colour of his work by comparing it with white, its richness and
depth are amazing. It seems, indeed, to go beyond the power of
the palette as we know it, but, of course, it cannot be so; and it
is recorded that Titian used few and very simple colours to produce
his fine harmonies. I doubt if his work owes much to the mellowing of
age. It must always have been fine and rich, and I think, as I have
said, that the Italian painters were led in the direction of warm and
glowing colour through feeling strongly the beauty of blue; for, as
we know, it is only by keeping the whole tone of a picture warm that
the beauty of blue can be expressed. How this richness was produced,
this depth without darkness, has been again and again discussed. It
is called the “Venetian secret,” and certainly no other painting is
so full of colour; and is considered--I think rightly--to have been
produced by first painting a solid monochrome in tempera, on which
the picture was finished, in its colours, in oil. But we need not
trouble much about the method, for whatever it was, great knowledge,
and that only, was the secret of Titian, as of all the other masters.
This is brought home to us when we see a number of fine pictures
of different schools hanging side by side, as in the Salon Carré
of the Louvre, where there are on the same wall, works by painters
as different in their methods as Rembrandt and Giorgione, Da Vinci
and Velasquez, Raphael and Holbein, all agreeing together like good
brothers. Their methods are as various as may be, but great knowledge
was the basis of them all.
When in presence of one of Titian’s pictures we are conscious of
their being true to a noble vision of nature,--_i.e._ that particular
elements have been chosen and put before us,--and we feel, although
we are not always conscious of it, except by comparison with other
men’s work, a sentiment, which by means of colour alone he has
conveyed to us. I think the sentiment of his pictures is communicated
but little by form or expression, and almost entirely by the
emotional power of their colour. His figures have the natural grace
and gravity of their race, with an air of nobility, and, as Reynolds
says, of senatorial dignity, of his own; but to me they seem to go
through their actions as in a formal pageant, without interest, with
something even of an air of indifference. There is in them nothing
of the familiar, passionate human interest--of insight, almost,
one feels, into the very souls of his subjects, that we find in
Rembrandt; which moves us so deeply, and makes us--at anyrate, I find
it so--to hold Rembrandt nearer to our hearts than any other artist.
Titian’s power is in the beauty of his colour, and this is the
special power of the painter. By his command of colour he imposes his
mood upon us without our knowledge, making us look at nature through
his eyes.
Titian was greatest as a portrait painter, as Reynolds has said. In
arrangement, and in painting, and in character also, although he
does not give so searching a reading as Rembrandt, they are as fine
as can be. We have none in our National Gallery, but there is a very
fine portrait in the Louvre, the “Man with the Glove.” This work is
beautifully drawn and modelled, the head very simply and broadly, so
that everything seems left out, but everything essential is there.
The head is not forced out into the highest light, as is the usual
practice now, but is kept lower in tone than the linen, which is
the brightest light, and each colour tells in its natural degree. I
should imagine that his painting-room was not lighted in our ordinary
way, from the north, but probably from the south, with a veiled
light, and that he painted or studied sometimes out of doors; for
the lighting of his pictures could, I think, only have been arrived
at by studying in sunlight, or perhaps by artificial light. His
portraits seem to me to have very much the effect, both in colour
and modelling, of people as seen by the light of a candle, where the
light is reflected from the bright colours only, and is absorbed by
the dark ones.
The influence of Titian can be traced in the work of all succeeding
painters. Both Velasquez and Rembrandt owe something to him;
Velasquez more than Rembrandt, as he was better acquainted with his
work. But the influence of Titian, of Rubens, and of Tintoret on
Velasquez only supplemented, and did not lead him away from, his own
frank and straightforward view of nature.
We know, now that we have his whole life’s work before us, that
Velasquez had the surest eye and the truest hand of any artist who
has ever lived, or at least that he was the equal in this respect
of any other artist; but if we look at his early work in the
National Gallery, we find that it is not “clever” in any sense. It
is most uncompromising, somewhat heavy-handed, one may almost say
common, in its execution; suggesting not brilliant ability, but
clear insight and determination. We may notice in this picture--the
small still-life group with figures, called “Christ in the House of
Martha”--how everything is set down relentlessly and thoroughly;
and in another early work, the “Dead Warrior,” we see the same
thing--everything is painted deliberately and apparently without
alterations. It is only those who try to paint who know how much
knowledge, how much determination, this implies.
But so much is said of the freedom of Velasquez’s painting, and so
often is his name used to justify careless and sloppy work, that one
may be allowed to draw attention again to the old truth--that this
freedom was only gained at the price of labour, greater than most
of his worshippers seem willing or able to undertake; and that the
charm of his painting is that, with all its freedom, it is so careful
and so beautifully drawn. He having, by great labour, learnt what to
do, practice gave him a ready means to his end. It is surely, then, a
mistaken idea for an artist to think that he can begin in Velasquez’s
later manner, where he left off. If he will follow this great master,
let him begin as the master began, and tramp the whole road.
The work of Velasquez seems to reveal the temperament of a
dispassionate observer, with an eye so keen and so thoroughly trained
that nothing escapes him; but he does not show us his own feeling
towards his sitter. In other painters’ work, we get at least some
hint of the artist’s feeling towards the persons he brings before
us, but we do not get this in Velasquez. He is a perfect mirror.
His attitude is that of one apart, or aloof, from his fellows,
understanding, but without appearing to show sympathy or enthusiasm.
These feelings seem to be reserved for the painting itself, though in
some of his pictures, such as the “Surrender of Breda,” where, I
fancy, the Italian influence can be seen, and in some of his dwarfs,
there is, I think,--I have not seen the pictures themselves, and only
know them from photographs and copies,--a little nearer approach to
his persons, a little less detachment than usual.
[Illustration:
_Velasquez_ _Prado_
THE SURRENDER OF BREDA]
In examining his work we can follow with delight the interest he
must have felt in recording the things before him, and yet the
final impression remains that the picture was not painted for the
sake of fine painting, and that his manner was but his ready way of
expressing his subject. When we look at that fine portrait of the
Admiral in the National Gallery, we think only of the man who stands
before us, as he stood before the painter; and it is only when we
come near and realise the extreme simplicity of the means by which
the illusion of his presence is produced that we are amazed at the
painter’s skill. These odd, apparently unrelated, touches of colour,
which we see at close quarters, explain themselves and take their
place when the picture is seen at its proper distance. The fine
portrait of Pope Innocent X. in Rome impresses in the same way.
The later work of Velasquez is the finest of all. One cannot imagine
direct painting finer than the head of Philip IV. in the National
Gallery, and it has every appearance of being done with ease and
certainty. There is no display, no trace of effort, no “execution.”
And in what must be his finest work, “Las Meniñas,” of which I have
only seen a study, a problem of the utmost complexity in gradation
is solved with apparently the greatest ease. The arrangement is so
easy and natural that one does not realise its consummate art. How
beautifully the figures are proportioned to the room, and how finely
the large dark empty space above contrasts with the light and sparkle
of the figures! His paint charms by its clear silvery colour and by
what looks like unconscious certainty in his handling, and this must
have come to him naturally, unsought. But the great interest of his
work lies in the fact that it is so “modern,” that he paints things
as we see them; and this has been well pointed out by the late R. A.
M. Stevenson in his excellent appreciation of Velasquez, which I
should advise you to read.
[Illustration:
_Velasquez_ _Prado_
LAS MENIÑAS]
Rembrandt in some of his works, as in the “Syndics,” at Amsterdam, is
as fine and rich in colour as Titian; but in the range and variety of
his lighting, and in the interest he shows in life and character, he
goes beyond either Titian or Velasquez. Every portrait, every picture
indeed that he painted, seems to have been undertaken as a problem
of lighting, as well as of character; but there is nearly always, I
think, some reflection of himself in his portraits, and if detachment
is the ideal, he was inferior to Titian or Velasquez in this respect.
But he was greater, perhaps, than any other painter in human feeling
and sympathy, in dramatic sense and invention; and his imagination
seems inexhaustible.
His qualities, however, do not strike us at once. If we come from
looking at Titian, or any of the fine Italians, to Rembrandt, our
first impression is of plebeian coarseness, of uncouthness, and even
of vulgarity, and all these qualities are there. But if we can put
aside our prejudices, and try to understand his meaning, we find,
after a time--it takes a little time--that beauty may wear the most
unlikely dress. We discover beauties of design, of delicate drawing,
and of sentiment, and a depth and intensity of feeling so convincing,
that the ugliness of his types becomes of small account. Compare,
for example, Rembrandt’s etching of the “Descent from the Cross,”
either the large or the small plate (the small one is the better, for
probably the design only of the large plate is Rembrandt’s) with the
“Entombment” by Titian. The tragic side of the scene is finely given
by Rembrandt, and Titian’s picture is formal in comparison with it,
although this is one of his most expressive works.
Rembrandt’s eye seems to have been always attracted to the point of
light, or the source of light, when the actual colours of objects
were rather suggested than seen, or if the light shone on objects it
was always focussed on the principal parts by shadows; and we find
his work characterised by the most searching study of shadows and
their infinite gradations, as well as of the diffusion of light. This
study of light and shade in his pictures is so thorough as to
seem an end and object in itself, but it was only with him the means
of expressing or enhancing his idea. The idea and its presentation
are inseparable, and his pictures seem to be imagined rather than
constructed. He seems to take a suggestion from some very ordinary
scene, and to carry it on in his mind and make it significant; as in
the “Adoration of the Shepherds” in the National Gallery, the light
and shade motive of which was probably inspired by something he
happened to see in a stable.
[Illustration:
_Rembrandt_ _National Gallery_
THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS]
This is, to my mind, one of his most beautiful works. If we look at
it long enough to get beyond the paint, we find ourselves in the
stable, taking part in the scene, with the shepherds; we seem even to
know them well. The lighting, expression, gesture, and sentiment in
this work are all natural and true; and the picture in the Wallace
Collection, the “Unmerciful Servant,” with the figures starting out
of the deep background, is also an instance of his lighting, or
conceiving a picture so as--unconsciously, it seems--to emphasise the
dramatic element in the story.
There is something greater and deeper in this than the mere artifice
of lighting. The “Supper at Emmaus,” and the “Good Samaritan,” both
in the Louvre, are instances of this marvellous power of conceiving
his subject which can be seen in all his works, even in the slightest
sketch.
Two drawings are reproduced here from the British Museum Collection.
These drawings of his, made on the impulse of the moment, with
expression as the one aim, show the richness of his imagination and
his mastery more clearly than do his paintings, where other aims
and problems enter, and sometimes confuse or obscure the thought.
They are most wonderful in directness and expressiveness; in a happy
instinctive rightness of arrangement, which seems inevitable. Every
essential thing is given with the slightest of means--with the
greatest economy of line; yet they are not slight sketches, but full
and complete expressions.
[Illustration:
_Rembrandt_ _British Museum_
JOSEPH CONSOLING THE PRISONERS (PEN DRAWING)]
We should study his drawings and the magnificent series of his
etchings, as well as his paintings, for not only do we see in these
the great range of his invention and expression, but his fine
draughtsmanship. It is, too, in his drawings, but most of all
in his etchings, that we see Rembrandt’s greatness in landscape.
As an etcher, he is beyond question the greatest master, and the
completeness and delicacy of his plates has never been surpassed. His
etchings alone number about three hundred, and there are about four
hundred and fifty of his paintings, and some hundreds of drawings,
so that his life must have been one of unflagging industry, of
constant progress towards perfection; everything that he touched is
fine in some way. And if we think of this enormous number of works
from his hand, and their great perfection; and realise how readily
his work must have been done, and how few mistakes were made, we can
understand what is meant by mastery.
Our knowledge of art is wider than that of our predecessors. Not
that we have greater abilities, but we have greater opportunities of
judging and making comparisons between schools. And time has helped
us in coming to some conclusion on the vital question: On what does
the reputation of an artist rest? His work should express some kind
of beauty; it should be true to some aspect of nature; but, above
all, it seems to me that an artist should be true to himself. In the
work of all great artists we feel that we make the acquaintance of a
person, and share a personal view--as in Titian, the interest is in
the rich and beautiful aspect of nature; in Velasquez, in an absolute
truth of presentation, with no preference; while Rembrandt saw with
the eye of a poet, looking for the soul of things through their
outward appearances.
Rembrandt in his later years, when he was producing his finest work,
was, as we know, poor, and in such obscurity that his death was
unnoticed by his contemporaries; and Michel, in his interesting book
on Rembrandt, enforces this by quoting Gerard de Lairesse, who wrote
of Rembrandt some thirty years after his death, that “in his efforts
to attain mellow colour he merely achieved the effect of rottenness.
The vulgar and prosaic aspects of a subject were the only ones he
was capable of noting, and his colours lie like liquid mud on the
canvas,” etc. He goes on to say that in early life he was much
attracted by Rembrandt’s manner, and thought of following it, but
better counsels prevailed! Gerard was an artist of some standing, and
a follower of the Classic tradition, as the Dutchmen understood it;
but the world has very willingly let his work die, while Rembrandt
has come to his own.
[Illustration:
_Rembrandt_ _British Museum_
ZACHARIAS AND THE ANGEL (PEN DRAWING)]
The history of art shows that an artist’s work lives by its own
vitality rather than by following blindly a tradition, however noble.
And the innovator is usually, in his lifetime, decried; it must be
so. But sometimes it is recognised afterwards that the innovator was
the loyal follower of good tradition, and that his opponents merely
imagined they were. The work of the great minds, the great masters,
remains unapproachable, and is, if possible, more highly esteemed
now than ever; but where are the Caracci, Carlo, Maratta, Pompeo
Battoni, and the rest who were so highly esteemed in their day?
They are--perhaps a little undeservedly--forgotten, for they were
able painters; but their glory is absorbed again into that of their
masters. For, as Jean François Millet said: “Decadence set in when
people began to believe that art was the supreme end; when such and
such an artist was taken as model and aim, without remembering that
he had his eyes fixed on infinity.”
V
ON LANDSCAPE AND OPEN-AIR PAINTING
The main development of painting in the last century has been in the
direction of landscape painting, and, as allied to it, of figures
under the conditions of outdoor lighting--in the open air. We may
go back to the Italian Primitives for the first landscape painters,
although landscape was then only an accessory, and did not, as a
rule, consist of more than a sky and a view of distant country, used
as a background for figures. But these little glimpses of landscape,
especially the skies, are most interesting and beautiful. I do not,
indeed, think that skies have at any time been painted which give
the feeling of light so beautifully, or a finer, purer sentiment in
the landscape itself. There is a very fine instance in the large
fresco by Perugino in the National Gallery--a picture representing
the “Adoration of the Shepherds.” The figures are in a field, under
a very light and delicate sky. The tender sentiment of the scene is
much the same as we find in the pictures of Corot.
In the little “Crucifixion” by Antonello da Messina, also in
the National Gallery, there is a landscape--the effect is that
of dawn--with a sky of the most beautiful quality; and, among
many others, there are two pictures by Ambrogio Bourgognone, a
contemporary of Da Vinci’s, also in the National Gallery, which
have, in their backgrounds, charming little glimpses of rivers and
towns, painted very freely and sweetly, as one would like to see
them painted to-day. And the picture of “Christ in the Garden,” by
Bellini, shows a landscape splendid in the tragic sentiment of its
colour, especially in the lurid sky. You know the picture; the effect
is that of nightfall. And there is also, in the background of a
picture of a Magdalen by Savoldo, a beautiful little nightpiece, with
water, boats, and sky of a deep and beautiful blue. I should imagine
it is one of the first “nocturnes.”
One of the first men to treat landscape as the principal element in
a picture was a contemporary of Dürer’s, named Patinir. There are
some of his pictures in the National Gallery; one, of a winding river
between mountains, a very light picture, is a very interesting work.
We may consider Titian as the first great landscape painter, though
in his paintings it was only an accessory; but his construction of
landscape by the use of shadows, of which I have already spoken, is
one of the inventions or discoveries of painting. There are many fine
drawings of landscape by him which you should see and study. His was,
I think, the leading influence in treatment of landscape until the
time of Claude and Poussin, when landscape painting may really be
said to begin.
There was an old Fleming, Peter Breughel, who did some beautiful
landscapes with figures (he was principally a figure painter) in the
sixteenth century extremely rich in colour, and with a naïve rustic
feeling that reminds one a little of Millet. I should imagine him to
be the first “rustic” painter, and one of the best. After him, from
Rubens, who painted many fine landscapes, we come down to Rembrandt,
whose influence is still the leading one in the Dutch school. There
is a little-known Dutch artist, Hercules Seghers, a landscape
painter, who lived a little before Rembrandt, and is believed to have
greatly influenced him in his feeling for landscape. I think only one
of his paintings is definitely known; but there are a number of very
beautiful etchings in the British Museum, some printed in different
colours, a method which he is believed to have invented. These are
very remarkable works, and should be studied. From Rembrandt, through
Ruisdael, Hobbema, Vermeer of Delft, down to our Norwich school, to
Gainsborough and Constable, and to Turner, the connection is all
clearly traceable and well known. The great French school of the
forties--the Romanticists, as they are called--Rousseau, Corot,
Daubigny, and their allies, received their impulse through Constable.
Delacroix was influenced by him also; and the later impressionistic
developments of landscape painting in France may be traced to the
inspiration of Turner.
Any view of outdoor nature may be said to be a landscape; it may be
the barest record of facts, or it may give something like a vision,
with hardly any support at all from facts: the range is very wide.
But in what does the charm of a landscape consist? It must be a
record of a scene; that is, it must be true to the appearance, and
must show the facts of nature under the influence of some definite
effect of light. But there must be something more. An accurate record
of a scene, although it may be true to the facts, will not charm,
will not move us so much as a picture where the effect, or sentiment,
of atmosphere or light is the dominating motive.
Constable pointed out that painters should not think that the sky
terminated at the horizon, but should realise that it comes all
through the picture, and close up to us. That there is a particular
tree, river, or hill in a certain place is of no great interest. The
interest for us lies in seeing or recognising the great elemental
forces of nature, living and acting in and through the little things
upon the earth. A landscape should not be so much an inventory as
a transcript or translation of a mood of nature. Its appeal is to
the primitive instincts--not to primitive people, not so much to
people who pass their lives in the open air; for they take nature
and its changes as a matter of course, and look on the weather as a
capricious master whose whims have to be met, and a tree only as so
much timber, or flocks and herds as so much stock. This is really
quite a natural and proper view, but the artist’s view is outside
this; and a picture of landscape appeals mainly to the primitive
instincts of cultivated people, of people who live in cities, who
look from the standpoint of civilisation with a sentimental longing
towards a more simple state. The French gallants and ladies of
the eighteenth century liked to imagine themselves shepherds and
shepherdesses; and we, with our increased development of commerce and
industry, have an increased appreciation of landscape, as if, since
we cannot live with Nature, we would still be reminded of and be
brought, even at second hand, into association with her.
The wide range of vision or treatment in landscape, as compared with
that of figure painting, makes it difficult, if not impossible, to
arrive at any rules which can be generally applied; for selection
of subject seems more determined by emotion or impulse, and less
by reason, than in figure work. The landscape painter is more
instinctive than the figure painter, and, as a rule, is less definite
in his study of form, or seems so; but has a finer sense of gradation
of colour. But the building up of a landscape seems governed by
pretty much the same unformulated rules as of a figure picture, and
to depend on the same elements--the balancing of light by dark, and
the contrast of warm and cool colour, so that the masses of the
picture shall be agreeable to the eye; and the study of pictures,
carried on concurrently with the study of nature, is the only way
by which a student can learn how he can bring his vision of nature
within the limits of a picture. I mean, by the study of pictures,
that the student should follow the plan indicated by Sir Joshua
Reynolds, and, if a picture pleases him, take the trouble to note
and, if necessary, make a memorandum of the general masses of light
and dark, where they come, and in what degree, so as to learn the
general disposition of the main things.