Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 65243-h.htm or 65243-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65243/pg65243-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/65243/65243-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/printsbriefrevie01rich
PRINTS
A BRIEF REVIEW OF THEIR
TECHNIQUE AND HISTORY
[Illustration:
HERODOTUS. VENICE, 1494]
PRINTS
A Brief Review of Their Technique and History
by
EMIL H. RICHTER
With Illustrations
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
Copyright, 1914, by Houghton Mifflin Company
All Rights Reserved
Published November 1914
PREFACE
Prints have long been an undisturbed domain of the collector and
scholarly connoisseur. Centuries of study and research are resulting in
the identification and description of this vast amount of material. The
literature on prints embodies these results in the form of handbooks,
histories, catalogues for reference, essays, and specializing
treatises. These are written primarily for the use of students and
collectors, with the elaboration and detail requisite for this class of
readers.
Manifestations of a widening interest are more evident every day. With
this broadening popular interest has come a demand for a plain, short
explanation of “prints.” In the absence of such a brief review and in
answer to repeated inquiries, a series of lectures were prepared and
delivered--some years ago--by the writer. These lectures are herewith
offered, in slightly revised form, to those interested in the nature
and development of prints.
This little book is not a compendium of the graphic arts, just an
introduction. Brevity and simplicity have been aimed at, the purpose
being to awaken interest and convey initial information conducive to
further study.
The charm and value of a print lies essentially in the _quality_ of
line or tone peculiar to the process employed in its making. These
cannot be rendered adequately by the half-tone illustrations which
accompany these pages. The prints themselves must be seen to be truly
appreciated and understood.
CONTENTS
I. HOW PRINTS ARE MADE 1
Introductory, 1. Bank note and magazine
illustration, 3. Three main divisions of processes.
Woodcut, 4. Wood-engraving, 5. Engraving, 6.
Dry-point, mezzotint, 8. Etching, 9. Lithography,
10. The printing presses used, 11.
II. THE ORIGIN OF WOODCUT 12
Not a sudden invention, 12. Utilitarian origin,
14. The past reviewed, 15. The panel
picture and its cheap substitute, 18. Saints’
pictures, 20. Playing cards, 21. Increasing
demand for pictures, 24. Block-books, movable
type, 26. Book illustration in Germany and
Italy, 28. Examples of early woodcuts: German,
30, Italian, 32.
III. THE EARLY DAYS OF ENGRAVING 35
Intaglio printing, the goldsmith’s niello,
35. Engraving in Germany and Italy, attitude
and results, 37. Anonymous masters, 40.
Schongauer, 41. Early Italian examples, 44. Pollajuolo,
Mantegna, 46. Giulio Campagnola, 47.
IV. ITALY 49
The professional engraver, 49. Marcantonio
Raimondi, 50. The publisher, 51. Revival;
Carracci, 52. Painter-etchers, 53. Later developments;
Canaletto, 55. The classical engravers,
55. Chiaroscuro woodcut, 56.
V. GERMANY 59
Culmination, Dürer, 60. Lucas van Leyden,
65. Italian influence, 66. Little masters, 67.
Woodcut: Cranach, Holbein, 69. The two
masters, Dürer and Holbein, 70. Decline, 71.
VI. THE NETHERLANDS 73
History. Flemish and Dutch art, 73. Engraver
families, commerce in Saints’ pictures, 75.
Virtuosi of the graver, Goltzius, 76. Rubens
and his engravers, 77. Van Dyck, 78. Cornel
Visscher, 79. Rembrandt, 80. Ostade, 84. Ruysdael.
Landscape and animal etchers, 85. Italian
influence, decline, 86.
VII. FRANCE 87
Woodcut illustrations, 87. Engraving, Jean
Duvet, 89. The Fontainebleau school, 90. Callot,
Claude Lorrain, 91. Portrait engraving,
93. Mellan, 94. Morin, 95. Nanteuil, 96. Edelinck
and others, 97. New processes, 100. Color-prints,
book ornamentation, 101. Classical engraving,
Wille, 104. Italian preëminence, 105.
Etchers, vignettists, 105. SPAIN: Goya, 107.
VIII. ENGLAND 109
Early days, Hollar. English engravers, 109.
Hogarth, 110. Bartolozzi, 110. Mezzotint engravers,
111. Earlom, 113. Wood-engraving:
Bewick, 114.
IX. THE UNITED STATES 116
Colonial times; Pelham, Peale, 116. Stipple;
book illustration, 117. Wood-engraving, the
tone engravers, 118. Etching, 120.
X. THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 121
Individual expression, 121. Blake, 122. Chodowiecki,
123. A new era, Constable, Delacroix
and others, 124. Turner, 126. Wood-engraving
and lithography, 127. Menzel; Gavarni, Daumier,
129. Raffet, 130. Revival of etching,
130. Jacque, Millet, and others, 131. Etching
versus Engraving, 131. Haden, Whistler, 132.
Meryon, 133. Gaillard, 134. Exacting demands
on the graphic arts; Zorn, Klinger, 135. Conclusion,
136.
Books recommended for study of prints, 138.
ILLUSTRATIONS
TITLE-PAGE TO HERODOTUS. Anonymous _Title-page_
ST. MARGARET OF HUNGARY. Anonymous 30
PAGE FROM ARS MEMORANDI. Anonymous 30
PAGE FROM NUREMBERG CHRONICLE. Anonymous 30
VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH ST. JOHN. Anonymous 32
PAGE FROM HYPNEROTOMACHIA. Anonymous 32
PAGE FROM MORGANTE MAGGIORE. Anonymous 32
MADONNA OF EINSIEDELN. Anon. Master E. S. 40
DEATH OF THE VIRGIN. Martin Schongauer 42
SIBILLA SAMIA. Anonymous 44
CLIO, FROM THE SO-CALLED TAROCCHI. Anonymous 44
BATTLE OF NUDE MEN. Antonio Pollajuolo 46
CHRIST BETWEEN TWO SAINTS. Andrea Mantegna 46
ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. Giulio Campagnola 46
DEATH OF DIDO. Marcantonio Raimondi 50
ADAM AND EVE. Marcantonio Raimondi 50
TITIAN. Agostino Carracci 52
MADONNA AND CHILD. Federigo Barocci 54
TORRE DI MALGHERA. Antonio Canale 56
DIOGENES. Ugo da Carpi 56
FOUR HORSEMEN, APOCALYPSE. Albrecht Dürer 60
ARMS WITH THE SKULL. Albrecht Dürer 62
REST IN EGYPT. Albrecht Dürer 62
ST. JEROME IN HIS STUDY. Albrecht Dürer 64
CARDINAL ALBRECHT. Albrecht Dürer 64
ADORATION OF THE MAGI. Lucas van Leyden 66
TOURNAMENT. Lucas Cranach 68
JOHANNES ZURENUS. Hendrik Goltzius 74
RUBENS. Paul Pontius 76
JAN BRUEGHEL. Anthony van Dyck 78
GELLIUS DE BOUMA. Cornel Visscher 78
ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. Rembrandt 80
THE THREE TREES. Rembrandt 80
JANUS LUTMA. Rembrandt 82
TOBIT BLIND. Rembrandt 82
THE SPINNER. Adriaen van Ostade 84
THE TRAVELERS. Jacob Ruysdael 84
THE DIAMOND. Nicolaes Berghem 86
TOUR DE NESLE. Jacques Callot 90
LE BOUVIER. Claude Lorrain 92
DUC DE GUISE. Claude Mellan 94
ANTOINE VITRÉ. Jean Morin 94
POMPONE DE BELLIÈVRE. Robert Nanteuil 96
PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE. Gérard Edelinck 96
BOSSUET. Pierre Imbert Drevet 98
CHAMPS ÉLYSÉES. Nicolas Henri Tardieu 100
INSTRUCTION PATERNELLE. Georg Wille 104
PLATE FROM THE CAPRICHOS. Francisco Goya 106
CATHARINE OF BRAGANZA. William Faithorne 110
THE HON. MISS BINGHAM. Francesco Bartolozzi 110
MRS. CARNAC. John Raphael Smith 112
FLOWER AND FRUIT PIECE. Richard Earlom 114
THOMAS JEFFERSON. David Edwin 116
CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL. Asher Brown Durand 118
STILL-LIFE WITH THE PEACOCK. William J. Linton 118
PLATE FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. William Blake 122
HOME OF A PAINTER. Daniel Chodowiecki 124
INVERARY PIER. J. M. W. Turner 126
ÆSACUS AND HESPERIE. J. M. W. Turner 126
CHRIST DISPUTING WITH DOCTORS. A. v. Menzel 128
CARTOON ON LOUIS PHILIPPE. Honoré Daumier 128
MIDNIGHT REVIEW. Auguste Raffet 130
WOMAN CHURNING. Jean François Millet 130
SUNSET IN IRELAND. Sir Seymour Haden 132
THE DOORWAY. VENICE. James McN. Whistler 132
LE PETIT PONT. Charles Meryon 132
DOM PROSPER GUÉRANGER. Ferdinand Gaillard 134
GIRL BATHING. Anders Zorn 134
EXPULSION FROM PARADISE. Max Klinger 134
PRINTS
THEIR TECHNIQUE AND HISTORY
I
HOW PRINTS ARE MADE
Prints are familiar to every one of us, and yet the subject of
prints is strangely unfamiliar. If we look at a painting, a piece
of sculpture, or at a monumental building, we know how these things
came into being. Without any effort we can see in our mind’s eye
the painter, with palette and brushes, applying the colors on his
canvas, we can see the sculptor thumbing the clay model on the
stand before him, with alternate gentleness and force, while the
spectacle of stone-masons and bricklayers at work is a matter of
daily occurrence. Likewise are we daily face to face with prints in
our homes. They are familiar objects that have always been there;
we are so used to them that we hardly see them. But have we ever
conjured up, in our mind’s eye, the vision of an engraver, or etcher,
or lithographer at work making the print which is so familiar to us?
It is a world, indeed, this field on which the energies of thousands
upon thousands of men have been expended, expressive of the thoughts
of great masters, expressive, yes, eloquent, of the changing mental
attitude, the changing customs and interests of successive periods.
There is no field, I am tempted to say, in all the realm of art, more
comprehensive, more broadening than this subject of prints. In order
fully to appreciate the phases of its development, we must find out,
first of all, what a print is, and how it is made.
The term “print,” as we use it here, applies to any design conveyed
upon paper or any similar substance by means of pressure, usually in
the printing-press. Prints are not all produced in one and the same
manner;--if this statement should prove surprising, just open any
magazine on an illustration page; then place beside it, for comparison,
a new dollar bill. Notice the even tone of black in the magazine
illustration and the intensity of the black, sharp-cut, metallic lines
of the head on the bill. It is quite evident that these two examples
have been produced by different means; the magazine illustration shows
that the inked lines and dots which constitute the picture have been
brought upon the paper with considerable pressure: the ink is embedded
into the paper; whereas, if the bill is new, you will notice, upon
close inspection, that the ink of every line and dot lies upon the
surface of the paper. Pass your finger lightly over some of the heavier
lines, and if your finger-tips are sensitive, you will distinctly feel
these ridges of ink. Why this difference? Because human ingenuity has
devised several ways of obtaining an impression. There are three such
possibilities, which divide the graphic arts into three main groups,
namely:--
RELIEF PROCESSES: Woodcut, wood-engraving;
INTAGLIO PROCESSES: Engraving, dry-point, mezzotinting, and the etching
processes;
PLANOGRAPHIC PROCESSES: Lithography, and its derivatives.[1]
[1] In order to keep the subject as simple as may be, we will
leave aside that vast array of modern processes based
upon photography, and therefore known as photo-mechanical
processes (half-tone, photogravure, and the like) and
devote our attention to the _hand processes_ only.
Examples from two of these main divisions have just been under
discussion, the magazine illustration being a relief print, the bill
an engraving on steel, consequently intaglio. Let us now devote a few
moments to their technical features, taking first the oldest of all the
processes, woodcut.
If we take a block of wood, nicely planed, finish its face with
sandpaper, and cover it with printer’s ink, an impression from that
blackened surface would naturally be an unbroken, rectangular patch of
black. Now we take a knife with a strong, short blade, a woodcutter’s
knife, and with two slanting cuts we take out a thin long sliver
from the middle of this blackened surface of wood. The result of an
impression will now be a black surface with a white line where we have
cut away the wood. Another two cuts parallel with the first will result
in another white line, or rather we shall now have a _black_ line, with
a white space on either side, the black line being the ridge of wood
standing between the two pieces which we have cut away. Could anything
be simpler than this working recipe?--wherever black is wanted, leave
the wood standing; where you need white, cut away the wood. The same
theory applies to wood-engraving, with some changes in material and
implements. The wood-engraver uses cross-grain blocks of the hard
boxwood, instead of planks of cherry or pear wood, and on this hard
surface the graver replaces the knife. The graver--most useful of
tools--is a long, thin, diamond-shaped bar of steel, ending in a blunt
point with cutting edges; its wooden handle fitting the palm of the
hand. The graver is pushed forward and ploughs with great precision
across the block or plate, cutting lines of any degree of delicacy or
boldness. Like the knife, it removes the wood, consequently leaving a
white line or dot wherever it has passed. Hence the term “white-line
engraving,” often used for wood-engraving.
When we turn to the second great division, to the intaglio processes,
we find that the recipe of the woodcut has to be just reversed to fit
this new proposition. Consult the diagram of the three possibilities
of printing; the cross-section of the relief-block presents a series
of flat-topped ridges with valleys between them. The tops of the
ridges print, the valleys are the spaces which are to appear white in
the impression. The second figure, a cross-section of an intaglio
plate,--an engraving on copper we will say,--shows no hills and vales,
but a flat surface with a number of V-shaped cuts filled with ink. When
engraving on a copper plate, we cut with the graver into the metal
every line of our design that is to appear black. Wherever we want a
white space we are careful to leave untouched the polished surface of
the plate. Having completed the cutting-in (engraving) of our design,
the plate is covered all over with printing-ink, and this is rubbed
thoroughly into every furrow which we have cut, so that they are all
filled flush with the surface. The surface of the plate is wiped clean.
An impression taken from the plate so prepared will show us a black
line for every furrow we have cut. Small wonder that the lines on the
dollar bill were perceptible ridges of ink, since all the ink in the
furrows of the plate is now on the surface of the paper. The theory
of the intaglio processes is plainly this: wherever you want black
in your design, cut lines or dots into the plate; wherever white is
needed, leave the smooth surface of the plate untouched. Based upon
this formula, the different intaglio processes produce their blacks
in different ways; in dry-point engraving, for instance, the design
is scratched into the metal by means of a sharp needle-point, the
etching-needle. In tearing through the copper the needle leaves a
jagged ridge of copper standing on the sides of each line, this “burr”
retains some ink after the plate has been wiped clean, and gives to
the dry-point line its peculiar velvety, slightly blurred appearance.
The mezzotinter begins his work by roughening the whole surface of the
plate with the “rocker” into myriad indentations and tiny projecting
teeth of copper. The plate in this condition prints a uniform, velvety
black, the deepest tone obtainable. Now by scraping away the little
teeth of copper more or less completely, the design is modeled at will
in varying half-tones. The high lights are obtained by burnishing the
copper quite smooth again. The etcher, instead of cutting the lines of
his design into the copper, trusts to the corroding action of powerful
acids. Covering his plate with an acid-proof etching-ground, he draws
his subject with the etching-needle, using just sufficient pressure to
cut through the thin film of ground and lay bare the copper. The plate
is then put into an acid bath which eats away the metal wherever a
line has been laid bare. The ground is then washed off with a suitable
solvent, and the plate printed. There are a number of processes based
on etching, like aquatint, crayon manner, stipple, soft-ground etching,
and others, but a review, however brief, of all these kindred devices
does not lie within the scope of these pages.
We have now reviewed the relief processes, both dependent entirely on
hand work, and the intaglio processes, engraving, dry-point, mezzotint,
likewise relying upon manual power to prepare the plate for printing.
In the etching group of intaglio devices, a chemical factor is called
upon to lessen and accelerate the work of the hand. The last group to
be considered, planographic processes, is based entirely upon chemical
and physical action. The drawing to be reproduced is made with fatty
crayon or ink upon a slab of a special variety of limestone; the stone
is then treated with acidulated water, and with gummed water. As a
result, when the stone is moistened, all those parts which have been
drawn upon reject the water, but have an affinity for printing-ink,
while the portions not drawn upon have an affinity for water and
reject printing-ink, as long as they are kept moist. Neither by
ridges nor sunken furrows, just from one plane surface,--hence the
term “planographic,”--merely by the enmity of water and fatty ink are
these lithographic impressions obtained. Plates of metal are often
substituted for stone (zincography, algraphy), but the process always
remains the same.
It goes without saying that each of these three possibilities of
printing necessitates presses of appropriate construction; thus, in
the so-called _platten_ press, the pressure is exerted vertically upon
the block by the flat metal plate which comes down upon it, on the
same principle as in the letter-press familiar to us all. All intaglio
plates are printed in _roller_ presses, in which the plate, laid on an
iron bed, passes between two rollers, one above, one below, as in a
clothes-wringer. The lithographic press, finally, has a traveling bed,
which passes under a stationary flat piece of wood. During its passage
under this wooden bar, the paper is firmly pressed down upon the stone,
which would be crushed in the other types of presses.[2]
[2] Lithographs made on metal plates may be printed in an
intaglio press as well.
After this summary review of the technique of prints, let us consider,
with what brevity we may, the great phases of development of the
graphic arts.
II
THE ORIGIN OF WOODCUT
The term “invention” is often used in referring to the origin of
printing and of engraving, as though these devices had come into being
quite suddenly,--overnight, as it were. The belief is prevalent,
indeed, that one man in Mayence originated, developed, perfected,
established printing, and that another man in Florence originated
printing from engraved plates about that same time (middle of the
fifteenth century). If we look more closely into these subjects, it
becomes evident that Dame Tradition has flashed the light of fame upon
one link only, of a chain of achievements which stretches back into
the unknown. She has clothed one man, call him Gutenberg, call him
Finiguerra, with the sum of thought and attainment which had preceded
them, that the _achievement_ might gain added impressiveness. The
printing-press, and printing from movable type, had reached a state of
high perfection at the time when Gutenberg printed his epoch-making
Bibles, and research has substantiated the belief that a period of
experiment and development _must_ have preceded and led up to such
excellence, although these early days of printing still baffle the
ingenuity of research. The genesis of printing from engraved plates
is equally difficult to establish, though the claim of invention by
any one man is as little admissible here as in the other instance. It
is a matter of gradual development. Remember, it is the _printing_
from engraved plates which concerns us in our inquiry. Engraving as
a means of decorating metal surfaces dates back to remote antiquity,
but that is foreign to our present subject. Only when engraving is
used as a means of _reproducing_ a design, does it enter within our
sphere of interest. Similarly are we concerned to a certain extent
with the wood-block method used in the days of Byzance, for stamping
patterns upon cloth, because it is the parent of our woodcut. We have
here, however, a device used for the decoration of textile fabrics,
and we must reserve our interest for the time when _the design printed
from the wood block_, upon paper or any other suitable carrier of an
impression, becomes the essential consideration.
The origin of the processes of reproduction is invariably utilitarian.
Every advance, every new technical attainment, can be traced to the
demand for devices which would lessen labor and save time. The graphic
arts do not share with painting a development based upon a desire for
æsthetic expression. Their origin is imitative, thoroughly democratic,
and every process continues in that lowly sphere, until the genius of
some powerful artist lifts it into realms of art. For the very reason
of this utilitarian tendency, and because of a gamut of expression
restricted to line and tone for the interpretation of a world of color
and form, the graphic arts, even more than other forms of artistic
expression, need the steady hand of the gifted artist to sustain them
on a high plane of excellence. Deprived of this guiding support,
their decline to levels of mediocrity and commercialism is swift and
inevitable.
If we glance at early periods of history, we are readily convinced that
before the fifteenth century there existed no demand for pictorial work
widespread or emphatic enough to call into life speedier substitutes
for hand work. Surely no need of such substitutes was felt in the
Græco-Roman world, where a well-developed system of scribes met the
demands of their patrons. Nor were multiplying devices needed in
the early days of Christianity. The new faith, to be sure, made its
appeal to everybody, to the high-born and lowly alike, but it relied
mainly on the word of the preacher for the transmission of its simple
creed. During the dark ages of ferment, migration, and strife which
followed, the monuments of antique culture, erudition, knowledge
were engulfed. What demand could there have been for the multiplying
arts in that period of dense ignorance, of ceaseless struggle for
life itself, for the bare necessities of life, for merely endurable
conditions? The Church, the only institution of stability in this sea
of unrest, became the repository of whatever remained of tradition and
erudition,--mysteries, these, to be jealously guarded and held as a
privilege of the clergy.
Owing to the prevalent illiteracy among the people in these dark ages,
the Church, in its mission of spiritual guidance, relied, as of old,
on the preacher’s word. The power of his exhortations was seconded,
however, by silently eloquent, impressive teachings surrounding the
worshipers, namely, the scenes and figures of religious import,
painted upon the walls of the church. That same endeavor to stimulate
pious thoughts carried the miniature into liturgical books, into
religious manuscripts generally. The writing-room of the monastery was
all-sufficient to provide for the pious needs of clergy, rulers, and
nobles. Here the patient copyist drew again and again the outlines of
the large illuminated initials of his text, until he bethought himself
of the labor he might save by imitating the cloth-printer, and cutting
wooden relief-blocks of these outlines which he might stamp upon his
parchment. An early device this, adopted in the twelfth or thirteenth
century, but clearly foreshadowing the development which was soon to
follow.
Meantime, in that iron age religious enthusiasm had fired the
crusaders, the armor-clad Occident had met the Orient, bringing back
some of the wisdom of the ancient East into the scholar’s study and the
convent cell, and broadening man’s outlook upon the world.
We know how Gothic architecture grew up in the North, how in the Gothic
church the ample wall space, which had been heretofore the realm of
painting, was divided, reduced, suppressed. We know how the curtailed
pictorial art sought new spheres of expression, how the panel picture
took possession of the altars. Before long this picture, which could be
shifted from one position to another, was used independently of altars,
for the adornment of suitable wall spaces in the church, until finally
it found its way from the church to the home, henceforth to be one of
its indispensable adornments.
As painting made its way into the lay world, the impersonal,
traditional, dogmatic character of sacred subjects faded away. Not
that ecclesiastic art had lost its deeply religious sincerity, but
the artist saw nature with new eyes; he realized the beautiful world
around him, and lovingly painted the plants and flowers at the feet of
the Virgin. He removed her throne from the formal diapered background
of gold, and placed it in the midst of the actual living world.
The figures became more personal and lifelike; worldly subjects,
even portraits, or at least efforts in the direction of individual
differentiation, came within the artist’s sphere, while as yet the
sacred subject remained the one great theme of artistic expression.
The panel picture had come into the home as a means of decoration, but
the wealthy only could gratify their desire for this costly form of
artistic adornment. The burgher, the artisan, the economical household,
could not think of owning such painted luxury, not any more than they
could afford the costly miniatures painted on parchment. Then some
bethought themselves that they might cut the outline of figures on
blocks of wood, after the manner of the cloth-printers and of the
initial blocks which we have found in use in monastic writing-rooms.
These outlines could then be printed on parchment, or on that new and
cheaper product, paper, as an inexpensive substitute for panel picture
and miniature. In this manner the common people obtained their saints’
pictures or “Helgen” (_Heiligen_), more or less crude in design, clumsy
in the execution of knife-work, colored with the gayest pigments which
the _Briefmaler_ could find. With all their imperfections these early
woodcuts were prized and evidently found a ready market, as souvenirs
of pilgrimages, as fit embellishments of wayside shrines or altars of
the chapels and churches of poor parishes, as scapulars, or pasted in
books, as makeshifts for the unattainable miniatures, or else they were
simply fastened on the wall, as a decoration. Tastes were simple, and
with all their crudeness, these productions--of greatly varying size
and of every degree of careful or careless execution--are not without
charm even to the twentieth-century beholder.
The same artisans who cut and printed these saints’ pictures found
lucrative employment in a field quite remote from religious matters.
Playing-cards had been introduced into Europe from the Orient, probably
in the latter part of the thirteenth century. They quickly won
popular favor and were used by rich and poor with equal zest. Cards
exquisitely painted or charmingly engraved attest the favor accorded
the game by people of rank and wealth, but in making cards for the use
of the people at large, cheapness of production far outweighed any
æsthetic considerations which might have existed. Cards had to be sold
cheaply, and they had to be produced in large quantities to satisfy
the growing demand. How were these conditions to be met? One solution
of the problem was stenciling, another stamping the outlines on paper
by means of relief-blocks; both were resorted to by the artisans of
the fifteenth century, and their trade spread beyond the confines of
Germany, to the south of the Alps, causing Venetian craftsmen to clamor
for legislative protection of their home production.
In all these early manifestations, we saw woodcut in the service of
the common people; we saw it used instead of other means of production
for reasons purely utilitarian. But a change is at hand, for has not
the crusader sown a seed throughout the land; has not the human mind
been awakened from its mediæval lethargy? The humanist arises, seeking
enlightenment and the solution of life’s problems amid the meager
surviving relics and records of the art and thought of antiquity.
Feudal conditions are grudgingly modified, under pressure from a new
element, which brings about a gradual shifting of the balance of power,
intellectually as well as economically and politically: the rise of the
Town. During our early, turbulent centuries with their grim
“simple plan,
That he shall take who has the power,
And he shall keep who can,”--
misery not only loved company, as the old proverb has it, but
absolutely needed it. Groups of those, too weak singly to withstand
the attacks of that vast, lawless element which lived by oppression
and plunder, huddled themselves together, built themselves shelters,
and intrenched themselves against the common foe. In the course of
time, owing to an advantageous position or to intensity of commerce or
industry, these one-time shelters grew into towns, rising in wealth,
power, and independent spirit, girt about with strong walls and moats,
each town a state within the state, protected by imperial grants and
privileges, bound together by the common enmity of the feudal power,
and within the walls by an ardent local patriotism. Strong in their
guilds and associations, in touch with each other and with the world by
the constant travel of merchants and craftsmen, the towns became not
only centers of wealth, but also the bearers of progressive thought,
of art, of mental enlightenment. Here the graphic arts might well
originate and flourish, for here were their patrons, the burgher, the
craftsman, the people.
The time was at hand when the call for the multiplying arts would
become imperative--compelling. Man looked about, and beheld a world
full of beauty and abuses; he felt himself a unit, an individual,
not merely part of the mass of mankind, and he was going to think
for himself; he demanded to know, to learn, to grasp the truths and
probe the problems of his world. For the instruction of this untutored
multitude, eager for light, there were two modes of expression,
instantly intelligible: the simple spoken word, and that other--the
illustrative, explanatory picture. This latter must now go forth also
among the people, to help in the task of enlightenment; not the panel
picture, to be sure, nor the miniature in the costly manuscript, for
aside from their costliness they could never numerically satisfy
so universal a demand. In response to the call--we are now in the
fifteenth century--we see woodcut pictures pasted into manuscripts, to
form edifying picture books, the pictures printed from wood blocks, a
few lines of text added with the pen. Then both picture _and_ text are
cut into the same wood block in imitation of the picture manuscripts.
These early “block-books,” of Biblical or moralizing contents, were
intended for the use of pupils in the monastic schools which were then
the only educational institutions.
In the early days of woodcut, impressions were taken from the wood
block by laying a sheet of paper on the inked surface of the block and
rubbing the back of the paper with a stiff scrubbing brush, or with a
flat piece of wood, so as to bring it in close contact with the inked
ridges on the surface of the block. It is evident that neither the
quality nor yet the speed of this form of printing could long satisfy
even the most easy-going craftsman. A more perfect mode of printing
was needed and gradually evolved, culminating in the printing-press.
Similarly the cutting of letters of the text on the picture blocks--in
the so-called block-books--must soon have proved itself impracticable,
for the reign of these books is quite brief. One is tempted to let
fancy play around the bald facts, and to watch the artisan, wearily
cutting the same letters again and again into the wood block, until
he bethinks himself,--a half-dozen others likewise: “Why cannot I
saw off the lettering cut on another block, cut it up, word by word,
or, better yet, letter by letter, then put the letters together in
words and sentences as I need them, and use them with my newly cut
picture? It would save a deal of trouble!” Thus the next step was
movable type, used around, between, together with, the blocks bearing
the illustrations. The rapid spread of type-printing simultaneous
with these developments concerns us merely because the vast number of
illustrated books published during that period greatly favored the
development of woodcut illustration.
Throughout these developments, we always discern the same utilitarian
element which I have pointed out. Far from originating in any striving
for a higher, more ideal form of artistic expression, the devices for
printing both pictures and text were simply means to save labor and
expedite publication. The manuscript, the miniature, were the ideals
to be approached, and they were high ideals, to be sure. Distinguished
humanists like Pope Nicholas V, Poggio, Giannozzo Mannetti, and others,
being themselves experts in calligraphy, demanded the best efforts of
their scribes and miniaturists. It is a pleasure merely to look at
their books. The material used is invariably parchment, the bindings in
the Vatican and at Urbino, crimson velvet and silver. It could hardly
be expected that these men, who spared neither pains nor expense to
show their respect for the contents of a book, would view the advent of
printing with anything like satisfaction. Their collective feelings are
well summed up in the one remark of Federigo da Urbino, that he would
be ashamed to own a printed book.
Not by these nor for their use had type-printing and picture-printing
been called into life, but by the needs of the people, and at the
people’s call the world was flooded with a multitude of works,
informative or entertaining in character. Soon German printers set up
presses in Italian cities, and ere long the publishing centers of the
South, especially Venice, vied with Germany in importance of production.
Book illustration was considered from a very different point of view
in Germany and in Italy. German illustration grew out of a demand
for and pleasure in the explanatory picture. The demand for picture
books and for books consisting chiefly of illustrations came from
a public easily pleased, satisfied with crude outline cuts daubed
over with colors. In Italy illustration came in answer to a desire
for artistic illustrative ornamentation, on the part of a public of
cultivated taste. For this reason the German illustrated book bears
a character largely instructive, while the Italian illustration is
essentially decorative. Very few of the early books in the German
language are devoid of illustrations. The pictures constitute their
decoration,--they are used as chapter headings,--long before the advent
of purely ornamental embellishments. In Italy the printed book takes
over from the manuscript the idea of decorative embellishment. Borders
are stamped--with relief-blocks--upon the printed pages of early
Venetian books, and colored by hand. This craving for color is as old
as mankind; its demands are urged upon the graphic arts at all stages
of their development. The demand for color caused the manuscript to be
illuminated, and the pen-drawn outline of the early miniature to be
filled in with pigment; we have seen its call answered in the crudely
colored saint’s picture. The outline is explanatory, intellectual,
the coloring adds a sensual pleasure, and this additional feature of
bright color was soon demanded also of the printed book. The printer’s
answering endeavors are seen in the red initials printed into pages of
black text, in title-page designs, arms and ornaments, in borders and
diagrams printed in two, sometimes three colors. Another effort in this
direction of color is the _chiaroscuro_[3] woodcut, but that belongs
to a later period. A few illustrations will convey a more definite
idea of these early woodcuts. Here is a dignified, pleasing example
of the “Helgen,” cut in outline, as usual, and colored by hand (the
dark tones on the garments and elsewhere are due to this coloring). No
shade-strokes are as yet introduced, merely an outline; the rest is
left to the colorist. After that, inscriptions are cut into the block,
or written in, and this combination of lettering and picture carries us
to the block-books.
[3] Pronounce: keearoskooro.
[Illustration: ST. MARGARET OF HUNGARY
Woodcut with hand coloring]
[Illustration: BLOCK-BOOK PAGE
Ars Memorandi]
[Illustration: PAGE FROM THE NUREMBERG CHRONICLE
Nuremberg, 1493]
A typical page from the “Ars Memorandi” (probably cut in the
Netherlands) shows the character of these school books. This is
designed to help theological students in memorizing the Holy Writ. The
pictures are good; the text, hard to read, was soon to be replaced by
movable type.
A page, from the Nuremberg “Chronicle” of 1494, shows us the state
of woodcut, technically as well as its use in books. Many examples
might be shown, from different parts of Germany, from schools swayed
by various currents of artistic thought. Common to them all, despite
their crudity, is a growing familiarity with woodcut, a realization of
its possibilities and of its limitations. Artistic talent of a high
order--compared with earlier productions--reveals itself, resulting
from a division of labor. The artisan of the playing-cards and early
saints’ pictures could never have risen to these heights of creative
independence. His simple figures were copied from manuscripts, or
from some other handy model, but when it came to supplying the
growing demands of book-illustration with material from fields without
precedent in past productions, the publishers were constrained to
entrust artists with these designs, and the woodcut maker was given the
task--not easy, though mechanical--of cutting with precision the lines
drawn by the artist.
[Illustration: VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH ST. JOHN
Woodcut]
[Illustration: PAGE FROM HYPNEROTOMACHIA POLIPHILI
Venice, 1499]
This development is common to Germany and Italy alike; but throughout
the early productions of the Southern country, we seem to hear an echo
of the sublime harmonies achieved in painting. For instance, in this
large “Helgen” of Italy: a simple outline woodcut, this Virgin and
Child with St. John, but in its simplicity what dignity and strength.
The accents introduced by slight decorative indications and the
shade-lines in the hair add charm to the simple, charming composition,
by contrast of tone. Excellent cutting, this, after a masterly design.
But in a country which has just reached the zenith of artistic
achievement, we may expect, likewise, such remarkable decorative
designs as the title-page border for the Venetian “Herodotus” of 1494,
which frames the title of this volume.
[Illustration: PAGE FROM MORGANTE MAGGIORE
Florence, 1500]
It is the golden era of typography, this last decade of the fifteenth
century. Brought to Italian towns by German printers, both type and
illustration soon fall in line with the prevailing high standard of
excellence. If further proof were needed, it would be found in this
page from a Venetian publication, the “Hypnerotomachia Poliphili.”
See how well the beautiful type of the text harmonizes with the
illustration, how nicely the values of both are adjusted to form a
harmonious page. Simple, unpretentious outline is used to convey the
beauty of the artistic conception. These same characteristics will be
met again in engraving as it is used by Italian masters. Woodcut as
well as the other forms of reproductive art remain the servants, never
become the friends of artists in Italy.
For brevity’s sake, we must pass by northern Italy and turn to Florence
which was, next to Venice, the foremost southern publishing center.
In this example, taken from Pulci’s “Morgante Maggiore,” published in
1500, we notice a keener appreciation of the possibilities of woodcut.
Broad masses of white, with severe outline, scantily shaded, contrast
with bold masses of black, whose intensity of effect is modified and
blended by means of tenuous white lines, a manner likewise adopted in
illustrations for the forceful sermons of Savonarola, whose teachings,
widely read, necessitated a number of successive editions.
III
THE EARLY DAYS OF ENGRAVING
Having followed woodcut from its beginnings to the end of the fifteenth
century, it behooves us now to devote our attention to the earliest
intaglio process, namely, engraving.
Ever since the days of antiquity it had been the practice of
metal-workers to cut decorative designs into the surface of the metal.
Armorers and goldsmiths practiced this art of engraving in mediæval
and Renaissance times. For our present purposes the absorbing question
is this: How did the idea of printing from this decorated metal first
suggest itself? We may get a clue by watching the engraver at work.
With the graver he cuts a maze of lines into the metal; it is almost
impossible to see the design owing to the glitter of each new-cut
furrow. This troubles the engraver himself, and in order to see just
what he has done, he smears the plate over with a mixture of lamp-black
and oil, rubbing it well into the furrows. Then he wipes the plate
clean, and now the design stands out plainly in black lines upon the
shining metal surface. If he were now to take a piece of paper and
press it against the plate, the black color in the furrows would adhere
to the paper, and every line cut into the metal would be reproduced
there. In such an accidental way, no doubt, the possibility of
obtaining impressions from intaglio plates became known some time about
or before the middle of the fifteenth century. But, of course, such an
impression taken by hand pressure is bound to be very imperfect, and it
may have been some time before some goldsmith thought it worth while
to experiment with these printing possibilities. At first impressions
may have seemed useful as guides for further work on the metal, or they
may have served as memoranda of work done and delivered. As a matter
of fact, goldsmiths did make use of this new-found mode of printing,
and took impressions from their small decorative niello plates, before
filling in the engraved lines with the final black enamel,--the
“nigellum.”
If woodcut were dubbed the democrat among the graphic arts, certainly
engraving must be called the aristocrat of the family. It originates
in the goldsmith’s workshop, amidst a guild of skilled designers,
who not unfrequently practice painting together with their craft. No
wonder that in such hands engraving should shape itself along artistic
lines from the start. In Germany engraving finds a ready welcome
among other manifestations of an art essentially of the town, of the
burgher, while the art of the Italian quattrocento celebrates its great
triumphs in the erection or adornment of sumptuous edifices, under the
fostering care of princes and prelates. The German naïvely depicts,
with minute precision, the scenes and environments of his homely
sphere; all subjects, whatever their time or country, are shifted into
the familiar setting of his own time and his own surroundings. Hence
we see the crucifixion taking place in a clearing amidst firs; we find
German and Dutch burghers in the scenes of the Passion, or kneeling in
adoration--as Magi--before the new-born Child.
The Italian artist is no less zealous in his search for nature’s
truths, but at the same time he harks back to those remains of former
artistic perfection which are just then being reclaimed from the
soil, heirlooms from classical antiquity. Guided by both, he imparts
a semblance of life to his ideal forms, that they may appear real,
though belonging to a higher world. The cult of antiquity establishes
a retrospective tendency in the choice of subjects represented.
Traditional themes taken from the Bible, from legend and mythology,
are used again and again with changes in the composition, in costume,
lighting and color scheme, all in the constant endeavor to excel in
perfection of form and composition, and in harmonious, beautiful
coloring.
[Illustration: MADONNA OF EINSIEDELN
Master E. S.]