will make little difference to you, and that you will be little the
happier, or little the better for it. You have at present no conception,
and can have none, how much you would enjoy a truly beautiful
architecture; but I can give you a proof of it which none of you will be
able to deny. You will all assuredly admit this principle,--that
whatever temporal things are spoken of in the Bible as emblems of the
highest spiritual blessings, must be _good things_ in themselves. You
would allow that bread, for instance, would not have been used as an
emblem of the word of life, unless it had been good, and necessary for
man; nor water used as the emblem of sanctification, unless it also had
been good and necessary for man. You will allow that oil, and honey, and
balm are good, when David says, "Let the righteous reprove me; it shall
be an excellent oil;" or, "How sweet are thy words unto my taste; yea,
sweeter than honey to my mouth;" or, when Jeremiah cries out in his
weeping, "Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no physician there?" You
would admit at once that the man who said there was no taste in the
literal honey, and no healing in the literal balm, must be of distorted
judgment, since God had used them as emblems of spiritual sweetness and
healing. And how, then, will you evade the conclusion, that there must
be joy, and comfort, and instruction in the literal beauty of
architecture, when God, descending in His utmost love to the distressed
Jerusalem, and addressing to her His most precious and solemn promises,
speaks to her in such words as these: "Oh, thou afflicted, tossed with
tempest, and not comforted,"--What shall be done to her?--What brightest
emblem of blessing will God set before her? "Behold, I will _lay thy
stones with fair colors_, and thy foundations with sapphires; and I will
make thy _windows of agates_, and thy gates of carbuncles, and all thy
borders of pleasant stones." Nor is this merely an emblem of spiritual
blessing; for that blessing is added in the concluding words, "And all
thy children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace
of thy children."
ADDENDA
TO
LECTURES I. AND II.
57. The delivery of the foregoing lectures excited, as it may be
imagined, considerable indignation among the architects who happened to
hear them, and elicited various attempts at reply. As it seemed to have
been expected by the writers of these replies, that in two lectures,
each of them lasting not much more than an hour, I should have been able
completely to discuss the philosophy and history of the architecture of
the world, besides meeting every objection, and reconciling every
apparent contradiction, which might suggest itself to the minds of
hearers with whom, probably, from first to last, I had not a single
exactly correspondent idea relating to the matters under discussion, it
seems unnecessary to notice any of them in particular. But as this
volume may perhaps fall into the hands of readers who have not time to
refer to the works in which my views have been expressed more at large,
and as I shall now not be able to write or to say anything more about
architecture for some time to come, it may be useful to state here, and
explain in the shortest possible compass, the main gist of the
propositions which I desire to maintain respecting that art; and also to
note and answer, once for all, such arguments as are ordinarily used by
the architects of the modern school to controvert these propositions.
They may be reduced under six heads.
1. That Gothic or Romanesque construction is nobler than Greek
construction.
2. That ornamentation is the principal part of architecture.
3. That ornamentation should be visible.
4. That ornamentation should be natural.
5. That ornamentation should be thoughtful.
6. And that therefore Gothic ornamentation is nobler than Greek
ornamentation, and Gothic architecture the only architecture which
should now be built.
58. Proposition 1st.--_Gothic or Romanesque construction is nobler than
Greek construction._[20] That is to say, building an arch, vault, or
dome, is a nobler and more ingenious work than laying a flat stone or
beam over the space to be covered. It is, for instance, a nobler and
more ingenious thing to build an arched bridge over a stream, than to
lay two pine-trunks across from bank to bank; and, in like manner, it is
a nobler and more ingenious thing to build an arch over a window, door,
or room, than to lay a single flat stone over the same space.
[Footnote 20: The constructive value of Gothic architecture is, however,
far greater than that of Romanesque, as the pointed arch is not only
susceptible of an infinite variety of forms and applications to the
weight to be sustained, but it possesses, in the outline given to its
masonry at its perfect periods, the means of self-sustainment to a far
greater degree than the round arch. I pointed out, for, I believe, the
first time, the meaning and constructive value of the Gothic cusp, in
page 129 of the first volume of the "Stones of Venice." That statement
was first denied, and then taken advantage of, by modern architects; and
considering how often it has been alleged that I have no _practical_
knowledge of architecture, it cannot but be matter of some triumph to
me, to find "The Builder," of the 21st January, 1854, describing as a
new invention, the successful application to a church in Carlow of the
principle which I laid down in the year 1851.]
No architects have ever attempted seriously to controvert this
proposition. Sometimes, however, they say that "of two ways of doing a
thing, the best and most perfect is not always to be adopted, for there
may be particular reasons for employing an inferior one." This I am
perfectly ready to grant, only let them show their reasons in each
particular case. Sometimes also they say, that there is a charm in the
simple construction which is lost in the scientific one. This I am also
perfectly ready to grant. There is a charm in Stonehenge which there is
not in Amiens Cathedral, and a charm in an Alpine pine bridge which
there is not in the Ponte della Trinita at Florence, and, in general, a
charm in savageness which there is not in science. But do not let it be
said, therefore, that savageness _is_ science.
59. Proposition 2d.--_Ornamentation is the principal part of
architecture._ That is to say, the highest nobility of a building does
not consist in its being well built, but in its being nobly sculptured
or painted.
This is always, and at the first hearing of it, very naturally,
considered one of my most heretical propositions. It is also one of the
most important I have to maintain; and it must be permitted me to
explain it at some length. The first thing to be required of a
building--not, observe, the _highest_ thing, but the first thing--is
that it shall answer its purposes completely, permanently, and at the
smallest expense. If it is a house, it should be just of the size
convenient for its owner, containing exactly the kind and number of
rooms that he wants, with exactly the number of windows he wants, put in
the places that he wants. If it is a church, it should be just large
enough for its congregation, and of such shape and disposition as shall
make them comfortable in it and let them hear well in it. If it be a
public office, it should be so disposed as is most convenient for the
clerks in their daily avocations; and so on; all this being utterly
irrespective of external appearance or aesthetic considerations of any
kind, and all being done solidly, securely, and at the smallest
necessary cost.
The _sacrifice_ of any of these first requirements to external
appearance is a futility and absurdity. Rooms must not be darkened to
make the ranges of windows symmetrical. Useless wings must not be added
on one side, to balance useful wings on the other, but the house built
with one wing, if the owner has no need of two; and so on.
60. But observe, in doing all this, there is no High, or as it is
commonly called, Fine Art, required at all. There may be much science,
together with the lower form of art, or "handicraft," but there is as
yet no _Fine Art_. House-building, on these terms, is no higher thing
than ship-building. It indeed will generally be found that the edifice
designed with this masculine reference to utility, will have a charm
about it, otherwise unattainable, just as a ship, constructed with
simple reference to its service against powers of wind and wave, turns
out one of the loveliest things that human hands produce. Still, we do
not, and properly do not, hold ship-building to be a fine art, nor
preserve in our memories the names of immortal ship-builders; neither,
so long as the mere utility and constructive merit of the building are
regarded, is architecture to be held a fine art, or are the names of
architects to be remembered immortally. For any one may at any time be
taught to build the ship, or (thus far) the house, and there is nothing
deserving of immortality in doing what any one may be taught to do.
But when the house, or church, or other building is thus far designed,
and the forms of its dead walls and dead roofs are up to this point
determined, comes the divine part of the work--namely, to turn these
dead walls into living ones. Only Deity, that is to say, those who are
taught by Deity, can do that.
And that is to be done by painting and sculpture, that is to say, by
ornamentation. Ornamentation is therefore the principal part of
architecture, considered as a subject of fine art.
61. Now observe. It will at once follow from this principle, that _a
great architect must be a great sculptor or painter_.
This is a universal law. No person who is not a great sculptor or
painter _can_ be an architect. If he is not a sculptor or painter, he
can only be a _builder_.
The three greatest architects hitherto known in the world were Phidias,
Giotto, and Michael Angelo; with all of whom, architecture was only
their play, sculpture and painting their work. All great works of
architecture in existence are either the work of single sculptors or
painters, or of societies of sculptors and painters, acting collectively
for a series of years. A Gothic cathedral is properly to be defined as a
piece of the most magnificent associative sculpture, arranged on the
noblest principles of building, for the service and delight of
multitudes; and the proper definition of architecture, as distinguished
from sculpture, is merely "the art of designing sculpture for a
particular place, and placing it there on the best principles of
building."
Hence it clearly follows, that in modern days we have no _architects_.
The term "architecture" is not so much as understood by us. I am very
sorry to be compelled to the discourtesy of stating this fact, but a
fact it is, and a fact which it is necessary to state strongly.
Hence also it will follow, that the first thing necessary to the
possession of a school of architecture is the formation of a school of
able sculptors, and that till we have that, nothing we do can be called
architecture at all.
62. This, then, being my second proposition, the so-called "architects"
of the day, as the reader will imagine, are not willing to admit it, or
to admit any statement which at all involves it; and every statement,
tending in this direction, which I have hitherto made, has of course
been met by eager opposition; opposition which perhaps would have been
still more energetic, but that architects have not, I think, till
lately, been quite aware of the lengths to which I was prepared to carry
the principle.
The arguments, or assertions, which they generally employ against this
second proposition and its consequences, are the following:
First. That the true nobility of architecture consists, not in
decoration (or sculpture), but in the "disposition of masses," and that
architecture is, in fact, the "art of proportion."
63. It is difficult to overstate the enormity of the ignorance which
this popular statement implies. For the fact is, that _all_ art, and
all nature, depend on the "disposition of masses." Painting, sculpture,
music, and poetry depend all equally on the "proportion," whether of
colors, stones, notes, or words. Proportion is a principle, not of
architecture, but of existence. It is by the laws of proportion that
stars shine, that mountains stand, and rivers flow. Man can hardly
perform any act of his life, can hardly utter two words of innocent
speech, or move his hand in accordance with those words, without
involving some reference, whether taught or instinctive, to the laws of
proportion. And in the fine arts, it is impossible to move a single
step, or to execute the smallest and simplest piece of work, without
involving all those laws of proportion in their full complexity. To
arrange (by invention) the folds of a piece of drapery, or dispose the
locks of hair on the head of a statue, requires as much sense and
knowledge of the laws of proportion, as to dispose the masses of a
cathedral. The one are indeed smaller than the other, but the relations
between 1, 2, 4, and 8, are precisely the same as the relations between
6, 12, 24, and 48. So that the assertion that "architecture is _par
excellence_ the art of proportion," could never be made except by
persons who know nothing of art in general; and, in fact, never _is_
made except by those architects, who, not being artists, fancy that the
one poor aesthetic principle of which they _are_ cognizant is the whole
of art. They find that the "disposition of masses" is the only thing of
importance in the art with which they are acquainted, and fancy
therefore that it is peculiar to that art; whereas the fact is, that all
great art _begins_ exactly where theirs _ends_, with the "disposition of
masses." The assertion that Greek architecture, as opposed to Gothic
architecture, is the "architecture of proportion," is another of the
results of the same broad ignorance. First, it is a calumny of the old
Greek style itself, which, like every other good architecture that ever
existed, depends more on its grand figure sculpture, than on its
proportions of parts; so that to copy the form of the Parthenon without
its friezes and frontal statuary, is like copying the figure of a human
being without its eyes and mouth; and, in the second place, so far as
modern Pseudo-Greek work _does_ depend on its proportions more than
Gothic work, it does so, not because it is better proportioned, but
because it has nothing _but_ proportion to depend upon. Gesture is in
like manner of more importance to a pantomime actor than to a tragedian,
not because his gesture is more refined, but because he has no tongue.
And the proportions of our common Greek work are important to it
undoubtedly, but not because they are or even can be more subtile than
Gothic proportion, but because that work has no sculpture, nor color,
nor imagination, nor sacredness, nor any other quality whatsoever in it,
but ratios of measures. And it is difficult to express with sufficient
force the absurdity of the supposition that there is more room for
refinements of proportion in the relations of seven or eight equal
pillars, with the triangular end of a roof above them, than between the
shafts, and buttresses, and porches, and pinnacles, and vaultings, and
towers, and all other doubly and trebly multiplied magnificences of
membership which form the framework of a Gothic temple.
64. Second reply.--It is often said, with some appearance of
plausibility, that I dwell in all my writings on little things and
contemptible details; and not on essential and large things. Now, in the
first place, as soon as our architects become capable of doing and
managing little and contemptible things, it will be time to talk about
larger ones; at present I do not see that they can design so much as a
niche or a bracket, and therefore they need not as yet think about
anything larger. For although, as both just now, and always, I have
said, there is as much science of arrangement needed in the designing of
a small group of parts as of a large one, yet assuredly designing the
larger one is _not the easier_ work of the two. For the eye and mind can
embrace the smaller object more completely, and if the powers of
conception are feeble, they get embarrassed by the inferior members
which fall _within_ the divisions of the larger design.[21] So that, of
course, the best way is to begin with the smaller features; for most
assuredly, those who cannot design small things cannot design large
ones; and yet, on the other hand, whoever can design small things
_perfectly_, can design whatever he chooses. The man who, without
copying, and by his own true and original power, can arrange a cluster
of rose-leaves nobly, can design anything. He may fail from want of
taste or feeling, but not from want of power.
[Footnote 21: Thus, in speaking of Pugin's designs, I said, "Expect no
cathedrals of him; but no one, at present, can design a better finial,
though he will never design even a finial perfectly." But even this I
said less with reference to powers of arrangement, than to materials of
fancy; for many men have store enough to last them through a boss or a
bracket, but not to last them through a church front.]
And the real reason why architects are so eager in protesting against my
close examination of details, is simply that they know they dare not
meet me on that ground. Being, as I have said, in reality _not_
architects, but builders, they can indeed raise a large building, with
copied ornaments, which, being huge and white, they hope the public may
pronounce "handsome." But they cannot design a cluster of
oak-leaves--no, nor a single human figure--no, nor so much as a beast,
or a bird, or a bird's nest! Let them first learn to invent as much as
will fill a quatre-foil, or point a pinnacle, and then it will be time
enough to reason with them on the principles of the sublime.
65. But farther. The things that I have dwelt upon in examining
buildings, though often their least parts, are always in reality their
principal parts. That is the principal part of a building in which its
mind is contained, and that, as I have just shown, is its sculpture--and
painting. I do with a building as I do with a man, watch the eye and the
lips: when they are bright and eloquent, the form of the body is of
little consequence.
Whatever other objections have been made to this second proposition,
arise, as far as I remember, merely from a confusion of the idea of
essentialness or primariness with the idea of nobleness. The essential
thing in a building,--its _first_ virtue,--is that it be strongly
built, and fit for its uses. The noblest thing in a building, and its
_highest_ virtue, is that it be nobly sculptured or painted.[22]
[Footnote 22: Of course I use the term painting as including every mode
of applying color.]
66. One or two important corollaries yet remain to be stated. It has
just been said that to sacrifice the convenience of a building to its
external appearance is a futility and absurdity, and that convenience
and stability are to be attained at the smallest cost. But when that
convenience _has_ been attained, the adding the noble characters of life
by painting and sculpture, is a work in which all possible cost may be
wisely admitted. There is great difficulty in fully explaining the
various bearings of this proposition, so as to do away with the chances
of its being erroneously understood and applied. For although, in the
first designing of the building, nothing is to be admitted but what is
wanted, and no useless wings are to be added to balance useful ones, yet
in its ultimate designing, when its sculpture and color become precious,
it may be that actual room is wanted to display them, or richer symmetry
wanted to deserve them; and in such cases even a useless wall may be
built to bear the sculpture, as at San Michele of Lucca, or a useless
portion added to complete the cadences, as at St. Mark's of Venice, or
useless height admitted in order to increase the impressiveness, as in
nearly every noble building in the world. But the right to do this is
dependent upon the actual _purpose_ of the building becoming no longer
one of utility merely; as the purpose of a cathedral is not so much to
shelter the congregation as to awe them. In such cases even some
sacrifice of convenience may occasionally be admitted, as in the case of
certain forms of pillared churches. But for the most part, the great law
is, convenience first, and then the noblest decoration possible; and
this is peculiarly the case in domestic buildings, and such public ones
as are constantly to be used for practical purposes.
67. Proposition 3d.--_Ornamentation should be visible._
The reader may imagine this to be an indisputable position; but,
practically, it is one of the last which modern architects are likely to
admit; for it involves much more than appears at first sight. To render
ornamentation, with all its qualities, clearly and entirely visible in
its appointed place on the building, requires a knowledge of effect and
a power of design which few even of the best artists possess, and which
modern architects, so far from possessing, do not so much as comprehend
the existence of. But, without dwelling on this highest manner of
rendering ornament "visible," I desire only at present to convince the
reader thoroughly of the main fact asserted in the text, that while
modern builders decorate the _tops_ of buildings, mediaeval builders
decorated the _bottom_. So singular is the ignorance yet prevailing of
the first principles of Gothic architecture, that I saw this assertion
marked with notes of interrogation in several of the reports of these
Lectures; although, at Edinburgh, it was only necessary for those who
doubted it to have walked to Holyrood Chapel, in order to convince
themselves of the truth of it, so far as their own city was concerned;
and although, most assuredly, the cathedrals of Europe have now been
drawn often enough to establish the very simple fact that their best
sculpture is in their porches, not in their steeples. However, as this
great Gothic principle seems yet unacknowledged, let me state it here,
once for all, namely, that the whole building is decorated, in all pure
and fine examples, with the most exactly studied respect to the powers
of the eye; the richest and most delicate sculpture being put on the
walls of the porches, or on the facade of the building, just high enough
above the ground to secure it from accidental (not from wanton[23])
injury. The decoration, as it rises, becomes _always_ bolder, and in the
buildings of the greatest times, _generally_ simpler. Thus at San Zeno
and the duomo of Verona, the only delicate decorations are on the
porches and lower walls of the facades, the rest of the buildings being
left comparatively plain; in the ducal palace of Venice the only very
careful work is in the lowest capitals; and so also the richness of the
work diminishes upwards in the transepts of Rouen, and facades of
Bayeux, Rheims, Amiens, Abbeville,[24] Lyons, and Notre Dame of Paris.
But in the middle and later Gothic the tendency is to produce an equal
richness _of effect_ over the whole building, or even to increase the
richness towards the top; but this is done so skillfully that no fine
work is wasted; and when the spectator ascends to the higher points of
the building, which he thought were of the most consummate delicacy, he
finds them Herculean in strength and rough-hewn in style, the really
delicate work being all put at the base. The general treatment of
Romanesque work is to increase the _number_ of arches at the top, which
at once enriches and lightens the mass, and to put the finest
_sculpture_ of the arches at the bottom. In towers of all kinds and
periods the _effective_ enrichment is towards the top, and most rightly,
since their dignity is in their height; but they are never made the
recipients of fine sculpture, with, as far as I know, the single
exception of Giotto's campanile, which indeed has fine sculpture, _but
it is at the bottom_.
[Footnote 23: Nothing is more notable in good Gothic than the confidence
of its builders in the respect of the people for their work. A great
school of architecture cannot exist when this respect cannot be
calculated upon, as it would be vain to put fine sculpture within the
reach of a population whose only pleasure would be in defacing it.]
[Footnote 24: The church to Abbeville is late flamboyant, but well
deserves, for the exquisite beauty of its porches, to be named even with
the great works of the thirteenth century.]