distinctness the Greek spirit, and also that there is no reason to
suppose that the sculptor was other than Cyrenean; it remains to find
out at what date the figure was carved. Often a mere fragment like this
exhibits some detail that makes it easy to fix the date of its origin
with considerable accuracy. In this case the question is complicated by
both technical points and general considerations. Had this head been
found in Greece itself or in any part of the Greek portion of Asia
Minor, the history of which is well known and the art of which has been
laid bare by the archæologist, we should have various well-established
criteria by which to test and estimate the head. But the definite
historical records of Cyrene are very scanty, and though what is
probably in general a fairly accurate idea of the development of the
city can be built up from the verses of poets, the accounts of
historians and other sources of various kinds, still there is little to
help us date a single work of art. There is, however, no reason to
suppose that the deeper currents which gave the course to the life of
Cyrene were very different from those which guided the life of other
colonies. Pindar’s odes alone would serve to show that the African city
was in pretty constant relation with the mother country. Hence it is
safe to assume that the arts developed in Cyrene very much as they did
elsewhere in the Greek world.
At the present time surely enough is known of the various parts of that
world to make us realise that all advance did not spring from Greece
herself. Though the Greek spirit was bound to express itself in similar
forms wherever Greeks settled, still sometimes one region, sometimes
another, was in the lead. Hence any chronological scale as applied to
art must be elastic, and one must not give way to the temptation to
judge every new find by the standards set by the artists of Greece
herself. Provincialism and archaism often take similar external forms.
So, too, it is a general law that colonies develop more rapidly than the
country from which they spring. A rapid development may be brought about
also by geographical and climatic conditions in places which, at first
sight, do not appear to be conducive to the advancement of art.
In years to come it will be proved beyond a doubt, I believe, that
Cyrene was such a place. Her distance from the regions in which we are
accustomed to think of the Greeks as working out their destiny saved her
from the wastage of those wars which it is hard to regret because they
have given us immortal pictures of Greek courage and devotion. What her
relations with the native powers were we do not yet know, but had they
led to any such struggles as made the pride of Athens and the other
cities of the mother country, surely some echo would have reached our
ears. So we may think of Cyrene as waxing fat from the moment when the
first settlers, after their long wanderings to find a habitable spot,
climbed the rocky hillsides and quenched their thirst at the spring
which with its bright arms still holds a small settlement. It is for
these general considerations of easy colonial growth, and freedom from
external distractions, that I think the Athena can be safely dated
rather earlier than we should be tempted to date her had she been found,
let us say, in Athens or Sparta.
The technical point which I mentioned as making it difficult to date the
head, is the helmet. It is of the Corinthian type, but there is nothing
in its general shape or details of form by which a date can be fixed.
Furthermore, it covers the head so completely that only a few waving
locks of hair over each ear and the heavy braid resting on the nape of
the neck are visible. This concealment of the hair takes away in large
measure one of the most helpful methods of dating statuary.
[Illustration: PLATE LXI.]
In the case of female figures, nevertheless, the treatment of the hair
is less helpful, perhaps, than in statues of the rougher sex because in
the former the more severe and orderly dressing of the bound locks gave
less chance for individuality of treatment than did the crisp and
wind-tossed curls of youths and men; still, even in the women’s figures
the hair very often betrays the date of the sculptor. Few though the
tresses are which escape the stern covering of Athena’s helmet, they are
sufficient to help us in our elusive pursuit. The general method in
which the hair is arranged, parted over the brow and drawn closely back
above the ears to a knot or short doubled up braid at the back, is one
that suffered but little change during several centuries. In the archaic
time the locks fell more loosely behind, while in the fourth century
they were more knotted, but these slight variations occur now and again
throughout the whole period of great Greek art and were due more to
individual fancy of artist or model than to the stifling rules of
fashion.
But though we must finally conclude that the mode of wearing the hair
does not assist us, as the cut of the dress most certainly would have
done had we been fortunate enough to find the body of the statue, still
the tresses between the temple and the ear have a quality of their own
which points to a definite time. They suggest the loose waving form of
life with noteworthy success. The sculptor belonged to a period when the
special nature of marble was thoroughly understood. The period had
passed when bronze and marble were treated in almost identical fashion,
and the time had come when sculptors could manage various materials with
complete understanding and were enabled to reproduce surfaces or
substances in the way best suited to malleable metal or to friable
stone.
The most perfect example of this understanding of substance which we
possess, and one that has never been surpassed, is the head of Hermes by
Praxiteles made in the first half of the fourth century before Christ.
The hair of the Athena is handled in much the same way. The locks and
strands are not sharply outlined and separated one from another but flow
from brow to neck in subtly broken masses among which the light plays in
and out as softly as in nature. This naturalistic treatment became
common after it had once been arrived at, but the tendency after the end
of the fourth century was to try for purer realism. This could not be
attained by greater skill in modelling and carving but only by polishing
or engraving the surface. The Athena exhibits neither of these signs of
decadence but the surface still shows that lovely dusty softness which
is characteristic of the best work of the late fifth and early fourth
centuries, a softness which would not have been imperceptible and
lacking in effect even when the figure was tinted with colour, as,
probably, all Greek sculpture was.
It is not only the hair which suggests the date of the early fourth
century as the time when the Athena was made. The broad chin, projecting
well away from the neck, a chin that would be heavy, were it not for the
exquisiteness of its outline, which seems to have the living force of a
coiled steel spring, is such as was common in the fifth and early fourth
centuries. So, too, are the broad set, wide opened eyes overhung by the
long low curve of the brow. Not a sign in these of the sentimentally
dreaming eyes with their melting lower lids which we associate with the
work of the imitators and followers of Praxiteles; not a trace of the
furrowed brow and the eye gleaming, like a live coal, from the deep
shadowed socket such as we see in the work of Scopas and the superb
masters of Pergamon.
In discussing such a fragment as this Athena it cannot be too clearly
remembered that the sculptor, like the poet, does but express his own
day, and if Praxiteles was delicate and sentimental or Scopas forceful
and passionate, it was because these were characteristic qualities of
their periods. These are, furthermore, exactly the qualities one would
expect at a time when old standards were beginning to be doubted and the
future offered nothing so substantial to take their place.
The same phenomenon is seen in the seventeenth century of our era. In
both periods thoughtful people either clung to a sentimental repetition
of old ideas which no longer had life-giving and creative force, but
were loved and dwelt on for the sake of old association, or else they
were driven to a passionate striving after new and dimly seen hopes and
ideals. Sentimental dreaming took the place of good hope and assurance
while mystical passion took that of intelligent piety. In the face of
the Athena there is seen no sign of a troubled spirit, she is calm and
steadfast with the strength of perfect self-poise, which could hardly
be, were she sprung from a later time than the early fourth century.
It has been insisted that there is in this head no trace of
sentimentality, and it may be thought that I have failed to notice, or
to give due weight to, the curious pose, drooping over slightly to one
side. This is one of the most noticeable points about the head, but, to
my mind, it expresses a feeling common in the fifth and early fourth
centuries and is not motived in the slightest degree by the later
sentimentality. In the old man seated on the ground in the Olympia
pediment, in the Mourning Athena at Athens, in most of the grave steles
of the late fifth and early fourth centuries, in the portrait bust of
Pericles, is to be seen, in the pose and expression of the figures, the
expression of a deep sentiment of combined gravity and tenderness. Again
and again this sentiment is expressed by the great dramatists in words
that ring down the centuries like distant bells. It is the recognition
of suffering and sorrow but also of the self-control that meets them
undismayed. When the Greeks lost their faith, at the same time they lost
this control. In the Demeter of Cnidos and the portrait of Mausolus
there are unmistakable signs of lack of control,—in the former the
startled pose, and in the latter the look of distress plainly visible in
the fine and vigorous face. The Athena resembles the Pericles and the
grave steles in this respect. The head leans over as though bent by the
wind (a position which emphasises the exquisite shape of the neck), but
in the steady, quiet eyes and in the sensitive closed lips one sees
plainly that simple directness that distinguished the Greeks of the
period to which I attribute this head, from all the other peoples who
have inhabited this earth.
I have just mentioned the mouth of the figure, and this is the feature
to which I referred before as showing, possibly, the effect of local
circumstance on the sculptor. It is a very noticeable mouth; large with
unusually full and richly modelled lips—lips that could send the battle
cry echoing across the scarred and rock-strewn hills or could whisper
like the brook beneath the rosy-plumed oleanders. In shape it is by no
means a typical Greek mouth, but has a trace of the fuller form common
to the Libyans with whom the Cyreneans were in constant and close
intercourse. While it is true that history fails to note a single case
of an individual of pure black blood accomplishing anything of note
except in a military way, such do often possess great beauty of form and
feature, and this fact has been seized upon by the sculptor of the
Athena. With great skill he has softened the somewhat savage shape and
given it the lines that are consequent upon a higher civilization.
We have come now to the end of our study of this bit of sculpture. It
could be compared indefinitely with other heads, and the similarities or
differences could be pointed out. Little would result, however, from
such comparisons. What is needed is more sculpture from the same region
with which to study the Athena. But till this is forthcoming, we are
left to the general conclusions derived from this single example. These
conclusions are that the Athena was carved by some as yet unknown artist
at Cyrene in the first half of the fourth century B.C. and that the work
differs from the Greek work we are accustomed to in showing local
characteristics both in special features and in method. This may seem to
be of small importance and the head to be unworthy so elaborate a
discussion; such would be the case were we to think of it merely as an
archæological remnant of a forgotten city and time. But this head is
more than a mere bit of flotsam. It is not a dead and meaningless
fragment, but has still the suggestive and creative power of any true
work of art. This vitality and artistic veracity are shown by the
extreme clearness with which it illustrates two of the fundamental
characteristics of the Greek genius—humanism and directness.
The simplicity and directness of the Greek showed itself in all he did
or made. He never attributed human emotions to nature and never bound
himself with dogmatic conventions. For these reasons he was never
sentimental and never dry or false. He saw ugliness, moral as well as
material, in the world around him, but recognising that it in no way
added to happiness, he did not wallow in it and proclaim himself a
“realist.” When he came to consider religion he was straightforward in
his treatment of the Gods as he was with himself. They were but a
superior race born from the same great mother Earth (Pindar, Nem. VI.
1). Athena, the Goddess, is but a woman and nothing more. He saw
beautiful women in the cities where he dwelt and in form of their
physical perfection he represented the bright-eyed Goddess. He sought no
imaginary qualities, he attempted to express no hazy, mystical dreams
but finding beauty in mankind, he was satisfied to reproduce it so well
as might be.
Ordinary everyday life was the chief interest of the thoughtful Greek.
He had the same circumstances of existence around him as we have to-day,
and knew just as much of the origin or the end of it all. Life, death
and the passing show of time were his schoolmasters as they are ours,
and from them he learnt humanism. He thought of the world not as a blind
accident nor as a mystical promise but merely as the setting for man and
hence the conduct of life became his chief interest.
The Greek sought for all means whereby he might avoid the pitfalls of
youth, secure the comforts of well-rounded growth and minimise the
weaknesses and griefs of old age. To attain this ideal certain things
were seen to be necessary, and from Solon, who considered that the man
was happy who had health, good fortune, good looks and children, to
Aristotle, who (Rhet. 1360 b, 14) gave the same definition in a more
amplified form, the ideal did not alter. Even to-day there is but one
part of this that seems strange to us. That is the stress laid on
personal beauty. Good fortune, health, wisdom, children and particularly
wealth go to form the general ideal of the modern world, but there can
be only few who would admit that the desire for physical beauty was part
and parcel of their ideal. The Greek on the other hand frankly desired
it almost more than anything else and showed his perfectly simple and
entirely pleasant belief in its value by his games and by many a story
which he told as illustrative of enduring truths. One of these tales has
a bearing on the Athena of Cyrene. It is that of Peisistratus, who in
order to become ruler of Athens came there accompanied by a beautiful
woman in regard to whom he told the credulous citizens that she was the
Goddess Athena herself.
Thus we see that it is due to no mere partiality for the pleasing form
on the part of the unknown sculptor that this head from Cyrene is
beautiful, but because his brain and hand were guided by ideals that
were second nature to him. As we grow familiar with the head, the
loveliness of every feature, the sharp insistence on sweet feminine
beauty make one wish destruction might fall on the vague and dreamy and
contorted realisms with which many of the modern artists would attract
our attention. The calm and steadfast eyes look at us across the
centuries and question our mysticism. The straightforward, immediate,
perfect humanity gives us pause in our mad search for novelty, and
should we conclude that this is perfect art, though we may lose the
sympathy of our contemporaries, we shall win the companionship of those
whose laurels are immortal.
GIORGIONE
_Although in the following Study of Giorgione I express certain
conclusions which seem to me certain, it is nevertheless probable that
there will never be absolute agreement about his works. The indubitable
facts concerning him are so very few that no two critics can be expected
to see the matter eye to eye. I disagree in many points with the
pathbreakers Morelli and Berenson, but it should not be forgotten that
the knowledge of such men gives an added keenness to the innate powers
of perception of those who come after them. Their torch lights ours, and
so the path is pursued._
_The publication of Justi’s valuable work on Giorgione (Berlin, 1908),
in which all the pictures still in existence that have bearing on
Giorgione are reproduced, makes full illustration of this Study quite
unnecessary._
I. PAINTINGS ATTRIBUTED TO GIORGIONE
A great upheaval and destruction of old traditions has taken place of
late years in regard to paintings, and while much truth has been brought
to light, a great deal of fancy has been given the semblance of
veracity. The name of Morelli is familiar to all who take a serious
interest in the paintings of the Italian schools, and though he was not
the first to practise what not inaptly has been dubbed the ‘toe-nail’
method of criticism, yet his writings are more voluminous than those of
other authors, and exemplify this method of criticism more completely,
so that he may be taken as the protagonist of the school. It was the
development of photography, and the vast increase in the number of
pictures of which photographs could be procured, which gave rise to the
Morellian school. The writers of earlier days who could not have before
them on their tables, or carry with them to the galleries, a large
quantity of reproductions of the works of any one master, were in a
large measure prevented from studying the comparative likenesses or
dissimilarities of such pictures.
But, as was natural, with this intensive study of photographs has come
about a microscopic method of looking at pictures which often disregards
the larger and more unquestionable qualities, and satisfies itself with
tricks of drawing and the painting of details. It is as though instead
of considering the structure and content of a book, one should measure
the lines and number the punctuation points. It is within the realm of
possibility that the day has passed for treatises based on such thorough
study and acute perception of the qualities expressed by the Italian
painters as were written by Crowe and Cavalcaselle, or such
magnificently imaginative and poetic interpretations as the enduring
verities first enunciated by Ruskin.
Not that these men did not make mistakes. Had they never done so we
should not be able to give a true valuation to their work. Stupidity is
not demonstrated by the making of blunders but by the spirit that
animates the person at the moment of their commission. Ruskin, to
illustrate by means of the brightest example, realised that paintings
are expressions of thought just as much as are printed books, and that
they are to be read and understood not by adding the vowels together in
one heap and the consonants in another, but in their entirety.
Morelli and his followers, on the other hand, are obviously in large
measure satisfied by an analysis of external forms and if they discover
that each of two pictures presents the same number of curved and
straight lines, no further proof is needed to satisfy them that the same
author is responsible for both works. It is true that details of style
must be studied and were often neglected by the earlier critics, but the
famous proof of the identity of Moses and Melchisedek—“you take off the
-_oses_ and add the -_elchisedek_”—will never satisfy many people.
Morelli forgot that it requires no special perception to discover that
Botticelli gave his figures square nails on their toes and fingers, or
that the knuckles of Rosselli’s figures are apt to be swollen. But it is
exactly this kind of observation which copyists possess. By the
observation of such points one is able to say only that such and such a
work is externally like the works of this or that artist, but that it is
by him depends on quite other proofs.
One or two examples will show the fallacy of such a method of argument.
There is in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts a picture representing the
Virgin and Child with St. John. The name of Botticelli is on the frame.
So far as finger nails or shape of nostril or locks of hair or position
of fingers go (and all these details are peculiarly treated by
Botticelli), the work might be considered to be by him. It is, however,
certain that Botticelli was not the painter of the panel. Among several
circumstances that demonstrate this, such as the method of painting
employed by the artist, there is one that has to do with the spirit of
the work, and which in itself is sufficient proof: I refer to the figure
of St. John. We have enough works by Botticelli, the authenticity of
which is established beyond all question, to know that he could never at
any period of his career have represented this character with a simper
that reminds one of Francia’s sentimental figures.
The picture is by a feeble imitator of the master. The works of
Botticelli and his imitators offer, because of the very marked
peculiarities of the master, extremely good examples to show what
mistakes arise by relying too exclusively on the Morellian method, and
in both public and private collections are many pictures showing the
mannerisms of the Florentine but which are certainly not by him.[36]
Take another master, Leonardo. There has lately gone to America[37] a
panel representing the head of a woman. It was left by Morelli when he
died to Donna Laura Minghetti. To the followers of Morelli, the picture
seemed for a long time genuine enough, but when the style of the
headdress, the tone of the colour and character of the painting, and
lastly the position of the head on the panel itself, had been studied,
it became evident that the painting was a modern forgery, and this was
further proved when an attempt was made to clean the panel.
These illustrations are sufficient to show that the final judgment of a
picture should be based on more than its technical peculiarities. The
observation of these is good to begin with, but it does not suffice.
That even Morelli himself instinctively felt the weakness of his method
is shown in a most humorous way in his description of his “discovery” of
the author of a portrait of a woman in the Borghese Gallery.
He tells us how before he looked at this canvas with _kritischem Auge_
he had first thought it to be by Dosso Dossi and then by Sebastiano
Luciani. The rest is too naïve to translate, it must be given verbatim.
“Eines Tages jedoch, als ich wieder fragend und entzückt vor dem
mysteriösen Bilde stand, begegnete mein eigener Geist dem des Künstlers,
welcher aus diesen weiblichen Zügen heraussah und siehe da, in der
gegenseitigen Berührung zündete es plötzlich wie ein Funken und ich rief
in meiner Freude aus: Nur du, mein Freund, Giorgione kannst es sein, und
das Bild antwortete: Ja, ich bin’s”; and then follows analysis and
dissection of the portrait.
The still small voice of his soul having interpreted the riddle of the
picture he _then_ saw that the eye, the expression, the mouth were such
as only Giorgione could paint. In a critical case like this Morelli had
to look first to something other than anatomical or sartorial shapes.
Unfortunately, in this particular case, he has convinced but few
students by this sudden and mysterious interpretation of the picture,
and only his most ardent apostles see in the ill-drawn portrait anything
but a feeble imitation of certain of the less subtle qualities of the
great Venetian.
Morelli made, however, other discoveries in regard to Giorgione of
greater import than this; but before taking them up in detail it will be
worth while to fix clearly in our minds what we know about the
Venetian’s work from contemporary or approximately contemporary writers.
Vasari and Ridolfi do not, indeed, fail to give the name of Giorgione to
many a picture that had never felt the artist’s brush, but they saw many
a picture that has since disappeared and what they tell us is the basis
of all modern criticism of this most poetic of all the Venetians. I
believe it can be shown that much which the earlier writers said of him,
and which has since been forgotten or unwisely disregarded, is true.