[Page heading: REPRESENTATION OF MOVEMENT]
Turning our attention first to movement--which, by the way, is not the
same as motion, mere change of place--we find that we realise it just as
we realise objects, by the stimulation of our tactile imagination, only
that here touch retires to a second place before the muscular feelings
of varying pressure and strain. I see (to take an example) two men
wrestling, but unless my retinal impressions are immediately translated
into images of strain and pressure in my muscles, of resistance to my
weight, of touch all over my body, it means nothing to me in terms of
vivid experience--not more, perhaps, than if I heard some one say "Two
men are wrestling." Although a wrestling match may, in fact, contain
many genuinely artistic elements, our enjoyment of it can never be quite
artistic; we are prevented from completely realising it not only by our
dramatic interest in the game, but also, granting the possibility of
being devoid of dramatic interest, by the succession of movements being
too rapid for us to realise each completely, and too fatiguing, even if
realisable. Now if a way could be found of conveying to us the
realisation of movement without the confusion and the fatigue of the
actuality, we should be getting out of the wrestlers more than they
themselves can give us--the heightening of vitality which comes to us
whenever we keenly realise life, such as the actuality itself would give
us, _plus_ the greater effectiveness of the heightening brought about by
the clearer, intenser, and less fatiguing realisation. This is precisely
what the artist who succeeds in representing movement achieves: making
us realise it as we never can actually, he gives us a heightened sense
of capacity, and whatever is in the actuality enjoyable, he allows us to
enjoy at our leisure. In words already familiar to us, he _extracts the
significance of movements_, just as, in rendering tactile values, the
artist extracts the corporeal significance of objects. His task is,
however, far more difficult, although less indispensable:--it is not
enough that he should extract the values of what at any given moment is
an actuality, as is an object, but what at no moment really is--namely
movement. He can accomplish his task in only one way, and that is by so
rendering the one particular movement that we shall be able to realise
all other movements that the same figure may make. "He is grappling with
his enemy now," I say of my wrestler. "What a pleasure to be able to
realise in my own muscles, on my own chest, with my own arms and legs,
the life that is in him as he is making his supreme effort! What a
pleasure, as I look away from the representation, to realise in the same
manner, how after the contest his muscles will relax, and rest trickle
like a refreshing stream through his nerves!" All this I shall be made
to enjoy by the artist who, in representing any one movement, can give
me the logical sequence of visible strain and pressure in the parts and
muscles.
It is just here that the scientific spirit of the Florentine naturalists
was of immense service to art. This logic of sequence is to be attained
only by great, although not necessarily more than empiric, knowledge of
anatomy, such perhaps as the artist pure would never be inclined to work
out for himself, but just such as would be of absorbing interest to
those scientists by temperament and artists by profession whom we have
in Pollaiuolo and, to a less extent, in Verrocchio. We remember how
Giotto contrived to render tactile values. Of all the possible outlines,
of all the possible variations of light and shade that a figure may
have, he selected those that we must isolate for special attention when
we are actually realising it. If instead of figure, we say figure in
movement, the same statement applies to the way Pollaiuolo rendered
movement--with this difference, however, that he had to render what in
actuality we never can perfectly isolate, the line and light and shade
most significant of any given action. This the artist must construct
himself out of his dramatic feeling for pressure and strain and his
ability to articulate the figure in all its logical sequences, for, if
he would convey a sense of movement, he must give the line and the
light and shade which will best render not tactile values alone, but the
sequences of articulations.
[Page heading: "BATTLE OF THE NUDES"]
It would be difficult to find more effective illustration of all that
has just been said about movement than one or two of Pollaiuolo's own
works, which, in contrast to most of his achievements, where little more
than effort and research are visible, are really masterpieces of
life-communicating art. Let us look first at his engraving known as the
"Battle of the Nudes." What is it that makes us return to this sheet
with ever renewed, ever increased pleasure? Surely it is not the hideous
faces of most of the figures and their scarcely less hideous bodies. Nor
is it the pattern as decorative design, which is of great beauty indeed,
but not at all in proportion to the spell exerted upon us. Least of all
is it--for most of us--an interest in the technique or history of
engraving. No, the pleasure we take in these savagely battling forms
arises from their power to directly communicate life, to immensely
heighten our sense of vitality. Look at the combatant prostrate on the
ground and his assailant bending over, each intent on stabbing the
other. See how the prostrate man plants his foot on the thigh of his
enemy, and note the tremendous energy he exerts to keep off the foe,
who, turning as upon a pivot, with his grip on the other's head, exerts
no less force to keep the advantage gained. The significance of all
these muscular strains and pressures is so rendered that we cannot help
realising them; we imagine ourselves imitating all the movements, and
exerting the force required for them--and all without the least effort
on our side. If all this without moving a muscle, what should we feel if
we too had exerted ourselves! And thus while under the spell of this
illusion--this hyperæsthesia not bought with drugs, and not paid for
with cheques drawn on our vitality--we feel as if the elixir of life,
not our own sluggish blood, were coursing through our veins.
[Page heading: "HERCULES STRANGLING DAVID"]
Let us look now at an even greater triumph of movement than the Nudes,
Pollaiuolo's "Hercules Strangling Antæus." As you realise the suction of
Hercules' grip on the earth, the swelling of his calves with the pressure
that falls on them, the violent throwing back of his chest, the stifling
force of his embrace; as you realise the supreme effort of Antæus, with
one hand crushing down upon the head and the other tearing at the arm of
Hercules, you feel as if a fountain of energy had sprung up under your
feet and were playing through your veins. I cannot refrain from
mentioning still another masterpiece, this time not only of movement, but
of tactile values and personal beauty as well--Pollaiuolo's "David" at
Berlin. The young warrior has sped his stone, cut off the giant's head,
and now he strides over it, his graceful, slender figure still vibrating
with the rapidity of his triumph, expectant, as if fearing the ease of
it. What lightness, what buoyancy we feel as we realise the movement of
this wonderful youth!