general _form_ of his object, as well as colour; but his deficiency lay,
a deficiency at least when he is compared with Raffaelle, in not
possessing the power, like him, of correcting the form of his model by
any general idea of beauty in his own mind. Of this his St. Sebastian is
a particular instance. This figure appears to be a most exact
representation both of the form and the colour of the model, which he
then happened to have before him; it has all the force of nature, and
the colouring is flesh itself; but, unluckily, the model was of a bad
form, especially the legs. Titian has with as much care preserved these
defects, as he has imitated the beauty and brilliancy of the colouring.
In his colouring he was large and general, as in his design he was
minute and partial; in the one he was a genius, in the other not much
above a copier. I do not, however, speak now of all his pictures;
instances enough may be produced in his works, where those observations
on his defects could not with any propriety be applied: but it is in the
manner or language, as it may be called, in which Titian and others of
that school express themselves, that their chief excellence lies. This
manner is in reality, in painting, what language is in poetry; we are
all sensible how differently the imagination is affected by the same
sentiment expressed in different words, and how mean or how grand the
same object appears when presented to us by different painters. Whether
it is the human figure, an animal, or even inanimate objects, there is
nothing, however unpromising in appearance, but may be raised into
dignity, convey sentiment, and produce emotion, in the hands of a
painter of genius. What was said of Virgil, that he threw even the dung
about the ground with an air of dignity, may be applied to Titian:
whatever he touched, however naturally mean, and habitually familiar, by
a kind of magic he invested with grandeur and importance.
I must here observe, that I am not recommending a neglect of the detail;
indeed it would be difficult, if not impossible, to prescribe _certain_
bounds, and tell how far, or when it is to be observed or neglected;
much must, at last, be left to the taste and judgment of the artist. I
am well aware that a judicious detail will sometimes give the force of
truth to the work, and consequently interest the spectator. I only wish
to impress on your minds the true distinction between essential and
subordinate powers; and to show what qualities in the art claim your
_chief_ attention, and what may, with the least injury to your
reputation, be neglected. Something, perhaps, always must be neglected;
the lesser ought then to give way to the greater; and since every work
can have but a limited time allotted to it (for even supposing a whole
life to be employed about one picture, it is still limited), it appears
more reasonable to employ that time to the best advantage, in contriving
various methods of composing the work,--in trying different effect of
light and shadow,--and employing the labour of correction in heightening
by a judicious adjustment of the parts the effects of the whole,--than
that the time should be taken up in minutely finishing those parts.
But there is another kind of high finishing, which may safely be
condemned, as it seems to counteract its own purpose; that is, when the
artist, to avoid that hardness which proceeds from the outline cutting
against the ground, softens and blends the colours to excess: this is
what the ignorant call high finishing, but which tends to destroy the
brilliancy of colour, and the true effect of representation; which
consists very much in preserving the same proportion of sharpness and
bluntness that is found in natural objects. This extreme softening,
instead of producing the effect of softness, gives the appearance of
ivory, or some other hard substance, highly polished.
The portraits of Cornelius Jansen appear to have this defect, and
consequently want that suppleness which is the characteristic of flesh;
whereas in the works of Vandyck we find that true mixture of softness
and hardness perfectly observed. The same defect may be found in the
manner of Vanderwerf, in opposition to that of Teniers; and such also,
we may add, is the manner of Raffaelle in his oil pictures, in
comparison with that of Titian.
The name which Raffaelle has so justly maintained as the first of
painters, we may venture to say was not acquired by this laborious
attention. His apology may be made by saying that it was the manner of
his country; but if he had expressed his ideas with the facility and
eloquence, as it may be called, of Titian, his works would certainly
not have been less excellent; and that praise, which ages and nations
have poured out upon him, for possessing genius in the higher
attainments of art, would have been extended to them all.
Those who are not conversant in works of art are often surprised at the
high value set by connoisseurs on drawings which appear careless, and in
every respect unfinished; but they are truly valuable; and their value
arises from this, that they give the idea of a whole; and this whole is
often expressed by a dexterous facility which indicates the true power
of a painter, even though roughly exerted: whether it consists in the
general composition, or the general form of each figure, or the turn of
the attitude which bestows grace and elegance. All this we may see fully
exemplified in the very skilful drawings of Parmegiano and Correggio. On
whatever account we value these drawings, it is certainly not for high
finishing, or a minute attention to particulars.
Excellence in every part, and in every province of our art, from the
highest style of history down to the resemblances of still-life, will
depend on this power of extending the attention at once to the whole,
without which the greatest diligence is vain.
I wish you to bear in mind, that when I speak of a whole, I do not mean
simply a _whole_ as belonging to composition, but a _whole_ with respect
to the general style of colouring; a _whole_ with regard to the light
and shade; a _whole_ of everything which may separately become the main
object of a painter.
I remember a landscape-painter in Rome, who was known by the name of
Studio, from his patience in high finishing, in which he thought the
whole excellence of art consisted; so that he once endeavoured, as he
said, to represent every individual leaf on a tree. This picture I
never saw; but I am very sure that an artist, who looked only at the
general character of the species, the order of the branches, and the
masses of the foliage, would in a few minutes produce a more true
resemblance of trees, than this painter in as many months.
A landscape-painter certainly ought to study anatomically (if I may use
the expression) all the objects which he paints; but when he is to turn
his studies to use, his skill, as a man of genius, will be displayed in
showing the general effect, preserving the same degree of hardness and
softness which the objects have in nature; for he applies himself to the
imagination, not to the curiosity, and works not for the virtuoso or the
naturalist, but for the common observer of life and nature. When he
knows his subject, he will know not only what to describe, but what to
omit; and this skill in leaving out is, in all things, a great part of
knowledge and wisdom.
The same excellence of manner which Titian displayed in history or
portrait-painting is equally conspicuous in his landscapes, whether they
are professedly such, or serve only as backgrounds. One of the most
eminent of this latter kind is to be found in the picture of St. Pietro
Martire. The large trees, which are here introduced, are plainly
distinguished from each other by the different manner with which the
branches shoot from their trunks, as well as by their different foliage;
and the weeds in the foreground are varied in the same manner, just as
much as variety requires, and no more. When Algarotti, speaking of this
picture, praises it for the minute discriminations of the leaves and
plants, even, as he says, to excite the admiration of a botanist, his
intention was undoubtedly to give praise even at the expense of truth;
for he must have known, that this is not the character of the picture;
but connoisseurs will always find in pictures what they think they ought
to find: he was not aware that he was giving a description injurious to
the reputation of Titian.
Such accounts may be very hurtful to young artists, who never have had
an opportunity of seeing the work described; and they may possibly
conclude, that this great artist acquired the name of the Divine Titian
from his eminent attention to such trifling circumstances, which, in
reality, would not raise him above the level of the most ordinary
painter.
We may extend these observations even to what seems to have but a
single, and that an individual object. The excellence of
portrait-painting, and we may add even the likeness, the character, and
countenance, as I have observed in another place, depend more upon the
general effect produced by the painter, than on the exact expression of
the peculiarities, or minute discrimination of the parts. The chief
attention of the artist is therefore employed in planting the features
in their proper places, which so much contributes to giving the effect
and true impression of the whole. The very peculiarities may be reduced
to classes and general descriptions; and there are therefore large ideas
to be found even in this contracted subject. He may afterwards labour
single features to what degree he thinks proper, but let him not forget
continually to examine, whether in finishing the parts he is not
destroying the general effect.
It is certainly a thing to be wished, that all excellence were applied
to illustrate subjects that are interesting and worthy of being
commemorated; whereas, of half the pictures that are in the world, the
subject can be valued only as an occasion which set the artist to work:
and yet, our high estimation of such pictures, without considering or
perhaps without knowing the subject, shows how much our attention is
engaged by the art alone.
Perhaps nothing that we can say will so clearly show the advantage and
excellence of this faculty, as that it confers the character of genius
on works that pretend to no other merit; in which is neither expression,
character nor dignity, and where none are interested in the subject. We
cannot refuse the character of genius to the Marriage of Paolo Veronese,
without opposing the general sense of mankind (great authorities have
called it the Triumph of Painting), or to the altar of St. Augustine at
Antwerp, by Rubens, which equally deserves that title, and for the same
reason. Neither of those pictures have any interesting story to support
them. That of Paolo Veronese is only a representation of a great
concourse of people at a dinner; and the subject of Rubens, if it may be
called a subject where nothing is doing, is an assembly of various
saints that lived in different ages. The whole excellence of those
pictures consists in mechanical dexterity, working, however, under the
influence of that comprehensive faculty which I have so often mentioned.
It is by this, and this alone, that the mechanical power is ennobled,
and raised much above its natural rank. And it appears to me, that with
propriety it acquires this character, as an instance of that superiority
with which mind predominates over matter, by contracting into one whole
what nature has made multifarious.
The great advantage of this idea of a whole is, that a greater quantity
of truth may be said to be contained and expressed in a few lines or
touches, than in the most laborious finishing of the parts, where this
is not regarded. It is upon this foundation that it stands; and the
justness of the observation would be confirmed by the ignorant in art,
if it were possible to take their opinions unseduced by some false
notion of what they imagine they ought to see in a picture. As it is an
art, they think they ought to be pleased in proportion as they see that
art ostentatiously displayed; they will, from this supposition, prefer
neatness, high finishing, and gaudy colouring, to the truth, simplicity,
and unity of nature. Perhaps too, the totally ignorant beholder, like
the ignorant artist, cannot comprehend a whole, nor even what it means.
But if false notions do not anticipate their perceptions, they who are
capable of observation, and who, pretending to no skill, look only
straight forward, will praise and condemn in proportion as the painter
has succeeded in the effect of the whole. Here, general satisfaction, or
general dislike, though perhaps despised by the painter, as proceeding
from the ignorance of the principles of art, may yet help to regulate
his conduct, and bring back his attention to that which ought to be his
principal object, and from which he has deviated for the sake of minuter
beauties.
An instance of this right judgment I once saw in a child, in going
through a gallery where there were many portraits of the last ages,
which, though neatly put out of hand, were very ill put together. The
child paid no attention to the neat finishing or naturalness of any bit
of drapery, but appeared to observe only the ungracefulness of the
persons represented, and put herself in the posture of every figure
which she saw in a forced and awkward attitude. The censure of nature,
uninformed, fastened upon the greatest fault that could be in a picture,
because it related to the character and management of the whole.
I should be sorry, if what has been said should be understood to have
any tendency to encourage that carelessness which leaves work in an
unfinished state. I commend nothing for the want of exactness; I mean
to point out that kind of exactness which is the best, and which is
alone truly to be so esteemed.
So far is my disquisition from giving countenance to idleness, that
there is nothing in our art which enforces such continual exertion and
circumspection, as an attention to the general effect of the whole. It
requires much study and much practice; it requires the painter’s entire
mind; whereas the parts may be finishing by nice touches, while his mind
is engaged on other matters; he may even hear a play or a novel read
without much disturbance. The artist who flatters his own indolence will
continually find himself evading this active exertion, and applying his
thoughts to the ease and laziness of highly finishing the parts;
producing at last what Cowley calls “laborious effects of idleness.”
No work can be too much finished, provided the diligence employed be
directed to its proper object; but I have observed that an excessive
labour in the detail has, nine times in ten, been pernicious to the
general effect, even when it has been the labour of great masters. It
indicates a bad choice, which is an ill setting out in any undertaking.
To give a right direction to your industry has been my principal purpose
in this discourse. It is this, which I am confident often makes the
difference between two students of equal capacities and of equal
industry. While the one is employing his labour on minute objects of
little consequence, the other is acquiring the art, and perfecting the
habit, of seeing nature in an extensive view, in its proper proportions,
and its due subordination of parts.
Before I conclude, I must make one observation sufficiently connected
with the present subject.
The same extension of mind which gives the excellence of genius to the
theory and mechanical practice of the art, will direct him likewise in
the method of study, and give him the superiority over those who
narrowly follow a more confined track of partial imitation. Whoever, in
order to finish his education, should travel to Italy, and spend his
whole time there only in copying pictures, and measuring statues or
buildings (though these things are not to be neglected), would return
with little improvement. He that imitates the Iliad, says Dr. Young, is
not imitating Homer. It is not by laying up in the memory the particular
details of any of the great works of art, that any man becomes a great
artist, if he stops without making himself master of the general
principles on which these works are conducted. If he even hopes to rival
those whom he admires, he must consider their works as the means of
teaching him the true art of seeing nature. When this is acquired, he
then may be said to have appropriated their powers, or at least the
foundation of their powers, to himself; the rest must depend upon his
own industry and application. The great business of study is to form a
_mind_, adapted and adequate to all times and all occasions; to which
all nature is then laid open, and which may be said to possess the key
of her inexhaustible riches.
DISCOURSE XII
_Delivered to the Students of the Royal Academy, on the Distribution of
the Prizes, December 10, 1784._
Particular Methods of Study of Little Consequence.--Little of the
Art can be taught.--Love of Method often a Love of Idleness.
Pittori Improvvisatori apt to be Careless and Incorrect; seldom
Original and Striking. This proceeds from their not studying the
Works of Other Masters.
GENTLEMEN,
In consequence of the situation in which I have the honour to be placed
in this Academy, it has often happened, that I have been consulted by
the young students who intend to spend some years in Italy, concerning
the method of regulating their studies. I am, as I ought to be,
solicitously desirous to communicate the entire result of my experience
and observation; and though my openness and facility in giving my
opinions might make some amends for whatever was defective in them, yet
I fear my answers have not often given satisfaction. Indeed I have never
been sure that I understood perfectly what they meant, and was not
without some suspicion that they had not themselves very distinct ideas
of the object of their inquiry.
If the information required was, by what means the path that leads to
excellence could be discovered; if they wished to know whom they were to
take for their guides; what to adhere to, and what to avoid; where they
were to bait, and where they were to take up their rest; what was to be
tasted only, and what should be their diet; such general directions are
certainly proper for a student to ask, and for me, to the best of my
capacity, to give; but these rules have been already given: they have in
reality been the subject of almost all my discourses from this place.
But I am rather inclined to think, that by _method of study_, it was
meant (as several do mean), that the times and the seasons should be
prescribed, and the order settled, in which everything was to be done:
that it might be useful to point out to what degree of excellence one
part of the art was to be carried, before the student proceeded to the
next; how long he was to continue to draw from the ancient statues, when
to begin to compose, and when to apply to the study of colouring.
Such a detail of instruction might be extended with a great deal of
plausible and ostentatious amplification. But it would at best be
useless. Our studies will be for ever, in a very great degree, under the
direction of chance; like travellers, we must take what we can get, and
when we can get it; whether it is or is not administered to us in the
most commodious manner, in the most proper place, or at the exact minute
when we would wish to have it.
Treatises on education, and method of study, have always appeared to me
to have one general fault. They proceed upon a false supposition of
life; as if we possessed not only a power over events and circumstances,
but had a greater power over ourselves than I believe any of us will be
found to possess. Instead of supposing ourselves to be perfect patterns
of wisdom and virtue, it seems to me more reasonable to treat ourselves
(as I am sure we must now and then treat others) like humoursome
children, whose fancies are often to be indulged, in order to keep them
in good humour with themselves and their pursuits. It is necessary to
use some artifice of this kind in all processes which by their very
nature are long, tedious, and complex, in order to prevent our taking
that aversion to our studies which the continual shackles of methodical
restraint are sure to produce.
I would rather wish a student, as soon as he goes abroad, to employ
himself upon whatever he has been incited to by any immediate impulse,
than to go sluggishly about a prescribed task: whatever he does in such
a state of mind, little advantage accrues from it, as nothing sinks deep
enough to leave any lasting impression; and it is impossible that
anything should be well understood, or well done, that is taken into a
reluctant understanding, and executed with a servile hand.
It is desirable, and indeed is necessary to intellectual health, that
the mind should be recreated and refreshed with a variety in our
studies; that in the irksomeness of uniform pursuit we should be
relieved, and, if I may so say, deceived, as much as possible. Besides,
the minds of men are so very differently constituted, that it is
impossible to find one method which shall be suitable to all. It is of
no use to prescribe to those who have no talents; and those who have
talents will find methods for themselves--methods dictated to them by
their own particular dispositions, and by the experience of their own
particular necessities.
However, I would not be understood to extend this doctrine to the
younger students. The first part of the life of a student, like that of
other schoolboys, must necessarily be a life of restraint. The grammar,
the rudiments, however unpalatable, must at all events be mastered.
After a habit is acquired of drawing correctly from the model (whatever
it may be) which he has before him, the rest, I think, may be safely
left to chance; always supposing that the student is _employed_, and
that his studies are directed to the proper object.
A passion for his art, and an eager desire to excel, will more than
supply the place of method. By leaving a student to himself, he may
possibly indeed be led to undertake matters above his strength: but the
trial will at least have this advantage, it will discover to himself his
own deficiencies; and this discovery alone is a very considerable
acquisition. One inconvenience, I acknowledge, may attend bold and
arduous attempts; frequent failure may discourage. This evil, however,
is not more pernicious than the slow proficiency which is the natural
consequence of too easy tasks.
Whatever advantages method may have in dispatch of business (and there
it certainly has many), I have but little confidence of its efficacy in
acquiring excellence in any art whatever. Indeed, I have always strongly
suspected that this love of method, on which some persons appear to
place so great dependence, is, in reality, at the bottom, a love of
idleness; a want of sufficient energy to put themselves into immediate
action: it is a sort of an apology to themselves for doing nothing. I
have known artists who may truly be said to have spent their whole
lives, or at least the most precious part of their lives, in planning
methods of study, without ever beginning; resolving, however, to put it
all in practice at some time or other,--when a certain period
arrives,--when proper conveniences are procured,--or when they remove to
a certain place better calculated for study. It is not uncommon for such
persons to go abroad with the most honest and sincere resolution of
studying hard, when they shall arrive at the end of their journey. The
same want of exertion, arising from the same cause which made them at
home put off the day of labour until they had found a proper scheme for
it, still continues in Italy, and they consequently return home with
little, if any, improvement.
In the practice of art, as well as in morals, it is necessary to keep a
watchful and jealous eye over ourselves: idleness, assuming the specious
disguise of industry, will lull to sleep all suspicion of our want of
an active exertion of strength. A provision of endless apparatus, a
bustle of infinite inquiry and research, or even the mere mechanical
labour of copying, may be employed, to evade and shuffle off real
labour,--the real labour of thinking.
I have declined for these reasons to point out any particular method and
course of study to young artists on their arrival in Italy. I have left
it to their own prudence, a prudence which will grow and improve upon
them in the course of unremitted, ardent industry, directed by a real
love of their profession, and an unfeigned admiration of those who have
been universally admitted as patterns of excellence in the art.
In the exercise of that general prudence, I shall here submit to their
consideration such miscellaneous observations as have occurred to me on
considering the mistaken notions or evil habits, which have prevented
that progress towards excellence, which the natural abilities of several
artists might otherwise have enabled them to make.
False opinions and vicious habits have done far more mischief to
students, and to professors too, than any wrong methods of study.