ON LIGHT AND TONE PROBLEMS
In his "Art in the Netherlands," and his various books on Italian art,
H. Taine has maintained that the hand of the mediæval painter was
largely guided by optical sensations. And, following this rather
suggestive, than conclusive, trend of argument, we will readily perceive
that the peculiar lighting conditions of those days, the semi-darkness
of the interiors, the play of sunlight dying in the obscurity of
shadows, and the absence of strong artificial lights have done much to
disclose to the genius of a Titian and a Rembrandt the manifold
harmonies of chiaroscura, of colouring, modelling and emotion. The
tallow candle, the oil lamp, the torch and the open fire-place were the
only artificial light appliances known to the Middle Ages, and they were
all only like solitary rays of light in universal darkness. Illumine a
room by night, by placing a candle on the table or on the floor, and
judge for yourself. The effects obtained, no doubt, would appear to you
as weird and picturesque. The flickering light is uncertain, the shadows
are intensely dark and pronounced, almost crude and vacillating, as if
engaged in a continual combat with light. The contrasts are startling,
yet not discordant, the vague train of light mingled with shadows
accentuate only a few places with vivid spots, perchance the polished
surface of a piece of furniture, a glass or pewter mug on the table, the
collaret or jewelled belt of some fair lady. The eye is led to noticing
gradations of obscurity, the darkness grows animated with colour and
form, and we see the objects as through a glaze of Van Dyke brown.
No wonder that the painter of the Middle Ages, having become sensible to
the beauty of transparent darkness and the brilliant passages of light,
dared to unite extremes and to show every form and colour in its full
strength. The vagueness of chiaroscural effects was the great modifier
which enveloped all adjacent objects in clair obscure and tempered them
with a warm and mellow radiance.
How different are the conditions in our time. There are no more
Schalcken or Rembrandt effects. We have succeeded in banishing darkness
from our homes. We have become very sanitary, we want light and air, the
walls of houses are built less substantial, and through the increased
largeness and transparency of panes, the daylight streams in with
dazzling vehemence. It penetrates into the remotest nooks and corners.
Even at dawn the shadows are only vaguely dark, of an uncertain and
mixed bluish grey. Lenbach, the portrait painter, realized this
deficiency, and found it necessary to construct a special studio, where
the light was only sparingly admitted through deep casements, and where
the sitters for his old-master-like interpretations of modern characters
were placed far away from the windows.
[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum, New York_
LADY IN GRAY.]
The greatest havoc among chiaroscural effects, however, has been played
by modern light appliances. Gas and electric light, with their various
modifiers and intensifiers, have killed all the old ideals. There are no
longer any striking chiaroscural contrasts or strong accentuations. In
the Middle Ages dress and drapery showed depth of folds and recesses
which are absolutely unknown to-day. Now, everything is diffused with
light. Nothing is steady and fixed, and yet objects stand out in painful
relief. The modelling has lost much of its tonal variety, and all
objects vaguely reflect the imprint of all-pervading light. The values
of colour appear bleached and vary incessantly. Our eyes are
perpetually moving in a restless manner from one part to another, and no
longer find any place to rest in the depth of shadows.
Luckily for us, we have been rendered unconscious of these dangers, we
have grown accustomed to them, but their influence on modern painting
has been a most palpable one. Chiaroscural composition underwent a
complete transformation. Saliency of object induced the modern painter
for a time, at the beginning of the last century, to strive solely for
fixed and precise conceptions of form and to utterly neglect the beauty
of light and shade. When he discovered his error, he went to the other
extreme, and not merely softened contours, but blotted them out
completely. At a loss how to meet this difficulty he lost himself in an
intenser and more varied study of illumination, with the aim to reach a
higher pitch of light. Lamplight and firelight effects and the contrasts
of commingling light rays from two, or even three, sources became the
order of the day. Sargent studied the effect of Japanese lanterns on
white dresses in twilight. Harrison tried to fix the play of sunlight on
the naked human body. Dannat experimented with flesh tones and
electrical arclight and magnesium flashlight illumination. Zorn
endeavoured to solve in his Omnibus picture the conflict of various
lights in a glass-encased interior. Degas and Besnard became enchanted
with illumination from below, in the cross lights and the lurid
unnatural lights of the stage, and his disciples introduced the effects
of footlights into interiors by placing the lamp on the floor.
All these studies address themselves most powerfully to the modern mind,
as they depict contemporary conditions. The eye may be offended or even
repelled by unnecessary trivialities at times, but the underlying
aspiration is, after all, the truth. From an æsthetic view-point it is
less satisfactory, as this modern substitute of light and shade
composition, consisting of an opposition of colours, rather than of
masses, does not afford, in the speech of Herbert Spencer, "the maximum
of stimulation with the minimum of fatigue." It contains a discord, a
lack of normal gratification, and this shortcoming, in conjunction with
the deterioration of the crafts, which were replaced by factory labour,
and the hopelessly prosaic aspect of modern dress, as far as colour is
concerned, directed the painter into other fields of investigation. He
realized that nature had remained unchanged, that the colour-symphony of
sea and landscapes, of dawn and sunset, were as beautiful as ever, and
he went out of doors for inspiration. And then, to his great
astonishment, he discovered that the optical sensations afforded by
nature were very similar to those he had experienced in his home life,
also how everything was diffused with light, and forms rendered
uncertain by the vibration of light.
The famous colour harmony of Italian painters, red, green and violet,
which aroused action successively in the whole field of vision without
exhausting it, seemed meaningless. Strange, apparently discordant
combinations of green and blue and yellow, orange and red, which
stimulate only certain portions of the retina at the expense of others,
obtruded themselves upon his optical consciousness. It became apparent
that light does not emphasize, but that it generalizes, and that colours
and tones, although more varied, are less decisive than in the painting
of the Old Masters. The charm of pictorial illusion seemed to have
shifted from the juxtaposition of contrast to the more subtle and less
powerful variety of half tones. It is not so much the richness and
fullness of colour the modern painter strives for, as Raffaelli has
pointed out, but the combination of colours which yield a sensation of
light, which, in a way, is a reflection of our temporary light
conditions. That the Impressionists banished black from their palette
is significant itself.
[Illustration: _Owned by John H. Whittemore_
"L'ANDALUSIENNE."]
Ever since the semi-darkness of the Middle Ages was dispelled, the minds
of painters had been occupied with the invention of a new method of
painting. Chardin and Watteau, who crosshatched and stippled pure
colours in their pastels and water colours, were really the forerunners
of impressionism. Delacroix was the first master-painter who
scientifically concerned himself with light and colour notation, as
Turner (_viz._ Ruskin) introduced the emphasis of the colour of shadows
at the expense of their tones. But not before science came to the
assistance of the painter, was he able to perfect his system of open air
mosaics, of producing tone by the parallel and distinct projection of
pure colours.
And it is Chevreul, Young, Helmholtz and Ogden Rood, who, after
analyzing colour sensations from a physiological viewpoint and tracing
them to their causes, supplied the genius of Manet, Monet and Degas with
a new pictorial revelation of light and colour. The modern style of
painting is a direct outcome of the environment in which we live. With
the decline of candlelight parties the new era was ushered in, and the
kerosene lamp was the last harmonizer of light and darkness. As it went
slowly out of fashion, the reign of half and quarter tones, or, in other
words, a new reign of light, of light transposed into tone, set in.
It set in, however, at the expense of everything else. It is largely
technical, and the representations are photographic, prosaic, crude and
often without the slightest suggestion of sentiment, not even that which
an ordinary scene out of doors produces in an imaginative mind. This,
more than any other course, estranges art from the approval of the
general public.
The subject of an Old Master, although mostly of a religious order and
legible to the ordinary mind, at times may have soared beyond the
ordinary faculties of comprehension, but the object represented
invariably appealed to the sense of sight, as it was painted in such a
way as to create an illusion. The Old Masters succeeded in suggesting on
a flat surface the roundness and actual colouring of things. The modern
painter depicts objects in which the beauty is not always palpable to
the layman, and in a manner which is less convincing, as he suggests
form rather than actually representing it, and adheres most stubbornly
to individual colour interpretation. It needs connoisseurship and
technical knowledge to understand and appreciate the paintings of
to-day. The paintings of a Degas, Besnard or Renoir remain a myth even
to the people who are fond of art. Comparatively few persons are versed
in the thought-transference from colour to sentiment.
Whistler did not believe in the constant mechanical mixture of seven
solar tones, which make the eye perform the work which should be done by
the painter. He tried hard for the dissociation of tones by endeavouring
to translate the flat tints of the Japanese into oil paintings executed
in Western fashion, but was not satisfied with the result.
Living in London, with a view on the Thames, he realized that the
aspects of modern life have turned grey. They have nothing to do with
Oriental embroideries. Our large cities with their smoke and manifold
exhalations (not to speak of communities subjected to the use of soft
coal) have acquired a dust-laden, misty atmosphere. This peculiarity of
city atmosphere, however, to be noticed in London and Paris as much as
in Chicago and Pittsburg, is a wonderful subduer and eliminator of
detail, and should prove a valuable ally in conquering new suggestions
of light effects. This Whistler realized, and he used it to express what
the inner life of things in modern art needed most to express, the
poetry of paint expressed in tone and light. "The study of light _per
se_" as Leon Dabo says, "had become a creed with Monet, Manet and their
followers. Somehow Whistler's contribution to this _naissance_--for it
was a real birth, first successfully carried out by Constable--has been
entirely neglected for the more obvious quality of full sunlight
produced by the so-called Impressionists. Whistler's paintings prove
conclusively that where there is harmony of colour there is vibration of
atmosphere, and, therefore, the illusion of light."
When we stand before the "Mona Lisa" of Leonardo da Vinci and before his
less famous, but almost equally fascinating woman of the Liechtenstein
Gallery, we do not marvel merely at the lifelike representation, which
seems to actually vibrate; but at something evasive and unfathomable
that we find difficult to express in words. We experience something
similar when we contemplate Whistler's "Mother" or some portraits of
modern masters like Blanche, Lavery, enigmatic Khnopff, or the grey men
and women of Carriere, who rise so softly and mistily out of the
background. Although they have not attained the mastership of the former
in the representation of the living, breathing people, there is the
same mysterious mood in their paintings. They seem to quiver with
something that is essentially modern, and cannot emanate alone from the
charm of momentary expression which is one of their main attractions.
The modern figures have a less corporeal effect than those of the
Renaissance; they resemble apparitions which have suddenly taken shape
in the greyness of life only to dissolve again into shadows. This is
more than a technical change, it is a new way of thinking. We concede a
new attribute to these painters and call their achievements the
"psychological style" of painting. Robert Henri's "Young Woman in Black"
is an interesting attempt in this direction.
By this we wish to convey that the figures tell us something of the
inner life, and that the way in which this is accomplished impresses us
like a commentary on their souls. Of course this is nothing new. All the
masterpieces of portraiture, no matter how different technically they
may be, whether clear and sharp or soft and diffused, whether by a
Raphael or a Rembrandt, Titian or Franz Hals, have the faculty to make
us dream and invent some psychical annotation to the figures
represented, but modern life is more analytical. We rejoice in
dissecting our thoughts, sentiments and moods, and some of our foremost
contemporaries, though they may wield their brushes as dexterously as
the Old Masters, concentrate upon the endeavour to reflect specifically
the spiritual qualities and to accentuate its functions as far as it is
possible in paint.
The modern painter is fond of specializing, not only in subject, but
technically, because he lacks the overflowing energy and strength to
conquer all the elements of his profession in one effort. This age, at
least in the upper intellectual strata, has become very skeptical. We
are not concerned so much about divinities and our future state as about
ourselves in the present. Religion no longer furnishes the emotional
staff on which we may lean on our pilgrimage of life, and yet we need
some spiritual support, some science for the soul, and we may look about
for something that may mystify us and lift us above the prose of
every-day existence. And this search is mirrored in the endeavour of
these men who would like to paint enigmatic figures, like "Mona Lisa"
and the woman of the Liechtenstein Gallery.
Conditions change, but not so much that they become entirely extinct.
The possibilities for emotional art are to-day as great as ever.
For portraiture, single figure representation and character delineation
gentle effects capable of subtler gradations are more desirable. They
may be found in many out-of-the-way places. A modern Ribera may find
endless suggestions for new light and shade combinations in an ordinary
cellar, and the picturesque "tavern atmosphere" of a Caravaggio or
Terborg can surely be substituted in some obscure nooks and corners of
our towns. Our living-rooms show a wealth of still life that, by the
play of light, could be turned into beautiful accessories. There is
nothing more gratifying to the eye than a bright, haphazard shimmer on
some objects while the remainder is lost in a vague, picturesque haze.
The student of light and shade will find the range of light is still a
very wide one. The vivid glow of firelight, here flickering brightly,
there vanishing in gloom, will always produce a striking effect. A pale
splendour caressing the human form with vague reflections could be
obtained by light streaming through stained-glass windows. The dazzling
illumination of the hour of sunset, which pales and subdues all objects,
and, concentrated on the human body, makes it look as if it had been
absorbed all in light and radiated it (which Prudhon has attempted and
Henner specialized), may fill our minds with new dreams of vision. Even
the ghostlike rays of shimmering moonlight (as Steichen has shown in
his versions of Rodin's Balzac) may open novel methods to render tone
and form in the broadest and softest manner possible.
Still I do not believe in the garish effects of certain modern painters,
who take special delight in reproducing the flaring vagaries of
artificial light. The trend of such works is towards an affected
æstheticism. They may be fascinating and "stunningly clever" but they do
not ring true. They are at their best only in colour experiments
specially made to startle the beholder. When Elsheimer painted his
"Christ Taken Prisoner," showing the pale light of the moon in the
background, while the nocturnal figures in the foreground are enveloped
by the glare of torches, he ventured upon a problem that was, after all,
logical and true to life. But to place a lamp on the floor merely for
the purpose of throwing interesting diagonal shadows upwards on a
woman's figure, is not far from being an absurdity.
The various aspects of electrical illumination, gaslight, flashlight
effects, searchlight, etc., no doubt can be solved pictorially, but they
should never be applied unless the character of the picture absolutely
demands them.
Tone is the ideal of the modern painter. It is his highest ambition.
It is the powerful subduer of all the incongruities of modern art.
But what painters strive for, in most instances are merely fragmentary
accomplishments. It is not tone in the large sense as the Old Masters
understood it. To Titian and Rembrandt and Velasquez "tone" meant a
combination of all pictorial qualities, the contrast of colour, the
balance of lighter and darker planes, the linear arrangement; all these
together produced tone. They do not sacrifice form or detail, correct
drawing, the physiognomy of the faces and the idea and conception of the
picture to it.
Do not misunderstand me. Tone is desirable; no picture should be without
it. But it is merely one of the elements that enter into the making of a
picture, and not the whole thing. There are light tonalities as well as
dark tonalities. A Renoir is as much in tone as a black-in-black Tissot.
What tonal painters see in tone is merely the appearance of old age. The
Old Masters have become famous, and the public has acquired a certain
predilection for dark-toned pictures. The modern painters try to
reproduce it, overlooking (perhaps wilfully) that the dark tonality is
entirely an artificial product, caused by dirt and dampness, the
chemical action of light, and the gradual change of colour, oil and
varnish.
The Old Masters painted in a low key, but they probably never thought
that some day their pictures would look as they do now. The modern
painters try to produce a quality that has nothing to do with art, they
cater to the taste of certain art patrons that have a liking for
old-looking things.
In portraiture the simplest scheme will always be most certain of
success. Variety is desirable, but no exaggeration or strained effects.
Of all modern painters Whistler and Carrière seem to have excelled in
conquering the modern limitations of light and shade composition and
making the most of them. They have enveloped their figures in
clair-obscure that is uncertain in form, mystic in tendency, but
suggestive of atmosphere, depth and space, some grey or dark interior
filled with struggling shadows, capricious gleams of light and tonal
gradations, tantalizing in their subtlety and power of suggestion.
All sharp lines are dissolved, each detail vanishes with soft delicacy
into the other and their light, falling from some unknown source,
quivers like a soft chord through the twilight.
The "Mother and Child" of Carrière has but little of the robust yet
sweet and seductive charm of the Madonna pictures. Its glimmer of light
is sad and dreamy, as if it were woven out of grey monotonies of
everyday life. And in Whistler's "Sarasate" we see in the plastic, but
solitary light passage, on face and shirt front a symbol of all the
glamour of romance and poetry that light can yield in our prosaic age.
Whistler translated all objects into flat surface planes, and, in that
way, sacrificed more to the realization of tone than any other painter.
His fragmentary visions are almost colourless but never give the
impression of monochrome. Looking at one of his enigmatic figures
receding into vague shadows, a strange association of thought occurs to
me: I see in one of the sunless courtyards of the Escurial the dark
figure of a woman standing near a fountain and holding a red rose in her
hand. At one of the palace windows is seen the proud face of Velasquez,
gazing absent-mindedly upon the scene. And the wind ruffles the flower,
carries one petal after another and scatters them upon the surface of
the water. Is this dark silent woman the personification of Whistler's
muse, and does she tell us that the splendour of light and shade
composition of the Old Masters has faded, that we know nothing of its
fervour that rose from the depths of a more picturesque age, and that
all we can do is to scatter a few colour notes across the darkness of
space? For the jubilant and passionate note is altogether missing in
Whistler's art, though it can claim profundity and some dreaminess.
[Illustration: _Carnegie Art Institute, Pittsburg_
ARRANGEMENT IN BLACK: SENOR PABLO SARASATE.]
Light now flits phantom-like across the masterpieces of pictorial
delineation, but it is still the great elixir of art, that will give
life to any scene and animate any object. No special method can be
indicated. Every worker must be his own pioneer and pathfinder. The new
era of light is yet in a primitive stage. It is a lonely art whose
language is understood but by the few, though we have approached the
hour of dawn before the awakening. Life may seem dreary and colourless
to us, yet we should realize that only one beam of light is needed to
change it into a vision of beauty.
To Rembrandt even the Bree-straat in Amsterdam, resplendent in his time
of Oriental culture and Moorish pomp, may have seemed dull and
colourless. He had to create for himself a distant and enchanted realm
from out the prosaic world in which he lived. And so must every
ambitious artist dream himself far away from the grey of everyday life
and construct a poetic world for himself alone.
Light is, after all, objective and merely suggestive. The artist's mind
must serve as some Faustean retort, which will turn these suggestions
into the soft gleams and sparkling shimmers of art. Whistler was one of
the few to accomplish the task.