in a
picture be always of a warm mellow colour, yellow, red, or a
yellowish-white; and that the blue, the grey, or the green colours be
kept almost entirely out of these masses, and be used only to support
and set off these warm colours; and for this purpose, a small
proportion of cold colours will be sufficient.
Let this conduct be reversed; let the light be cold, and the surrounding
colours warm, as we often see in the works of the Roman and Florentine
painters, and it will be out of the power of art, even in the hands of
Rubens or Titian, to make a picture splendid and harmonious.
Le Brun and Carlo Maratti were two painters of great merit, and
particularly what may be called academical merit, but were both
deficient in this management of colours: the want of observing this rule
is one of the causes of that heaviness of effect which is so observable
in their works. The principal light in the picture of Le Brun, which I
just now mentioned, falls on Statira, who is dressed very injudiciously
in a pale blue drapery: it is true, he has heightened this blue with
gold, but that is not enough; the whole picture has a heavy air, and by
no means answers the expectation raised by the print. Poussin often made
a spot of blue drapery, when the general hue of the picture was
inclinable to brown or yellow; which shows sufficiently, that harmony of
colouring was not a part of the art that had much engaged the attention
of that great painter.
The conduct of Titian in the picture of Bacchus and Ariadne has been
much celebrated, and justly, for the harmony of colouring. To Ariadne is
given (say the critics) a red scarf, to relieve the figure from the sea,
which is behind her. It is not for that reason alone, but for another of
much greater consequence; for the sake of the general harmony and effect
of the picture. The figure of Ariadne is separated from the great group,
and is dressed in blue, which, added to the colour of the sea, makes
that quantity of cold colour which Titian thought necessary for the
support and brilliancy of the great group; which group is composed,
with very little exception, entirely of mellow colours. But as the
picture in this case would be divided into two distinct parts, one half
cold, and the other warm, it was necessary to carry some of the mellow
colours of the great group into the cold part of the picture, and a part
of the cold into the great group; accordingly Titian gave Ariadne a red
scarf, and to one of the Bacchante a little blue drapery.
The light of the picture, as I observed, ought to be of a warm colour;
for though white may be used for the principal light, as was the
practice of many of the Dutch and Flemish painters, yet it is better to
suppose _that white_ illumined by the yellow rays of the setting sun, as
was the manner of Titian. The superiority of which manner is never more
striking, than when in a collection of pictures we chance to see a
portrait of Titian’s hanging by the side of a Flemish picture (even
though that should be of the hand of Vandyck), which, however admirable
in other respects, becomes cold and grey in the comparison.
The illuminated parts of objects are in nature of a warmer tint than
those that are in the shade: what I have recommended therefore is no
more, than that the same conduct be observed in the whole, which is
acknowledged to be necessary in every individual part. It is presenting
to the eye the same effect as that which it has been _accustomed_ to
feel, which in this case, as in every other, will always produce beauty;
no principle therefore in our art can be more certain, or is derived
from a higher source.
What I just now mentioned of the supposed reason why Ariadne has part of
her drapery red gives me occasion here to observe, that this favourite
quality of giving objects relief, and which De Piles and all the critics
have considered as a requisite of the utmost importance, was not one of
those objects which much engaged the attention of Titian; painters of
an inferior rank have far exceeded him in producing this effect. This
was a great object of attention, when art was in its infant state; as it
is at present with the vulgar and ignorant, who feel the highest
satisfaction in seeing a figure, which, as they say, looks as if they
could walk round it. But however low I may rate this pleasure of
deception, I should not oppose it, did it not oppose itself to a quality
of a much higher kind, by counteracting entirely that fulness of manner
which is so difficult to express in words, but which is found in
perfection in the best works of Correggio, and, we may add, of
Rembrandt. This effect is produced by melting and losing the shadows in
a ground still darker than those shadows; whereas that relief is
produced by opposing and separating the ground from the figure either by
light, or shadow, or colour. This conduct of inlaying, as it may be
called, figures on their ground, in order to produce relief, was the
practice of the old painters, such as Andrea Mantegna, Pietro Perugino,
and Albert Dürer; and to these we may add, the first manner of Lionardo
da Vinci, Giorgione, and even Correggio; but these three were among the
first who began to correct themselves in dryness of style, by no longer
considering relief as a principal object. As those two qualities, relief
and fulness of effect, can hardly exist together, it is not very
difficult to determine to which we ought to give the preference. An
artist is obliged for ever to hold a balance in his hand, by which he
must determine the value of different qualities; that, when _some_ fault
must be committed, he may choose the least. Those painters who have best
understood the art of producing a good effect, have adopted one
principle that seems perfectly conformable to reason; that a part may be
sacrificed for the good of the whole. Thus, whether the masses consist
of light or shadow, it is necessary that they should be compact and of
a pleasing shape: to this end, some parts may be made darker and some
lighter, and reflections stronger than nature would warrant. Paul
Veronese took great liberties of this kind. It is said, that being once
asked, why certain figures were painted in shade, as no cause was seen
in the picture itself, he turned off the inquiry by answering “_una
nuevola che passa_,” a cloud is passing which has overshadowed them.
But I cannot give a better instance of this practice than a picture
which I have of Rubens; it is a representation of a moonlight. Rubens
has not only diffused more light over the picture than is in nature, but
has bestowed on it those warm glowing colours by which his works are so
much distinguished. It is so unlike what any other painters have given
us of moonlight, that it might be easily mistaken, if he had not
likewise added stars, for a fainter setting sun.--Rubens thought the eye
ought to be satisfied in this case, above all other considerations: he
might indeed have made it more natural, but it would have been at the
expense of what he thought of much greater consequence,--the harmony
proceeding from the contrast and variety of colours.
This same picture will furnish us with another instance, where we must
depart from nature for a greater advantage. The moon in this picture
does not preserve so great a superiority in regard to its lightness over
the object which it illumines, as it does in nature; this is likewise an
intended deviation, and for the same reason. If Rubens had preserved the
same scale of gradation of light between the moon and the objects, which
is found in nature, the picture must have consisted of one small spot of
light only, and at a little distance from the picture nothing but this
spot would have been seen. It may be said, indeed, that this being the
case, it is a subject that ought not to be painted: but then, for the
same reason, neither armour, nor anything shining, ought ever to be
painted; for though pure white is used in order to represent the
greatest light of shining objects, it will not in the picture preserve
the same superiority over flesh, as it has in nature, without keeping
that flesh-colour of a very low tint. Rembrandt, who thought it of more
consequence to paint light than the objects that are seen by it, has
done this in a picture of Achilles which I have. The head is kept down
to a very low tint, in order to preserve this due gradation and
distinction between the armour and the face; the consequence of which
is, that upon the whole the picture is too black. Surely too much is
sacrificed here to this narrow conception of nature: allowing the
contrary conduct a fault, yet it must be acknowledged a less fault, than
making a picture so dark that it cannot be seen without a peculiar
light, and then with difficulty. The merit or demerit of the different
conduct of Rubens and Rembrandt in those instances which I have given,
is not to be determined by the narrow principles of nature, separated
from its effect on the human mind. Reason and common sense tell us, that
before, and above all other considerations, it is necessary that the
work should be seen, not only without difficulty or inconvenience, but
with pleasure and satisfaction; and every obstacle which stands in the
way of this pleasure and convenience must be removed.
The tendency of this discourse, with the instances which have been
given, is not so much to place the artist above rules, as to teach him
their reason; to prevent him from entertaining a narrow confined
conception of art; to clear his mind from a perplexed variety of rules
and their exceptions, by directing his attention to an intimate
acquaintance with the passions and affections of the mind, from which
all rules arise, and to which they are all referable. Art effects its
purpose by their means; an accurate knowledge therefore of those
passions and dispositions of the mind is necessary to him who desires to
effect them upon sure and solid principles.
A complete essay or inquiry into the connection between the rules of
art, and the eternal and immutable dispositions of our passions, would
be indeed going at once to the foundation of criticism;[16] but I am too
well convinced what extensive knowledge, what subtle and penetrating
judgment would be required, to engage in such an undertaking: it is
enough for me, if, in the language of painters, I have produced a slight
sketch of a part of this vast composition, but that sufficiently
distinct to show the usefulness of such a theory, and its
practicability.
Before I conclude, I cannot avoid making one observation on the pictures
now before us. I have observed, that every candidate has copied the
celebrated invention of Timanthes in hiding the face of Agamemnon in his
mantle; indeed such lavish encomiums have been bestowed on this thought,
and that too by men of the highest character in critical
knowledge,--Cicero, Quintilian, Valerius Maximus, and Pliny,--and have
been since re-echoed by almost every modern that has written on the
arts, that your adopting it can neither be wondered at, nor blamed. It
appears now to be so much connected with the subject, that the spectator
would perhaps be disappointed in not finding united in the picture what
he always united in his mind, and considered as indispensably belonging
to the subject. But it may be observed, that those who praise this
circumstance were not painters. They use it as an illustration only of
their own art; it served their purpose, and it was certainly not their
business to enter into the objections that lie against it in another
art. I fear _we_ have but very scanty means of exciting those powers
over the imagination which make so very considerable and refined a part
of poetry. It is a doubt with me, whether we should even make the
attempt. The chief, if not the only occasion which the painter has for
this artifice, is, when the subject is improper to be more fully
represented, either for the sake of decency, or to avoid what would be
disagreeable to be seen; and this is not to raise or increase the
passions, which is the reason that is given for this practice, but on
the contrary to diminish their effect.
It is true, sketches, or such drawings as painters generally make for
their works, give this pleasure of imagination to a high degree. From a
slight undetermined drawing, where the ideas of the composition and
character are, as I may say, only just touched upon, the imagination
supplies more than the painter himself, probably, could produce; and we
accordingly often find that the finished work disappoints the
expectation that was raised from the sketch; and this power of the
imagination is one of the causes of the great pleasure we have in
viewing a collection of drawings by great painters. These general ideas,
which are expressed in sketches, correspond very well to the art often
used in poetry. A great part of the beauty of the celebrated description
of Eve in Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, consists in using only general
indistinct expressions, every reader making out the detail according to
his own particular imagination,--his own idea of beauty, grace,
expression, dignity, or loveliness: but a painter, when he represents
Eve on a canvas, is obliged to give a determined form, and his own idea
of beauty distinctly expressed.