LANDSCAPE
Limitations of the landscape painter--Illusion of opening
distance--Illusion of motion in landscape--Moonlight
scenes--Transient conditions.
Considered as a separate branch of the painter's art, landscape is on a
comparatively low plane, because the principal signs with which it
deals, and the arrangement of them to form a view, may be varied
indefinitely without a sense of incongruity arising. Thus there can be
no ideal in the art; that is to say, no ideal can be conceived which is
general in its character. The artist can aspire to no definite goal: his
imagination is limited to the arrangement of things which are inanimate
and expressionless. He may produce sensorial, but not intellectual,
beauty. The nobler human attributes and passions, as wisdom, courage,
spiritual exaltation, patriotism, cannot be connected with landscape,
and so it is unable to produce in the mind the elevation of thought and
grandeur of sentiment which are the sweetest blossoms of the tree of
art.[60]
Another drawback in landscape is the necessity for painting it on an
extraordinarily reduced scale. Because of this the highest qualities of
beauty in nature--grandeur and sublimity--can only with difficulty be
suggested on canvas, for actual magnitude is requisite for the
production of either of these qualities in any considerable degree. A
volcano in eruption has no force at all in a painting, a result which is
due, not so much to the inability of the painter to represent moving
smoke and fire, as to the impossibility of depicting their enormous
masses. The disability of the painter in respect of the representation
of magnitude is readily seen in the case of a cathedral interior. This
may or may not have the quality of grandeur, but a picture cannot
differentiate between one that has, and one that has not, because no
feeling of grandeur can arise in looking at a painted interior, the
element of actual space being absent.
Seeing that an ideal in landscape is impossible, the landscape painter
cannot improve upon nature. In the case of the human figure the painter
may improve upon experience by collecting excellencies from different
models and putting them into one form, thus creating what would be
universally regarded as ideal physical beauty; and he may give to this
form an expression of spiritual nobility which is also beyond experience
because it would imply the absence of inferior qualities inseparable
from man in nature. Thus to the physical, he adds intellectual beauty.
Such a perfect form may be said to be an improvement upon nature, for it
is not only beyond experience, but is nature purified. But the landscape
painter cannot improve upon the signs which nature provides. He may vary
the parts of a tree as he will, but it would never be recognized as
beyond possible experience unless it were a monstrosity.[61] And even if
he could improve upon experience with his signs, this would help him but
little, for the beauty of a landscape depends upon the relation of the
signs to each other, and not upon the beauty of the separate signs which
vary in every work with the character of the design. In colour also the
painter cannot apply to his landscape an appropriate harmony which the
sun is incapable of giving. From all this it follows that the aesthetic
value of a landscape depends entirely upon its correspondence with
nature.
A good landscape must necessarily be invented, because it is impossible
to reproduce the particular beauty of a natural scene.[62] This beauty
is due to a relation of parts of the view, infinite in number, to each
other, but what this relation is cannot be determined by the observer.
Further, whatever be the relation, the continuous changing light and
atmospheric effects bring about a constant variation in the character of
the beauty. It is possible for an actual view to suggest to the artist a
scheme for a beautiful landscape, but in this the precise relation of
the parts would have to be invented by the painter and fixed by
experiment. The principal features from a natural view may be taken out,
but not those which together bring about the beauty. There is no great
landscape in existence which was painted for the purpose of representing
a particular view. There have of course been scenes painted to order,
even by notable artists, but these only serve the purpose of record, or
as mementoes. The great view of The Hague, painted by Van Goyen under
instructions from the syndics of the town, is the feeblest of his works,
and the many pictures of the kind executed by British and German artists
of the eighteenth century have now only a topographical interest.
Constable painted numerous scenes to order, and there are something like
forty views of Salisbury Cathedral attributed to him, but only those in
which he could apply his own invention are of considerable aesthetic
value. A good artist rarely introduces into a painting even a small
sketch of a scene made from nature. Titian is known to have drawn
numerous sketches in particular localities, but not one has been
identified in his pictures. In nearly every painting of Nicholas Poussin
the Roman Campagna may be recognized, and here he must have made
thousands of sketches during the forty years he spent in the district,
yet the most patient examination has failed to identify a single spot in
his many beautiful views. So with Gaspar Poussin, who, unlike his famous
brother-in-law, occasionally set up his easel in the open air; and with
Claude who never left off sketching in his long life. The greatest
landscapes are those which are true to nature generally, but are untrue
in respect of any particular natural scene.
Seeing that in landscape the production of sensorial beauty only is
within the power of the painter, and that the beauty is enhanced as
nature is the more closely imitated, it is obvious that for the work to
have a permanent interest, the scene depicted and the incidents therein
should be of common experience, otherwise the full recognition of the
beauty is likely to be retarded by the reasoning powers being
involuntarily set to work in the consideration of the exceptional
conditions. Naturally the term "common experience" has a varied
application. What is of common experience in scenery among people in a
temperate climate, is rare or unknown to those living under the burning
sun of Africa. The artist is fully aware of this, and in designing his
work he takes into account the experience of the people who are likely
to see his paintings. A view of a scene in the East, say in Palestine or
Siam, may be a beautiful work and be recognized as true because the
conditions depicted are commonly known to exist; it would further have
an informative value which would result in added pleasure; but among
people habituated to a temperate climate it would tire more quickly than
a scene of a kind to which they are daily accustomed. In the one case an
effort, however slight, is required to accommodate the view to
experience, and in the other the whole meaning of the scene is
instantaneously identified with its beauty.
In nature there is always movement and sound. Even on those rare days
when the wind has ceased and the air seems still and dead, there is
motion with noise of some kind. A brook trickles by, insects buzz their
zigzag way, and shadows vary as the sun mounts or descends. But most
commonly there is a breeze to rustle the trees and shrubs, to ripple the
surface of the water, and to throw over the scene evidence of life in
its ever charming variety. The painter cannot reproduce these movements
and sounds. All he represents is silent and still as if nature had
suddenly suspended her work--stayed the tree as it bent to the breeze,
stopped the bird in the act of flight, fixed the water, and fastened the
shadows to the ground. What is there then to compensate the artist for
this limitation? Why, surely he can represent nature as she is at a
particular moment, over the hills and valleys, or across great plains,
with sunlight and atmosphere to mark the breadth and distance and so
produce an illusion of movement to delight the eyes of the observer with
bewitching surprise. For the eye as it involuntarily travels from the
foreground of the picture to the background, proceeds from sign to sign,
each decreasing in definition in conformity with the changes in nature,
till vague suggestions of form announce that far distance has been
reached. The effect is precisely that of the cinematograph, except that
the eye moves instead of the picture. The apparent movement corresponds
closely with the opening of distance in nature when one proceeds in a
fast moving vehicle along a road from which a considerable stretch of
country may be observed. Very rarely is the illusion so marked that the
apparent movement is identified to the senses. When it is so marked the
distance seems to come forward, but is instantaneously stayed before
consideration can be brought to bear upon it. Clearly if one specially
seek the illusion, it becomes impossible because search implies reason
and an examination slow out of all proportion with the rapidity of the
sensorial effect. Accident alone will bring about the illusion, for it
can only arise when the eye travels at a certain rate over the picture,
the minimum of which rate is indeterminable.
It is evident that any landscape of fair size in which considerable
depth is indicated must necessarily produce an illusion of opening
distance if the varying signs are sufficiently numerous and properly
painted in accordance with the aerial perspective; and this illusion is
undoubtedly the key to the extraordinary beauty observed in the works of
the great masters of landscape since Claude unveiled the secrets of
distance painting. That the apparent movement is rarely actually defined
is immaterial, for it must be there and must act upon the eye, producing
an involuntary sensation which we interpret as pleasure arising from
admiration of the skill of the artist in giving us so good a
representation of distance in his imitation.
[Illustration: PLATE 17 (See page xii)
Arcadian Landscape, by Claude Lorraine (_National Gallery, London_)]
As will presently be seen there are other kinds of illusion of motion
which may be produced in landscape, but this illusion of opening
distance is the most important, and it should be produced wherever
distance is represented. In nature the effect of the unfolding of
distance is caused by a sequence of signs apparently diminishing in size
and clearness as the eye travels back, and a sequence of this kind
should be produced by the artist in his picture. It is not sufficient
that patches of colour of the tone and shape of sections of vegetation,
trees, varied soils, and so on, be given, for while these may indicate
distance as any perspective must do, yet an illusion cannot be
produced by such signs because they are not sufficiently numerous for
the eye to experience a cinematographic effect when passing over them.
It is not distance that gives the beauty, but an illusion of opening
distance, without which, and presuming the absence of any other
illusion, only simple harmonies of tone and inanimate forms are
possible. Moreover the patches of colour do not properly represent
nature either as she appears to the eye, or as she is understood from
experience. If one were to take a momentary glance at a view specially
to receive the general colour impression, he might conceivably retain on
his mind a collection of colour masses such as is often put forward as a
landscape, but natural scenes are not observed in this way, and the
artist has no right to imply that a view should be painted as it is
observed at an instantaneous glance. One cannot be supposed to keep his
eyes closed, except for a moment, when in front of nature, and he cannot
be in front of nature for more than a moment without involuntarily
recognizing thousands of signs. There must necessarily be a certain
clearness of the atmosphere for distance to be represented, and in the
minimum clearness, trees, bushes, rivulets, and buildings of every kind,
are well defined at least to the middle distance. These can and should
be painted, and there can be no object whatever in omitting them, except
the ignominious end of saving trouble.
And it is necessary that the signs, whether shadow or substance, should
be completely painted as they appear to the eye in nature when observed
with average care by one inspecting a view for the purpose of drinking
in all its beauties, for this is how a painted landscape is usually
examined. There is no place in the painter's art for a suggestive sign
in the sense that it may suggest a required complete sign. A sign must
be painted as completely as possible in conformity with its appearance
as seen from the presumed point from which the artist sketched his view,
for the reason that its value as a sign depends upon the readiness with
which it is understood.[63] This is incontrovertible, otherwise the art
of painting would be an art of hieroglyphics. In poetry suggestion is of
great importance, and it may be so glowing as to present to the
imagination a higher form of beauty than can be painted; but the signs
of the painter cannot suggest beauty in this way, because the exercise
of the imagination in respect of them is limited by their form. A sign
painted less distinctly than as it is seen in nature is obviously
removed from its proper relative position, or else is untrue, and in
either case it must have a weakening effect upon the picture.
The successful representation of aerial perspective depends upon the
careful and close gradation of tones in conformity with the varying
atmospheric density. This is difficult work because of the disabilities
arising from the reduction of the scene into miniature form, which
necessitates the omission of many tones and effects found in nature,
just as a portrait in miniature involves the exclusion of various
elements of expression in the human countenance. But fortunately in
landscape the variableness of nature greatly assists the artist. Only
rarely is the atmosphere of equal density over a considerable depth of
ground, and this fact enables the painter to simplify his work in
production of the illusion without appearing to depart from nature. Thus
he may deepen or contract his foreground within wide limits. The changes
in the appearance of the atmosphere in nature have to be greatly
concentrated in a painting, and as this concentration becomes more
difficult as distance is reached, it follows that the artist has a
better chance of success by making the foreground of his picture begin
some way in front of him, rather than near the spot where he is presumed
to stand when he executes his work. He may of course maintain some very
near ground while materially shortening his middle distance, but this
method must obviously lower the beauty of the painting as a distance
landscape, and make the execution vastly more difficult. Claude adopted
this plan sometimes, but it is seen in very few of his important works.
In his best time Turner was careful to set back his foreground, and to
refrain from restricting his middle ground.
If a scene be taken from the middle distance only, as in many Barbizon
works, the labour is much simplified because neither the close
delineation of foliage, nor any considerable gradation of atmosphere is
required, but then the beauty resulting from either of these two
exercises is missing. It is equally impossible for such a scene to
indicate growth and life, or the charm of a changing view. Some modern
artists have a habit of blotting out the middle and far distance by the
introduction of a thick atmosphere but this is an abuse of the art,
because however true the aspect may be in the sense that a natural view
is sometimes obscured by the atmosphere, the beauty of the scene as a
whole is hidden, and the picture consists largely of an imitation of the
mist, where an illusion of movement is impossible. The painter should
imitate the more beautiful, and not the less beautiful aspects of
nature. Jupiter has been sometimes painted as an incident in a picture,
nearly wholly concealed by a cloud, but to exhibit a separate work of
the god so concealed, would only be regarded as an excuse for avoiding
exertion, however well the cloud may be painted; yet this would not be
more reprehensible than to hide the greater part of a view by a dense
atmosphere.
With a clear atmosphere an illusion of opening distance may be secured
with the far distance and the greater part of the middle distance
unobservable, but in such a case a successful design is difficult to
accomplish owing to the limited number of signs available. Many signs,
as trees and houses, either darken or hide the view, while sunlight
effects on unobstructed ground, sufficiently definite to be used as
signs, could not be very numerous without appearing abnormal. The only
really first-class method of producing a satisfactory near-ground
illusion was invented by Hobbema in the later years of his life. This is
to use skilfully placed trees and other signs through which paths wind,
or appear to wind, and to throw in a strong sunlight from the back.[a]
The light enables far more signs to be used in depth than would
otherwise be possible, and so the eye has a comparatively long track to
follow. That the remarkable beauty of the pictures of Hobbema composed
in this way is almost entirely due to the illusion thus created, is
readily seen when they are compared with some of his other works, very
similar in all respects except that the light is thrown in from the
front or the side. Before placing his light at the back, the artist
tried the side plan in many pictures, and while this was a decided
improvement upon his earlier efforts to secure depth of near-ground
signs, it was naturally inferior to the latest scheme. Jacob Ruysdael
adopted the plan of Hobbema in two or three works with great effect.[b]
[a] See Plate 18.
[b] For example, The Marsh, Hermitage.
When the middle distance is hidden by a rising foreground, an illusion
may be created by the far distance alone if this be of considerable
depth. Since the fifteenth century it has been a frequent practice to
conceal the middle distance, though mostly in pictures of figure
subjects.[64] The Dutch artists of the seventeenth century who painted
open-air scenes of human and animal life, as Paul Potter, Wouverman, and
Albert Cuyp, avoided the middle distance whenever possible, but often
managed to secure a fair illusion. In pure landscape the system is less
often practised, and never by great artists.
The only means available to the painter of land views for creating an
illusion of motion, apart from that of opening distance, is by the
representation of flowing water so that a series of successive events in
the flow, each connected with, but varying in character from, the
preceding one, can be exhibited. Thus, a volume of water from a fall
proceeds rapidly over a flat surface to a ledge, and thence perhaps to
another ledge of a different depth, from which it passes over or round
irregular rocks and boulders, and thence over smaller stones or into a
stream, creating in its passage every kind of eddy and current.[a] Here
is a series of progressive natural actions in which the progression is
regular and continuous, while the separate actions cover such time and
space that they may be readily separated by the eye. If, therefore, the
whole series be properly represented, an illusion of motion will
result.[65] Obviously the canvas must be of considerable size, and the
breaks in the flow of water as varied in character and as numerous as
possible. Everdingen and Jacob Ruysdael seem to have been the first
artists to recognize the significance of this progression, but Ruysdael
far surpassed his master in the exhibition of it. He examined the
problem in all its variations, solved it in a hundred ways, and at his
death left little for succeeding painters to learn regarding it. Very
rarely, one meets with a landscape where the double illusion of motion
of water and opening distance is provided, and needless to say the
effect is superb.[b]
[a] See Plate 19.
[b] For examples see S. Bough's Borrowdale, and Thoma's View of
Laufenburg.
Sea views occupy a position by themselves inasmuch as there is a fixed
horizontal distance for the artist. He cannot shorten this depth
without making his work look abnormal, and an effort to increase it by
presuming that the picture is painted from a considerable height above
the sea level, is seldom successful because the observer of the work
finds a difficulty in fitting in the novelty with his experience. Except
when depicting stormy weather, or showing a thick atmosphere, the
painter of a sea view has no trouble in obtaining absolute accuracy in
his linear perspective, but this is not sufficient, for if a variety of
trees, herbage, brooks, and so on, requires an illusion of movement,
then certainly does a sea view which has monotony for its keynote. The
motion of the waves in fine weather cannot be suggested on canvas
because it is continuous and equal. One wave displaces another and so
far as the eye can reach there is only a succession of similar waves.
Thus the motion appears unbroken, and from the canvas point of view the
waves must be motionless as the sand hillocks of a desert. Of course in
the actual view, the expanse, the "immeasurable stretch of ocean," is
impressive and to some extent weird, but nothing of this feeling is
induced by a painted miniature. With a bright sky and clear atmosphere
the painter of a sea view cannot well obtain an illusion of opening
distance by means of a multiplication of signs as on land, for the
introduction of many vessels would give the work a formal appearance,
but the problem can be satisfactorily solved by putting the sun in the
sky towards the setting, and using cloud shadows as signs. Aivasovsky,
one of the greatest marine painters of modern times, was very successful
with this class of work. His long shadows thrown at right angles to the
line of sight, carry back the distance till the horizon seems to be
further off than experience warrants, the illusion being perfect. An
illusion of opening distance may, however, be easily obtained in a sea
view when there is a haze covering, but not hiding, the horizon, by
introducing as signs, two or three vessels, the first in the middle
distance.
Another method of giving a suggestion of motion, which may be used by
the sea painter, is in truthfully representing the appearance of the
water round a vessel passing through it. What is probably the finest
example of this work in existence is Jacob Ruysdael's The Rising
Storm.[a] The sea is shown close to a port, and half a dozen smacks and
small boats are being tossed about by choppy, breaking waves. In the
centre of the picture is a large smack over the weather bow of which a
huge foaming wave has broken, and part is spending its force on the lee
bow, from which the water gradually becomes quieter till at the stern of
the boat little more than a black concavity is seen. The progression of
wave movement is completely represented, and the effect is very
impressive.
[a] Berlin Gallery. See Plate 20.
The coast painter can produce an excellent illusion of motion from waves
breaking on a beach, for in nature this action is made up of a series of
different consecutive acts each of which is easily distinguishable to
the eye. The wave rises, bends over its top which becomes crested, and
splashes forward on the beach, to be converted into foam which races
onwards, breaking up as it goes till it reaches the watermark, then
rapidly falling back to be met by another wave. Here is a series of
consecutive incidents which can all be painted so as to deceive for a
moment with the idea of motion. The attempt to represent the action of
waves breaking against steep rocks is invariably a failure, because of
the great reduction of the apparent number of incidents forming the
consecutive series. In nature the eye is not quick enough to follow the
separate events, and so they cannot be distinguished in a painting.
Thomson's fine picture of Fast Castle is distinctly marred by a wide
irregular column of water shown splashing up against a rock. There is no
possibility here of representing a series of actions, and so an instant
suffices to fix the water on the rock. In another work by the same
artist there are waves breaking against precipitous rocks, but in this
case the water first passes over an expanse of low lying rocks, and a
sequence of actions is shown right up to the cliff, an excellent
illusion of movement being brought about.[a]
[a] Dunluce Castle, which with Fast Castle, is in the Kingsborough
Collection, Scotland.
Apart from those exhibiting an illusion of motion of some kind, the only
landscapes which have a permanent value, are near-ground scenes in which
conditions of atmosphere of common experience, as rain or storm are
faithfully rendered. In these works the signs must be numerous and
varied in character, for it is only in the multiplication of small
changes of form and tone that the natural effects of a particular
weather condition can be imitated. Jacob Ruysdael and Constable were
the greatest masters of this form of landscape, Crome and Boecklin
closely approaching them, but it is uncommon for a serious worker in
landscape to attempt a picture where distance is not recorded. The best
paintings of Constable present an illusion of opening distance, and when
Jacob Ruysdael painted near-ground only, it was nearly always a hilly
slope with water breaking over low rocks.
Moonlight and twilight scenes are not good subjects for the painter of
landscape, because, shown as they must be in daylight, or with
artificial light, they become distinctly uninteresting after the first
impression of tonal harmony has passed away, owing to the unconscious
revolt of the mind against something with an unreal appearance.[66] This
is the chief reason why no scene has lived which depended for its beauty
entirely upon moonlight effects. It is about two hundred and fifty years
since Van der Neer died, and he still remains practically the only
moonlight painter known to us whose works seem of permanent interest.
But he did not rely altogether upon moonlight effects for his beauty,
for the representation of distance is the principal feature in all his
works. Further he commonly makes us acquainted with the human life and
habitations of his time, and in this way enhances our appreciation of
his pictures. Before Van der Neer, moonlight scenes were very rarely
executed, and only two or three of these have remained which are worthy
of serious consideration. The best of them is a view by Rubens, where
the light is comparatively strong, and practically the whole of the
beauty rests in the opening distance, which can hardly be surpassed in a
work of this kind.[a]
[a] Landscape by Moonlight, Mond Collection, London.
It is not necessary to deal with varieties of pure landscape other than
those mentioned. They are painted in their myriads, and form pleasant
tonal harmonies, or have local interest, but they do not live. As the
foliage in springtime they are fresh and welcome to the eye when they
first appear, but all too soon they fade and disappear from memory like
the leaves of the autumn.
In landscape as in all other branches of painting, whatever is ephemeral
in nature, or of uncommon experience, should be avoided. Rare sun
effects and exceptional phases of atmosphere should not find their way
into pictures, while strokes of lightning and rainbows should only be
present when they are necessitated by the design, and then must be
subordinated as far as possible. Of all these things the most strongly
to be deprecated are strange sunlight effects, for they have the double
drawback for the painter, of rarity and evanescence in nature. A stroke
of lightning is not out of place where the conditions may be presumed to
be more or less permanent, as in the celebrated picture of Apelles,
where Alexander was represented in the character of Jupiter casting a
thunderbolt, and forks of lightning proceed from his hand; or where the
occurrence is essential in the composition, as in Gilbert's Slaying of
Job's Sheep.[a] So in Danby's The Sixth Seal Opened, the lightning is
quite appropriate, for all nature is disturbed. In Martin's Plague of
Hail, and The Destruction of Pharaoh, the first a night scene, and the
second a view darkened by dense black clouds, lightning is well used for
lighting purposes; and in Cot's The Storm,[b] where the background is
dark and no sky is visible, lightning is the only means possessed by the
artist of explaining that the fear expressed by the lovers in the
foreground, arises from the approaching storm. Great masters like
Giorgione,[c] Rubens,[d] Poussin,[e] used a stroke of lightning on rare
occasions, but took every care that it should not be conspicuous, or
interfere in any way with the first view of the picture. The lightning
is invariably placed in the far background, and no light is apparently
reflected from it.
[a] The fire of God is fallen from Heaven, and hath burned up the
sheep and the servants. Job 1, 16.
[b] Metropolitan Museum, N. Y.
[c] Adrastus and Hypsipyle, Venice.
[d] Landscape with Baucis and Philemon, Munich.
[e] Jonah cast into the sea.
[Illustration: PLATE 18 (See page 202)
Landscape, by Hobbema (_Metropolitan Museum, N. Y._)]
A rainbow in nature has a life of appreciable duration, and so may be
appropriately used in landscape, but obviously it should be regarded as
a minor accessory except where it forms a necessary feature in the
design.[a] The great drawback in a prominent rainbow is that it forces
itself upon the attention of the observer to the detriment of the
picture as a whole, and if it be very conspicuous and crosses the middle
of the painted view, as in Turner's Arundel Castle, the picture appears
divided in two parts, and the possibility of an illusion of opening
distance is destroyed.[b] Almost as bad is the effect when a rainbow
cuts off a corner of a picture, for this suggests at first sight an
accidental interference with the work.[c] Of all artists Rubens seemed
to know best how to use a rainbow. He adopts three methods. The first
and best is to put the bow entirely in the sky[d]; the second to throw
it right into the background where part of it is dissolved in the
view[e]; and the third to indicate the bow in one part of the picture,
and overshadow it with a strong sunlight thrown in from another part.[f]
Any of these forms seems to answer well, but they practically exhaust
the possibilities in general design. A section of a rainbow may be shown
with one end of it on the ground, because this is observable in
nature[g]; but to cut off the top of the arch as if there were no room
for it on the canvas is obviously bad, for the two segments left appear
quite unnatural.[h]
[a] As in Martin's I have Set My Bow in the Clouds.
[b] In the Rivers of England series.
[c] The Rainbow of Millet, and a similar work of Thoma.
[d] Harvest Landscape, Munich Gallery.
[e] Harvest Landscape, Wallace Collection, London.
[f] Landscape with a Rainbow, Hermitage, Petrograd.
[g] Rubens's Shipwreck of Aeneas, Berlin Gallery.
[h] A. P. Van de Venne's Soul Fishery, Amsterdam.
The small rainbows sometimes seen at waterfalls are occasionally
introduced into paintings, but rarely with success because they tend to
interfere with the general view of the scene. Such views are necessarily
near ground, and so a bow must seriously injure the picture unless it be
placed at the side, as in Innes's fine work of Niagara Falls (the
example of 1884).
The use of a rainbow as a track in classical pictures is sometimes
effective, though the landscape is largely sacrificed owing to the
compulsory great width and bright appearance of the bow, which must
indeed practically absorb the attention of the observer. The best known
picture of this kind is Schwind's Rainbow, which shows the beautiful
form of Iris wrapped in the sheen of the bow, and descending with great
speed, the idea being apparently taken from Virgil.[a] To use the top of
the rainbow for a walking track is bad, as the mind instinctively repels
the invention as opposed to reason.[b]
[a] Aeneid V., where Juno sends Iris to the Trojan fleet.
[b] Thoma's Progress of the gods to Walhalla.
But if fleeting natural phenomena become disturbing to the observer of a
picture, how much more objectionable are the quickly disappearing
effects of artificial devices, as the lights from explosions. In a
battle scene covering a wide area of ground, a small cloud of smoke here
and there is not out of place, because under natural conditions such a
cloud lasts for an appreciable time; but no good artist will indicate in
his work a flash from a gun, for this would immediately become stagy and
unreal to the observer. Nor can fireworks of the ordinary kind be
properly represented in a picture. The beauty of these fireworks lies in
the appearance out of nothing, as it were, of brilliant showers of
coloured lights, and their rapid disappearance, to be replaced by others
of different form and character, the movement and changes constituting
important elements in their appreciation. But the painter can only
indicate them by fixed points of light which necessarily appear
abnormal. Stationary points of light can have no resemblance whatever to
fireworks, and if the title of the picture forces the imagination to see
in them expiring sparks from a rocket, the impression can only last a
moment, and will be succeeded by a revolt in the mind against so glaring
an impossibility as a number of permanent sparks. The only painted
firework display that does not appear abnormal is a fountain of fire and
sparks which may be presumed to last for some time, and therefore would
not quickly tire the mind.[a]
[a] See examples by La Touche, notably La Fete de Nuit, Salon, 1914.