I have indicated, as records of her moods. Claude, in his picture
of the “Queen of Sheba,” did not, we may be sure, care about the
Queen of Sheba at all. She was only a point for his picture; nor was
he much interested in the towers, columns, and palaces which frame
his picture. What he wanted to paint, what he wanted to impress
upon us, was the beauty of the evening sun shining in the clear sky
over the sea; and so well did he do it that the sun still shines in
his picture, after over two hundred years. No one but Turner has
ever equalled him in the knowledge of subtle gradations of light.
An infinite space in air is suggested without forcing the range of
colour; for the lightest part of the picture is far from white, and
the darkest part by no means black.
[Illustration:
_Claude_ _National Gallery_
THE EMBARKATION OF THE QUEEN OF SHEBA]
In another picture of his, “The Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca,” also
in the National Gallery, the subject is not the marriage, which is a
mere incident, to give excuse for some figures as spots of colour,
but the beautiful peep of sunlit country seen through the trees.
In this picture we may remark how the dark trees accent the
sky and the river, and how dark they have to be painted to express
the lightness of the sky. Their colour is sacrificed to their tone.
Claude did not wish us to look really at anything but the stretch of
open country. We notice the trees, but our eye goes through to the
distance.
Wilson and Turner followed in the same path. Wilson’s work is
most beautiful in its direct, full painting, but he is limited in
his range; while Turner’s seems to know no limit, for he touched
the extremes of light and dark, of sunshine and of gloom. Such
pictures as the “Shipwreck,” the “Sun rising in a Mist,” and the
“Calais Pier” show the power which he possessed--in which he is
quite unapproachable--of giving the greatest minuteness of detail
without losing the breadth of the general impression. In his later
work, as in the “Approach to Venice,” detail was suggested rather
than expressed, but it was fully suggested. How delicate, in these
pictures of his later time, are the gradations, and how slight the
intervals between the tints!
[Illustration:
_Turner_ _National Gallery_
APPROACH TO VENICE]
Turner’s enormous range, his comprehensiveness, and the beauty
of his vision should be studied in his drawings as much as in his
paintings. I do not, indeed, know if the drawings do not to the
artist express his qualities best.
The work of Constable touches on smaller things and the more homely
aspects of nature. He sees things at close quarters; his range is
not so great. He felt the beauties of everyday nature, of trees
and fields under the sky, and painted them with a clearness and a
freedom from convention which were then new in art. As you know,
when his pictures were shown in Paris in 1824, they were welcomed
as a return from conventionality to nature, and made the point of
departure for what is now known as the Romantic school, the finest
group of painters that France has produced. “The Valley Farm” in
the National Gallery is, I think, one of his finest works. How
beautifully his trees are drawn! I think one of the most difficult
things in painting is to paint a tree. The most difficult of all,
perhaps, is to paint a sky which shall really be a sky; but as this
means that all the other elements in the picture shall be in accord
with it, to paint a good sky is to paint a good picture. It is not
so very difficult to copy a tree, but to paint it so as to make it
live, to give us the impression of life that a tree gives us when
we look at it in passing, or without sitting down to paint it, is a
thing that few can do well. How often, when we set about painting a
tree--or anything else, for that matter--we lose, even in looking at
it, the charm that attracted us! We get confused, I suppose, with the
infinity of detail, and by our intentness on each particular part, or
by analysing each part separately, our minds are taken away from the
general idea of the whole which made us wish to paint it; and we end
by getting a painting of the branches and leaves, but not the living
tree. We miss it, somehow. One often sees trees painted that look all
cut out at the edges, like trees on the stage, and when we look at
the edges of a tree against the sky, we see that they look cut out,
too; but if we look at the tree as a whole--as a great green dome,
spreading up and rounding into the sky, with the light shining on it
and through it--if we can realise this, we can get a little nearer to
our tree. Sir Joshua Reynolds touches on this in his discourses, and
advises students to study the general masses and disposition of their
trees, and not to devote themselves to painting each particular part.
Constable saw his trees as a whole, and so did Rousseau, Cecil
Lawson, and Corot. Theodore Rousseau was the greatest French
landscape painter of our time. There are two fine pictures of his in
the Louvre--one, a marsh in the evening, and another of an opening
through trees at sunset (I think there is a version of this in the
Wallace Collection)--which are most perfect and beautiful things;
his work is fine in colour, severe in drawing, and has a wide range
of effect. And Cecil Lawson, one of our best landscape painters, was
very like Rousseau in his austerity and fine sentiment, and in his
large view of nature.
One of the most delightful of landscape painters is Corot, whose work
has a lightness of touch, and a kind of happiness in its delicate
sentiment, which are altogether his own. He is another painter who
arrived at ease of execution through beginning carefully and hardly.
There are some of his early pictures of Rome in the Louvre, very
beautiful, and, at the same time, very hard and precise; and I
have seen drawings--life studies--of his, all elaborately worked with
the hard pencil-point. He was able to paint, or to suggest a tree,
in the most delicate way. Constable, Rousseau, and Lawson preferred
the sterner and stronger trees--the elm or the oak--but Corot loved
the delicate trees, especially the willow, and effects of twilight
or dawn; and he rendered the mystery produced by tiny interlacing
leaves, which look sometimes like a mist against the sky, in a very
beautiful way, which was, I think, his own. But this is only an
incidental beauty of his work, which is remarkable in its expression
of the clearness and fresh beauty of nature; although, as compared
with Turner, his range is very limited, and we feel his mannerisms
when comparing him with Rousseau.
[Illustration:
_Corot_ _Louvre_
SOUVENIR DE MORTE-FONTAINE]
Claude, Poussin, Wilson, Turner, and Corot all lived and worked in
Rome, and I think this influence shows in their work, in the sense
of what is called style. There is in Italy something nobler in the
natural forms than in our Northern lands, and the air is more serene;
Italy has a beauty which has made and still keeps it above all
others as the artist’s country.
Rousseau, the landscape painter, was associated with several other
kindred spirits; and the greatest of these was his friend and
neighbour, Jean François Millet, certainly one of the greatest
artists of the last century. Everything about him and his comrades
is so well known, and so easily accessible, that I need do no more
than touch on his work. He was, I think, the first, perhaps the
only modern, to approach nature with the simplicity of the early
painters. I mean simplicity of mind rather than of method; as
compared, for instance, with our Pre-Raphaelites, who varied from
their contemporaries not so much in the nature of their subjects,
which were much the same as those in vogue at the time, as in their
method of painting them. But Millet was not the first painter of
peasants. This was, I think, an artist of whom I have already spoken,
the elder Breughel, quite one of the early men. There are a number of
his pictures in the gallery at Vienna, of rustic scenes, harvesting,
etc., very fine in drawing and colour, and painted for the sake of
their subjects, and not as accessories, as are the charming groups
of woodmen in the background of Bellini’s “Peter the Martyr” in
the National Gallery. Breughel’s work is very little known in this
country.
The work of Millet was a new note in modern art. No other has seen
so clearly and shown so well the beauty and significance of ordinary
occupations, the union of man with nature, and the dependence of
man on nature. The peasant had been painted by the Dutchmen, but
generally from the point of view of ridicule, and by Morland; but he
was usually represented as drinking,--or resting in some way,--and
was not painted, as Millet painted him, from cradle to grave, as
one may say, in the midst of his daily work. One remembers, too,
an ideal sort of peasant, painted by men who did not realise that
his labour is hard, constant, and exacting, and who did not see
the beauty of the simple movements necessitated by it. But Millet
was painting things which he understood and felt thoroughly; yet
his work, which we recognise now as being both true and beautiful,
appeared to his contemporaries as a rather repellent rendering, and
it was some years before he was properly appreciated. He was a great
inventor--greater even as an inventor than as a painter; for he was
not a facile painter, and painting with him was not an end in itself,
but only a means of expression. His design was always most beautiful,
and there is, I suppose, no incident of the peasant’s life that he
has not made the subject either of paintings or drawings; and always
the chief interest lay in the expression of the action or sentiment,
and the type. Although his colour was harmonious, and sometimes very
beautiful, these qualities of painting were of lesser importance to
him than those of design. When the point of expression he sought was
reached, he left off, whether his paint was smooth or rough; but he
always gave as much detail as he wanted, and in some cases, as in his
picture of a “Village Church” in the Louvre, it is carried to very
great completeness, with beautiful colour all through. This is one of
his finest works.
If we compare his work with that of Bastien Lepage, the greatest of
those who have been inspired by him, we find Millet still the
master, though Bastien, as a painter, was incomparably more able
and skilful. Bastien painted the same kind of subjects, sometimes
absolutely the same subject, as must sometimes happen. Not, like
Millet, letting everything go for the sake of the expression, but
painting for the sake of giving the true effect of people in the open
air, with the light and actual colour of nature; at anyrate, this
became the dominant motive, and he has done this more beautifully
than any other. In some ways his work recalls that of the early
Italian masters, such as Filippino Lippi, in its clear lighting and
definite drawing, and intensity of expression. Yet its interest loses
when compared with the work of Millet; or rather, a different point
of view, one not so vital, is presented to us. The approach is so
near, the study so close, that the portrait interest dominates and
displaces the interest of the type, which Millet always preserved.
And the necessity of painting from his model posing leads to
Bastien’s avoiding sunlight and effect, and confining himself to an
even light; and leads also to the qualities of action, and interest
of subject, being sacrificed to truth of resemblance, so that we have
two qualities to set against each other: in the work of Millet, the
presentation of the type and the action; in the work of Bastien, the
presentation of the individual and the surroundings. The sentiment
was the same, but in this Millet was stronger. His qualities lead up
to it, and enforce it, while Bastien’s tend to divert our attention
from it.
[Illustration:
_Drawn on wood by J. F. Millet_ _Engraved by A. Lavieille_
NOON]
There is a design of Millet’s, one of a series he drew on the wood
for engraving--a mid-day rest--which we may compare with the “Foins”
by Bastien Lepage. No doubt Bastien was inspired by Millet, and I
think we must agree that the impression of the subject is stronger in
Millet; of the individual in Bastien Lepage.
[Illustration:
_J. Bastien Lepage_ _Luxembourg_
LES FOINS]
There is never, in the work of Millet, any consciousness of the
spectator. His people are always intent on their occupation, not
posing to the painter, not regarding anything outside their work. In
the drawing of “Night,” how well the intentness of the figures is
expressed! And nothing is forced; it is all quite natural.
[Illustration:
_Drawn on wood by J. F. Millet_ _Engraved by A. Lavieille_
NIGHT]
I think the points of difference between these two painters, in spite
of a common aim, are most interesting. They are both great artists;
but the question is raised whether it is not better to give, though
imperfectly, the leading elements of a picture, than to allow a
lesser interest to arise and supplant it. It is a question for the
artist which he considers the greater interest in his work; that he
will necessarily express.
But Bastien Lepage, although he does not, I think, rank with the
pioneer Millet, yet has a high place among modern artists, not only
as one of the first who realised figures in simple outdoor lighting,
but for the unaffected sincerity of his work; and we must remember
that Millet completed his career, while Bastien’s was cut short by
death.
Everything in nature is moving--not necessarily quickly, but nothing
stands still for us; this sense of life and movement must be given
in a picture with the measure of detail which may be necessary, and
the result reveals the artist’s mind, showing on which qualities, and
in what degree, his attention was fixed. Corot, I think, in one of
his letters, says that when he was a young man, painting from nature,
he used often to wish that the clouds would stand still, so that he
could draw their forms; but that he had learnt later that it was a
very good thing they did not, for the thing to express in clouds was
their sense of movement. It must be a matter for the personal feeling
of the artist how he expresses the movement of nature. No rule can
be given, but we recognise it, or its absence, in a picture. We have
a different feeling in looking at a sunrise from what we have in
looking at a sunset, although at any one moment, if we saw it only
for that moment, we could not tell whether we were looking at a
sunrise or a sunset; and the reason is, I think, that our sensations
are, in one case, of a progression from darkness to light, and in
the other from light deepening into dark; and some expression of
this feeling, although he may be quite unconscious of the means he
uses for the purpose, will be given by the painter. In the same way,
too, if we are painting figures engaged in any action, it will not
bring to our minds a clear image of the action, if we only give one
momentary phase of it such as a snapshot would give; for we have in
our minds an impression produced by successive phases of the action,
and a rendering will suggest itself which, though probably not true,
as a snapshot would be, to the action at any particular instant, will
give the general sense of it more truly. If more than one figure
is engaged in the same movement, the whole can be expressed by
representing each figure at a different stage of it. A good example
of this may often be seen when men are breaking up the streets,
where four men will drive a steel wedge into the hard road with
sledge-hammers, striking in turn on the wedge; or in a row of men
mowing, or of horses walking. One can, in such cases, by referring
from one figure to the other, give the complete movement.
But whatever we are able to get direct from nature, in studying
movement, should be revised afterwards, and considered in reference
to the impression of the movement which we have in our minds, for
what remains in our minds is the essential thing.
VI
ON REALISM AND IMPRESSIONISM
The greatest work in painting that has been produced is
unquestionably the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo.
This work shows, in perfect balance, all the qualities of the finest
art: invention, impressive sentiment, grandeur of design, with a
presentation of form which is not only in itself beautiful and noble,
but unapproachable in its expressiveness and appropriateness of
action and gesture; and in colour it is rich, grave, and harmonious.
In this great work each quality stands in such perfect balance
one with the other that no one asserts its pre-eminence; and each
quality is carried to its farthest possible point of expression. It
is impossible to say whether this work is greater in knowledge of
form or in the sentiment which it inspires--or which inspires it--in
its design or in its colour, in its fulness or its austerity. The
general impression which it produces is of perfect harmony, and of a
mind infinitely greater in its range than our own. Michelangelo is
beyond, and apart from, other men. His work has not the sentiment of
Pagan art; it has not the sentiment of Christian art; but is simply
human. Millet said of him that he seemed able, in a single figure, to
personify the good or ill of all humanity.
Never in art has there been shown such a perfect balance of intellect
and emotion, each carried to its highest point, as we find in
Michelangelo; he is the one ideal artist. All is under the control of
his mind. All is kept within the possibilities of nature, yet taken
beyond nature as it is seen by us.
It is hardly necessary to dwell on this, for it is the accepted
commonplace of criticism, but I would like to touch on it, and on the
question of idealism in art, so far as it seems to affect our work.
As you know, Sir Joshua Reynolds, in his Discourses, continually
dwells on the excellences of Michelangelo, and exhorts his students
to take him as their model. And there is no book that an artist
can read that is so illuminating and so helpful as the Discourses,
though I think it cannot be so well understood by young painters as
by those who have had some experience, who know their own mistakes
and weaknesses, and through them can begin to estimate the greatness
of the masters. These admirable Discourses give, with the utmost
candour and clearness, with entire freedom from the sentimentality
and gush which mars so much that is written on artistic subjects, the
ripe conclusions of a great artist. We see the perfect workman--the
master-craftsman, if I may say so--putting his methods before us
and laying bare his mind to us. Now, if there is one thing in the
Discourses more commented on than another, it is that Reynolds, while
continually exhorting his pupils to follow the grand style, was
himself a follower of the Venetians and of Vandyke--of the schools
which he classes as merely ornamental, and lower than the grand style
of Michelangelo. And this is pointed out as an inconsistency. I do
not think that this charge is just or fair. No one can read the
Discourses without feeling convinced of Reynolds’ admirable candour
and consistency. No one can read his last discourse, especially the
concluding passage, where he says, “I feel a self-congratulation in
knowing myself capable of such sensations as Michelangelo intended to
excite,” without feeling his absolute sincerity; and it is evident
that Reynolds, knowing well how great he was, and how great was the
work of the Venetian who inspired him, simply and candidly stated
what he felt, in placing his own work, and that of so many other
great artists, below that which he knew in his heart to be the
greatest work of all.
I instance this as touching on idealism in art. It is evident
that Reynolds recognised that more than the will was necessary to
follow in the steps of Michelangelo--that to take up the work of
Michelangelo one must have the mind of Michelangelo--and we can all
recall instances in which his followers have achieved, not sublimity,
but only bombastic pretentiousness--not realising that every
peculiarity of his was part of his means of expression; and they gave
his body, and not always a good version of his body at that, without
his spirit. The only artist, so far as I know, who has been able to
enter into and carry on his tradition worthily is Alfred Stevens,
whose Wellington Memorial and other works stand alone, as continuing
the spirit of the Renaissance.
The tendency to estimate the manner as of greater account than the
mind is the cause, I think, of so many failures in the direction of
idealism in art. It must be governed by the idea. If the idea is not
worthy, or the artist is not capable of giving it expression, there
cannot be a fine result. Ideal art requires a man to be both a great
artist, as executant, and a great thinker; and such men are rare. The
majority of us have to walk, as well as we are able, in much humbler
paths, and to keep within the limits of man’s experience, of things
we can actually see; within the indefinite bounds of what is known as
“realism.”
Realism may be of different kinds. One may have the realism of
external things, where a painter may so copy a face or person that
though everything is represented in a way one cannot find fault
with, it is all lifeless. This would happen if the painter were only
occupied with the visible surfaces of the person he was painting,
and not thinking of expressing his individual character. Or one may
have the opposite of this; a realism of expression or character, in
which the character of the person or thing may be conveyed to the
spectator, although in its appearance--in colour or surface--we fail
to recognise the painter’s work as corresponding exactly with what he
depicts. We feel that the painter has taken liberties with his facts.
Or one may try and maintain a balance between these two extremes,
giving each quality its due place.
The realism of surfaces only is a false realism. It seems to me to be
a kind of evasion of the difficulty of true representation, and to
ask that we should assume that the care with which the trivial things
are rendered, implies that the greater ones are equally well rendered
also. For though we may have all the buttons right, the ring on the
finger, the curl in the hair, and so on, we do not produce truth of
resemblance by the sum of little things without first securing the
great ones. It is a common error that much detail necessarily means
completeness, or conscientiousness.
The realism of expression or character, on the other hand, may reach
the level of very fine art--perhaps the finest. It depends on the
degree in which expression or character is realised. It does not
depend on the accuracy with which facts or details are copied, nor
does it depend upon colour, but upon a grasp of the broad structural
features and movements which give expression. It is an analysis and
abstraction of the simple forms.
The realism of externals is a fault too common in our work to-day.
We see too many pictures--in all branches of painting--where the
interest does not lie where it professes to be, or where it should
naturally be looked for, but is frittered away over the surfaces
of things, on rich stuffs, or flowers, or weeds, or other minor
points and accessories; while the central intention, or what should
be the central intention, is but little regarded. I do not wish to
discourage attention to detail,--detail must and should be attended
to,--but it should come after the qualities of structure and
expression, not before. It is possible, with detail carried to the
extremest point, still to be broad, still to keep to the structure,
still to maintain the expression, as we may see in the works of Van
Eyck--especially, as masterpieces of modelling and character, the
two small heads in the National Gallery--or in the work of Holbein,
such as the “Duchess of Milan”; or, among modern work, the “Last of
England,” by Madox Brown, and the “Ophelia” by Sir John Millais. But
what we should guard against is letting ourselves be led away, by the
comparative ease with which we can paint the little things, from the
difficulties of painting the greater ones.
The realism of expression or character is to be found in the work of
the past rather than in that of to-day. We find it in the work of
Titian, of Tintoret, of Rembrandt, as in the “Jew Merchant” in the
National Gallery, and of Sir Joshua Reynolds. It is not an imitation
of nature, but an abstraction of an imaginative artist, and is found,
as a rule, in his later works. We find examples of the middle course
between these extremes in the work of Velasquez, of Moroni--such as
the “Tailor” and the “Lawyer”--and of Lorenzo Lotto, in his fine
portrait of an ecclesiastic in the National Gallery, and in the work
of Veronese and Franz Hals. This is the direction, I think, in which
realism in portraiture should go.