_PAINTERS_
China has had its great art epochs, but for the last few centuries,
education having been a purely literary one, art seems to have lost
ground to a certain extent. However, it must be admitted, by those
who care to look into the matter, that all is by no means lost. If we
have not progressed during some centuries past, and if we have limited
ourselves to the reproduction of certain types which were created long
ago, if, in short, we show no originality, but only elegance and ease in
our artistic productions, it must, at least, be admitted that we have
scrupulously followed our ancient traditions.
Art flourished at its best in China in the reign of the Thang family. The
poet, Tou-Fou, was an artist also, whilst the painter, Ouang-Wei, was a
poet. Painting could be found in the poetry of the one, and poetry in the
painting of the other. Although our old masters did not pay any attention
to the laws of perspective, the works of their imaginations have always
been highly appreciated. Some of their pictures are exceedingly rare, and
like the two spoken about in the following poems of Tou-Fou, have to-day
a priceless value:—
I.
“On a painting representing some horses, executed by General Tchao.
Since the accession of our dynasty,
There have been many painters of horses,
And the most celebrated of these is General Kiang-Tou.
Your reputation as a painter is now thirty years old,
And thanks to you we once more see the beautiful mounts.
Our late Emperor greatly appreciated your talents,
And your name ran through the capitals like the roll of thunder.
The decrees of the _Gazette_ were never silent in your praise.
Generals after their triumphs have been rewarded,
Rich people after the rivalries of their luxury,
Cannot assert that they are quite contented,
Unless they have your pictures hanging on their walls.
Formerly Emperor Tai-Thoung was an amateur of horses,
And at the present day the Ko family is also so.
In your new picture the two horses
Are the envy of all sportsmen.
They have the appearance of war-chargers,
Which can hurl themselves one against a thousand.
Their white hair throws itself into the wind and the dust.
The others, quite as extraordinary, resemble
Now a cloud, now snow whirling in space.
Their delicate legs seem to run alongside the pine-tree forest,
Whilst the spectators who see them pass applaud.
Their heads aloft, their proud appearance, and their look, which
expresses both pride and obedience.
Who is able to appreciate these beautiful horses?
Excepted Oui-Foung and Tsse-Tong.
I remember that when the Emperor used to go to the Palace of Sin-Foung,
Flags and parasols coming from the east clouded the sky;
Then 30,000 horses, some trotting, some galloping, resembled the horses
in this picture,
Whilst this splendid cavalcade passes away into memory.
The same forest where this Imperial and important procession was seen
Resounds to-day only with the song of birds,
Which harmonises with the whistling of the winds.
II.
“You are the descendant of the Emperor Ouei-Ou,
Reduced to the state of simple citizen.
The splendour of your ancestors has disappeared,
But blood and features perpetuate themselves.
Your literature has reached the degree of perfection,
And your painting makes you forget honours which you do not covet.
Emperor Kai-Yung knew your glory, and received you several times at
his palace.
Thanks to your paint-brush, all our statesmen live again in their
portraits on the walls of the Palace of Ling-Yen.
The Ministers brilliantly wear the crowns of their wisdom.
The Generals have their arrows in their quivers.
One might say that their Excellencies Pao and Mo are moving their hair
and their beards,
Just as if they were returning from those battlefields where they fought
so brilliantly.
As to the splendid horse of his late Majesty, nobody knew how to paint
his exact portrait.
A decree ordained that he should be brought before the palace so that
you might fix him on a piece of silk;
And when your work was finished all the horses of the universe seemed
to be plunged into darkness.
The Court already possessed the most beautiful horses;
It now possesses also the most beautiful picture.
The reward which you have now received is the admiration of all.
Your scholar, Han-Kang, is already on the way to perfection, but the
horse he has painted is only skin with nothing beneath it;
He is far from possessing your genius.”
This is a somewhat enthusiastic perception of our old paintings. We have
a great number of amateur painters in China, chiefly amongst the literary
classes, who paint pictures to give to their friends.
These pictures are precious, because poems are always written by the side
of the paintings.
I remember having seen two celebrated pictures which would not be parted
with at any price. One represents the open sea, in the middle of which
a fisherman is seen in his boat, which is covered with snow. It is
accompanied by a poem which fully equals the _Pauvres Gens_ of Victor
Hugo. The other represents a mountain with its top hidden in clouds. In
the middle of the mountain is a stream which runs down to its foot, and
floating in the water is seen a cabbage-leaf. The poem that is written on
this picture ends with the following line:—
“Behind the white cloud there were still people living.”
And, sure enough, the cabbage-leaf bespeaks the presence of man, who
alone could transport cabbage-leaves to the top of a cloudy mountain.
The allusion is sufficiently concealed; but, in China, this habit of
veiling one’s meaning is a very common one, and it is specially to
be noticed in the pictorial art. On the other hand, such subjects as
the following are often suggested to painters: A red spot in the midst
of green. One painter would paint on this theme a forest with a stork
isolated on one tree; another would paint a red sunset in the green sea;
another, a woman with red lips in a bamboo wood.
Artists, in China, never sell their pictures. They are always amateurs,
and give their pictures away. The only art-wares which are trafficked
in China are produced by workpeople, and belong to the category of
decorative art. Sculpture is less cultivated at home by our amateurs,
and one must know our sculptors to understand their ways. One of them
once offered to make my bust. I went to his house, and he made me sit
down in front of him. We were separated by a table, which was covered by
a cloth which reached down to the ground. A very animated conversation
began between us. My friend was a man of a very quick intelligence, and
had a very original turn of thought. I was quite taken up with what he
was saying to me, but I still did notice that he kept his hands under the
table, and this surprised me all the more that I observed after watching
him some time that he was moving them with feverish activity. After I had
been there about an hour, which had passed very quickly, thanks to our
gossip, I was just going to rise, when my friend produced a mass of clay
from beneath the table, and said, “Do you think that it is like you?”
I was not a little surprised to see that it was my bust, which, in spite
of the rapidity with which it had been modelled, was very resembling; a
thing which was very curious, as the artist had never once looked at the
clay, but at my face alone. He must have had a wonderful skill to be able
to use his fingers both as eyes and as tools, touch replacing sight.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]