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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Vision and Design - -Author: Roger Fry - -Release Date: February 12, 2017 [EBook #54154] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISION AND DESIGN *** - - - - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: - - Maya Sculpture (portion) from Piedras Negras - - Frontispiece] - - - - - VISION AND DESIGN - - BY - - ROGER FRY - - LONDON - CHATTO & WINDUS - 1920 - - _All rights reserved_ - - PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED - LONDON AND BECCLES - - - - - PREFACE - - -This book contains a selection from my writings on Art extending over a -period of twenty years. Some essays have never before been published in -England; and I have also added a good deal of new matter and made slight -corrections throughout. In the laborious work of hunting up lost and -forgotten publications, and in the work of selection, revision, and -arrangement I owe everything to Mr. R. R. Tatlock’s devoted and patient -labour. - - - - - DEDICATED - - TO - - MY SISTER MARGERY - - WITHOUT WHOSE GENTLE BUT PERSISTENT PRESSURE - THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MADE - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -ART AND LIFE 1 - -AN ESSAY IN ÆSTHETICS 11 - -THE OTTOMAN AND THE WHATNOT 26 - -THE ARTIST’S VISION 31 - -ART AND SOCIALISM 36 - -ART AND SCIENCE 52 - -THE ART OF THE BUSHMEN 56 - -NEGRO SCULPTURE 65 - -ANCIENT AMERICAN ART 69 - -THE MUNICH EXHIBITION OF MOHAMMEDAN ART 76 - -GIOTTO 87 - -THE ART OF FLORENCE 117 - -THE JACQUEMART-ANDRÉ COLLECTION 123 - -DÜRER AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES 127 - -EL GRECO 134 - -THREE PICTURES IN TEMPERA BY WILLIAM BLAKE 140 - -CLAUDE 145 - -AUBREY BEARDSLEY’S DRAWINGS 153 - -THE FRENCH POST-IMPRESSIONISTS 156 - -DRAWINGS AT THE BURLINGTON FINE ARTS CLUB 160 - -PAUL CÉZANNE 168 - -RENOIR 175 - -A POSSIBLE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE 179 - -JEAN MARCHAND 184 - -RETROSPECT 188 - - - - - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - TO FACE PAGE - -MAYA SCULPTURE (PORTION) FROM PIEDRAS NEGRAS _Frontispiece_ - -THIRTEENTH-CENTURY SCULPTURE IN THE CLOISTER OF ST. JOHN LATERAN 9 - -GROUP FROM _THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS_. BY AUGUSTE RODIN 9 - -SCULPTURE IN PLASTER. BY HENRI-MATISSE 9 - -_LA DONNA GRAVIDA._ BY RAPHAEL 10 - -PORTRAIT OF MISS GERTRUDE STEIN. BY PABLO PICASSO 10 - -NEGRO SCULPTURE 66 - -FATIMITE BRONZES 80 - -PERSIAN PAINTING, END OF THIRTEENTH CENTURY 86 - -_PIETÀ._ BY GIOTTO 108 - -_CRUCIFIXION._ BY CASTAGNO 117 - -_ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON._ BY UCELLO 123 - -_VIRGIN AND CHILD._ BY BALDOVINETTI 125 - -_HOLY FAMILY._ BY SIGNORELLI 126 - -_THE CALUMNY OF APELLES._ BY REMBRANDT, MANTEGNA, DÜRER 131 - -CELESTIAL SPHERE. TAROCCHI PRINT 132 - -CELESTIAL SPHERE. BY DÜRER 132 - -ALLEGORY. BY EL GRECO 136 - -_BATHSHEBA._ BY WILLIAM BLAKE 142 - -LANDSCAPE. BY CLAUDE 148 - -LANDSCAPE IN WATER-COLOUR. BY CLAUDE 150 - -_TEA PARTY._ BY HENRI-MATISSE 156 - -STILL LIFE. BY PABLO PICASSO 156 - -_PROFILE._ BY GEORGES ROUAULT 159 - -_APOTHEOSIS OF NAPOLEON._ BY INGRES 163 - -PENCIL DRAWING. BY COROT 165 - -PEN DRAWING. BY HENRI-MATISSE 166 - -PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST. BY CÉZANNE 168 - -_GARDANNE._ BY CÉZANNE 170 - -_SCÈNE DE PLEIN AIR._ BY CÉZANNE 172 - -THE ARTIST’S WIFE. BY CÉZANNE 172 - -_LE RUISSEAU._ BY CÉZANNE 174 - -_JUDGEMENT OF PARIS._ BY RENOIR 176 - -STILL LIFE. BY MARCHAND 184 - -_LA BAIGNADE._ BY SEURAT 190 - -STILL LIFE. BY DERAIN 192 - -_THE TRANSFIGURATION._ BY RAPHAEL 196 - - - - - VISION AND DESIGN - - - - -ART AND LIFE[1] - - -When we look at ancient works of art we habitually treat them not merely -as objects of æsthetic enjoyment but also as successive deposits of the -human imagination. It is indeed this view of works of art as -crystallised history that accounts for much of the interest felt in -ancient art by those who have but little æsthetic feeling and who find -nothing to interest them in the work of their contemporaries where the -historical motive is lacking and they are left face to face with bare -æsthetic values. - -I once knew an old gentleman who had retired from his city office to a -country house--a fussy, feeble little being who had cut no great figure -in life. He had built himself a house which was preternaturally hideous; -his taste was deplorable and his manners indifferent; but he had a -dream, the dream of himself as an exquisite and refined intellectual -dandy living in a society of elegant frivolity. To realise this dream he -had spent large sums in buying up every scrap of eighteenth-century -French furniture which he could lay hands on. These he stored in an -immense upper floor in his house which was always locked except when he -went up to indulge in his dream and to become for a time a courtier at -Versailles doing homage to the du Barry, whose toilet-tables and -what-nots were strewn pell-mell about the room without order or effect -of any kind. Such is an extreme instance of the historical way of -looking at works of art. For this old gentleman, as for how many an -American millionaire, art was merely a help to an imagined dream life. - -To many people then it seems an easy thing to pass thus directly from -the work of art to the life of the time which produced it. We all in -fact weave an imagined Middle Ages around the parish church and an -imagined Renaissance haunts us in the college courts of Oxford and -Cambridge. We don’t, I fancy, stop to consider very closely how true the -imagined life is: we are satisfied with the prospect of another sort of -life which we might have lived, which we often think we might have -preferred to our actual life. We don’t stop to consider much how far the -pictured past corresponds to any reality, certainly not to consider what -proportion of the whole reality of the past life gets itself embalmed in -this way in works of art. Thus we picture our Middle Ages as almost -entirely occupied with religion and war, our Renaissance as occupied in -learning, and our eighteenth century as occupied in gallantry and wit. -Whereas, as a matter of fact, all of these things were going on all the -time while the art of each period has for some reason been mainly taken -up with the expression of one or another activity. There is indeed a -certain danger in accepting too naïvely the general atmosphere--the -ethos, which the works of art of a period exhale. Thus when we look at -the thirteenth-century sculpture of Chartres or Beauvais we feel at once -the expression of a peculiar gracious piety, a smiling and gay -devoutness which we are tempted to take for the prevailing mood of the -time--and which we perhaps associate with the revelation of just such a -type of character in S. Francis of Assisi. A study of Salimbeni’s -chronicle with its interminable record of squalid avarice and meanness, -or of the fierce brutalities of Dante’s Inferno are necessary -correctives of such a pleasant dream. - -It would seem then that the correspondence between art and life which we -so habitually assume is not at all constant and requires much correction -before it can be trusted. Let us approach the same question from another -point and see what result we obtain. Let us consider the great -revolutions in art and the revolutions in life and see if they coincide. -And here let me try to say what I mean by life as contrasted with art. I -mean the general intellectual and instinctive reaction to their -surroundings of those men of any period whose lives rise to complete -self-consciousness. Their view of the universe as a whole and their -conception of their relations to their kind. Of course their conception -of the nature and function of art will itself be one of the most varying -aspects of life and may in any particular period profoundly modify the -correspondence of art to life. - -Perhaps the greatest revolution in life that we know of at all -intimately was that which effected the change from Paganism to -Christianity. That this was no mere accident is evident from the fact -that Christianity was only one of many competing religions, all of which -represented a closely similar direction of thought and feeling. Any one -of these would have produced practically the same effect, that of -focussing men’s minds on the spiritual life as opposed to the material -life which had pre-occupied them for so long. One cannot doubt then that -here was a change which denoted a long prepared and inevitable -readjustment of men’s attitude to their universe. Now the art of the -Roman Empire showed no trace whatever of this influence; it went on with -precisely the same motives and principles which had satisfied Paganism. -The subjects changed and became mainly Christian, but the treatment was -so exactly similar that it requires more than a cursory glance to say if -the figure on a sarcophagus is Christ or Orpheus, Moses or Æsculapius. - -The next great turning-point in history is that which marks the triumph -of the forces of reaction towards the close of the twelfth century--a -reaction which destroyed the promising hopes of freedom of thought and -manners which make the twelfth century appear as a foretaste of modern -enlightenment. Here undoubtedly the change in life corresponds very -closely with a great change in art--the change from the Romanesque to -the Gothic, and at first sight we might suppose a causal connection -between the two. But when we consider the nature of the changes in the -two sequences, this becomes very doubtful. For whereas in the life of -the Middle Ages the change was one of reaction--the sharp repression by -the reactionary forces of a gradual growth of freedom--the change in art -is merely the efflorescence of certain long prepared and anticipated -effects. The forms of Gothic architecture were merely the answer to -certain engineering problems which had long occupied the inventive -ingenuity of twelfth-century architects, while in the figurative arts -the change merely showed a new self-confidence in the rendering of the -human figure, a newly developed mastery in the handling of material. In -short, the change in art was in the opposite direction to that in life. -Whereas in life the direction of movement was sharply bent backwards, in -art the direction followed on in a continuous straight line. - -It is true that in one small particular the reaction did have a direct -effect on art. The preaching of S. Bernard of Clairvaux did impose on -the architects who worked for the Cistercian order a peculiar -architectural hypocrisy. They were bound by his traditional influence to -make their churches have an appearance of extreme simplicity and -austerity, but they wanted nevertheless to make them as magnificent and -imposing as possible. The result was a peculiar style of ostentatious -simplicity. Paray le Monial is the only church left standing in which -this curious and, in point of fact, depressing evidence of the direct -influence of the religious reaction on art is to be seen, and, as a -curiosity in psychological expression, it is well worth a visit. For the -rest the movement of art went on entirely unaffected by the new -orientation of thought. - -We come now to the Renaissance, and here for the first time in our -survey we may, I think, safely admit a true correspondence between the -change in life and the change in art. The change in life, if one may -generalise on such a vast subject, was towards the recognition of the -rights of the individual to complete self-realisation and the -recognition of the objective reality of the material universe which -implied the whole scientific attitude--and in both these things the -exemplar which men put before themselves was the civilisation of Greece -and Rome. In art the change went _pari passu_ with the change in life, -each assisting and directing the other--the first men of science were -artists like Brunelleschi, Ucello, Piero della Francesca and Leonardo da -Vinci. The study of classical literature was followed in strict -connection with the study of classical canons of art, and the greater -sense of individual importance found its expression in the new -naturalism which made portraiture in the modern sense possible. - -For once then art and the other functions of the human spirit found -themselves in perfect harmony and direct alliance, and to that harmony -we may attribute much of the intensity and self-assurance of the work of -the great Renaissance artists. It is one of the rarest of good fortunes -for an artist to find himself actually understood and appreciated by the -mass of his educated contemporaries, and not only that, but moving -alongside of and in step with them towards a similar goal. - -The Catholic reaction retarded and impeded the main movement of -Renaissance thought, but it did not really succeed either in -suppressing it or changing the main direction of its current. In art it -undoubtedly had some direct effect, it created a new kind of insincerity -of expression, a florid and sentimental religiosity--a new variety of -bad taste, the rhetorical and over-emphatic. And I suspect that art was -already prepared for this step by a certain exhaustion of the impulsive -energy of the Renaissance--so that here too we may admit a -correspondence. - -The seventeenth century shows us no violent change in life, but rather -the gradual working out of the principles implicit in the Renaissance -and the Catholic reaction. But here we come to another curious want of -correspondence between art and life, for in art we have a violent -revolution, followed by a bitter internecine struggle among artists. -This revolution was inaugurated by Caravaggio, who first discovered the -surprising emotional possibilities of chiaroscuro and who combined with -this a new idea of realism--realism in the modern sense, viz., the -literal acceptance of what is coarse, common, squalid or undistinguished -in life--realism in the sense of the novelists of Zola’s time. To -Caravaggio’s influence we might trace not only a great deal of -Rembrandt’s art but the whole of that movement in favour of the -extravagantly impressive and picturesque, which culminated in the -romantic movement of the nineteenth century. Here, then, is another -surprising want of correspondence between art and life. - -In the eighteenth century we get a curious phenomenon. Art goes to -court, identifies itself closely with a small aristocratic clique, -becomes the exponent of their manners and their tastes. It becomes a -luxury. It is no longer in the main stream of spiritual and intellectual -effort, and this seclusion of art may account for the fact that the next -great change in life--the French Revolution and all its accompanying -intellectual ferment--finds no serious correspondence in art. We get a -change, it is true; the French Republicans believed they were the -counterpart of the Romans, and so David had to invent for them that -peculiarly distressing type of the ancient Roman--always in heroic -attitudes, always immaculate, spotless and with a highly polished ‘Mme. -Tussaud’ surface. By-the-by, I was almost forgetting that we do owe Mme. -Tussaud to the French Revolution. But the real movement of art lay in -quite other directions to David--lay in the gradual unfolding of the -Romanticist conception of the world--a world of violent emotional -effects, of picturesque accidents, of wild nature, and this was a long -prepared reaction from the complacent sophistication of -eighteenth-century life. It is possible that one may associate this with -the general state of mind that produced the Revolution, since both were -a revolt against the established order of the eighteenth century; but -curiously enough it found its chief ally in the reaction which followed -the Revolution, in the neo-Christianism of Chateaubriand and the new -sentimental respect for the age of faith--which, incidentally, appeared -so much more picturesque than the age of reason. - -It would be interesting at this point to consider how far during the -nineteenth century reactionary political and religious thought was -inspired primarily by æsthetic considerations--a curious instance of the -counter-influence of art on life might perhaps be discovered in the -devotees of the Oxford movement. But this would take us too far afield. - -The foregoing violently foreshortened view of history and art will show, -I hope, that the usual assumption of a direct and decisive connection -between life and art is by no means correct. It may, I hope, give pause -to those numerous people who have already promised themselves a great -new art as a result of the present war, though perhaps it is as well to -let them enjoy it in anticipation, since it is, I fancy, the only way in -which they are likely to enjoy a great art of any kind. What this survey -suggests to me is that if we consider this special spiritual activity of -art we find it no doubt open at times to influences from life, but in -the main self-contained--we find the rhythmic sequences of change -determined much more by its own internal forces--and by the readjustment -within it, of its own elements--than by external forces. I admit, of -course, that it is always conditioned more or less by economic changes, -but these are rather conditions of its existence at all than directive -influences. I also admit that under certain conditions the rhythms of -life and of art may coincide with great effect on both; but in the main -the two rhythms are distinct, and as often as not play against each -other. - -We have, I hope, gained some experience with which to handle the real -subject of my inquiry, the relation of the modern movement in art to -life. To understand it we must go back to the impressionist movement, -which dates from about 1870. The artists who called themselves -impressionists combined two distinct ideas. On the one hand they upheld, -more categorically than ever before, the complete detachment of the -artistic vision from the values imposed on vision by everyday life--they -claimed, as Whistler did in his “10 o’clock,” to be pure artists. On the -other hand a group of them used this freedom for the quasi-scientific -description of new effects of atmospheric colour and atmospheric -perspective, thereby endowing painting with a quite new series of colour -harmonies, or at least of harmonies which had not been cultivated by -European painters for many hundreds of years. They did more than -this--the effects thus explored were completely unfamiliar to the -ordinary man, whose vision is limited to the mere recognition of objects -with a view to the uses of everyday life. He was forced, in looking at -their pictures, to accept as artistic representation something very -remote from all his previous expectations, and thereby he also acquired -in time a new tolerance in his judgments on works of art, a tolerance -which was destined to bear a still further strain in succeeding -developments. - -As against these great advantages which art owes to impressionism we -must set the fact that the pseudo-scientific and analytic method of -these painters forced artists to accept pictures which lacked design and -formal co-ordination to a degree which had never before been permitted. -They, or rather some of them, reduced the artistic vision to a -continuous patchwork or mosaic of coloured patches without architectural -framework or structural coherence. In this, impressionism marked the -climax of a movement which had been going on more or less steadily from -the thirteenth century--the tendency to approximate the forms of art -more and more exactly to the representation of the totality of -appearance. When once representation had been pushed to this point where -further development was impossible, it was inevitable that artists -should turn round and question the validity of the fundamental -assumption that art aimed at representation; and the moment the question -was fairly posed it became clear that the pseudo-scientific assumption -that fidelity to appearance was the measure of art had no logical -foundation. From that moment on it became evident that art had arrived -at a critical moment, and that the greatest revolution in art that had -taken place since Græco-Roman impressionism became converted into -Byzantine formalism was inevitable. It was this revolution that Cézanne -inaugurated and that Gauguin and van Goch continued. There is no need -here to give in detail the characteristics of this new movement: they -are sufficiently familiar. But we may summarise them as the -re-establishment of purely æsthetic criteria in place of the criterion -of conformity to appearance--the rediscovery of the principles of -structural design and harmony. - -The new movement has, also, led to a new canon of criticism, and this -has changed our attitude to the arts of other times and countries. So -long as representation was regarded as the end of art, the skill of the -artist and his proficiency in this particular feat of representation -were regarded with an admiration which was in fact mainly non-æsthetic. -With the new indifference to representation we have become much less -interested in skill and not at all interested in knowledge. We are thus -no longer cut off from a great deal of barbaric and primitive art the -very meaning of which escaped the understanding of those who demanded a -certain standard of skill in representation before they could give -serious consideration to a work of art. In general the effect of the -movement has been to render the artist intensely conscious of the -æsthetic unity of the work of art, but singularly naïve and simple as -regards other considerations. - -It remains to be considered whether the life of the past fifty years has -shown any such violent reorientation as we have found in the history of -modern art. If we look back to the days of Herbert Spencer and Huxley, -what changes are there in the general tendencies of life? The main ideas -of rationalism seem to me to have steadily made way--there have been -minor counter revolutions, it is true, but the main current of active -thought has surely moved steadily along the lines already laid down. I -mean that the scientific attitude is more and more widely accepted. The -protests of organised religion and of various mysticisms seem to grow -gradually weaker and to carry less weight. Hardly any writers or -thinkers of first-rate calibre now appear in the reactionary camp. I -see, in short, no big change in direction, no evident revulsion of -feeling. - -None the less I suppose that a Spencer would be impossible now and that -the materialism of to-day is recognisably different from the materialism -of Spencer. It would be very much less naïvely - -[Illustration: 13th Cent. Sculpture in the Cloister of S. John Lateran] - -[Illustration: Auguste Rodin. Group from “The Burghers of Calais”] - -[Illustration: Henri Matisse. Sculpture in Plaster - -Property of the Artist - -Plate I.] - -self-confident. It would admit far greater difficulties in presenting -its picture of the universe than would have occurred to Spencer. The -fact is that scepticism has turned on itself and has gone behind a great -many of the axioms that seemed self-evident to the earlier rationalists. -I do not see that it has at any point threatened the superstructure of -the rationalist position, but it has led us to recognise the necessity -of a continual revision and reconstruction of these data. Rationalism -has become less arrogant and less narrow in its vision. And this is -partly due also to the adventure of the scientific spirit into new -regions. I refer to all that immense body of study and speculation which -starts from Robertson Smith’s “Religion of the Israelites.” The -discovery of natural law in what seemed to earlier rationalists the -chaotic fancies and caprices of the human imagination. The assumption -that man is a mainly rational animal has given place to the discovery -that he is, like other animals, mainly instinctive. This modifies -immensely the attitude of the rationalist--it gives him a new charity -and a new tolerance. What seemed like the wilful follies of mad or -wicked men to the earlier rationalists are now seen to be inevitable -responses to fundamental instinctive needs. By observing mankind the man -of science has lost his contempt for him. Now this I think has had an -important bearing on the new movement in art. In the first place I find -something analogous in the new orientation of scientific and artistic -endeavour. Science has turned its instruments in on human nature and -begun to investigate its fundamental needs, and art has also turned its -vision inwards, has begun to work upon the fundamental necessities of -man’s æsthetic functions. - -But besides this analogy, which may be merely accidental and not causal, -I think there can be little doubt that the new scientific development -(for it is in no sense a revolution) has modified men’s attitude to art. -To Herbert Spencer religion was primitive fear of the unknown and art -was sexual attraction--he must have contemplated with perfect -equanimity, almost with satisfaction, a world in which both these -functions would disappear. I suppose that the scientific man of to-day -would be much more ready to admit not only the necessity but the great -importance of æsthetic feeling for the spiritual existence of man. The -general conception of life in the mid-nineteenth century ruled out art -as noxious, or at best, a useless frivolity, and above all as a mere -survival of more primitive stages of evolution. - -On the other hand, the artist of the new movement is moving into a -sphere more and more remote from that of the ordinary man. In proportion -as art becomes purer the number of people to whom it appeals gets less. -It cuts out all the romantic overtones of life which are the usual bait -by which men are induced to accept a work of art. It appeals only to the -æsthetic sensibility, and that in most men is comparatively weak. - -In the modern movement in art, then, as in so many cases in past -history, the revolution in art seems to be out of all proportion to any -corresponding change in life as a whole. It seems to find its sources, -if at all, in what at present seem like minor movements. Whether the -difference between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries will in -retrospect seem as great in life as they already do in art I cannot -guess--at least it is curious to note how much more conscious we are of -the change in art then we are in the general change in thought and -feeling. - -NOTE.--The original lecture was not illustrated, but the opportunity of -publishing this summary of it has suggested the possibility of -introducing a few examples to illustrate one point, viz., the extent to -which the works of the new movement correspond in aim with the works of -early art while being sharply contrasted with those of the penultimate -period. This will be, perhaps, most evident in Plate I, where I have -placed a figure from the cloisters of S. John Lateran, carved by a -thirteenth-century sculptor--then one of Rodin’s _Burghers of Calais_, -and then Matisse’s unfinished alto-rilievo figure. Here there is no need -to underline the startling difference shown by Rodin’s descriptive -method from the more purely plastic feeling of the two other artists. -Matisse and the thirteenth-century artist are much closer together than -Matisse and Rodin. - -In Plate II I have placed Picasso beside Raphael. Here the obvious fact -is the common preoccupation of both artists with certain problems of -plastic design and the similarity of their solutions. Had I had space to -put a Sargent beside these the same violent contrast would have been -produced. - -[Illustration: - -Raphael. “La Donna Gravida” Pitti Palace, Florence] - -[Illustration: - -Pablo Picasso. Portrait of Miss Gertrude Stein Miss Gertrude Stein - -Plate II.] - - - - -AN ESSAY IN ÆSTHETICS[2] - - -A certain painter, not without some reputation at the present day, once -wrote a little book on the art he practises, in which he gave a -definition of that art so succinct that I take it as a point of -departure for this essay. - -“The art of painting,” says that eminent authority, “is the art of -imitating solid objects upon a flat surface by means of pigments.” It is -delightfully simple, but prompts the question--Is that all? And, if so, -what a deal of unnecessary fuss has been made about it. Now, it is -useless to deny that our modern writer has some very respectable -authorities behind him. Plato, indeed, gave a very similar account of -the affair, and himself put the question--is it then worth while? And, -being scrupulously and relentlessly logical, he decided that it was not -worth while, and proceeded to turn the artists out of his ideal -republic. For all that, the world has continued obstinately to consider -that painting was worth while, and though, indeed, it has never quite -made up its mind as to what, exactly, the graphic arts did for it, it -has persisted in honouring and admiring its painters. - -Can we arrive at any conclusions as to the nature of the graphic arts, -which will at all explain our feelings about them, which will at least -put them into some kind of relation with the other arts, and not leave -us in the extreme perplexity, engendered by any theory of mere -imitation? For, I suppose, it must be admitted that if imitation is the -sole purpose of the graphic arts, it is surprising that the works of -such arts are ever looked upon as more than curiosities, or ingenious -toys, are ever taken seriously by grown-up people. Moreover, it will be -surprising that they have no recognisable affinity with other arts, such -as music or architecture, in which the imitation of actual objects is a -negligible quantity. - -To form such conclusions is the aim I have put before myself in this -essay. Even if the results are not decisive, the inquiry may lead us to -a view of the graphic arts that will not be altogether unfruitful. - -I must begin with some elementary psychology, with a consideration of -the nature of instincts. A great many objects in the world, when -presented to our senses, put in motion a complex nervous machinery, -which ends in some instinctive appropriate action. We see a wild bull in -a field; quite without our conscious interference a nervous process goes -on, which, unless we interfere forcibly, ends in the appropriate -reaction of flight. The nervous mechanism which results in flight causes -a certain state of consciousness, which we call the emotion of fear. The -whole of animal life, and a great part of human life, is made up of -these instinctive reactions to sensible objects, and their accompanying -emotions. But man has the peculiar faculty of calling up again in his -mind the echo of past experiences of this kind, of going over it again, -“in imagination” as we say. He has, therefore, the possibility of a -double life; one the actual life, the other the imaginative life. -Between these two lives there is this great distinction, that in the -actual life the processes of natural selection have brought it about -that the instinctive reaction, such, for instance, as flight from -danger, shall be the important part of the whole process, and it is -towards this that the man bends his whole conscious endeavour. But in -the imaginative life no such action is necessary, and, therefore, the -whole consciousness may be focussed upon the perceptive and the -emotional aspects of the experience. In this way we get, in the -imaginative life, a different set of values, and a different kind of -perception. - -We can get a curious side glimpse of the nature of this imaginative life -from the cinematograph. This resembles actual life in almost every -respect, except that what the psychologists call the conative part of -our reaction to sensations, that is to say, the appropriate resultant -action is cut off. If, in a cinematograph, we see a runaway horse and -cart, we do not have to think either of getting out of the way or -heroically interposing ourselves. The result is that in the first place -we _see_ the event much more clearly; see a number of quite interesting -but irrelevant things, which in real life could not struggle into our -consciousness, bent, as it would be, entirely upon the problem of our -appropriate reaction. I remember seeing in a cinematograph the arrival -of a train at a foreign station and the people descending from the -carriages; there was no platform, and to my intense surprise I saw -several people turn right round after reaching the ground, as though to -orientate themselves; an almost ridiculous performance, which I had -never noticed in all the many hundred occasions on which such a scene -had passed before my eyes in real life. The fact being that at a station -one is never really a spectator of events, but an actor engaged in the -drama of luggage or prospective seats, and one actually sees only so -much as may help to the appropriate action. - -In the second place, with regard to the visions of the cinematograph, -one notices that whatever emotions are aroused by them, though they are -likely to be weaker than those of ordinary life, are presented more -clearly to the consciousness. If the scene presented be one of an -accident, our pity and horror, though weak, since we know that no one is -really hurt, are felt quite purely, since they cannot, as they would in -life, pass at once into actions of assistance. - -A somewhat similar effect to that of the cinematograph can be obtained -by watching a mirror in which a street scene is reflected. If we look at -the street itself we are almost sure to adjust ourselves in some way to -its actual existence. We recognise an acquaintance, and wonder why he -looks so dejected this morning, or become interested in a new fashion in -hats--the moment we do that the spell is broken, we are reacting to life -itself in however slight a degree, but, in the mirror, it is easier to -abstract ourselves completely, and look upon the changing scene as a -whole. It then, at once, takes on the visionary quality, and we become -true spectators, not selecting what we will see, but seeing everything -equally, and thereby we come to notice a number of appearances and -relations of appearances, which would have escaped our vision before, -owing to that perpetual economising by selection of what impressions we -will assimilate, which in life we perform by unconscious processes. The -frame of the mirror then, does, to some extent, turn the reflected scene -from one that belongs to our actual life into one that belongs rather to -the imaginative life. The frame of the mirror makes its surface into a -very rudimentary work of art, since it helps us to attain to the -artistic vision. For that is what, as you will already have guessed, I -have been coming to all this time, namely that the work of art is -intimately connected with the secondary imaginative life, which all men -live to a greater or lesser extent. - -That the graphic arts are the expression of the imaginative life rather -than a copy of actual life might be guessed from observing children. -Children, if left to themselves, never, I believe, copy what they see, -never, as we say, “draw from nature,” but express, with a delightful -freedom and sincerity, the mental images which make up their own -imaginative lives. - -Art, then, is an expression and a stimulus of this imaginative life, -which is separated from actual life by the absence of responsive action. -Now this responsive action implies in actual life moral responsibility. -In art we have no such moral responsibility--it presents a life freed -from the binding necessities of our actual existence. - -What then is the justification for this life of the imagination which -all human beings live more or less fully? To the pure moralist, who -accepts nothing but ethical values, in order to be justified, it must be -shown not only _not_ to hinder but actually to forward right action, -otherwise it is not only useless but, since it absorbs our energies, -positively harmful. To such a one two views are possible, one the -Puritanical view at its narrowest, which regards the life of the -imagination as no better or worse than a life of sensual pleasure, and -therefore entirely reprehensible. The other view is to argue that the -imaginative life does subserve morality. And this is inevitably the view -taken by moralists like Ruskin, to whom the imaginative life is yet an -absolute necessity. It is a view which leads to some very hard special -pleading, even to a self-deception which is in itself morally -undesirable. - -But here comes in the question of religion, for religion is also an -affair of the imaginative life, and, though it claims to have a direct -effect upon conduct, I do not suppose that the religious person if he -were wise would justify religion entirely by its effect on morality, -since that, historically speaking, has not been by any means uniformly -advantageous. He would probably say that the religious experience was -one which corresponded to certain spiritual capacities of human nature, -the exercise of which is in itself good and desirable apart from their -effect upon actual life. And so, too, I think the artist might if he -chose take a mystical attitude, and declare that the fullness and -completeness of the imaginative life he leads may correspond to an -existence more real and more important than any that we know of in -mortal life. - -And in saying that, his appeal would find a sympathetic echo in most -minds, for most people would, I think, say that the pleasures derived -from art were of an altogether different character and more fundamental -than merely sensual pleasures, that they did exercise some faculties -which are felt to belong to whatever part of us there may be which is -not entirely ephemeral and material. - -It might even be that from this point of view we should rather justify -actual life by its relation to the imaginative, justify nature by its -likeness to art. I mean this, that since the imaginative life comes in -the course of time to represent more or less what mankind feels to be -the completest expression of its own nature, the freest use of its -innate capacities, the actual life may be explained and justified in its -approximation here and there, however partially and inadequately, to -that freer and fuller life. - -Before leaving this question of the justification of art, let me put it -in another way. The imaginative life of a people has very different -levels at different times, and these levels do not always correspond -with the general level of the morality of actual life. Thus in the -thirteenth century we read of barbarity and cruelty which would shock -even us; we may I think admit that our moral level, our general humanity -is decidedly higher to-day, but the level of our imaginative life is -incomparably lower; we are satisfied there with a grossness, a sheer -barbarity and squalor which would have shocked the thirteenth century -profoundly. Let us admit the moral gain gladly, but do we not also feel -a loss; do we not feel that the average business man would be in every -way a more admirable, more respectable being if his imaginative life -were not so squalid and incoherent? And, if we admit any loss then, -there is some function in human nature other than a purely ethical one, -which is worthy of exercise. - -Now the imaginative life has its own history both in the race and in the -individual. In the individual life one of the first effects of freeing -experience from the necessities of appropriate responsive action is to -indulge recklessly the emotion of self-aggrandisement. The day-dreams of -a child are filled with extravagant romances in which he is always the -invincible hero. Music--which of all the arts supplies the strongest -stimulus to the imaginative life, and at the same time has the least -power of controlling its direction--music, at certain stages of people’s -lives, has the effect merely of arousing in an almost absurd degree this -egoistic elation, and Tolstoy appears to believe that this is its only -possible effect. But with the teaching of experience and the growth of -character the imaginative life comes to respond to other instincts and -to satisfy other desires, until, indeed, it reflects the highest -aspirations and the deepest aversions of which human nature is capable. - -In dreams and when under the influence of drugs the imaginative life -passes out of our own control, and in such cases its experiences may be -highly undesirable, but whenever it remains under our own control it -must always be on the whole a desirable life. That is not to say that it -is always pleasant, for it is pretty clear that mankind is so -constituted as to desire much besides pleasure, and we shall meet among -the great artists, the great exponents, that is, of the imaginative -life, many to whom the merely pleasant is very rarely a part of what is -desirable. But this desirability of the imaginative life does -distinguish it very sharply from actual life, and is the direct result -of that first fundamental difference, its freedom from necessary -external conditions. Art, then, is, if I am right, the chief organ of -the imaginative life, it is by art that it is stimulated and controlled -within us, and, as we have seen, the imaginative life is distinguished -by the greater clearness of its perception, and the greater purity and -freedom of its emotion. - -First with regard to the greater clearness of perception. The needs of -our actual life are so imperative, that the sense of vision becomes -highly specialised in their service. With an admirable economy we learn -to see only so much as is needful for our purposes; but this is in fact -very little, just enough to recognise and identify each object or -person; that done, they go into an entry in our mental catalogue and are -no more really seen. In actual life the normal person really only reads -the labels as it were on the objects around him and troubles no further. -Almost all the things which are useful in any way put on more or less -this cap of invisibility. It is only when an object exists in our lives -for no other purpose than to be seen that we really look at it, as for -instance at a China ornament or a precious stone, and towards such even -the most normal person adopts to some extent the artistic attitude of -pure vision abstracted from necessity. - -Now this specialisation of vision goes so far that ordinary people have -almost no idea of what things really look like, so that oddly enough the -one standard that popular criticism applies to painting, namely, whether -it is like nature or not, is one which most people are, by the whole -tenour of their lives, prevented from applying properly. The only things -they have ever really _looked_ at being other pictures; the moment an -artist who has looked at nature brings to them a clear report of -something definitely seen by him, they are wildly indignant at its -untruth to nature. This has happened so constantly in our own time that -there is no need to prove it. One instance will suffice. Monet is an -artist whose chief claim to recognition lies in the fact of his -astonishing power of faithfully reproducing certain aspects of nature, -but his really naïve innocence and sincerity was taken by the public to -be the most audacious humbug, and it required the teaching of men like -Bastien-Lepage, who cleverly compromised between the truth and an -accepted convention of what things looked like, to bring the world -gradually round to admitting truths which a single walk in the country -with purely unbiassed vision would have established beyond doubt. - -But though this clarified sense perception which we discover in the -imaginative life is of great interest, and although it plays a larger -part in the graphic arts than in any other, it might perhaps be doubted -whether, interesting, curious, fascinating as it is, this aspect of the -imaginative life would ever by itself make art of profound importance to -mankind. But it is different, I think, with the emotional aspect. We -have admitted that the emotions of the imaginative are generally weaker -than those of actual life. The picture of a saint being slowly flayed -alive, revolting as it is, will not produce the actual physical -sensations of sickening disgust that a modern man would feel if he could -assist at the actual event; but they have a compensating clearness of -presentment to the consciousness. The more poignant emotions of actual -life have, I think, a kind of numbing effect analogous to the paralysing -influence of fear in some animals; but even if this experience be not -generally admitted, all will admit that the need for responsive action -hurries us along and prevents us from ever realising fully what the -emotion is that we feel, from co-ordinating it perfectly with other -states. In short, the motives we actually experience are too close to us -to enable us to feel them clearly. They are in a sense unintelligible. -In the imaginative life, on the contrary, we can both feel the emotion -and watch it. When we are really moved at the theatre we are always both -on the stage and in the auditorium. - -Yet another point about the emotions of the imaginative life--since they -require no responsive action we can give them a new valuation. In real -life we must to some extent cultivate those emotions which lead to -useful action, and we are bound to appraise emotions according to the -resultant action. So that, for instance, the feelings of rivalry and -emulation do get an encouragement which perhaps they scarcely deserve, -whereas certain feelings which appear to have a high intrinsic value get -almost no stimulus in actual life. For instance, those feelings to which -the name of the cosmic emotion has been somewhat unhappily given find -almost no place in life, but, since they seem to belong to certain very -deep springs of our nature, do become of great importance in the arts. - -Morality, then, appreciates emotion by the standard of resultant action. -Art appreciates emotion in and for itself. - -This view of the essential importance in art of the expression of the -emotions is the basis of Tolstoy’s marvellously original and yet -perverse and even exasperating book, “What is Art,” and I willingly -confess, while disagreeing with almost all his results, how much I owe -to him. - -He gives an example of what he means by calling art the means of -communicating emotions. He says, let us suppose a boy to have been -pursued in the forest by a bear. If he returns to the village and merely -states that he was pursued by a bear and escaped, that is ordinary -language, the means of communicating facts or ideas; but if he describes -his state first of heedlessness, then of sudden alarm and terror as the -bear appears, and finally of relief when he gets away, and describes -this so that his hearers share his emotions, then his description is a -work of art. - -Now in so far as the boy does this in order to urge the villagers to go -out and kill the bear, though he may be using artistic methods, his -speech is not a pure work of art; but if of a winter evening the boy -relates his experience for the sake of the enjoyment of his adventure in -retrospect, or better still, if he makes up the whole story for the sake -of the imagined emotions, then his speech becomes a pure work of art. -But Tolstoy takes the other view, and values the emotions aroused by art -entirely for their reaction upon actual life, a view which he -courageously maintains even when it leads him to condemn the whole of -Michelangelo, Raphael and Titian, and most of Beethoven, not to mention -nearly everything he himself has written, as bad or false art. - -Such a view would, I think, give pause to any less heroic spirit. He -would wonder whether mankind could have always been so radically wrong -about a function that, whatever its value be, is almost universal. And -in point of fact he will have to find some other word to denote what we -now call art. Nor does Tolstoy’s theory even carry him safely through -his own book, since, in his examples of morally desirable and therefore -good art, he has to admit that these are to be found, for the most part, -among works of inferior quality. Here, then, is at once the tacit -admission that another standard than morality is applicable. We must -therefore give up the attempt to judge the work of art by its reaction -on life, and consider it as an expression of emotions regarded as ends -in themselves. And this brings us back to the idea we had already -arrived at, of art as the expression of the imaginative life. - -If, then, an object of any kind is created by man not for use, for its -fitness to actual life, but as an object of art, an object subserving -the imaginative life, what will its qualities be? It must in the first -place be adapted to that disinterested intensity of contemplation, which -we have found to be the result of cutting off the responsive action. It -must be suited to that heightened power of perception which we found to -result therefrom. - -And the first quality that we demand in our sensations will be order, -without which our sensations will be troubled and perplexed, and the -other quality will be variety, without which they will not be fully -stimulated. - -It may be objected that many things in nature, such as flowers, possess -these two qualities of order and variety in a high degree, and these -objects do undoubtedly stimulate and satisfy that clear disinterested -contemplation which is characteristic of the æsthetic attitude. But in -our reaction to a work of art there is something more--there is the -consciousness of purpose, the consciousness of a peculiar relation of -sympathy with the man who made this thing in order to arouse precisely -the sensations we experience. And when we come to the higher works of -art, where sensations are so arranged that they arouse in us deep -emotions, this feeling of a special tie with the man who expressed them -becomes very strong. We feel that he has expressed something which was -latent in us all the time, but which we never realised, that he has -revealed us to ourselves in revealing himself. And this recognition of -purpose is, I believe, an essential part of the æsthetic judgment -proper. - -The perception of purposeful order and variety in an object gives us the -feeling which we express by saying that it is beautiful, but when by -means of sensations our emotions are aroused we demand purposeful order -and variety in them also, and if this can only be brought about by the -sacrifice of sensual beauty we willingly overlook its absence. - -Thus, there is no excuse for a china pot being ugly, there is every -reason why Rembrandt’s and Degas’ pictures should be, from the purely -sensual point of view, supremely and magnificently ugly. - -This, I think, will explain the apparent contradiction between two -distinct uses of the word beauty, one for that which has sensuous charm, -and one for the æsthetic approval of works of imaginative art where the -objects presented to us are often of extreme ugliness. Beauty in the -former sense belongs to works of art where only the perceptual aspect of -the imaginative life is exercised, beauty in the second sense becomes as -it were supersensual, and is concerned with the appropriateness and -intensity of the emotions aroused. When these emotions are aroused in a -way that satisfies fully the needs of the imaginative life we approve -and delight in the sensations through which we enjoy that heightened -experience, because they possess purposeful order and variety in -relation to those emotions. - -One chief aspect of order in a work of art is unity; unity of some kind -is necessary for our restful contemplation of the work of art as a -whole, since if it lacks unity we cannot contemplate it in its entirety, -but we shall pass outside it to other things necessary to complete its -unity. - -In a picture this unity is due to a balancing of the attractions to the -eye about the central line of the picture. The result of this balance of -attractions is that the eye rests willingly within the bounds of the -picture. Dr. Denman Ross of Harvard University has made a most valuable -study of the elementary considerations upon which this balance is based -in his “Theory of Pure Design.” He sums up his results in the formula -that a composition is of value in proportion to the number of orderly -connections which it displays. - -Dr. Ross wisely restricts himself to the study of abstract and -meaningless forms. The moment representation is introduced forms have an -entirely new set of values. Thus a line which indicated the sudden bend -of a head in a certain direction would have far more than its mere value -as line in the composition because of the attraction which a marked -gesture has for the eye. In almost all paintings this disturbance of the -purely decorative values by reason of the representative effect takes -place, and the problem becomes too complex for geometrical proof. - -This merely decorative unity is, moreover, of very different degrees of -intensity in different artists and in different periods. The necessity -for a closely woven geometrical texture in the composition is much -greater in heroic and monumental design than in genre pieces on a small -scale. - -It seems also probable that our appreciation of unity in pictorial -design is of two kinds. We are so accustomed to consider only the unity -which results from the balance of a number of attractions presented to -the eye simultaneously in a framed picture that we forget the -possibility of other pictorial forms. - -In certain Chinese paintings the length is so great that we cannot take -in the whole picture at once, nor are we intended to do so. Sometimes a -landscape is painted upon a roll of silk so long that we can only look -at it in successive segments. As we unroll it at one end and roll it up -at the other we traverse wide stretches of country, tracing, perhaps, -all the vicissitudes of a river from its source to the sea, and yet, -when this is well done, we have received a very keen impression of -pictorial unity. - -Such a successive unity is of course familiar to us in literature and -music, and it plays its part in the graphic arts. It depends upon the -forms being presented to us in such a sequence that each successive -element is felt to have a fundamental and harmonious relation with that -which preceded it. I suggest that in looking at drawings our sense of -pictorial unity is largely of this nature; we feel, if the drawing be a -good one, that each modulation of the line as our eye passes along it -gives order and variety to our sensations. Such a drawing may be almost -entirely lacking in the geometrical balance which we are accustomed to -demand in paintings, and yet have, in a remarkable degree, unity. - -Let us now see how the artist passes from the stage of merely gratifying -our demand for sensuous order and variety to that where he arouses our -emotions. I will call the various methods by which this is effected, the -emotional elements of design. - -The first element is that of the rhythm of the line with which the forms -are delineated. - -The drawn line is the record of a gesture, and that gesture is modified -by the artist’s feeling which is thus communicated to us directly. - -The second element is mass. When an object is so represented that we -recognise it as having inertia we feel its power of resisting movement, -or communicating its own movement to other bodies, and our imaginative -reaction to such an image is governed by our experience of mass in -actual life. - -The third element is space. The same sized square on two pieces of paper -can be made by very simple means to appear to represent either a cube -two or three inches high, or a cube of hundreds of feet, and our -reaction to it is proportionately changed. - -The fourth element is that of light and shade. Our feelings towards the -same object become totally different according as we see it strongly -illuminated against a black background or dark against light. - -A fifth element is that of colour. That this has a direct emotional -effect is evident from such words as gay, dull, melancholy in relation -to colour. - -I would suggest the possibility of another element, though perhaps it is -only a compound of mass and space: it is that of the inclination to the -eye of a plane, whether it is impending over or leaning away from us. - -Now it will be noticed that nearly all these emotional elements of -design are connected with essential conditions of our physical -existence: rhythm appeals to all the sensations which accompany muscular -activity; mass to all the infinite adaptations to the force of gravity -which we are forced to make; the spatial judgment is equally profound -and universal in its application to life; our feeling about inclined -planes is connected with our necessary judgments about the conformation -of the earth itself; light, again, is so necessary a condition of our -existence that we become intensely sensitive to changes in its -intensity. Colour is the only one of our elements which is not of -critical or universal importance to life, and its emotional effect is -neither so deep nor so clearly determined as the others. It will be -seen, then, that the graphic arts arouse emotions in us by playing upon -what one may call the overtones of some of our primary physical needs. -They have, indeed, this great advantage over poetry, that they can -appeal more directly and immediately to the emotional accompaniments of -our bare physical existence. - -If we represent these various elements in simple diagrammatic terms, -this effect upon the emotions is, it must be confessed, very weak. -Rhythm of line, for instance, is incomparably weaker in its stimulus of -the muscular sense than is rhythm addressed to the ear in music, and -such diagrams can at best arouse only faint ghost-like echoes of -emotions of differing qualities; but when these emotional elements are -combined with the presentation of natural appearances, above all with -the appearance of the human body, we find that this effect is -indefinitely heightened. - -When, for instance, we look at Michelangelo’s “Jeremiah,” and realise -the irresistible momentum his movements would have, we experience -powerful sentiments of reverence and awe. Or when we look at -Michelangelo’s “Tondo” in the Uffizi, and find a group of figures so -arranged that the planes have a sequence comparable in breadth and -dignity to the mouldings of the earth mounting by clearly-felt -gradations to an overtopping summit, innumerable instinctive reactions -are brought into play.[3] - -At this point the adversary (as Leonardi da Vinci calls him) is likely -enough to retort, “You have abstracted from natural forms a number of -so-called emotional elements which you yourself admit are very weak when -stated with diagrammatic purity; you then put them back, with the help -of Michelangelo, into the natural forms whence they were derived, and at -once they have value, so that after all it appears that the natural -forms contain these emotional elements ready made up for us, and all -that art need do is to imitate Nature.” - -But, alas! Nature is heartlessly indifferent to the needs of the -imaginative life; God causes His rain to fall upon the just and upon the -unjust. The sun neglects to provide the appropriate limelight effect -even upon a triumphant Napoleon or a dying Cæsar.[4] Assuredly we have -no guarantee that in nature the emotional elements will be combined -appropriately with the demands of the imaginative life, and it is, I -think, the great occupation of the graphic arts to give us first of all -order and variety in the sensuous plane, and then so to arrange the -sensuous presentment of objects that the emotional elements are elicited -with an order and appropriateness altogether beyond what Nature herself -provides. - -Let me sum up for a moment what I have said about the relation of art to -Nature, which is, perhaps, the greatest stumbling-block to the -understanding of the graphic arts. - -I have admitted that there is beauty in Nature, that is to say, that -certain objects constantly do, and perhaps any object may, compel us to -regard it with that intense disinterested contemplation that belongs to -the imaginative life, and which is impossible to the actual life of -necessity and action; but that in objects created to arouse the æsthetic -feeling we have an added consciousness of purpose on the part of the -creator, that he made it on purpose not to be used but to be regarded -and enjoyed; and that this feeling is characteristic of the æsthetic -judgment proper. - -When the artist passes from pure sensations to emotions aroused by means -of sensations, he uses natural forms which, in themselves, are -calculated to move our emotions, and he presents these in such a manner -that the forms themselves generate in us emotional states, based upon -the fundamental necessities of our physical and physiological nature. -The artist’s attitude to natural form is, therefore, infinitely various -according to the emotions he wishes to arouse. He may require for his -purpose the most complete representation of a figure, he may be -intensely realistic, provided that his presentment, in spite of its -closeness to natural appearance, disengages clearly for us the -appropriate emotional elements. Or he may give us the merest suggestion -of natural forms, and rely almost entirely upon the force and intensity -of the emotional elements involved in his presentment. - -We may, then, dispense once for all with the idea of likeness to Nature, -of correctness or incorrectness as a test, and consider only whether the -emotional elements inherent in natural form are adequately discovered, -unless, indeed, the emotional idea depends at any point upon likeness, -or completeness of representation. - - - - -THE OTTOMAN AND THE WHATNOT[5] - - -Such were the outlandish names of the two great clans that marched under -the flag of the Antimacassar to the resounding periods of Mr. Podsnap’s -rhetoric. For all the appearance of leisure, for all the absence of -hustle, those were strenuous days. Respectability and “the young person” -were perpetually menaced by inveterate human nature, and were always or -nearly always just being saved as by a miracle. But in the end it was -the boast of the Victorians that they had established a system of taboos -almost as complicated and as all-pervading as that of the Ojibbeways or -the Waramunga. The Ottoman, which seated two so conveniently, was liable -to prove a traitor, but what the Ottoman risked could be saved by the -Whatnot, with Tennyson and John Greenleaf Whittier to counsel and -assuage. One of the things they used to say in those days, quite loudly -and distinctly, was: “Distance lends enchantment to the view.” It seemed -so appropriate at the frequent and admirably organised picnics that at -last it was repeated too often, and the time came when, under pain of -social degradation, it was forbidden to utter the hated words. But now -that we are busy bringing back the Ottoman and the Whatnot from the -garret and the servants’ hall to the drawing-room, we may once more -repeat the phrase with impunity, and indeed this article has no other -purpose than to repeat once more (and with how new a relish!): “Distance -lends enchantment to the view.” - -Also, with our passion for science and exact measurement, we shall wish -to discover the exact distance at which enchantment begins. And this is -easier than might be supposed; for any one who has lived long enough -will have noticed that a certain distance lends a violent disgust to the -view--that as we recede there comes a period of oblivion and total -unconsciousness, to be succeeded when consciousness returns by the -ecstasy, the nature of which we are considering. - -I, alas! can remember the time when the Ottoman and Whatnot still -lingered in the drawing-rooms of the less fashionable and more -conservative bourgeoisie; lingered despised, rejected, and merely -awaiting their substitutes. I can remember the sham Chippendale and the -sham old oak which replaced them. I can remember a still worse horror--a -genuine modern style which as yet has no name, a period of black -polished wood with spidery lines of conventional flowers incised in the -wood and then gilt. These things must have belonged to the eighties--I -think they went with the bustle; but as they are precisely at the -distance where unconsciousness has set in, it is more difficult to me to -write the history of this period than it would be to tell of the -sequence of styles in the Tang dynasty. And now, having watched the -Whatnot disappear, I have the privilege of watching its resurrection. I -have passed from disgust, through total forgetfulness, into the joys of -retrospection. - -Now my belief is that none of these feelings have anything to do with -our æsthetic reactions to the objects as works of art. The odd thing -about either real or would-be works of art, that is to say, about any -works made with something beyond a purely utilitarian aim--the odd thing -is that they can either affect our æsthetic sensibilities or they can -become symbols of a particular way of life. In this aspect they affect -our historical imagination through our social emotions. That the -historical images they conjure up in us are probably false has very -little to do with it; the point is that they exist for us, and exist for -most people, far more vividly and poignantly than any possible æsthetic -feelings. And somehow the works of each period come to stand for us as -symbols of some particular and special aspect of life. A Limoges casket -evokes the idea of a life of chivalrous adventure and romantic devotion; -an Italian cassone gives one a life of intellectual ferment and -Boccaccian freedom; before a Caffieri bronze or a Riesener bureau one -imagines oneself an exquisite aristocrat proof against the deeper -passions, and gifted with a sensuality so refined and a wit so ready -that gallantry would be a sufficient occupation for a lifetime. Whoever -handling a Louis XV. tabatière reflected how few of the friends of its -original owner ever washed, and how many of them were marked with -smallpox? The fun of these historical evocations is precisely in what -they leave out. - -And in order that this process of selection and elimination may take -place, precise and detailed knowledge must have faded from the -collective memory, and the blurred but exquisite outlines of a -generalisation must have been established. - -We have just got to this point with the Victorian epoch. It has just got -its vague and generalised _Stimmung_. We think as we look at Leech’s -drawings, or sit in a bead-work chair, of a life which was the perfect -flower of bourgeoisie. The aristocracy with their odd irregular ways, -the Meredith heroines and heroes, are away in the background; _the_ -Victorian life is of the upper bourgeoisie. It is immensely leisured, -untroubled by social problems, unblushingly sentimental, impenitently -unintellectual, and devoted to sport. The women are exquisitely trained -to their social functions; they respond unfailingly to every sentimental -appeal; they are beautifully ill-informed, and yet yearning for -instruction; they have adorable tempers and are ever so mildly -mischievous. The men can afford, without fear of impish criticism, to -flaunt their whiskers in the sea breeze, and to expatiate on their -contempt for everything that is not correct. - -Here, I suppose, is something like the outline of that generalised -historical fancy that by now emanates so fragrantly from the marble -inlaid tables and the beadwork screens of the period. How charming and -how false it is, one sees at once when one reflects that we imagine the -Victorians for ever playing croquet without ever losing their tempers. - -It is evident, then, that we have just arrived at the point where our -ignorance of life in the Victorian period is such as to allow the -incurable optimism of memory to build a quite peculiar little earthly -paradise out of the boredoms, the snobberies, the cruel repressions, the -mean calculations and rapacious speculations of the mid-nineteenth -century. Go a little later, and the imagination is hopelessly hampered -by familiarity with the facts of life which the roseate mist has not yet -begun to transmute. But let those of us who are hard at work collecting -Victorian paper-weights, stuffed hummingbirds and wax flowers reflect -that our successors will be able to create quite as amusing and -wonderful interiors out of the black wood cabinets and “æsthetic” -crewel-work of the eighties. They will not be able to do this until -they have constructed the appropriate social picture, the outlines of -which we cannot dimly conceive. We have at this moment no inkling of the -kind of lies they will invent about the eighties to amuse themselves; we -only know that when the time comes the legend will have taken shape, and -that, from that moment on, the objects of the time will have the -property of emanation. - -So far it has been unnecessary even to consider whether the objects of -the Victorian period are works of art or not; all that is necessary is -that they should have some margin of freedom from utility, some scope -for the fancy of their creators. And the Victorian epoch is, I think, -unusually rich in its capacity for emanation, for it was the great -period of _fancy work_. As the age-long traditions of craftsmanship and -structural design, which had lingered on from the Middle Ages, finally -faded out under the impact of the new industrialism, the amateur stepped -in, his brain teeming with fancies. Craftsmanship was dead, the -craftsman replaced either by the machine or by a purely servile and -mechanical human being, a man without tradition, without ideas of his -own, who was ready to accomplish whatever caprices the amateur or the -artist might set him to. It was an age of invention and experiment, an -age of wildly irresponsible frivolity, curiosity and sentimentality. To -gratify sentiment, nature was opposed to the hampering conventions of -art; to gratify fatuous curiosity, the most improbable and ill-suited -materials conceivable were used. What they call in France _le style -coco_ is exactly expressive of this. A drawing of a pheasant is coloured -by cutting up little pieces of real pheasant’s feathers and sticking -them on in the appropriate places. Realistic flowers are made out of -shells glued together, or, with less of the pleasant shock of the -unexpected, out of wax or spun glass. They experiment in colour, using -the new results of chemistry boldly, greens from arsenic, magenta and -maroons from coal-tar, with results sometimes happy, sometimes -disastrous; but always we feel behind everything the capricious fancy of -the amateur with his desire to contribute by some joke or conjuring -trick to the social amenities. The general groundwork of design, so far -as any tradition remains at all, is a kind of bastard baroque passing at -times into a flimsy caricature of rococo, but almost always so overlaid -and transfigured by the fancies of the amateur as to be hardly -recognisable, and yet all, by now, so richly redolent of its social -legend as to have become a genuine style. - -There is reason enough, then, why we should amuse ourselves by -collecting Victorian objects of art, or at least those of us who have -the special social-historical sensibility highly developed. But so -curiously intertwisted are our emotions that we are always apt to put a -wrong label on them, and the label “beauty” comes curiously handy for -almost any of the more spiritual and disinterested feelings. So our -collector is likely enough to ask us to admire his objects, not for -their social emanations, but for their intrinsic æsthetic merit, which, -to tell the truth, is far more problematical. Certain it is that the use -of material at this period seems to be less discriminating, and the -sense of quality feebler, than at any previous period of the world’s -history, at all events since Roman times--Pompeii, by-the-by, was a -thoroughly Victorian city. The sense of design was also chaotically free -from all the limitations of purpose and material, and I doubt if it -attained to that perfect abstract sense of harmony which might justify -any disregard of those conditions. No, on the whole it will be better to -recognise fully how endearing, how fancy-free, how richly evocative are -the objects of the Victorian period than to trouble our heads about -their æsthetic value. - -The discovery of Victorian art is due to a few enterprising and original -artists. In a future article I hope to show why it is to the artist -rather than to the collector that we always owe such discoveries, and -also why artists are of all people the most indifferent to the æsthetic -value of the objects they recommend to our admiration. - - - - -THE ARTIST’S VISION[6] - - -In the preceding article I stated that artists always lead the way in -awakening a new admiration for forgotten and despised styles, and that -in doing so they anticipate both the archæologist and the collector. I -also suggested that they were of all people the least fitted to report -upon the æsthetic value of the objects they pressed upon us. - -Biologically speaking, art is a blasphemy. We were given our eyes to see -things, not to look at them. Life takes care that we all learn the -lesson thoroughly, so that at a very early age we have acquired a very -considerable ignorance of visual appearances. We have learned the -meaning for life of appearances so well that we understand them, as it -were, in shorthand. The subtlest differences of appearance that have a -utility value still continue to be appreciated, while large and -important visual characters, provided they are useless for life, will -pass unnoticed. With all the ingenuity and resource which manufacturers -put into their business, they can scarcely prevent the ordinary eye from -seizing on the minute visual characteristics that distinguish margarine -from butter. Some of us can tell Canadian cheddar at a glance, and no -one was ever taken in by sham suède gloves. - -The sense of sight supplies prophetic knowledge of what may affect the -inner fortifications, the more intimate senses of taste and touch, where -it may already be too late to avert disaster. So we learn to read the -prophetic message, and, for the sake of economy, to neglect all else. -Children have not learned it fully, and so they look at things with some -passion. Even the grown man keeps something of his unbiological, -disinterested vision with regard to a few things. He still looks at -flowers, and does not merely see them. He also keeps objects which have -some marked peculiarity of appearance that catches his eye. These may be -natural, like precious stones, fossils, incrustations and such like; or -they may be manufactured entirely with a view to pleasing by -peculiarities of colour or shape, and these are called ornaments. Such -articles, whether natural or artificial, are called by those who sell -them ‘curios,’ and the name is not an unhappy one to denote the kind of -interest which they arouse. As I showed in a previous article, such -objects get attached to them a secondary interest, arising from the kind -of social milieu that they were made for, so that they become not merely -curious for the eye, but stimulating to our social-historical -imagination. - -The vision with which we regard such objects is quite distinct from the -practical vision of our instinctive life. In the practical vision we -have no more concern after we have read the label on the object; vision -ceases the moment it has served its biological function. But the -curiosity vision does contemplate the object disinterestedly; the object -_ex hypothesi_ has no significance for actual life; it is a play or -fancy object, and our vision dwells much more consciously and -deliberately upon it. We notice to some extent its forms and colours, -especially when it is new to us. - -But human perversity goes further even than this in its misapplication -of the gift of sight. We may look at objects not even for their -curiosity or oddity, but for their harmony of form and colour. To arouse -such a vision the object must be more than a ‘curio’: it has to be a -work of art. I suspect that such an object must be made by some one in -whom the impulse was not to please others, but to express a feeling of -his own. It is probably this fundamental difference of origin between -the ‘curio’ or ornament and the work of art that makes it impossible for -any commercial system, with its eye necessarily on the customer, ever to -produce works of art, whatever the ingenuity with which it is attempted. - -But we are concerned here not with the origin, but with the vision. This -is at once more intense and more detached from the passions of the -instinctive life than either of the kinds of vision hitherto discussed. -Those who indulge in this vision are entirely absorbed in apprehending -the relation of forms and colour to one another, as they cohere within -the object. Suppose, for example, that we are looking at a Sung bowl; we -apprehend gradually the shape of the outside contour, the perfect -sequence of the curves, and the subtle modifications of a certain type -of curve which it shows; we also feel the relation of the concave curves -to the outside contour; we realise that the precise thickness of the -walls is consistent with the particular kind of matter of which it is -made, its appearance of density and resistance; and finally we -recognise, perhaps, how satisfactory for the display of all these -plastic qualities are the colour and the dull lustre of the glaze. Now -while we are thus occupied there comes to us, I think, a feeling of -purpose; we feel that all these sensually logical conformities are the -outcome of a particular feeling, or of what, for want of a better word, -we call an idea; and we may even say that the pot is the expression of -an idea in the artist’s mind. Whether we are right or not in making this -deduction, I believe it nearly always occurs in such æsthetic -apprehension of an object of art. But in all this no element of -curiosity, no reference to actual life, comes in; our apprehension is -unconditioned by considerations of space or time; it is irrelevant to us -to know whether the bowl was made seven hundred years ago in China, or -in New York yesterday. We may, of course, at any moment switch off from -the æsthetic vision, and become interested in all sorts of -quasi-biological feelings; we may inquire whether it is genuine or not, -whether it is worth the sum given for it, and so forth; but in -proportion as we do this we change the focus of our vision; we are more -likely to examine the bottom of the bowl for traces of marks than to -look at the bowl itself. - -Such, then, is the nature of the æsthetic vision, the vision with which -we contemplate works of art. It is to such a vision, if to anything -outside himself, that the artist appeals, and the artist in his spare -hours may himself indulge in the æsthetic vision; and if one can get him -to do so, his verdict is likely to be as good as any one’s. - -The artist’s main business in life, however, is carried on by means of -yet a fourth kind of vision, which I will call the creative vision. -This, I think, is the furthest perversion of the gifts of nature of -which man is guilty. It demands the most complete detachment from any of -the meanings and implications of appearances. Almost any turn of the -kaleidoscope of nature may set up in the artist this detached and -impassioned vision, and, as he contemplates the particular field of -vision, the (æsthetically) chaotic and accidental conjunction of forms -and colours begins to crystallise into a harmony; and as this harmony -becomes clear to the artist, his actual vision becomes distorted by the -emphasis of the rhythm which has been set up within him. Certain -relations of directions of line become for him full of meaning; he -apprehends them no longer casually or merely curiously, but -passionately, and these lines begin to be so stressed and stand out so -clearly from the rest that he sees them far more distinctly than he did -at first. Similarly colours, which in nature have almost always a -certain vagueness and elusiveness, become so definite and clear to him, -owing to their now necessary relation to other colours, that if he -chooses to paint his vision he can state them positively and definitely. -In such a creative vision the objects as such tend to disappear, to lose -their separate unities, and to take their places as so many bits in the -whole mosaic of vision. The texture of the whole field of vision becomes -so close that the coherence of the separate patches of tone and colour -within each object is no stronger than the coherence with every other -tone and colour throughout the field. - -In such circumstances the greatest object of art becomes of no more -significance than any casual piece of matter; a man’s head is no more -and no less important than a pumpkin, or, rather, these things may be so -or not according to the rhythm that obsesses the artist and crystallises -his vision. Since it is the habitual practice of the artist to be on the -look out for these peculiar arrangements of objects that arouse the -creative vision, and become material for creative contemplation, he is -liable to look at all objects from this point of view. In so far as the -artist looks at objects only as part of a whole field of vision which is -his own potential picture, he can give no account of their æsthetic -value. Every solid object is subject to the play of light and shade, and -becomes a mosaic of visual patches, each of which for the artist is -related to other visual patches in the surroundings. It is irrelevant to -ask him, while he is looking with this generalised and all-embracing -vision, about the nature of the objects which compose it. He is likely -even to turn away from works of art in which he may be tempted to -relapse into an æsthetic vision, and so see them as unities apart from -their surroundings. By preference he turns to objects which make no -strong æsthetic appeal in themselves. But he may like objects which -attract by some oddity or peculiarity of form or colour, and thereby -suggest to him new and intriguing rhythms. In his continual and restless -preoccupation with appearance he is capable of looking at objects from -which both æsthetic and even curious vision may turn instinctively, or -which they may never notice, so little prospect of satisfaction do they -hold out. But the artist may always find his satisfaction, the material -for his picture, in the most unexpected quarters. Objects of the most -despised periods, or objects saturated for the ordinary man with the -most vulgar and repulsive associations, may be grist to his mill. And so -it happened that while the man of culture and the connoisseur firmly -believed that art ended with the brothers Adam, Mr. Walter Sickert was -already busy getting hold of stuffed birds and wax flowers just for his -own queer game of tones and colours. And now the collector and the -art-dealer will be knocking at Mr. Sickert’s door to buy the treasures -at twenty times the price the artist paid for them. Perhaps there are -already younger artists who are getting excited about the tiles in the -refreshment room at South Kensington, and, when the social legend has -gathered round the names of Sir Arthur Sullivan and Connie Gilchrist, -will inspire in the cultured a deep admiration for the “æsthetic” -period. - -The artist is of all men the most constantly observant of his -surroundings, and the least affected by their intrinsic æsthetic value. -He is more likely on the whole to paint a slum in Soho than St. Paul’s, -and more likely to do a lodging-house interior than a room at Hampton -Court. He may, of course, do either, but his necessary detachment comes -more easily in one case than the other. The artist is, I believe, a very -good critic if you can make him drop his own job for a minute, and -really attend to some one else’s work of art; but do not go to him when -he is on duty as an artist if you want a sound judgment about objects of -art. The different visions I have discussed are like the different gears -of a motor-car, only that we sometimes step from one gear into another -without knowing it, and the artist may be on the wrong gear for -answering us truly. Mr. Walter Sickert is likely to have a Sickert in -his eye when he gives us a panegyric on a bedroom candlestick. - - - - -ART AND SOCIALISM[7] - - -I am not a Socialist, as I understand that word, nor can I pretend to -have worked out those complex estimates of economic possibility which -are needed before one can endorse the hopeful forecasts of Lady Warwick, -Mr. Money, and Mr. Wells. What I propose to do here is first to discuss -what effect plutocracy, such as it is to-day, has had of late, and is -likely to have in the near future, upon one of the things which I should -like to imagine continuing upon our planet--namely, art. And then -briefly to prognosticate its chances under such a regime as my -colleagues have sketched. - -As I understand it, art is one of the chief organs of what, for want of -a better word, I must call the spiritual life. It both stimulates and -controls those indefinable overtones of the material life of man which -all of us at moments feel to have a quality of permanence and reality -that does not belong to the rest of our experience. Nature demands with -no uncertain voice that the physical needs of the body shall be -satisfied first; but we feel that our real human life only begins at the -point where that is accomplished, that the man who works at some -uncreative and uncongenial toil merely to earn enough food to enable him -to continue to work has not, properly speaking, a human life at all. - -It is the argument of commercialism, as it once was of aristocracy, that -the accumulation of surplus wealth in a few hands enables this spiritual -life to maintain its existence, that no really valuable or useless work -(for from this point of view only useless work has value) could exist in -the community without such accumulations of wealth. The argument has -been employed for the disinterested work of scientific research. A -doctor of naturally liberal and generous impulses told me that he was -becoming a reactionary simply because he feared that public bodies would -never give the money necessary for research with anything like the same -generosity as is now shown by the great plutocrats. But Sir Ray -Lankester does not find that generosity sufficient, and is prepared at -least to consider a State more ample-spirited. - -The situation as regards art and as regards the disinterested love of -truth is so similar that we might expect this argument in favour of a -plutocratic social order to hold equally well for both art and science, -and that the artist would be a fervent upholder of the present system. -As a matter of fact, the more representative artists have rarely been -such, and not a few, though working their life long for the plutocracy, -have been vehement Socialists. - -Despairing of the conditions due to modern commercialism, it is not -unnatural that lovers of beauty should look back with nostalgia to the -age when society was controlled by a landed aristocracy. I believe, -however, that from the point of view of the encouragement of great -creative art there is not much difference between an aristocracy and a -plutocracy. The aristocrat usually had taste, the plutocrat frequently -has not. Now taste is of two kinds, the first consisting in the negative -avoidance of all that is ill-considered and discordant, the other -positive and a by-product; it is that harmony which always results from -the expression of intense and disinterested emotion. The aristocrat, by -means of his good taste of the negative kind, was able to come to terms -with the artist; the plutocrat has not. But both alike desire to buy -something which is incommensurate with money. Both want art to be a -background to their radiant self-consciousness. They want to buy beauty -as they want to buy love; and the painter, picture-dealer, and the -pander try perennially to persuade them that it is possible. But living -beauty cannot be bought; it must be won. I have said that the -aristocrat, by his taste, by his feeling for the accidentals of beauty, -did manage to get on to some kind of terms with the artist. Hence the -art of the eighteenth century, an art that is prone before the -distinguished patron, subtly and deliciously flattering and yet always -fine. In contrast to that the art of the nineteenth century is coarse, -turbulent, clumsy. It marks the beginning of a revolt. The artist just -managed to let himself be coaxed and cajoled by the aristocrat, but when -the aristocratic was succeeded by the plutocratic patron with less -conciliatory manners and no taste, the artist rebelled; and the history -of art in the nineteenth century is the history of a band of heroic -Ishmaelites, with no secure place in the social system, with nothing to -support them in the unequal struggle but a dim sense of a new idea, the -idea of the freedom of art from all trammels and tyrannies. - -The place that the artists left vacant at the plutocrat’s table had to -be filled, and it was filled by a race new in the history of the world, -a race for whom no name has yet been found, a race of pseudo-artists. As -the prostitute professes to sell love, so these gentlemen professed to -sell beauty, and they and their patrons rollicked good-humouredly -through the Victorian era. They adopted the name and something of the -manner of artists; they intercepted not only the money, but the titles -and fame and glory which were intended for those whom they had -supplanted. But, while they were yet feasting, there came an event which -seemed at the time of no importance, but which was destined to change -ultimately the face of things, the exhibition of ancient art at -Manchester in 1857. And with this came Ruskin’s address on the Political -Economy of Art, a work which surprises by its prophetic foresight when -we read it half a century later. These two things were the Mene Tekel of -the orgy of Victorian Philistinism. The plutocrat saw through the -deception; it was not beauty the pseudo-artist sold him, any more than -it was love which the prostitute gave. He turned from it in disgust and -decided that the only beauty he could buy was the dead beauty of the -past. Thereupon set in the worship of _patine_ and the age of forgery -and the detection of forgery. I once remarked to a rich man that a -statue by Rodin might be worthy even of his collection. He replied, -“Show me a Rodin with the _patine_ of the fifteenth century, and I will -buy it.” - -_Patine_, then, the adventitious material beauty which age alone can -give, has come to be the object of a reverence greater than that devoted -to the idea which is enshrined within the work of art. People are right -to admire _patine_. Nothing is more beautiful than gilded bronze of -which time has taken toll until it is nothing but a faded shimmering -splendour over depths of inscrutable gloom; nothing finer than the dull -glow which Pentelic marble has gathered from past centuries of sunlight -and warm Mediterranean breezes. _Patine_ is good, but it is a surface -charm added to the essential beauty of expression; its beauty is -literally skin-deep. It can never come into being or exist in or for -itself; no _patine_ can make a bad work good, or the forgers would be -justified. It is an adjectival and ancillary beauty scarcely worthy of -our prolonged contemplation. - -There is to the philosopher something pathetic in the Plutocrat’s -worship of _patine_. It is, as it were, a compensation for his own want -of it. On himself all the rough thumb and chisel marks of his maker--and -he is self-made--stand as yet unpolished and raw; but his furniture, at -least, shall have the distinction of age-long acquaintance with good -manners. - -But the net result of all this is that the artist has nothing to hope -from the plutocrat. To him we must be grateful indeed for that brusque -disillusionment of the real artist, the real artist who might have -rubbed along uneasily for yet another century with his predecessor, the -aristocrat. Let us be grateful to him for this; but we need not look to -him for further benefits, and if we decide to keep him the artist must -be content to be paid after he is dead and vicariously in the person of -an art-dealer. The artist must be content to look on while sums are -given for dead beauty, the tenth part of which, properly directed, would -irrigate whole nations and stimulate once more the production of vital -artistic expression. - -I would not wish to appear to blame the plutocrat. He has often honestly -done his best for art; the trouble is not of his making more than of the -artist’s, and the misunderstanding between art and commerce is bound to -be complete. The artist, however mean and avaricious he may appear, -knows that he cannot really sell himself for money any more than the -philosopher or the scientific investigator can sell himself for money. -He takes money in the hope that he may secure the opportunity for the -free functioning of his creative power. If the patron could give him -that instead of money he would bless him; but he cannot, and so he tries -to get him to work not quite freely for money; and in revenge the artist -indulges in all manner of insolences, even perhaps in sharp practices, -which make the patron feel, with some justification, that he is the -victim of ingratitude and wanton caprice. It is impossible that the -artist should work for the plutocrat; he must work for himself, because -it is only by so doing that he can perform the function for which he -exists; it is only by working for himself that he can work for mankind. - -If, then, the particular kind of accumulation of surplus wealth which we -call plutocracy has failed, as surely it has signally failed, to -stimulate the creative power of the imagination, what disposition of -wealth might be conceived that would succeed better? First of all, a -greater distribution of wealth, with a lower standard of ostentation, -would, I think, do a great deal to improve things without any great -change in other conditions. It is not enough known that the patronage -which really counts to-day is exercised by quite small and humble -people. These people with a few hundreds a year exercise a genuine -patronage by buying pictures at ten, twenty, or occasionally thirty -pounds, with real insight and understanding, thereby enabling the young -Ishmaelite to live and function from the age of twenty to thirty or so, -when perhaps he becomes known to richer buyers, those experienced -spenders of money who are always more cautious, more anxious to buy an -investment than a picture. These poor, intelligent first patrons to whom -I allude belong mainly to the professional classes; they have none of -the pretensions of the plutocrat and none of his ambitions. The work of -art is not for them, as for him, a decorative backcloth to his stage, -but an idol and an inspiration. Merely to increase the number and -potency of these people would already accomplish much; and this is to be -noticed, that if wealth were more evenly distributed, if no one had a -great deal of wealth, those who really cared for art would become the -sole patrons, since for all it would be an appreciable sacrifice, and -for none an impossibility. The man who only buys pictures when he has as -many motor-cars as he can conceivably want would drop out as a patron -altogether. - -But even this would only foster the minor and private arts; and what the -history of art definitely elucidates is that the greatest art has always -been communal, the expression--in highly individualised ways, no -doubt--of common aspirations and ideals. - -Let us suppose, then, that society were so arranged that considerable -surplus wealth lay in the hands of public bodies, both national and -local; can we have any reasonable hope that they would show more skill -in carrying out the delicate task of stimulating and using the creative -power of the artist? - -The immediate prospect is certainly not encouraging. Nothing, for -instance, is more deplorable than to watch the patronage of our -provincial museums. The gentlemen who administer these public funds -naturally have not realised so acutely as private buyers the lesson so -admirably taught at Christie’s, that pseudo or Royal-Academic art is a -bad investment. Nor is it better if we turn to national patronage. In -Great Britain, at least, we cannot get a postage stamp or a penny even -respectably designed, much less a public monument. Indeed, the tradition -that all public British art shall be crassly mediocre and inexpressive -is so firmly rooted that it seems to have almost the prestige of -constitutional precedent. Nor will any one who has watched a committee -commissioning a presentation portrait, or even buying an old master, be -in danger of taking too optimistic a view. With rare and shining -exceptions, committees seem to be at the mercy of the lowest common -denominator of their individual natures, which is dominated by fear of -criticism; and fear and its attendant, compromise, are bad masters of -the arts. - -Speaking recently at Liverpool, Mr. Bernard Shaw placed the present -situation as regards public art in its true light. He declared that the -corruption of taste and the emotional insincerity of the mass of the -people had gone so far that any picture which pleased more than ten per -cent. of the population should be immediately burned.... - -This, then, is the fundamental fact we have to face. And it is this that -gives us pause when we try to construct any conceivable system of public -patronage. - -For the modern artist puts the question of any socialistic--or, indeed, -of any completely ordered--state in its acutest form. He demands as an -essential to the proper use of his powers a freedom from restraint such -as no other workman expects. He must work when he feels inclined; he -cannot work to order. Hence his frequent quarrels with the burgher who -knows he has to work when he is disinclined, and cannot conceive why the -artist should not do likewise. The burgher watches the artist’s wayward -and apparently quite unmethodical activity, and envies his job. Now, in -any Socialistic State, if certain men are licensed to pursue the -artistic calling, they are likely to be regarded by the other workers -with some envy. There may be a competition for such soft jobs among -those who are naturally work-shy, since it will be evident that the -artist is not called to account in the same way as other workers. - -If we suppose, as seems not unlikely, in view of the immense numbers who -become artists in our present social state, that there would be this -competition for the artistic work of the community, what methods would -be devised to select those required to fill the coveted posts? Frankly, -the history of art in the nineteenth century makes us shudder at the -results that would follow. One scarcely knows whether they would be -worse if Bumble or the Academy were judge. We only know that under any -such conditions _none_ of the artists whose work has ultimately counted -in the spiritual development of the race would have been allowed to -practise the coveted profession. - -There is in truth, as Ruskin pointed out in his “Political Economy of -Art,” a gross and wanton waste under the present system. We have -thousands of artists who are only so by accident and by name, on the one -hand, and certainly many--one cannot tell how many--who have the special -gift but have never had the peculiar opportunities which are to-day -necessary to allow it to expand and function. But there is, what in an -odd way consoles us, a blind chance that the gift and the opportunity -may coincide; that Shelley and Browning may have a competence, and -Cézanne a farm-house he could retire to. Bureaucratic Socialism would, -it seems, take away even this blind chance that mankind may benefit by -its least appreciable, most elusive treasures, and would carefully -organise the complete suppression of original creative power; would -organise into a universal and all-embracing tyranny the already -overweening and disastrous power of endowed official art. For we must -face the fact that the average man has two qualities which would make -the proper selection of the artist almost impossible. He has, first of -all, a touching proclivity to awe-struck admiration of whatever is -presented to him as noble by a constituted authority; and, secondly, a -complete absence of any immediate reaction to a work of art until his -judgment has thus been hypnotised by the voice of authority. Then, and -not till then, he sees, or swears he sees, those adorable Emperor’s -clothes that he is always agape for. - -I am speaking, of course, of present conditions, of a populace whose -emotional life has been drugged by the sugared poison of pseudo-art, a -populace saturated with snobbishness, and regarding art chiefly for its -value as a symbol of social distinctions. There have been times when -such a system of public patronage as we are discussing might not have -been altogether disastrous. Times when the guilds represented more or -less adequately the genuine artistic intelligence of the time; but the -creation, first of all, of aristocratic art, and finally of pseudo-art, -have brought it about that almost any officially organised system would -at the present moment stereotype all the worst features of modern art. - -Now, in thus putting forward the extreme difficulties of any system of -publicly controlled art, we are emphasising perhaps too much the idea of -the artist as a creator of purely ideal and abstract works, as the -medium of inspiration and the source of revelation. It is the artist as -prophet and priest that we have been considering, the artist who is the -articulate soul of mankind. Now, in the present commercial State, at a -time when such handiwork as is not admirably fitted to some purely -utilitarian purpose has become inanely fatuous and grotesque, the artist -in this sense has undoubtedly become of supreme importance as a -protestant, as one who proclaims that art is a reasonable function, and -one that proceeds by a nice adjustment of means to ends. But if we -suppose a state in which all the ordinary objects of daily life--our -chairs and tables, our carpets and pottery--expressed something of this -reasonableness instead of a crazy and vapid fantasy, the artist as a -pure creator might become, not indeed of less importance--rather -more--but a less acute necessity to our general living than he is -to-day. Something of the sanity and purposefulness of his attitude might -conceivably become infused into the work of the ordinary craftsman, -something, too, of his creative energy and delight in work. We must, -therefore, turn for a moment from the abstractly creative artist to the -applied arts and those who practise them. - -We are so far obliged to protect ourselves from the implications of -modern life that without a special effort it is hard to conceive the -enormous quantity of “art” that is annually produced and consumed. For -the special purpose of realising it I take the pains to write the -succeeding paragraphs in a railway refreshment-room, where I am actually -looking at those terribly familiar but fortunately fleeting images which -such places afford. And one must remember that public places of this -kind merely reflect the average citizen’s soul, as expressed in his -home. - -The space my eye travels over is a small one, but I am appalled at the -amount of “art” that it harbours. The window towards which I look is -filled in its lower part by stained glass; within a highly elaborate -border, designed by some one who knew the conventions of -thirteenth-century glass, is a pattern of yellow and purple vine leaves -with bunches of grapes, and flitting about among these many small birds. -In front is a lace curtain with patterns taken from at least four -centuries and as many countries. On the walls, up to a height of four -feet, is a covering of lincrusta walton stamped with a complicated -pattern in two colours, with sham silver medallions. Above that a -moulding but an inch wide, and yet creeping throughout its whole with a -degenerate descendant of a Græco-Roman carved guilloche pattern; this -has evidently been cut out of the wood by machine or stamped out of some -composition--its nature is so perfectly concealed that it is hard to say -which. Above this is a wall-paper in which an effect of -eighteenth-century satin brocade is imitated by shaded staining of the -paper. Each of the little refreshment-tables has two cloths, one -arranged symmetrically with the table, the other a highly ornate printed -cotton arranged “artistically” in a diagonal position. In the centre of -each table is a large pot in which every beautiful quality in the -material and making of pots has been carefully obliterated by methods -each of which implies profound scientific knowledge and great inventive -talent. Within each pot is a plant with large dark-green leaves, -apparently made of india-rubber. This painful catalogue makes up only a -small part of the inventory of the “art” of the restaurant. If I were to -go on to tell of the legs of the tables, of the electric-light fittings, -of the chairs into the wooden seats of which some tremendous mechanical -force has deeply impressed a large distorted anthemion--if I were to -tell of all these things, my reader and I might both begin to realise -with painful acuteness something of the horrible toil involved in all -this display. Display is indeed the end and explanation of it all. Not -one of these things has been made because the maker enjoyed the making; -not one has been bought because its contemplation would give any one any -pleasure, but solely because each of these things is accepted as a -symbol of a particular social status. I say their contemplation can give -no one pleasure; they are there because their absence would be resented -by the average man who regards a large amount of futile display as in -some way inseparable from the conditions of that well-to-do life to -which he belongs or aspires to belong. If everything were merely clean -and serviceable he would proclaim the place bare and uncomfortable. - -The doctor who lines his waiting-room with bad photogravures and worse -etchings is acting on exactly the same principle; in short, nearly all -our “art” is made, bought, and sold merely for its value as an -indication of social status. - -Now consider the case of those men whose life-work it is to stimulate -this eczematous eruption of pattern on the surface of modern -manufactures. They are by far the most numerous “artists” in the -country. Each of them has not only learned to draw but has learned by -sheer application to put forms together with a similitude of that -coherence which creative impulse gives. Probably each of them has -somewhere within him something of that creative impulse which is the -inspiration and delight of every savage and primitive craftsman; but in -these manufacturer’s designers the pressure of commercial life has -crushed and atrophied that creative impulse completely. Their business -is to produce, not expressive design, but dead patterns. They are -compelled, therefore, to spend their lives behaving in an entirely -idiotic and senseless manner, and that with the certainty that no one -will ever get positive pleasure from the result; for one may hazard the -statement that until I made the effort just now, no one of the thousands -who use the refreshment-rooms ever really _looked_ at the designs. - -This question of the creation and consumption of art tends to become -more and more pressing. I have shown just now what an immense mass of -art is consumed, but this is not the same art as that which the genuine -artist produces. The work of the truly creative artist is not merely -useless to the social man--it appears to be noxious and inassimilable. -Before art can be “consumed” the artistic idea must undergo a process of -disinfection. It must have extracted and removed from it all, or nearly -all, that makes it æsthetically valuable. What occurs when a great -artist creates a new idea is somewhat as follows: We know the process -well enough, since it has taken place in the last fifty years. An artist -attains to a new vision. He grasps this with such conviction that he is -able to express it in his work. Those few people in his immediate -surroundings who have the faculty of æsthetic perception become very -much excited by the new vision. The average man, on the other hand, -lacks this faculty and, moreover, instinctively protects the rounded -perfection of his universe of thought and feeling from the intrusion of -new experience; in consequence he becomes extremely irritated by the -sight of works which appear to him completely unintelligible. The -misunderstanding between this small minority and the public becomes -violent. Then some of the more intelligent writers on art recognise that -the new idea is really related to past æsthetic expressions which have -become recognised. Then a clever artist, without any individual vision -of his own, sees the possibility of using a modification of the new -idea, makes an ingenious compromise between it and the old, generally -accepted notions of art. The public, which has been irritated by its -incomprehension of the new idea, finding the compromise just -intelligible, and delighted to find itself cleverer than it thought, -acclaims the compromising intermediary as a genius. The process of -disinfection thus begun goes on with increasing energy and rapidity, and -before long the travesty of the new idea is completely assimilable by -the social organism. The public, after swallowing innumerable imitations -of the new idea, may even at last reluctantly accept the original -creator as a great man, but generally not until he has been dead for -some time and has become a vague and mythical figure. - -It is literally true to say that the imitations of works of art are more -assimilable by the public than originals, and therefore always tend to -fetch a higher price in the market at the moment of their production. - -The fact is that the average man uses art entirely for its symbolic -value. Art is in fact the symbolic currency of the world. The possession -of rare and much coveted works of art is regarded as a sign of national -greatness. The growth and development of the Kaiser Friedrich museum was -due to the active support of the late Emperor, a man whose distaste for -genuine art is notorious, but whose sense of the symbolic was highly -developed. Large and expensively ornamented buildings become symbols of -municipal greatness. The amount of useless ornaments on façades of their -offices is a valuable symbol of the financial exuberance of big -commercial undertakings; and, finally, the social status of the -individual is expressed to the admiring or envious outer world by the -streamlines of an aristocratic motor-car, or the superfluity of lace -curtains in the front windows of a genteel suburban villa. - -The social man, then, lives in a world of symbols, and though he presses -other things into his service, such, for instance, as kings, footmen, -dogs, women, he finds in art his richest reservoir of symbolic currency. -But in a world of symbolists the creative artist and the creative man of -science appear in strange isolation as the only people who are not -symbolists. They alone are up against certain relations which do not -stand for something else, but appear to have ultimate value, to be real. - -Art as a symbolic currency is an important means of the instinctive life -of man, but art as created by the artist is in violent revolt against -the instinctive life, is an expression of the reflective and fully -conscious life. It is natural enough, then, that before it can be used -by the instinctive life it must be deprived by travesty of its too -violent assertion of its own reality. Travesty is necessary at first to -make it assimilable, but in the end long familiarity may rob even -original works of art of their insistence, so that, finally, even the -great masterpieces may become the most cherished symbols of the lords of -the instinctive life, may, as in fact they frequently do, become the -property of millionaires. - -A great deal of misunderstanding and ill-feeling between the artist and -the public comes from a failure to realise the necessity of this process -of assimilation of the work of art to the needs of the instinctive -life. - -I suspect that a very similar process takes place with regard to truth. -In order that truth may not outrage too violently the passions and -egoisms of the instinctive life it, too, must undergo a process of -deformation. - -Society, for example, accepts as much of the ascertainable truth as it -can stand at a given period in the form of the doctrine of its organised -religion. - -Now what effect would the development of the Great State which this book -anticipates have upon all this? First, I suppose that the fact that -every one had to work might produce a new reverence, especially in the -governing body, for work, a new sense of disgust and horror at wasteful -and purposeless work. Mr. Money has written of waste of work; here in -unwanted pseudo-art is another colossal waste. Add to this ideal of -economy in work the presumption that the workers in every craft would be -more thoroughly organised and would have a more decisive voice in the -nature and quality of their productions. Under the present system of -commercialism the one object, and the complete justification, of -producing any article is, that it can be made either by its intrinsic -value, or by the fictitious value put upon it by advertisement, to sell -with a sufficient profit to the manufacturer. In any socialistic state, -I imagine--and to a large extent the Great State will be socialistic at -least--there would not be this same automatic justification for -manufacture; people would not be induced artificially to buy what they -did not want, and in this way a more genuine scale of values would be -developed. Moreover, the workman would be in a better position to say -how things should be made. After years of a purely commercial standard, -there is left even now, in the average workman, a certain bias in favour -of sound and reasonable workmanship as opposed to the ingenious -manufacture of fatuous and fraudulent objects; and, if we suppose the -immediate pressure of sheer necessity to be removed, it is probable that -the craftsman, acting through his guild organisations, would determine -to some extent the methods of manufacture. Guilds might, indeed, regain -something of the political influence that gave us the Gothic cathedrals -of the Middle Ages. It is quite probable that this guild influence would -act as a check on some innovations in manufacture which, though bringing -in a profit, are really disastrous to the community at large. Of such a -nature are all the so-called improvements whereby decoration, the whole -value of which consists in its expressive power, is multiplied -indefinitely by machinery. When once the question of the desirability of -any and every production came to be discussed, as it would be in the -Great State, it would inevitably follow that some reasonable and -scientific classifications would be undertaken with regard to machinery. -That is to say, it would be considered in what processes and to what -degree machinery ought to replace handiwork, both from the point of view -of the community as a whole and from that of the producer. So far as I -know, this has never been undertaken even with regard to mere economy, -no one having calculated with precision how far the longer life of -certain hand-made articles does not more than compensate for increased -cost of production. And I suppose that in the Great State other things -besides mere economy would come into the calculation. The Great State -will live, not hoard. - -It is probable that in many directions we should extend mechanical -operations immensely, that such things as the actual construction of -buildings, the mere laying and placing of the walls might become -increasingly mechanical. Such methods, if confined to purely structural -elements, are capable of beauty of a special kind, since they can -express the ordered ideas of proportion, balance, and interval as -conceived by the creative mind of the architect. But in process of time -one might hope to see a sharp line of division between work of this kind -and such purely expressive and non-utilitarian design as we call -ornament; and it would be felt clearly that into this field no -mechanical device should intrude, that, while ornament might be -dispensed with, it could never be imitated, since its only reason for -being is that it conveys the vital expressive power of a human mind -acting constantly and directly upon matter. - -Finally, I suppose that in the Great State we might hope to see such a -considerable levelling of social conditions that the false values put -upon art by its symbolising of social status would be largely destroyed -and, the pressure of mere opinion being relieved, people would develop -some more immediate reaction to the work of art than they can at present -achieve. - -Supposing, then, that under the Great State it was found impossible, at -all events at first, to stimulate and organise the abstract creative -power of the pure artist, the balance might after all be in favour of -the new order if the whole practice of applied art could once more -become rational and purposeful. In a world where the objects of daily -use and ornament were made with practical common sense, the æsthetic -sense would need far less to seek consolation and repose in works of -pure art. - -Nevertheless, in the long run mankind will not allow this function, -which is necessary to its spiritual life, to lapse entirely. I imagine, -however, that it would be much safer to penalise rather than to -stimulate such activity, and that simply in order to sift out those with -a genuine passion from those who are merely attracted by the apparent -ease of the pursuit. I imagine that the artist would naturally turn to -one of the applied arts as his means of livelihood; and we should get -the artist coming out of the _bottega_, as he did in fifteenth-century -Florence. There are, moreover, innumerable crafts, even besides those -that are definitely artistic, which, if pursued for short hours (Sir Leo -Money has shown how short these hours might be), would leave a man free -to pursue other callings in his leisure. - -The majority of poets to-day are artists in this position. It is -comparatively rare for any one to make of poetry his actual means of -livelihood. Our poets are, first of all, clerks, critics, civil -servants, or postmen. I very much doubt if it would be a serious loss to -the community if the pure graphic artist were in the same position. That -is to say, that all our pictures would be made by amateurs. It is quite -possible to suppose that this would be not a loss, but a great gain. The -painter’s means of livelihood would probably be some craft in which his -artistic powers would be constantly occupied, though at a lower tension -and in a humbler way. The Great State aims at human freedom; -essentially, it is an organisation for leisure--out of which art grows; -it is only a purely bureaucratic Socialism that would attempt to control -the æsthetic lives of men. - -So I conceive that those in whom the instinct for abstract creative art -was strongest would find ample opportunities for its exercise, and that -the temptation to simulate this particular activity would be easily -resisted by those who had no powerful inner compulsion. - -In the Great State, moreover, and in any sane Socialism, there would be -opportunity for a large amount of purely private buying and selling. Mr. -Wells’s Modern Utopia, for example, hypothecates a vast superstructure -of private trading. A painter might sell his pictures to those who were -engaged in more lucrative employment, though one supposes that with the -much more equal distribution of wealth the sums available for this would -be incomparably smaller than at present; a picture would not be a -speculation, but a pleasure, and no one would become an artist in the -hope of making a fortune. - -Ultimately, of course, when art had been purified of its present -unreality by a prolonged contact with the crafts, society would gain a -new confidence in its collective artistic judgment, and might even -boldly assume the responsibility which at present it knows it is unable -to face. It might choose its poets and painters and philosophers and -deep investigators, and make of such men and women a new kind of kings. - - - - -ART AND SCIENCE[8] - - -The author of an illuminating article, “The Place of Science,” in _The -Athenæum_ for April 11th, distinguishes between two aspects of -intellectual activity in scientific work. Of these two aspects one -derives its motive power from curiosity, and this deals with particular -facts. It is only when, through curiosity, man has accumulated a mass of -particular observations that the second intellectual activity manifests -itself, and in this the motive is the satisfaction which the mind gets -from the contemplation of inevitable relations. To secure this end the -utmost possible generalisation is necessary. - -In a later article S. says boldly that this satisfaction is an æsthetic -satisfaction: “It is in its æsthetic value that the justification of the -scientific theory is to be found, and with it the justification of the -scientific method.” I should like to pose to S. at this point the -question of whether a theory that disregarded facts would have equal -value for science with one which agreed with facts. I suppose he would -say No; and yet, so far as I can see, there would be no purely æsthetic -reason why it should not. The æsthetic value of a theory would surely -depend solely on the perfection and complexity of the unity attained, -and I imagine that many systems of scholastic theology, and even some -more recent systems of metaphysic, have only this æsthetic value. I -suspect that the æsthetic value of a theory is not really adequate to -the intellectual effort entailed unless, as in a true scientific theory -(by which I mean a theory which embraces all the known relevant facts), -the æsthetic value is reinforced by the curiosity value which comes in -when we believe it to be true. But now, returning to art, let me try to -describe rather more clearly its analogies with science. - -Both of these aspects--the particularising and the generalising--have -their counterparts in art. Curiosity impels the artist to the -consideration of every possible form in nature: under its stimulus he -tends to accept each form in all its particularity as a given, -unalterable fact. The other kind of intellectual activity impels the -artist to attempt the reduction of all forms, as it were, to some common -denominator which will make them comparable with one another. It impels -him to discover some æsthetically intelligible principle in various -forms, and even to envisage the possibility of some kind of abstract -form in the æsthetic contemplation of which the mind would attain -satisfaction--a satisfaction curiously parallel to that which the mind -gets from the intellectual recognition of abstract truth. - -If we consider the effects of these two kinds of intellectual activity, -or rather their exact analogues, in art, we have to note that in so far -as the artist’s curiosity remains a purely intellectual curiosity it -interferes with the perfection and purity of the work of art by -introducing an alien and non-æsthetic element and appealing to -non-æsthetic desires; in so far as it merely supplies the artist with -new motives and a richer material out of which to build his designs, it -is useful but subsidiary. Thus the objection to a “subject picture,” in -so far as one remains conscious of the subject as something outside of, -and apart from, the form, is a valid objection to the intrusion of -intellect, of however rudimentary a kind, into an æsthetic whole. The -ordinary historical pictures of our annual shows will furnish perfect -examples of such an intrusion, since they exhibit innumerable appeals to -intellectual recognitions without which the pictures would be -meaningless. Without some previous knowledge of Caligula or Mary Queen -of Scots we are likely to miss our way in a great deal of what passes -for art to-day. - -The case of the generalising intellect, or rather its analogue, in art -is more difficult. Here the recognition of relations is immediate and -sensational--perhaps we ought to consider it as curiously akin to those -cases of mathematical geniuses who have immediate intuition of -mathematical relations which it is beyond their powers to prove--so that -it is by analogy that we may talk of it at all as intellectual. But the -analogy is so close that I hope it may justify the use I here suggest. -For in both cases the utmost possible generalisation is aimed at, and in -both the mind is held in delighted equilibrium by the contemplation of -the inevitable relations of all the parts in the whole, so that no need -exists to make reference to what is outside the unity, and this becomes -for the time being a universe. - -It will be seen how close the analogies are between the methods and aims -of art and science, and yet there remains an obstinate doubt in the mind -whether at any point they are identical. Probably in order to get much -further we must wait for the psychologists to solve a number of -problems; meanwhile this at least must be pointed out--that, allowing -that the motives of science are emotional, many of its processes are -purely intellectual, that is to say, mechanical. They could be performed -by a perfectly non-sentient, emotionless brain, whereas at no point in -the process of art can we drop feeling. There is something in the common -phraseology by which we talk of _seeing_ a point or an argument, whereas -we _feel_ the harmony of a work of art; and for some reason we attach a -more constant emotional quality to feeling than to seeing, which is so -constantly used for coldly practical ends. - -From the merest rudiments of pure sensation up to the highest efforts of -design each point in the process of art is inevitably accompanied by -pleasure; it cannot proceed without it. If we describe the process of -art as a logic of sensation, we must remember that the premises are -sensations, and that the conclusion can only be drawn from them by one -who is in an emotional state with regard to them. Thus a harmony in -music cannot be perceived by a person who merely hears accurately the -notes which compose it--it can only be recognised when the relations of -those notes to one another are accompanied by emotion. It is quite true -that the recognition of inevitability in thought is normally accompanied -by a pleasurable emotion, and that the desire for this mental pleasure -is the motive force which impels to the making of scientific theory. But -the inevitability of the relations remains equally definite and -demonstrable whether the emotion accompanies it or not, whereas an -æsthetic harmony simply does not exist without the emotional state. The -harmony is not _true_ (to use our analogy) unless it is felt with -emotion. - -None the less, perhaps, the highest pleasure in art is identical with -the highest pleasure in scientific theory. The emotion which accompanies -the clear recognition of unity in a complex seems to be so similar in -art and in science that it is difficult not to suppose that they are -psychologically the same. It is, as it were, the final stage of both -processes. This unity-emotion in science supervenes upon a process of -pure mechanical reasoning; in art it supervenes upon a process of which -emotion has all along been an essential concomitant. - -It may be that in the complete apprehension of a work of art there -occurs more than one kind of feeling. There is generally a basis of -purely physiological pleasure, as in seeing pure colours or hearing pure -sounds; then there is the specifically æsthetic emotion by means of -which the necessity of relations is apprehended, and which corresponds -in science to the purely logical process; and finally there is the -unity-emotion, which may not improbably be of an identical kind in both -art and science. - -In the art of painting we may distinguish between the unity of texture -and the unity of design. I know quite well that these are not really -completely separable, and that they are to some extent mutually -dependent; but they may be regarded as separate for the purpose of -focussing our attention. Certainly we can think of pictures in which the -general architecture of the design is in no way striking or remarkable -which yet please us by the perfection of the texture, that is to say, -the ease with which we apprehend the necessary relationship of one -shape, tone or colour with its immediately surrounding shapes, tones or -colours; our æsthetic sense is continually aroused and satisfied by the -succession of inevitable relationships. On the other hand, we know of -works of art in which the unity and complexity of the texture strike us -far less than the inevitable and significant relationship of the main -divisions of the design--pictures in which we should say that the -composition was the most striking beauty. It is when the composition of -a picture, adequately supported as it must be by significance of -texture, reveals to us the most surprising and yet inevitable -relationships that we get most strongly the final unity-emotion of a -work of art. It is these pictures that are, as S. would say of certain -theories, the most significant for contemplation. Nor before such works -can we help implicitly attributing to their authors the same kind of -power which in science we should call “great intellect,” though perhaps -in both the term “great imaginative organisation” would be better. - - - - -THE ART OF THE BUSHMEN[9] - - -In the history of mankind drawing has at different times and among -different races expressed so many different conceptions, and has used -such various means, that it would seem to be not one art, but many. It -would seem, indeed, that it has its origins in several quite distinct -instincts of the human race, and it may not be altogether unimportant -even for the modern draughtsman to investigate these instincts in their -simpler manifestations in order to check and control his own methods. -The primitive drawing of our own race is singularly like that of -children. Its most striking peculiarity is the extent to which it is -dominated by the concepts of language. In a child’s drawing we find a -number of forms which have scarcely any reference to actual appearances, -but which directly symbolise the most significant concepts of the thing -represented. For a child, a man is the sum of the concept’s head (which -in turn consists of eyes, nose, mouth), arms, hands (five fingers), -legs, feet. Torso is not a concept which interests him, and it is, -therefore, usually reduced to a single line which serves to link the -concept-symbol head with those of the legs. The child does, of course, -know that the figure thus drawn is not like a man, but it is a kind of -hieroglyphic script for a man, and satisfies his desire for expression. -Precisely the same phenomenon occurs in primitive art; the symbols for -concepts gradually take on more and more of the likeness to appearances, -but the mode of approach remains even in comparatively advanced periods -the same. The artist does not seek to transfer a visual sensation to -paper, but to express a mental image which is coloured by his conceptual -habits. - -Prof. Loewy[10] has investigated the laws which govern representation in -early art, and has shown that the influence of the early artist’s ideas -of representation persist in Greek sculpture down to the time of -Lysippus. He enumerates seven peculiarities of early drawing, of which -the most important are that the figures are shown with each of their -parts in its broadest aspect, and that the forms are stylised--_i.e._ -present linear formations that are regular or tend to regularity. - -Of the first of these peculiarities Egyptian and Assyrian sculpture, -even of the latest and most developed periods, afford constant examples. -We see there the head in profile, the eye full face, the shoulders and -breast full face, and by a sudden twist in the body the legs and feet -again in profile. In this way each part is presented in that aspect -which most clearly expresses its corresponding visual concepts. Thus a -foot is much more clearly denoted by its profile view than by the -rendering of its frontal appearance--while no one who was asked to think -of an eye would visualise it to himself in any other than a full-face -view. In such art, then, the body is twisted about so that each part may -be represented by that aspect which the mental image aroused by the name -of the part would have, and the figure becomes an ingenious compound of -typical conceptual images. In the case of the head two aspects are -accepted as symbolic of the concept “head,” the profile and the -full-face; but it is very late in the development of art before men are -willing to accept any intermediate position as intelligible or -satisfactory. It is generally supposed that early art avoids -foreshortening because of its difficulty. One may suppose rather that it -is because the foreshortened view of a member corresponds so ill with -the normal conceptual image, and is therefore not accepted as -sufficiently expressive of the idea. Yet another of the peculiarities -named by Prof. Loewy must be mentioned, namely, that the “conformation -and movement of the figures and their parts are limited to a few typical -shapes.” And these movements are always of the simplest kinds, since -they are governed by the necessity of displaying each member in its -broadest and most explicit aspect. In particular the crossing of one -limb over another is avoided as confusing. - -Such in brief outline are some of the main principles of drawing both -among primitive peoples and among our own children. It is not a little -surprising then to find, when we turn to Miss Tongue’s careful copies -of the drawings executed by the Bushmen of South Africa[11] that the -principles are more often contradicted than exemplified. We find, it is -true, a certain barbaric crudity and simplicity which give these -drawings a superficial resemblance to children’s drawings or those of -primitive times, but a careful examination will show how different they -are. The drawings are of different periods, though none of them probably -are of any considerable antiquity, since the habit of painting over an -artist’s work when once he was forgotten obtained among the bushmen no -less than with more civilised people. These drawings are also of very -different degrees of skill. They represent for the most part scenes of -the chase and war, dances and festivals, and in one case there is an -illustration to a bushman story and one figure is supposed to represent -a ghost. There is no evidence of deliberate decorative purpose in these -paintings. The figures are cast upon the walls of the cave in such a way -as to represent, roughly, the actual scenes.[12] Nothing could be more -unlike primitive art than some of these scenes. For instance, the battle -fought between two tribes over the possession of some cattle, is -entirely unlike battle scenes such as we find in early Assyrian reliefs. -There the battle is schematic, all the soldiers of one side are in -profile to right, all the soldiers of the opposing side are in profile -to left. The whole scene is perfectly clear to the intelligence, it -follows the mental image of what a battle ought to be, but is entirely -unlike what a battle ever is. Now, in the Bushman drawing, there is -nothing truly schematic; it is difficult to find out the soldiers of the -two sides; they are all mixed up in a confused hurly-burly, some -charging, others flying, and here and there single combats going on at a -distance from the main battle. But more than this, the men are in every -conceivable attitude, running, standing, kneeling, crouching, or turning -sharply round in the middle of flight to face the enemy once more. - -In fact we have, in all its confusion, all its indeterminate variety and -accident, a rough silhouette of the actual appearance of such a scene as -viewed from above, for the Bushman makes this sacrifice of actual -appearance to lucidity of statement--that he represents the figures as -spread out over the ground, and not as seen one behind another. - -Or take again Plate XI of Miss Tongue’s album; the scene is the Veldt -with elands and rheboks scattered over its surface. The animals are -arranged in the most natural and casual manner; sometimes in this case -part of one animal is hidden by the animal in front; but what strikes -one most is the fact that extremely complicated poses are rendered with -the same ease as the more frequent profile view, and that momentary -actions are treated with photographic verisimilitude. See Figs. 1 and 2. - -[Illustration: FIG. 1.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 2.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 3.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 4.] - -[Illustration: FIG. 5.] - -Another surprising instance of this is shown in Fig. 3, taken from Plate -XIX of Miss Tongue’s book, and giving a rhebok seen from behind in a -most difficult and complicated attitude. Or again, the man running in -Fig. 5. Here is the silhouette of a most complicated gesture with -foreshortening of one thigh and crossing of the arm holding the bow over -the torso, rendered with apparent certainty and striking verisimilitude. -Most curious of all are the cases of which Fig. 4 is an example, of -animals trotting, in which the gesture is seen by us to be true only -because our slow and imperfect vision has been helped out by the -instantaneous photograph. Fifty years ago we should have rejected such a -rendering as absurd; we now know it to be a correct statement of one -movement in the action of trotting. - -Another point to be noticed is that in primitive and in children’s art -such features as eyes, ears, horns, tails, since they correspond to -well-marked concepts, always tend to be drawn disproportionately large -and prominent. Now, in the Bushman drawings, the eye, the most -significant of all, is frequently omitted, and when represented bears -its true proportion to the head. Similarly, horns, ears, and tails are -never exaggerated. Indeed, however faulty these drawings may be, they -have one great quality, namely, that each figure is seen as a single -entity, and the general character of the silhouette is aimed at rather -than a sum of the parts. Those who have taught drawing to children will -know with what infinite pains civilised man arrives at this power. - -[Illustration: FIG. 6.] - -By way of contrast to these extraordinary performances of the Bushman -draughtsman, I give in outline, Fig. 6, the two horses of a chariot on -an early (Dipylon) Greek vase. The man who drew it was incomparably more -of an artist; but how entirely his intellectual and conceptual way of -handling phenomena has obscured his vision! His two horses are a sum of -concept-symbols, arranged with great orderliness and with a decorative -feeling, but without any sort of likeness to appearance. Mr. Balfour, in -his preface to Miss Tongue’s book, notices briefly some of these -striking characteristics of the Bushman drawings. He says:-- - -“The paintings are remarkable not only for the realism exhibited by so -many, but also for a freedom from the limitation to delineation in -profile which characterises for the most part the drawings of primitive -peoples, especially where animals are concerned. Attitudes of a kind -difficult to render were ventured upon without hesitation, and an -appreciation even of the rudiments of perspective is occasionally to be -noted, though only in a crude and uncertain form. The practice of -endeavouring to represent more than could be seen at one time, a habit -so characteristic of the art of primitive peoples as also of civilised -children, is far less noticeable in Bushman art than might have been -expected from the rudimentary general culture of these people, and one -does not see instances of _both_ eyes being indicated upon a profile -face, or a mouth in profile on a full face, such as are so familiar in -the undeveloped art of children and of most backward races.” - -[Illustration: FIG. 7.] - -Since, then, Bushman drawing has little analogy to the primitive art of -our own races, to what can we relate it? The Bushmen of Australia have -apparently something of the same power of transcribing pure visual -images, but the most striking case is that of Palæolithic man. In the -caves of the Dordogne and of Altamira in Spain, Palæolithic man has left -paintings which date from about 10,000 B.C., in which, as far as mere -naturalism of representation of animals goes, he has surpassed anything -that not only our own primitive peoples, but even the most accomplished -animal draughtsmen have ever achieved. Fig. 7 shows in outline a bison -from Altamira. The certainty and completeness of the pose, the perfect -rhythm and the astonishing verisimilitude of the movement are evident -even in this. The Altamira drawings show a much higher level of -accomplishment than those of the Bushmen, but the general likeness is so -great as to have suggested the idea that the Bushmen are descendants of -Palæolithic man who have remained at the same rudimentary stage as -regards the other arts of life, and have retained something of their -unique power of visual transcription. - -Whether this be so or not, it is to be noted that all the peoples whose -drawing shows this peculiar power of visualisation belong to what we -call the lowest of savages; they are certainly the least civilisable, -and the South African Bushmen are regarded by other native races in -much the same way that we look upon negroes. It would seem not -impossible that the very perfection of vision, and presumably of the -other senses[13] with which the Bushmen and Palæolithic man were -endowed, fitted them so perfectly to their surroundings that there was -no necessity to develop the mechanical arts beyond the elementary -instruments of the chase. We must suppose that Neolithic man, on the -other hand, was less perfectly adapted to his surroundings, but that his -sensual defects were more than compensated for by increased intellectual -power. This greater intellectual power manifested itself in his desire -to classify phenomena, and the conceptual view of nature began to -predominate. And it was this habit of thinking of things in terms of -concepts which deprived him for ages of the power to see what they -looked like. With Neolithic man drawing came to express man’s thought -about things rather than his sensations of them, or rather, when he -tried to reproduce his sensations, his habits of thought intervened, and -dictated to his hand orderly, lucid, but entirely non-naturalistic -forms. - -How deeply these visual-conceptual habits of Neolithic man have sunk -into our natures may be seen by their effects upon hysterical patients, -a statement which I owe to the kindness of Dr. Henry Head, F.R.S. If the -word “chest” is mentioned most people see a vague image of a flat -surface on which are marked the sternum and the pectoral muscles; when -the word “back” is given, they see another flat or almost flat surface -with markings of the spine and the shoulder-blades; but scarcely any -one, having these two mental images called up, thinks of them as parts -of a continuous cylindrical body. Now, in the case of some hysterical -patients anæsthesia is found just over some part of the body which has -been isolated from the rest in thought by means of the conceptual image. -It will occur, for instance, in the chest, but will not go beyond the -limits which the conceptualised visual image of a chest defines. Or it -will be associated with the concept hand, and will stop short at the -wrists. It is not surprising, then, that a mode of handling the -continuum of natural appearance, which dictates even the behaviour of -disease, should have profoundly modified all artistic representations -of nature since the conceptual habit first became strongly marked in -Neolithic man. An actual definition of drawing given by a child may be -quoted in this connection, “First I think and then I draw a line round -my think.” - -[Illustration: FIG. 8.] - -It would be an exaggeration to suppose that Palæolithic and Bushman -drawings are entirely uninfluenced by the concepts which even the most -primitive people must form. Indeed, the preference for the profile view -of animals--though as we have seen other aspects are frequent--would -alone indicate this, but they appear to have been at a stage of -intellectual development where the concepts were not so clearly grasped -as to have begun to interfere with perception, and where therefore the -retinal image passed into a clear memory picture with scarcely any -intervening mental process. In the art of even civilised man we may, I -think, find great variations in the extent to which the conceptualising -of visual images has proceeded. Egyptian and Assyrian art remained -intensely conceptual throughout, no serious attempt was made to give -greater verisimilitude to the symbols employed. The Mycenæan artists, on -the other hand, seem to have been appreciably more perceptual, but the -Greeks returned to an intensely conceptualised symbolism in which some -of their greatest works of art were expressed, and only very gradually -did they modify their formulæ so as to admit of some approach to -verisimilitude, and even so the appeal to vision was rather by way of -correcting and revising accepted conceptual images than as the -foundation of a work of art. The art of China, and still more of Japan, -has been distinctly more perceptual. Indeed, the Japanese drawings of -birds and animals approach more nearly than those of any other civilised -people to the immediacy and rapidity of transcription of Bushman and -Palæolithic art. The Bushman silhouettes of cranes (Fig. 8) might almost -have come from a Japanese screen Like Japanese drawings, they show an -alertness to accept the silhouette as a single whole instead of -reconstructing it from separately apprehended parts. It is partly due to -Japanese influence that our own Impressionists have made an attempt to -get back to that ultra-primitive directness of vision. Indeed they -deliberately sought to deconceptualise art. The artist of to-day has -therefore to some extent a choice before him of whether he will _think_ -form like the early artists of European races or merely _see_ it like -the Bushmen. Whichever his choice, the study of these drawings can -hardly fail to be of profound interest. The Bushmen paintings on the -walls of caves and sheltered rocks are fast disappearing; the race -itself, of which Miss Bleek gives a fascinating account, is now nothing -but a remnant. The treatment that they have received at the hands of the -white settlers does not seem to have been conspicuously more sympathetic -or intelligent than that meted out to them by negro conquerors, and thus -the opportunity of solving some of the most interesting problems of -human development has been for ever lost. The gratitude of all students -of art is due to Miss Tongue and Miss Bleek, by whose zeal and industry -these remains of a most curious phase of primitive art have been -adequately recorded. - - - - -NEGRO SCULPTURE[14] - - -What a comfortable mental furniture the generalisations of a century ago -must have afforded! What a right little, tight little, round little -world it was when Greece was the only source of culture, when Greek art, -even in Roman copies, was the only indisputable art, except for some -Renaissance repetitions! Philosophy, the love of truth, liberty, -architecture, poetry, drama, and for all we knew music--all these were -the fruits of a special kind of life, each assisted the development of -the other, each was really dependent on all the rest. Consequently if we -could only learn the Greek lessons of political freedom and intellectual -self-consciousness all the rest would be added unto us. - -And now, in the last sixty years, knowledge and perception have poured -upon us so fast that the whole well-ordered system has been blown away, -and we stand bare to the blast, scarcely able to snatch a hasty -generalisation or two to cover our nakedness for a moment. - -Our desperate plight comes home to one at the Chelsea Book Club, where -are some thirty chosen specimens of negro sculpture. If to our ancestors -the poor Indian had “an untutored mind,” the Congolese’s ignorance and -savagery must have seemed too abject for discussion. One would like to -know what Dr. Johnson would have said to any one who had offered him a -negro idol for several hundred pounds. It would have seemed then sheer -lunacy to listen to what a negro savage had to tell us of his emotions -about the human form. And now one has to go all the way to Chelsea in a -chastened spirit and prostrate oneself before his “stocks and stones.” - -We have the habit of thinking that the power to create expressive -plastic form is one of the greatest of human achievements, and the names -of great sculptors are handed down from generation to generation, so -that it seems unfair to be forced to admit that certain nameless -savages have possessed this power not only in a higher degree than we at -this moment, but than we as a nation have ever possessed it. And yet -that is where I find myself. I have to admit that some of these things -are great sculpture--greater, I think, than anything we produced even in -the Middle Ages. Certainly they have the special qualities of sculpture -in a higher degree. They have indeed complete plastic freedom; that is -to say, these African artists really conceive form in three dimensions. -Now this is rare in sculpture. All archaic European sculpture--Greek and -Romanesque, for instance--approaches plasticity from the point of view -of bas-relief. The statue bears traces of having been conceived as the -combination of front, back, and side bas-reliefs. And this continues to -make itself felt almost until the final development of the tradition. -Complete plastic freedom with us seems only to come at the end of a long -period, when the art has attained a high degree of representational -skill and when it is generally already decadent from the point of view -of imaginative significance. - -Now, the strange thing about these African sculptures is that they bear, -as far as I can see, no trace of this process. Without ever attaining -anything like representational accuracy they have complete freedom. The -sculptors seem to have no difficulty in getting away from the -two-dimensional plane. The neck and the torso are conceived as -cylinders, not as masses with a square section. The head is conceived as -a pear-shaped mass. It is conceived as a single whole, not arrived at by -approach from the mask, as with almost all primitive European art. The -mask itself is conceived as a concave plane cut out of this otherwise -perfectly unified mass. - -And here we come upon another curious difference between negro sculpture -and our own, namely, that the emphasis is utterly different. Our -emphasis has always been affected by our preferences for certain forms -which appeared to us to mark the nobility of man. Thus we shrink from -giving the head its full development; we like to lengthen the legs and -generally to force the form into a particular type. These preferences -seem to be dictated not by a plastic bias, but by our reading of the -physical symbols of certain qualities which we admire in our kind, such, -for instance, as agility, a commanding presence, or a pensive brow. The -negro, it seems, either has no such - -[Illustration: - -Negro Sculpture Collection Guillaume - -Plate III.] - -preferences, or his preferences happen to coincide more nearly with what -his feeling for pure plastic design would dictate. For instance, the -length, thinness, and isolation of our limbs render them extremely -refractory to fine plastic treatment, and the negro scores heavily by -his willingness to reduce the limbs to a succession of ovoid masses -sometimes scarcely longer than they are broad. Generally speaking, one -may say that his plastic sense leads him to give its utmost amplitude -and relief to all the protuberant parts of the body, and to get thereby -an extraordinarily emphatic and impressive sequence of planes. So far -from clinging to two dimensions, as we tend to do, he actually -underlines, as it were, the three-dimensionalness of his forms. It is in -some such way, I suspect, that he manages to give to his forms their -disconcerting vitality, the suggestion that they make of being not mere -echoes of actual figures, but of possessing an inner life of their own. -If the negro artist wanted to make people believe in the potency of his -idols he certainly set about it in the right way. - -Besides the logical comprehension of plastic form which the negro shows, -he has also an exquisite taste in his handling of material. No doubt in -this matter his endless leisure has something to do with the marvellous -finish of these works. An instance of this is seen in the treatment of -the tattoo cicatrices. These are always rendered in relief, which means -that the artist has cut away the whole surface around them. I fancy most -sculptors would have found some less laborious method of interpreting -these markings. But this patient elaboration of the surface is -characteristic of most of these works. It is seen to perfection in a -wooden cup covered all over with a design of faces and objects that look -like clubs in very low relief. The _galbe_ of this cup shows a subtlety -and refinement of taste comparable to that of the finest Oriental -craftsmen. - -It is curious that a people who produced such great artists did not -produce also a culture in our sense of the word. This shows that two -factors are necessary to produce the cultures which distinguish -civilised peoples. There must be, of course, the creative artist, but -there must also be the power of conscious critical appreciation and -comparison. If we imagined such an apparatus of critical appreciation as -the Chinese have possessed from the earliest times applied to this -negro art, we should have no difficulty in recognising its singular -beauty. We should never have been tempted to regard it as savage or -unrefined. It is for want of a conscious critical sense and the -intellectual powers of comparison and classification that the negro has -failed to create one of the great cultures of the world, and not from -any lack of the creative æsthetic impulse, nor from lack of the most -exquisite sensibility and the finest taste. No doubt also the lack of -such a critical standard to support him leaves the artist much more at -the mercy of any outside influence. It is likely enough that the negro -artist, although capable of such profound imaginative understanding of -form, would accept our cheapest illusionist art with humble enthusiasm. - - - - -ANCIENT AMERICAN ART[15] - - -Nothing in the history of our Western civilisation is more romantic nor -for us more tantalising than the story of the discovery and the wanton -destruction of the ancient civilisations of America. Here were two -complex civilisations which had developed in complete independence of -the rest of the world; even so completely independent of each other -that, for all their general racial likeness, they took on almost -opposite characters. If only we could know these alternative efforts of -the human animal to come to terms with nature and himself with something -like the same fulness with which we know the civilisations of Greece and -Rome, what might we not learn about the fundamental necessities of -mankind? They would have been for us the opposite point of our orbit; -they would have given us a parallax from which we might have estimated -the movements of that dimmest and most distant phenomenon, the social -nature of man. And as it is, what scraps of ill-digested and -ill-arranged information and what fragments of ruined towns have to -suffice us! Still, so fascinating is the subject that we owe Mr. -Joyce[16] a debt of gratitude for the careful and thorough accumulation -of all the material which the archæological remains afford. These by -themselves would be only curious or beautiful as the case may be; their -full value and significance can only come out when they are illustrated -by whatever is known of their place in the historical sequence of the -civilisations. Mr. Joyce gives us what is known of the outlines of -Mexican and Peruvian history as far as it can be deciphered from the -early accounts of Spanish invaders and from the original documents, and -he brings the facts thus established to bear on the antiquities. -Unfortunately for the reader of these books, the story is terribly -involved and complicated even when it is not dubious. Thus in Mexico we -have to deal with an almost inextricable confusion of tribes and -languages having much in common, but each interpreting their common -mythology and religion in a special manner. Even Greek mythology, which -we once seemed to know fairly well, takes on under the pressure of -modern research an unfamiliar formlessness--becomes indistinct and -shifting in its outlines; and the various civilisations of Mexico, each -with its innumerable gods and goddesses with varying names and varying -attributes, produce on the mind a sense of bewildering and helpless -wonder, and still more a sense of pervading horror at the underlying -nature of the human imagination. For one quality emerges in all the -different aspects of their religions, its hideous inhumanity and -cruelty, its direct inspiration of all the most ingenious tortures both -in peace and war--above all, the close alliance between religion and -war, and going with both of these the worship of suffering as an end in -itself. Only at one point in this nightmare of inhumanity do we get a -momentary sense of pleasure--itself a savage one--that is in the -knowledge that at certain sacred periods the priests, whose main -business was the torturing of others, were themselves subjected to the -purificatory treatment. A bas-relief in the British Museum shows with -grim realism the figure of a kneeling priest with pierced tongue, -pulling a rope through the hole. Under such circumstances one would at -least hesitate to accuse the priesthood of hypocrisy. - -When we turn to Peru the picture is less grim. The Incas do not seem to -have been so abjectly religious as the Aztecs; they had at least -abolished human sacrifice, which the Aztecs practised on a colossal -scale, and though the tyranny of the governing classes was more highly -organised, it was inspired by a fairly humane conception. - -But we must leave the speculations on such general questions, which are -as regards these books incidental to the main object, and turn to the -consideration of the archæological remains and the investigation of -their probable sequence and dating. - -Our attitude to the artistic remains of these civilisations has a -curious history. The wonder of the Spanish invaders at the sight of vast -and highly organised civilisations where only savagery was expected has -never indeed ceased, but the interest in their remains has changed from -time to time. The first emotion they excited besides wonder was the -greed of the conquerors for the accumulated treasure. Then among the -more cultivated Spaniards supervened a purely scientific curiosity to -which we owe most of our knowledge of the indigenous legend and history. -Then came the question of origins, which is still as fascinating and -unsettled as ever, and to the belief that the Mexicans were the lost ten -tribes of Israel we owe Lord Kingsborough’s monumental work in nine -volumes on Mexican antiquities. To such odd impulses perhaps, rather -than to any serious appreciation of their artistic merits, we owe the -magnificent collection of Mexican antiquities in the British Museum. -Indeed, it is only in this century that, after contemplating them from -every other point of view, we have begun to look at them seriously as -works of art. Probably the first works to be admitted to this kind of -consideration were the Peruvian pots in the form of highly realistic -human heads and figures.[17] - -Still more recently we have come to recognise the beauty of Aztec and -Maya sculpture, and some of our modern artists have even gone to them -for inspiration. This is, of course, one result of the general æsthetic -awakening which has followed on the revolt against the tyranny of the -Græco-Roman tradition. - -Both in Mexico and Peru we have to deal with at least two, possibly -four, great cultures, each overthrown in turn by the invasion of less -civilised, more warlike tribes, who gradually adopt the general scheme -of the older civilisation. In Mexico there is no doubt about the -superiority, from an artistic point of view, of the earlier culture--the -Aztecs had everything to learn from the Maya, and they never rose to the -level of their predecessors. The relation is, in fact, curiously like -that of Rome to Greece. Unfortunately we have to learn almost all we -know of Maya culture through their Aztec conquerors, but the ruins of -Yucatan and Guatemala are by far the finest and most complete vestiges -left to us. - -In Peru also we find in the Tihuanaco gateway a monument of some -pre-Inca civilisation, and one that in regard to the art of sculpture -far surpasses anything that the later culture reveals. It is of special -interest, moreover, for its strong stylistic likeness to the Maya -sculpture of Yucatan. This similarity prompts the interesting -speculation that the earlier civilisations of the two continents had -either a common origin or points of contact, whereas the Inca and Aztec -cultures seem to drift entirely apart. The Aztecs carry on at a lower -level the Maya art of sculpture, whereas the Incas seem to drop -sculpture almost entirely, a curious fact in view of the ambitious -nature of their architectural and engineering works. One seems to guess -that the comparatively humane socialistic tyranny of the Incas developed -more and more along purely practical lines, whilst the hideous -religiosity of the Aztecs left a certain freedom to the imaginative -artist. - -In looking at the artistic remains of so remote and strange a -civilisation one sometimes wonders how far one can trust one’s æsthetic -appreciation to interpret truly the feelings which inspired it. In -certain works one cannot doubt that the artist felt just as we feel in -appreciating his work. This must, I think, hold on the one hand of the -rich ornamental arabesques of Maya buildings or the marvellous inlaid -feather and jewel work of either culture; and on the other hand, when we -look at the caricatural realistic figures of Truxillo pottery we need -scarcely doubt that the artist’s intention agrees with our appreciation, -for such a use of the figure is more or less common to all -civilisations. But when we look at the stylistic sculpture of Maya and -Aztec art, are we, one wonders, reading in an intention which was not -really present? One wonders, for instance, how far external and -accidental factors may not have entered in to help produce what seems to -us the perfect and delicate balance between representational and purely -formal considerations. Whether the artist was not held back both by -ritualistic tradition and the difficulty of his medium from pushing -further the actuality of his presentation--whether, in fact, the artist -deplored or himself approved just that reticence which causes our -admiration. At times Maya sculpture has a certain similarity to Indian -religious sculptural reliefs, particularly in the use of flat surfaces -entirely incrusted with ornaments in low relief; but on the whole the -comparison is all in favour of the higher æsthetic sensibility of the -Maya artists, whose co-ordination of even the most complicated forms -compares favourably with the incoherent luxuriance of most Indian work. - -In this, as in so many of its characteristics, Maya art comes much -nearer to early Chinese sculpture; and again one wonders that such a -civilisation should have produced such sensitive and reasoned -designs--designs which seem to imply a highly developed self-conscious -æsthetic sensibility. Nor do the Maya for all their hieratic ritualism -seem to fall into the dead, mechanical repetition which the endless -multiplication of religious symbols usually entails, as, for instance, -most markedly in Egyptian art. But this strange difference between what -we know of Mexican civilisation and what we might have interpreted from -the art alone is only one more instance of the isolation of the æsthetic -from all other human activities. The Frontispiece to this book gives an -example of Maya sculpture from Piedras Negras. Mr. Joyce, in his learned -and plausible theory of the dating of Mexican monuments, ascribes these -remains to a date of about 50-200 A.D. - -They are certainly among the finest remains of Maya sculpture, and this -example shows at once the extreme richness of the decorative effect and -the admirable taste with which this is co-ordinated in a plastic whole -in which the figure has its due predominance. Though the relief of the -ornamental part is kept flat and generally square in section, it has -nothing of the dryness and tightness that such a treatment often -implies. - -Mr. Joyce’s books are compiled with amazing industry, and contain a vast -accumulation of information. If we have a complaint, it is that for -those who are not specialists this information is poured out in almost -too uniform a flood, with too little by way of general ideas to enable -the mind to grasp or relate them properly. If some of the minor details -of obscure proper names had been relegated to the notes, it would have -been possible to seize the general outlines more readily. The books are -rather for reference than adapted to consecutive reading. In his -judgments on the various speculations to which these civilisations have -given rise Mr. Joyce is, as one would expect from so careful a scholar, -cautious and negative. He does not, as far as I remember, even allude to -the theory of the Lost Ten Tribes, but he does condescend to discuss the -theory of cultural influence from Eastern Asia which has more than once -been put forward by respectable ethnologists. He decides against this -fascinating hypothesis more definitely than one would expect--more - -[Illustration] - -definitely, I should say, than the facts before us allow. He declares, -for instance, that the calendrical system of Mexico shows no similarity -with those of Eastern Asia, whereas Dr. Lehmann gives a circumstantial -account of a very curious likeness, the almost exact correspondence of -two quite peculiar systems of reckoning. My own bias in favour of the -theory of Eastern Asiatic influence is, I confess, based on what may -seem very insufficient grounds, namely, the curious likeness of the -general treatment of naturalistic forms and the peculiar character of -the stylisation of natural forms in early Chinese and American art. It -is of course impossible to define a likeness of general character which -depends so largely on feeling, but it consists to some extent in the -predilection for straight lines and rectangles--a spiral in nature -becoming in both early Chinese and American art a sequence of -rectangular forms with rounded corners. What is more remarkable is that -the further back we go in Chinese art the greater the resemblance -becomes, so that a Chou bronze, or still more the carved horns which -have survived from the Shang dynasty, are extraordinarily like Maya or -Tihuanaco sculpture. Again, it is curious to note how near to early -Chinese bronzes are the tripod vases of the Guetar Indians. All these -may of course be of quite independent origin, but their similarity -cannot be dismissed lightly in view of the long persistence in any -civilisation of such general habits of design. Thus the general habits -of design of the Cretan civilisation persisted into Greek and even Roman -and Christian art; the habits of design of Chinese artists have -persisted, though through great modifications, for more than three -thousand years. One other fact which may seem almost too isolated and -insignificant may perhaps be put forward here. In a history of the -Mormons, published in 1851, there is given a figure of an inscribed -bronze (see Figure) which was dug up by the Mormons in Utah in 1843. -Since Brigham Young pretended to have dug up the original book of Mormon -his followers had a superstitious reverence for all such treasure trove, -and probably the bronze still exists and might be worth investigation. -Now this drawing, here reproduced, looks to me like an extremely bad and -unintelligent reproduction of an early Chinese object, in general -appearance not unlike certain early pieces of jade. It is fairly certain -that at the time the Mormons discovered this, no such objects had found -their way out of China, since the interest in and knowledge of this -period of Chinese art is of much later growth. So it appears conceivable -that the object, whatever its nature, is a relic of some early cultural -invasion from Eastern Asia. The physical possibilities of such invasions -from the Far East certainly seem to be under-estimated by Mr. Joyce. - - - - -THE - -MUNICH EXHIBITION OF MOHAMMEDAN ART[18] - - -It would be hard to exaggerate the importance of this exhibition for -those who are interested in the history not alone of Oriental but of -European art. Perhaps the most fascinating problem that presents itself -to the art historian is that of the origins of mediæval art. Until we -understand more or less completely how in the dim centuries of the later -Empire and early middle age the great transformation of Græco-Roman into -mediæval art was accomplished, we cannot quite understand the -Renaissance itself, nor even the form which the whole modern art of -Europe has come in the course of centuries to assume. And on this -problem the Munich exhibition throws many illuminating sidelights. Early -Mohammedan art is seen here to be a meeting point of many influences. -There are still traces of the once widespread Hellenistic tradition, -though this is seen to be retreating before the refluent wave of -aboriginal ideas. Sassanid art had already been the outcome of these -contending forces, and the pre-eminence of Sassanid art in forming early -Mohammedan styles is clearly brought out in this exhibition. Then there -is a constant exchange with Byzantium, and finally continual waves of -influence, sometimes fertilising, sometimes destructive, from that great -reservoir of Central Asian civilisation, the importance of which is now -at last being gradually revealed to us by the discoveries of Dr. Stein, -Drs. Lecoq and Grunwedel, and M. Pelliot. - -And through this great clearing-house of early Mohammedan art there are -signs of influences passing from West to East. The most striking example -is that of the plate in cloisonnée enamel from the Landes Museum at -Innsbruck. Here we have the one certain example of Mohammedan cloisonnée -enamel established by its dedication to a prince of the Orthokid -dynasty of the twelfth century. It is extraordinary that this solitary -example should alone have survived from what must, judging from the -technical excellence of this specimen, have once been a flourishing -craft. The general effect of the intricate pattern of animal forms upon -a whiteish ground suggests, on the one hand, the earliest examples of -Limoges enamels, and on the other the early Chinese, and there can be -little doubt that the Chinese did in fact derive their knowledge of -cloisonnée, which they themselves called “Western ware,” from these -early Mohammedan craftsmen, who had themselves learned the technique -from Byzantium. - -But on the whole the stream of influence is in the opposite direction, -from East to West, and one realises at Munich that in the great period -of artistic discovery and formation of styles the near East and the West -were developing in closest contact and harmony. Indeed the most fertile, -if not actually the most resplendent, period of both arts, was attained -whilst they were still almost indistinguishable. If it were not for the -habit of these early Mohammedan craftsmen of interweaving inscriptions -into their designs, a habit which endears them quite especially to -art-historians, how many works of Oriental manufacture would have been -ascribed to Europe? In spite of these inscriptions, indeed, such an -authority as M. Babelon has sought to place to the account of Western -artists the superb cut crystal vessels, of which the noblest example is -the inscribed ewer of the tenth century in the treasury of S. Mark’s. Or -take again the textiles. In the exhibition there are a number of -fragments of textiles of the tenth to the twelfth centuries, in which -the general principle of design is the same; for the most part the -surface is covered by circular reserves in which severely -conventionalised figures of hunters, lions, or monsters are placed in -pairs symmetrically confronted. Only minute study has enabled -specialists to say that some were made in Sassanid, Persia, some in -Byzantium, some in Sicily, and some in Western Europe. The dominant -style in all these is again derived from Sassanid art. And here once -more one must note the strange recrudescence after so long of Assyrian -types and motives, and its invasion of Western Europe, through -Byzantium, Sicily, and Spain. - -What strikes us most in comparing Græco-Roman art with the new art -which gradually emerges in the middle ages is that, on the one hand, we -have a series of decorative designs never so remarkable for vitality as -for their elegance, and become by the time of the Roman Empire only less -perfunctory and mechanical than the patterns of modern times; and on the -other hand an art in which the smallest piece of pattern-making shows a -tense vitality even in its most purely geometrical manifestations, and -the figure is used with a new dramatic expressiveness unhindered by the -artist’s ignorance of actual form. Now in the splendid photographs of -the Sassanid rock carvings which Dr. Sarre has taken and which are -exposed at Munich, we can see something of this process of the creation -of the new vital system of design. In the earlier reliefs, those of the -time of Sapor, we have, it is true, a certain theatrical splendour of -pose and setting, but in the actual forms some flaccidity and inflation. -The artists who wrought them show still the predominance of the worn-out -Hellenistic tradition which spread in Alexander’s wake over Asia. In the -stupendous relief of Chosroes at Tak-i-Bostan, on the other hand, we -have all the dramatic energy, the heraldic splendour of the finest -mediæval art, and the source of this new inspiration is seen to be the -welling up once more of the old indigenous Mesopotamian art. We have -once more that singular feeling for stress, for muscular tension, and -for dramatic oppositions, which distinguish the bas-reliefs of Babylon -and Nineveh from all other artistic expressions of the antique world. It -would be possible by the help of exhibits at Munich to trace certain -Assyrian forms right through to Mediæval European art. Take, for -instance, the lion heads on the pre-Babylonian mace from Goudea in the -Louvre; one finds a precisely similar convention for the lion head on -the Sassanid repoussé metalwork found in Russia. Once again it occurs in -the superb carved rock crystal waterspout lent by the Karlsruhe Museum -(Room 54), and one finds it again on the font of Lincoln Cathedral and -in the lions that support the doorway columns of Italian cathedrals. In -all these there is a certain community of style, a certain way of -symbolising the leonine nature which one may look for in vain in Greek -and Græco-Roman art. - -Even if this seem too forced an interpretation of facts, it is none the -less clear that everywhere in early Mohammedan art this recrudescence -of Assyrian forms may be traced, and that their influence was scarcely -less upon Europe than upon the near East. Dr. Sarre has taken a tracing -of the pattern which is represented in low relief upon the robes of -Chosroes in the Tak-i-Bostan relief. In South Kensington Museum there is -an almost identical piece of silk brocade which actually comes from the -ruins of Khorsabad, and in the same museum one may find more than one -Byzantine imitation of this design and closely similar ones made in -Sicily; and the conventional winged monster which forms the basis of -these designs has a purely Assyrian air. - -In Egypt, too, it would seem that there was before the Arab invasion a -marked recrudescence of indigenous native design which enabled the -Coptic craftsmen gradually to transform the motives given to them by -Roman conquerors into something entirely non-Hellenistic. And the -incredible beauty of the Fatimite textiles of the tenth, eleventh, and -twelfth centuries, of which a few precious relics are shown in Room 17, -preserve something, especially in the bird forms, of this antique -derivation. - -But to return once more to Sassanid art. The specimens from the -Hermitage and Prince Bobrinsky’s collections form an object lesson of -extraordinary interest in the development of early Mohammedan art. They -have inherited and still retain that extreme realisation of massive -splendour, that fierce assertion of form and positive statement of -relief which belongs to the art of the great primitive Empires, and most -of all to the art of Mesopotamia, and yet they already adumbrate the -forms of Mohammedan art into which they pass by insensible degrees. -Here, too, we find vestiges of the dying Hellenistic tradition. One of -Prince Bobrinsky’s bronzes, a great plate, has, for instance, a design -composed of classic vases, from which spring stems which bend round into -a series of circles, a design which might almost be matched as regards -form, though not as regards spirit, in the wall decorations of Pompeii. -Or take again the superb repoussé silver plate representing a Sassanid -king spearing a lion. Here the floating drapery of the king and the edge -of his tunic show a deliberately schematised rendering of the -traditional folds of the Greek peplos. But how much more Assyrian than -Greek is the whole effect--the dramatic tension of the figures -expressed by an emphasis on all the lines of muscular effort, as in the -legs of the horse and the lions. How Assyrian, too, is the feeling for -relief, and the predilection for imbricated or closely set parallel -lines as in the lions’ manes. In the conventional rock under one of the -lions one seems to see also a hint of Chinese forms. - -Still more Assyrian is another plate, the arrangement of which recalls -the reliefs of Assurbanipal or Sennacherib, and yet already there are -forms which anticipate Mohammedan art; the gate of the city, its -crenelations, and the forms of the helmets of the soldiers, all have an -air of similarity with far later Mohammedan types. Another plate, not -reproduced here, shows a Sassanid king regaling himself with wine and -music, and gives already more than a hint of the favourite designs of -the Rhages potters or the bronze workers of Mossoul. - -Among Prince Bobrinsky’s bronzes which were found in the Caucasus is a -late Sassanid aquamanile in the form of a bird. It is already almost -Mohammedan, though retaining something of the extreme solidity and -weight of earlier art. Once more, in the aggressive schematisation of -the form of the tail and the suggestion of feathers by a series of -deeply marked parallel lines, we get a reminiscence of Assyrian art, -while in the treatment of the crest there is the more florid -interweaving of curves which adumbrate not only Mohammedan but Indian -forms. - -In the aquamanile in the form of a horse (see Plate) the Sassanid -influence is still predominant, but there can be no doubt that this is -already Mohammedan, probably of the eighth or ninth century. We have -already here the characteristics of Fatimite bronzes, of which a few -specimens are shown at Munich. The great griffin of Pisa could not, of -course, be moved from the Campo Santo, nor are the two specimens in the -Louvre shown, but the stag from the Bavarian National Museum is there -and affords a most interesting comparison with Prince Bobrinsky’s horse. -Both have the same large generalisation of form, and in both we have the -curious effect of solidity and mass produced by the shortened hind legs, -with the half-squatting movement to which that gives rise. - -The Bobrinsky horse is obviously more primitive, and probably indicates -the beginnings of a school of bronze plastic in Mesopotamia - -[Illustration: - -Fatimite Bronzes Bobrinsky Collection - -Plate IV.] - -nearly parallel to that of Egypt. This school, however, never developed -as fully along sculptural lines, and at a comparatively early date -abandoned sculpture for the art of bronze inlay, of which Mossoul was -the great centre in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In the incised -designs on the horse we have an example of the early forms of the -palmette ornament and of the interlacing curves which form the basis of -most subsequent Mohammedan patterns. Within the reserves formed by the -_intreccie_ are small figures, of which one--that of a man seated and -playing the lute--can just be made out in the reproduction. It is -already typical of the figure design which the Mohammedan artists -developed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. - -By way of comparison with this Mesopotamian example, Plate, Fig. 2, -shows a supreme example of Fatimite sculpture of the twelfth century. It -is, indeed, a matter for regret that Mohammedan artists so soon -abandoned an art for which they showed such extraordinary aptitude. The -lion which comes from the Kassel Museum has already been published by M. -Migeon,[19] but is of such rare beauty and interest in relation to the -Sassanid works here described that it seemed desirable to reproduce it -again. It shows the peculiar characteristics of all the art produced for -the Fatimite court, its exquisite perfection and refinement of taste, -its minuteness of detail and finish together with a large co-ordination -of parts, a rhythmic feeling for contour and the sequence of planes, -which have scarcely ever been equalled. And all these qualities of -refinement, almost of sophistication, which Fatimite art possesses, do -not, as we see here, destroy the elementary imaginative feeling for the -vitality of animal forms. In the case in which this masterpiece of -Mohammedan sculpture is shown there is also seen the celebrated lion -which once belonged to the painter Fortuny. Noble though this is in -general conception, the coarseness of its workmanship and the want of -subtlety in its proportions, in comparison with the Kassel lion, makes -it evident that it is not from the same school of Egyptian craftsmen, -but probably of Spanish origin. - -Yet another of the Bobrinsky bronzes of about the same date as the horse -is already typically Mohammedan as may be seen by the leaf forms and -the _intreccie_ of the crest, but how much of the antique Sassanid -proportions and sense of relief is still retained! It is believed to be -from Western Turkestan and of the eighth or ninth century. One must -suppose that Sassanid forms travelled North and East as well as South -and West, and helped in the formation of that Central Asian art which -becomes the dominant factor in the later centuries of Mohammedan, more -especially of Persian, art. - -Before leaving the question of Sassanid influences I must mention the -series of bronze jugs in the Bobrinsky and Sarre collections. The -general form is obviously derived from classic originals, but they have -a peculiar spout of a rectangular shape placed at right angles on the -top of the main opening. The effect of this is to give two openings, one -for pouring the water in, the other for pouring it out at right angles. -Now in the early Mossoul water jugs we see numerous examples of what are -clearly derivations of this form passing by gradual degrees into the -familiar neck with spout attached but not separated, which is typical of -later Mohammedan water jugs. This evolution can be traced step by step -in the Munich Exhibition, and leaves no doubt of the perfect continuity -of Sassanid and Mohammedan forms.[20] - -One of the features of early Mohammedan art is the vitality of its -floral and geometrical ornament, the system of which is uniformly spread -throughout the Mohammedan world. The question of where and how this -system of ornament arose is not easily solved, but there are indications -that Egypt was the place of its earliest development. Its characteristic -forms seem certainly derived from the universal palmette of Græco-Roman -decoration. The palmette, so rigid, unvarying and frequently so lifeless -in the hands of Græco-Roman artists, became the source of the flexible -and infinitely varied systems of Mohammedan design, so skilfully -interwoven, so subtly adapted to their purpose, that the supremacy of -Mohammedan art in this particular has been recognised and perpetuated in -the word Arabesque. It is curious to note that the history of this -development is almost a repetition of what occurred many centuries -before in the formation of the system of Celtic ornament. There, too, -the Greek palmette was the point of departure. The Celtic bronze-workers -adopted a cursive abbreviation of it which allowed of an almost too -unrestrained flexibility in their patterns, but one peculiarly adapted -to their bronze technique. In the case of Mohammedan art it would seem -that the change from the palmette was effected by Coptic wood-carvers -and by the artists who decorated in plaster the earliest Egyptian -mosques. Indeed, one may suspect that the transformation of Græco-Roman -ornament had already been initiated by Coptic workers in pre-Mohammedan -times. One or two exhibits of Coptic reliefs in woodwork in Room 48 show -how far this process had already gone. The Coptic wood-carvers arrived -at an extremely simple and economical method of decoration by incisions -with a gouge, each ending in a spiral curve, and so set as to leave in -relief a sequence of forms resembling a half-palmette, and at times -approaching very closely to the characteristic interlacing “trumpet” -forms of Celtic ornament. A similar method was employed with even -greater freedom and with a surprising richness and variety of effect in -the plaster decorations of the earliest mosques, such as that of Ibn -Tulun. In this way there was developed a singularly easy and rhythmic -manner of filling any given space with interlaced and confluent forms -suited to the caligraphic character of Mohammedan design. It cannot be -denied that in course of time it pandered to the besetting sin of the -oriental craftsman, his intolerable patience and thoughtless industry, -and became in consequence as dead in its mere intricacy and complexity -as the Græco-Roman original in its frigid correctness. The periods of -creation in ornamental design seem indeed to be even rarer than those of -creation in the figurative arts, and if the greater part of Mohammedan -art shows, along with increasing technical facility, a constant -degradation in ornamental design it is no exception to a universal rule. -At any rate, up to the end of the thirteenth century its vitality was as -strong and its adaptability even greater than the ornamental design of -Christian Europe. - -The design based on the half-palmette adapted itself easily to other -materials than wood and plaster. In an even more cursive form it was -used alike by miniaturists and the closely allied painters on pottery. -Of the former a good instance is that of a manuscript of Dioscorides, -written and painted by Abdullah ben el-Fadhl in the year 1223 A.D. It is -of Mesopotamian origin and shows in the decorative treatment of the -figures a close affinity with the painting on contemporary pottery from -Rakka. It is surprising how much character and even humour the artist -gives to figures which are conceived in a purely calligraphic and -abstract manner, and what richness and nobility of style there is in the -singularly economical and rapid indications of brocaded patterns in the -robes. Here we see how, in the hands of the miniaturists, the -half-palmette ornament becomes even more cursive and flexible, more -readily adapted to any required space than in the hands of the -wood-carver and plasterer. - -The whole of the figure-design of this period, as seen in the pottery of -Rakka, Rhages, and Sultanabad, shows the same characteristics. It is all -calligraphic rather than naturalistic, but it is notable how much -expression is attained within the flexible formula which these -Mohammedan artists had evolved. The requirements of the potter’s craft -stimulated the best elements of such a school of draughtsmanship, and -for their power of creating an illusion of real existence by the sheer -swiftness and assurance of their rhythm, few draughtsmen have surpassed -the unknown masters who threw their indications of scenes from -contemporary life upon the fragile bowls and lustred cups of early -Syrian and Persian pottery. - -It is generally believed now that not only in ceramics and metal work, -but even in glass, Fatimite culture was pre-eminent. Probably no such -collection of enamelled oriental glass has ever been brought together as -that at Munich. - -An example of glass of Egyptian origin bearing the date 737 A.D., -belonging to Dr. Fouquet, shows how early the manufacture of glass was -already established in Egypt. To Egypt, too, must be ascribed the -splendid crystals and carved glass-work in which the Munich Exhibition -is particularly rich. One of these is the so-called Hedwig glass from -the Rijksmuseum, at Amsterdam. It has two finely conventionalised lions -and eagles which resemble the types of Fatimite sculpture. It is -described by Migeon (“Manuel,” p. 378) as being of moulded glass, but -the design is probably cut on the wheel in the manner employed for -rock-crystal. Among the examples of carved crystal one of the finest is -the less well-known example of a waterspout in the shape of a lion’s -head, lent by the Karlsruhe Museum. In all these figures the distinctive -quality of Fatimite art, its combination of massive grandeur of design -with extreme refinement, are apparent. - -None the less, the evidence in favour of Syrian and Mesopotamian centres -of glass-industry is very strong, and if many of the pieces, especially -the earliest ones, are still relegated to Egypt, some of the finest are -still ascribed, though on no very conclusive grounds, to the Syrian -workshops. The finest of these belong to the late twelfth and early -thirteenth centuries, and, generally speaking, the work of the -fourteenth century shows a decline. Perhaps the most splendid specimen -known is the large bottle from the treasury of S. Stephen’s, Vienna. The -glass in this and the kindred piece from the same place shows a peculiar -brownish yellow tone almost of the colour of honey, which gives the most -perfect background to the enamelled figure-decoration. In the choice of -subjects with a predominance of scenes from the chase there is -undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the scenes on the encrusted -bronze work of Mossoul, and this, so far as it goes, makes in favour of -a Syrian origin. But whatever their origin, the finest of these pieces -show a decorative splendour and a perfection of taste which has assured -their appreciation from the days of the Crusaders. Already in the -inventory of Charles V. of France such pieces, frequently mounted on -silver stands, figure among the King’s choicest treasures. Nor was the -appreciation of this beautiful craft confined to Europe. One of the many -proofs of a continual interchange between the Mohammedan and Chinese -civilisations is seen in the number of examples of this glass which have -come from China. In Munich there is a magnificent bowl lent by Dr. Sarre -which is of Chinese provenance, and numerous other pieces have been -recorded. - -The collection of incrusted bronzes at Munich is extremely rich, ranging -from the twelfth-century work, in which plastic relief is still used, -accompanied by sparse incrustations of red copper upon the almost strawy -yellow bronze, to the fourteenth and fifteenth-century work, in which -plastic relief has altogether disappeared, and elaborate incrustations -of silver and even gold give to the surface an extreme profusion of -delicate interwoven traceries. Here, too, the earliest work shows the -finest sense of design. The specimen from the Piet Latauderie -collection, still retains in its relief of stylistic animals a feeling -for mass and grandeur inherited from Sassanid metal-workers, and the -incrustations, though exquisitely wrought, are kept in due subordination -to the general design. Some of the thirteenth-century pieces, though -already tending to too great intricacy, still attain to a finely -co-ordinated effect by the use of reserves filled with boldly designed -figures. Some of the best of these contain scenes borrowed from -Christian mythology, among which I may mention, as a superb example, the -great bowl belonging to the Duc d’Arenberg. - -I have alluded at various points to the influence of Chinese art upon -Mohammedan. Among the most decisive and curious instances of this is a -bronze mirror with the signs of the Zodiac in relief. Round the edge is -an inscription of dedication to one of the Orthokid princes. It is of -Mesopotamian workmanship. Here the derivation from Chinese mirrors, -which date back to Han times, is unmistakable, and is seen in every -detail, even to the griffin-head in the centre, pierced to allow of the -string by which it was carried. - -[Illustration: - -Persian Painting, end of 13th century Morgan Collection - -Plate V.] - - - - -GIOTTO[21] - -THE CHURCH OF S. FRANCESCO AT ASSISI - - -We find abundant evidences in studying early Christian art that -Christianity at its origin exercised no new stimulating influence upon -its development, but if it were claimed for the Franciscan movement that -it brought about the great outburst of Italian art the position would be -harder to refute: and indeed what S. Francis accomplished, the literal -acceptance by official Christendom of Christ’s teaching, was tantamount -to the foundation of a new religion, and the heresy of some of his -followers, who regarded his as a final dispensation superseding that of -the New Testament, can scarcely have seemed unreasonable to those who -witnessed the change in the temper of society which his example brought -about. S. Francis was the great orthodox heretic. What he effected -within the bounds of the Church, for a time at all events, was only -accomplished for later times by a rupture with the Papal power. He -established the idea of the equality of all men before God and the -immediate relationship of the individual soul to the Deity. He enabled -every man to be his own priest. To the fervour with which these ideas -were grasped by his countrymen we may ascribe to some extent the extreme -individualism of the Italian Renaissance, the absence of the barriers of -social caste to the aspirations of the individual and the passionate -assertion on his part of the right to the free use of all his -activities. No doubt the individualism of, say, a Sigismondo Malatesta -in the fifteenth century was very different to anything which S. Francis -would have approved; none the less such a view of life was rendered -possible by the solvent action of his teaching on the fixed forms of -society. - -But of more immediate importance to our purpose is the æsthetic element -in S. Francis’ teaching. To say that in his actions S. Francis aimed at -artistic effect would perhaps give a wrong impression of his character, -but it is true that his conception of holiness was almost as much an -æsthetic as a moral one. To those who know S. Bonaventura’s life a -number of stories will suggest themselves, which indicate a perfectly -harmonious attitude to life rather than a purely moral one: stories such -as that of the sheep which was given to him, and which he received -joyfully because of its simplicity and innocence, “and holding it in his -hands he admonished it to be intent to praise God and to keep itself -from offending the brethren; and the sheep observed fully the -commandment of the Blessed Francis, and when it heard the brethren -singing in the choir ran thither quickly, and without any teaching bent -before the altar of the Blessed Virgin and bleated, as though it had -human reason.” - -S. Francis, the “Jongleur de Dieu,” was actually a poet before his -conversion, and his whole life had the pervading unity and rhythm of a -perfect work of art. Not that he was a conscious artist. The whole -keynote of the Franciscan teaching was its spontaneity, but his feelings -for moral and æsthetic beauty were intimately united. Indeed, his life, -like the Italian art which in a sense arose from it, like the Gothic -French art which was a simultaneous expression of the same spirit, -implies an attitude, as rare in life as in art, in which spiritual and -sensuous beauty are so inextricably interwoven that instead of -conflicting they mutually intensify their effects. - -Not only was the legend of S. Francis’ life full of suggestions of -poetical and artistic material, but his followers rewrote the New -Testament from the Franciscan point of view, emphasising the poetical -and dramatic elements of the story. In particular they shifted the focus -of interest by making the relationship of the Virgin to her son the -central motive of the whole. It will be seen that Italian artists down -to Raphael turned rather to the Franciscan than the Vulgate version.[22] -In fact, S. Bonaventura and the great poet of the movement, the -cultivated and ecstatic Jacopone di Todi, did for the Christian legend -very much what Pindar did for classical mythology; without altering the -doctrine they brought into full relief its human and poetical -significance. - -It is not surprising, then, to find that the great church at Assisi, -built with all the magnificence that the whole of Italy could contribute -to honour the spouse of Divine Poverty, should be the cradle of the new -art of Italy--the neo-Christian or Franciscan art, as we might almost -call it. - -The lower church of S. Francesco was probably decorated almost -immediately after the building was finished, between 1240 and 1250, but -these early works are almost obliterated by a second decoration -undertaken after 1300. We must therefore turn to the upper church, the -paintings of which were probably completed before 1300, as the chief -source of our knowledge of the emergence of the new Italian style. It -was there that the Italian genius first attained to self-expression in -the language of monumental painting--a language which no other nation of -modern Europe has ever been able to command except in rare and isolated -instances. - -And here we plunge at once into a very difficult, perhaps an insoluble -problem: who were the painters who carried out this immense scheme of -decoration? The archives of the church have been searched in vain, and -we are left with a sentence of Ghiberti’s commentary, and Vasari, who -here proves an uncertain guide, so that we are thrown chiefly on the -resources of internal evidence. - -The paintings of the upper church may be briefly enumerated thus: In the -choir are faint remains of frescoes of the life of the Virgin; in the -right transept a Crucifixion and other subjects almost obliterated; in -the left transept another Crucifixion, better preserved, and archangels -in the triforium. The nave is divided into an upper and lower series; -the upper series contains scenes of the Old and New Testaments, the -lower is devoted to the legend of S. Francis, and in alternate vaults of -the roof are paintings of single figures. - -It would be out of place to discuss all these frescoes in detail, but -it may be worth while to select certain typical ones, around which the -rest may be grouped, and see how far they bear out what little -documentary and traditional authority we have. - -We will begin with the Crucifixion of the left transept, which is -clearly by an artist of decided and marked personality. It is certainly -less pleasing and less accomplished than the works of the later -Byzantine school, and in spite of certain motives, such as the floating -drapery of the Christ, which show Byzantine reminiscences, it is derived -in the main from the native Italian tradition. This is shown in the -stumpy proportions of the figures and the crude, not to say hideous, -realism of the faces of the crowd. The classical origin of the tradition -is still traceable in the sandalled feet and the reminiscence of the -toga in some of the draperies. But the chief interest lies in the -serious attempt made by the artist to give dramatic reality to the scene -in a way never attempted by the less human Byzantines. The action of the -Magdalen throwing up both arms in despair is really impressive, and this -is a more vivacious rendering of a gesture traditional in Western early -Christian art; an instance occurs in the fifth century MS. of Genesis at -Vienna. But the artist shows his originality more in the expressive and -sometimes beautiful poses of the weeping angels and the natural -movements of the Virgin and S. John. - -Very nearly allied to this are the archangels of the triforium, and some -of the frescoes of the upper scenes in the nave, such as the Nativity -and the Betrayal. These belong to the same group, though they are not -necessarily by the master of the Crucifixion himself. - -As we proceed along the nave, still keeping to the upper series, we come -upon another distinct personality, whose work is typified in the -Deception of Isaac. In certain qualities this master is not altogether -unlike the master of the Crucifixion. Like him, he replaces the purely -schematic linear rendering of drapery by long streaks of light and dark -paint, so arranged as to give the idea of actual modelling in relief. -But he does this not only with greater naturalism, but with a greatly -increased sense of pure beauty. The painting is not hieratic and formal, -as the Byzantine would have made it, nor has it that overstrained -attempt at dramatic vehemence which we saw in the Crucifixion. The faces -have remarkable beauty, and throughout there is a sense of placid and -dignified repose which is rare in mediæval work. It is, in fact, -decidedly classical, and classical, too, in a sense different from the -vague reminiscences of classic origin which permeate early Christian -art, and were faintly echoed in the Crucifixion. Rachel especially, with -her full, well-rounded eyes, wide apart and set deep in their sockets, -her straight nose and small mouth, might almost have come straight from -a Pompeian picture. - -The hair, too, instead of being in tangled masses, as in the -Crucifixion, or rendered by parallel lines, as in the Sacrifice of -Isaac, is drawn into elegantly disposed curls, which yet have something -of the quality of hair, and which remind us of the treatment in classic -bronzes. - -The last vault of the nave, with the Doctors of the Church, is by an -artist who is extremely similar to the last, and clearly belongs to the -same group. The level brows nearly meeting over the bridge of the nose, -the straight profile and the curled hair show the similarity, as does -also the drapery. The classic tendencies of this artist may be seen in -the amorini caryatides in the extreme corners of the spandril, while the -decoration of one of the arches of the church by the same hand has, -arising from an urn of pure classic design, a foliated scrollwork, in -which centaurs disport themselves. - -In the lower series representing the Life of S. Francis we are at once -struck by the resemblances to the last two paintings. The Pope, who is -approving the rule of S. Francis, is almost a repetition of one of the -Doctors of the Church. We have the same peculiar drapery with shiny, -slippery, high lights, broadly washed on in well-disposed folds. The -faces, too, though they are more individual and far more expressive, -are, nevertheless, built on the same lines. They have similar straight -profiles, the same deeply-cut level brows, which tend to meet in a line -across the nose. The general impression it makes is that it is by a -younger artist than the master of the Esau fresco, but one who has a -keener feeling for reality and a far deeper sense of the dramatic -situation. - -We will now turn to the historical evidence. The earliest and best is -that of Ghiberti (early fifteenth century), who tells us simply that -Giotto painted the S. Francis legend. Vasari says that Cimabue worked -first in the lower church with Greek artists, and then did the whole of -the upper church, except the S. Francis legend, which he ascribes to -Giotto. In addition to these we have a sixteenth-century MS. and an -account of the church by Petrus Rudolphus of the same period, which -agree that both Giotto and Cimabue painted in the upper church. - -We may take it, then, that we have fairly good evidence for ascribing -the S. Francis series in the main to Giotto, and a consensus of -traditional opinion that somewhere in the other frescoes we ought to -discover Cimabue. - -The name of Cimabue is fraught with tender associations. To the last -generation, happy in its innocence, it was familiar as a household word. -Browning could sing without a qualm: “My painter--who, but Cimabue?” The -cult of Cimabue became fashionable; it offended Philistine nostrils and -received its due castigation from Mr. Punch. And now, alas, he would be -a bold man who dared to say that he admired Cimabue, who dared to do -more than profess a pious belief in his existence. Only recently a -distinguished critic[23] has endeavoured to hand over to Duccio di -Buoninsegna the very stronghold of the Cimabue faith, the altar-piece of -the Rucellai Chapel in Sta. Maria Novella. But the myth dies hard, and -Florentine guides will still point out the portraits of all Cimabue’s -relations in the little figures round the frame. Ever since the time of -Rumohr, however, who considered him to be little more than an emanation -of Vasari’s brain heated by patriotic fervour, it has been established -that we have no documentary evidence for any single picture by him. We -do know, however, that at the very end of his life he executed the -mosaic of the apse in the cathedral at Pisa. But this is a much restored -work, and originally can have been little but an adaptation of a -Byzantine design, and it throws no light on his work as a painter. In -any case, all criticisms of his reputation in his own day, whether -deserved or not, must fall to the ground before Dante’s celebrated -lines, “Credette Cimabue nella pittura Tener lo campo, ed ora ha Giotto -il grido,” for on this point Dante is first-rate evidence. And that -being the case, there is a probability, almost amounting to certainty, -that the man who “held the field” in painting would be requisitioned for -the greatest national undertaking of his day, the decoration of S. -Francesco at Assisi, even though, as we have seen, it would be -impossible to accept Vasari’s statement that he did the whole. - -In looking for Cimabue among the groups of the upper church which we -have selected, it will be worth while to take as an experimental guide -other works ascribed traditionally to our artist. If these should agree -in their artistic qualities with one another and with any one group at -Assisi, we shall have some probability in favour of our view. And the -result of such a process is to find in the master of the Crucifixion our -elusive and celebrated painter. - -It would be wearisome to go in detail through all these works; it will -suffice to say that in certain marked peculiarities they all agree with -one another and with the Crucifixion. The most striking likeness will be -found between the heads which appear under the Virgin’s throne in the -picture in the Academy at Florence, which Vasari attributes to Cimabue, -and the grotesque heads to the right of the Crucifixion. There is the -same crude attempt at realism, the same peculiar matted hair, the same -curious drawing of the eye-socket which gives the appearance of -spectacles. The characteristics of this picture will again be found in -the Cimabue of the Louvre which comes from Pisa, where he is known to -have worked. Very similar, too, in innumerable details of architectural -setting, of movement of hands and heads, and of drapery is the fresco of -the Madonna Enthroned and S. Francis, in the lower church at Assisi. -Finally, the Rucellai Madonna, in spite of its very superior qualities, -which must be due to its being a later work, answers in many detailed -tests to the characteristics of this group of paintings.[24] - -And now, having found our Cimabue in the master of the Crucifixion, what -must our verdict be on his character as an artist? Frankly we must admit -that he is not to be thought of in the same category with the master of -the Esau fresco, much less with Duccio or Giotto.[25] There is, however, -in his work that spark of vitality which the Italians rightly prized -above Byzantine accomplishment. He gave to his historical compositions a -rude dramatic vigour, and to his Madonnas and Angels a suggestion of -sentimental charm which borders on affectation; he was, in fact, a -sentimental realist whose relation to the Byzantine masters must have -been something like that of Caravaggio to the academic school of the -Caracci. - -We come next to the master of the Deception of Isaac, and the closely -allied, if not identical, painter who did the Four Doctors of the vault. -We have already noticed the likeness of these works to the legend of S. -Francis, which we may take provisionally to be Giotto’s; but, in spite -of the similarity of technique, they are inspired by a very diverse -sentiment. They are not dramatic and intense as Giotto’s; they show a -more conscious aspiration after style; the artist will not allow the -requirements of formal beauty to be disturbed by the desire for -expressive and life-like gestures. Where, then, could an artist of this -period acquire such a sense of pure classic beauty in painting? In -sculpture it might be possible to find classic models throughout Italy -as Niccolo did at Pisa, but Rome was the only place which could fulfil -the requirements for a painter. There must at this time have been many -more remains of classical painting among the ruins of the Palatine than -are now to be seen, and it is a natural conclusion that the artist who -painted the figure of Rachel was directly inspired by them. Nor is -there anything difficult in the assumption that this unknown precursor -of Giotto was a Roman artist, for the Roman school of painting was by -far the most precocious of any in Italy. At Subiaco there are frescoes, -some of which must date from the lifetime of S. Francis, which already, -as in the portrait of S. Francis himself, show a certain freedom from -Byzantine formalism. But it is in the works of the Cosmati, Jacopo -Torriti, Rusutti, and Cavallini in the latter half of the thirteenth -century that we see how vigorous and progressive an art was springing up -in Rome.[26] Had not the removal of the Popes to Avignon in the -fourteenth century left the city a prey to internal discord, we can -hardly doubt that the Roman would have been one of the greatest and -earliest developed schools of Italian painting. As it is, we find in the -mosaics under the apse of Sta. Maria in Trastevere, executed about the -year 1290, compositions in every way comparable to Giotto’s frescoes. -These mosaics, too, have architectural accessories which are very -similar to the architecture of the “Doctors of the Church” at Assisi. -The architecture based on a study of classic forms is of the kind always -associated with the Cosmati family. It will be seen that it is quite -distinct from the architecture of Cimabue’s and Duccio’s Madonnas, but -that it becomes the normal treatment in Giotto’s frescoes. - -There is, then, a curiously close analogy between the origins of -neo-Christian painting and neo-Christian sculpture in Italy; just as -Giovanni Pisano’s work was preceded by the purely classic revival which -culminated in Niccolo’s Baptistery pulpit, so in painting Giotto’s work -emerges from a similar classic revival based on the study of Roman -wall-paintings. The perfect similarity between Niccolo Pisano’s -sentiment and that of the master of the Esau fresco may be realised by -comparing the action of Rachel’s hand in the fresco with that of the -Virgin in the Annunciation of the Baptistery pulpit. In both we have the -same autarchic conception of character conveyed by the same measured -ease of gesture, which contrasts vividly with the more expansive ideals -of neo-Christian art, of which Giotto appears from the first as the most -perfect representative. - -In examining the series of frescoes describing the life of S. Francis -we find varieties in the proportions of the figures and in the types of -features which suggest the co-operation of more than one artist, but the -spirit that inspires the compositions throughout is one. And this -afflatus which suddenly quickens so much that was either tentative or -narrowly accomplished into a new fulness of life, a new richness of -expression, is, we may feel certain, due to the genius of Giotto. - -If we look at one of these frescoes, such, for example, as the Presepio -at Greccio, and at the same time endeavour to transport ourselves into -the position of a contemporary spectator, what will strike us most -immediately and make the most startling general impression is its -actuality. Here at last, after so many centuries of copying the -traditional forms handed down from a moribund Pagan art--centuries -during which these abstractions had become entirely divorced from the -life of the time--here at last was an artist who gave a scene as it must -have happened, with every circumstance evidently and literally rendered. -The scene of the institution of the Presepio takes place in a little -chapel divided from the body of the church by a marble wall. The pulpit -and crucifix are therefore seen from behind, the latter leaning forward -into the church and showing from the chapel only the wooden battens and -fastenings of the back. The singing-desk in the centre is drawn with -every detail of screws and adjustments, while the costume of the -bystanders is merely the ordinary fashionable dress of the day. The -research for actuality could not be carried farther than this. When some -years ago a French painter painted the scene of Christ at the house of -the Pharisee with the figures in evening dress it aroused the most -vehement protests, and produced for a time a shock of bewilderment and -surprise. This is not to suggest any real analogy between the works of -the two artists, but merely that the innovation made by Giotto must have -been in every way as surprising to his contemporaries. Nor was Giotto’s, -like M. Béraud’s, a _succès de scandale_; on the contrary, it was -immediately recognised as satisfying a want which had been felt ever -since the legend of S. Francis, the setting of which belonged to their -own time and country, had been incorporated by the Italians in their -mythology. The earliest artists had tried to treat the subject according -to the formulas of Byzantine biblical scenes, but with such -unsatisfactory results as may be seen in the altar-piece of the Bardi -Chapel of Sta. Croce at Florence. In Giotto’s frescoes at Assisi it -acquired for the first time a treatment in which the desire for -actuality was fully recognised. But actuality alone would not have -satisfied Giotto’s patrons; it was necessary that the events should be -presented as scenes of everyday life, but it was also necessary that -they should possess that quality of universal and eternal significance -which distinguishes a myth from a mere historical event. It was even -more necessary that they should be heroic than that they should be -actual. And it was in his power to satisfy such apparently -self-contradictory conditions that Giotto’s unique genius manifested -itself. It was this that made him the greatest story-teller in line, the -supreme epic-painter of the world. The reconciliation of these two aims, -actuality and universality, is indeed the severest strain on the power -of expression. To what a temperature must the imagination be raised -before it can fuse in its crucible those refractory squalid trivialities -unconsecrated by time and untinged by romance with which the artist must -deal if he is to be at once “topical” and heroic, to be at one and the -same time in “Ercles’ vein” and Mrs. Gamp’s. Even in literature it is a -rare feat. Homer could accomplish it, and Dante, but most poets must -find a way round. In Dante the power is constantly felt. He could not -only introduce the politics and personalities of his own time, but he -could use such similes as that of old tailors peering for their needles’ -eyes, a half-burnt piece of paper, dogs nozzling for fleas, and still -more unsavoury trivialities, without for a moment lowering the high key -in which his comedy was pitched. The poet deals, however, with the vague -and blurred mental images which words call up, but the painter must -actually present the semblance of the thing in all its drab familiarity. -And yet Giotto succeeded. He could make the local and particular stand -for a universal idea. - -But, without detracting in any way from what was due to Giotto’s -superlative genius, it may be admitted that something was given by the -propitious moment of his advent. For the optics of the imagination are -variable: in an age like the present, men and events grow larger as they -recede into the mist of the past; it is rarely that we think of a man as -truly great till he has for long received the consecration of death. But -there must be periods when men have a surer confidence in their own -judgments--periods of such creative activity that men can dare to -measure the reputations of their contemporaries, which are of their own -creation, against the reputations of antiquity--and in such periods the -magnifying, mythopoetical effect, which for us comes only with time, -takes place at once, and swells their contemporaries to heroic -proportions. It was thus that Dante saw those of his own time--could -even see himself--in the proportions they must always bear. The fact -that S. Francis was canonised two years after death, and within twenty -years was commemorated by the grandest monument in Italy, is a striking -proof of that superb self-confidence. - -We will return to the frescoes: the evidence for their being in the main -by Giotto himself rests not only on the general consensus of tradition, -but upon the technical characteristics and, most of all, upon the -imaginative conception of the subjects. None the less, in so big a work -it is probable that assistants were employed to carry out Giotto’s -designs, and this will account for many slight discrepancies of style. -Certain frescoes, however--notably the last three of the series--show -such marked differences that we must suppose that one of these -assistants rose to the level of an original creative artist. - -In the fresco of S. Francis kneeling before the Pope, we have already -noticed Giotto’s close connection with the artists of the Roman school. -Their influence is not confined to the figures and drapery; the -architecture--in which it may be noted, by the way, that Giotto has -already arrived instinctively at the main ideas of linear -perspective--with its minute geometrical inlays, its brackets and -mouldings, derived from classic forms, is entirely in the manner of the -Cosmati. But the composition illustrates, none the less, the differences -which separate him from the master of the Esau fresco. Giotto is at this -stage of his career not only less accomplished, but he has nothing of -that painter’s elegant classical grace. He has, instead, the greatest -and rarest gift of dramatic expressiveness. For though the poses, -especially of the bishop seated on the Pope’s left, lack grace, and the -faces show but little research for positive beauty or regularity of -feature, the actual scene, the dramatic situation, is given in an -entirely new and surprising way. Of what overwhelming importance for -the history of the world this situation was, perhaps Giotto himself -could scarcely realise. For this probably represents, not the -approbation of the order of minor brethren by Honorius III., which was a -foregone conclusion, but the permission to preach given by Innocent -III., a far more critical moment in the history of the movement. For -Innocent III., in whom the Papacy reached the zenith of its power, had -already begun the iniquitous Albigensian crusade, and was likely to be -suspicious of any unofficial religious teaching. It cannot have been -with unmixed pleasure that he saw before him this poverty-stricken group -of Francis and his eleven followers, whose appearance declared in the -plainest terms their belief in that primitive communistic Christianity -which, in the case of Petrus Waldus, had been branded by -excommunication. In fact, the man who now asked for the Papal blessing -on his mission was in most respects a Waldensian. Francis (the name -Francesco is itself significant) was probably by birth, certainly by -predilection[27] and temperament, half a Frenchman; his mother came from -Provence, and his father had business connections at Lyons; so that it -is not impossible that Francis was influenced by what he knew, through -them, of the Waldensian movement. In any case, his teaching was nearly -identical with that of Petrus Waldus; both taught religious -individualism and, by precept at all events, communism. It was, -therefore, not unnatural that Innocent should not respond at once to S. -Francis’ application. According to one legend, the Pope’s first advice -to him was to consort with swine, as befitted one of his miserable -appearance. But, whatever his spontaneous impulses may have been, he had -the good sense to accept the one man through whom the Church could again -become popular and democratic. - -Of all that this acceptance involved, no one who lived before the -Reformation could understand the full significance, but Giotto has here -expressed something of the dramatic contrasts involved in this meeting -of the greatest of saints and the most dominating of popes--something -of the importance of the moment when the great heretic was recognised by -the Church. - -In the fresco of S. Francis before the Sultan we have a means of -comparing Giotto at this period with the later Giotto of the Bardi -Chapel, in Florence where the same scene is treated with more intimate -psychological imagination; but here already the story is told with a -vividness and simplicity which none but Giotto could command. The weak -and sinuous curves of the discomfited sages, the ponderous and massive -contour of the indignant Sultan, show that Giotto’s command of the -direct symbolism of line is at least as great as Duccio’s in the Three -Maries, while his sense of the roundness and solid relief of the form -is, as Mr. Berenson[28] has ably pointed out, far greater. We find in -the Sultan, indeed, the type for which Giotto showed a constant -predilection--a well-formed, massive body, with high rounded shoulders -and short neck, but with small and shapely hands. As is natural in the -work of an artist who set himself so definitely to externalise the -tension of a critical moment, his hands are always eloquent; it is -impossible to find in his work a case where the gestures of the hands -are not explicit indications of a particular emotion. The architecture -in this fresco is a remarkable evidence of the classical tendencies -which he inherited from the Cosmati school. The Sultan’s throne has, it -is true, a quasi-Gothic gable, but the coffered soffit, and the whole of -the canopy opposite to it, with its winged genii, pilasters, and -garlands are derived from classic sources. - -We have already considered the Presepio as an example of Giotto’s power -of giving the actual setting of a scene without losing its heroic -quality. It is also an example of his power of visualising the -psychological situation; here, the sudden thrill which permeates an -assembly at a moment of unwonted exaltation. It depicts the first -representation of the Nativity instituted at Greccio by S. Francis; it -is the moment at which he takes the image of the Infant Christ in his -arms, when, to the ecstatic imaginations of the bystanders, it appeared -for an instant transformed into a living child of transcendent beauty. -The monks at the back are still singing the Lauds (one can almost tell -what note each is singing, so perfect is Giotto’s command of facial -expression), but the immediate bystanders and the priest are lost in -wrapt contemplation of S. Francis and the Child.[29] - -One of the most beautiful of the whole series is the fresco which -represents the nuns of S. Clare meeting the Saint’s body as it is borne -to burial. Throughout the series Giotto took Bonaventura’s life as his -text, and it is interesting to see how near akin the two renderings are, -both alike inspired by that new humanity of feeling which S. Francis’ -life had aroused. Having described the beauty of the Saint’s dead body, -“of which the limbs were so soft and delicate to the touch that they -seemed to have returned to the tenderness of a child’s, and appeared by -many manifest signs to be innocent as never having done wrong, so like a -child’s were they,” he adds, - - Therefore it is not to be marvelled at if seeing a body so white - and seeing therein those black nails and that wound in the side - which seemed to be a fresh red rose of spring, if those that saw it - felt therefor great wonder and joy. And in the morning when it was - day the companies and people of the city and all the country round - came together, and being instructed to translate that most holy - body from that place to the city of Assisi, moved with great - solemnity of hymns and songs and divine offices, and with a - multitude of torches and of candles lighted and with branches of - trees in their hands; and with such solemnity going towards the - city of Assisi and passing by the church of S. Damiano, in which - stayed Clara the noble virgin who is to-day a saint on earth and in - heaven, they rested there a little. She and her holy virgins were - comforted to see and kiss that most holy body of their father the - blessed Francis adorned with those holy stigmata and white and - shining as has been said. - -Bonaventura, we see, had already conceived the scene with such -consummate artistic skill that it was, as it were, ready made for -Giotto. He had only to translate that description into line and colour; -and in doing so he has lost nothing of its beauty. Giotto, like -Bonaventura, is apparently perfectly simple, perfectly direct and -literal, and yet the result is in both cases a work of the rarest -imaginative power. Nor is it easy to analyse its mysterious charm. -Giotto was a great painter in the strictest and most technical sense of -the word, but his technical perfection is not easily appreciated in -these damaged works, and one cannot explain the effect this produces by -any actual beauty of the surface quality of the painting; it depends -rather on our perception, through the general disposition and action of -the figures, of Giotto’s attitude to life, of the instinctive rightness -of feeling through which he was enabled to visualise the scene in its -simplest and most inevitable form. - -We come now to the three last frescoes of the series which show such -marked differences from the rest, though some of the peculiarities, the -minute hands and elegant features, appear in parts of some of the -preceding frescoes, notably in our last: we may imagine that an -assistant working under Giotto was, as the work progressed, given a -larger and larger share in the execution, and finally carried out the -three last frescoes alone. But this is pure hypothesis; all we can do at -present is to note the difference not only of types, but even to some -extent in the manner of conception, that they evince. One of them -recounts the story of a woman of Benevento devoted to S. Francis, who -died after forgetting one of her sins in her last confession. At the -intercession of the dead Saint she was allowed to come to life again, -finish her confession, and so defeat of his prey the black devil who had -already come for her soul. Here the whole spacing out of the composition -indicates a peculiar feeling, very different from Giotto’s. The artist -crowds his figures into narrow, closely-packed groups, and leaves vast -spaces of bare wall between. In this particular instance the result is -very impressive; it intensifies the supreme importance of the confession -and emphasises the loneliness and isolation of the soul that has already -once passed away. When we look at the individual figures the differences -are even more striking; the long thin figures, the repetition of -perpendicular lines, the want of variety in the poses of the heads, a -certain timidity in the movements, the long masks, too big in proportion -for the heads, the tiny elegant features, elongated necks, and minute -hands--all these characteristics contrast with Giotto’s tendency to -massive proportions and easy expansive movements. Not that these figures -have not great beauty; only it is of a recondite and exquisite kind. The -artist that created these types must have loved what was sought out and -precious; though living so long before Raphael, he must have been -something of a “pre-Raphaelite.” - -We have no clue to the identity of this pseudo-Giotto; he is quite -distinct from Giotto’s known pupils, and indeed may rather have been a -contemporary artist who came under Giotto’s influence than one trained -by him. Besides the frescoes at Assisi, we are fortunate enough to -possess one other picture by this interesting artist. It is a small -altar-piece dedicated to S. Cecilia, which hangs in the corridor of the -Uffizi, and has been attributed both to Cimabue and to Giotto. The long -Rosetti-like necks and heads, the poses, in which elegance is preferred -to expressiveness, and the concentration of the figures so as to leave -large empty spaces even in these small compositions, are sufficient -grounds for attributing it to Giotto’s fellow-worker at Assisi.[30] - -In the year 1298 Giotto entered into a contract with Cardinal -Stefaneschi to execute for him the mosaic of the “Navicella,” now in the -porch of S. Peter’s. We have in this the first ascertainable date of -Giotto’s life. It is one which, however, fits very well with the -internal evidences of his style, as it would give the greater part of -the last decade of the thirteenth century as the period of Giotto’s -activity in the Upper Church at Assisi. One other work on the evidence -of style we may attribute to the master’s pre-Roman period, and that is -the Madonna of the Academy at Florence. Here Giotto followed the lines -of Cimabue’s enthroned Madonnas, though with his own greatly increased -sense of solidity in the modelling and vivacity in the poses. It cannot, -however, be considered as a prepossessing work. It may be due to -restoration that the picture shows no signs of Giotto’s peculiar feeling -for tonality; but even the design is scarcely satisfactory, the relation -of the Madonna to the throne is such that her massive proportions leave -an impression of ungainliness rather than of grandeur. In the throne -itself he has made an experiment in the new Gothic architecture, but he -has hardly managed to harmonise it with the earlier classic forms of the -Cosmati, which still govern the main design. We shall see that in his -work at Rome he overcame all these difficulties. - -In Rome Giotto worked chiefly for Cardinal Stefaneschi. This is -significant of Giotto’s close relations with the Roman school, for it -was Bartolo, another member of the same family, who commissioned the -remarkable mosaics of Sta. Maria in Trastevere, executed in 1290, -mosaics which show how far the Roman school had already advanced towards -the new art, of which Giotto’s work was the consummation. - -The mosaic of the “Navicella,” which was the greatest undertaking of -Giotto’s activity in Rome, is unfortunately terribly restored. We can, -however, still recognise the astonishing dramatic force of the -conception and the unique power which Giotto possessed of giving a vivid -presentation of a particular event, accompanied by the most -circumstantial details, and at the same time suggesting to the -imagination a symbolical interpretation of universal and abstract -significance. Even the surprising intrusion of a _genre_ motive in the -fisherman peacefully angling on the shore does not disturb our -recognition of this universal interpretation, which puts so clearly the -relation of the ship of the Church, drifting helplessly with its -distraught crew, to the despairing Peter, who has here the character of -an emissary and intermediary, and the impassive and unapproachable -figure of Christ himself. - -The daring originality which Giotto shows in placing the predominant -figure at the extreme edge of the composition, the feeling for -perspective which enabled him to give verisimilitude to the scene by -throwing back the ship into the middle distance, the new freedom and -variety in the movements of the Apostles in the boat, by which the -monotony of the eleven figures crowded into so limited a space is -evaded, are proofs of Giotto’s rare power of invention, a power which -enabled him to treat even the most difficult abstractions with the same -vivid sense of reality as the dramatic incidents of contemporary life. -It is not to be wondered at that this should be the work most frequently -mentioned by the Italian writers of the Renaissance. The storm-gods -blowing their Triton’s horns are a striking instance of how much Giotto -assimilated at this time from Pagan art. - -But of far greater beauty are the panels for the high altar of S. -Peter’s, also painted for Cardinal Stefaneschi, and now to be seen in -the sacristy, where the more obvious beauties of Melozzo da Forli’s -music-making angels too often lead to their being overlooked. And yet, -unnoticed in the dark corners of the room, they have escaped the -attentions of restorers and glow with all the rare translucency of -Giotto’s tempera. - -These are the first pictures we have examined by Giotto in which we are -able to appreciate at all the beauty and subtlety of his tone contrasts, -for not only have the frescoes of the upper church at Assisi and the -“Madonna” of the Academy suffered severely from restoration, but it is -probable that in his youthful works he had not freed himself altogether -from the harsher tonality of earlier art. Here, however, Giotto shows -that power which is distinctive of the greatest masters of paint, of -developing a form within a strictly limited scale of tone, drawing out -of the slightest contrasts their fullest expressiveness for the -rendering of form; a method which, though adopted from an intuitive -feeling for pure beauty, gives a result which can only be described as -that of an enveloping atmosphere surrounding the forms.[31] - -The kneeling figure, presumably Cardinal Stefaneschi himself, in the -“Christ enthroned” is an admirable instance of this quality. With what -tender, scarcely perceptible gradations, with what a limited range from -dark to light is the figure expressed; and yet it is not flat, the form -is perfectly realised between the two sweeping curves whose simplicity -would seem, but for the masterly modelling, to prevent the possibility -of their containing a human figure. The portrait is as remarkable in -sentiment as in execution. The very conception of introducing a donor -into such a composition was new.[32] It was a sign of the new -individualism which marked the whole of the great period of Italian art, -and finally developed into extravagance. The donor having once found his -way into pictures of sacred ceremonial remained, but he not infrequently -found it difficult to comport himself becomingly amid celestial -surroundings; as he became more important, and heaven itself became less -so, he asserted himself with unseemly self-assurance, until at last his -matter-of-fact countenance, rendered with prosaic fidelity, stares out -at the spectator in contemptuous indifference to the main action of the -composition, the illusion of which it effectually destroys. - -But here, where the idea is new, it has no such jarring effect; it is -not yet a stereotyped formula, an excuse for self-advertisement or -social display, but the direct outcome of a poetical and pious thought; -and Giotto, with his unique rightness of feeling, has expressed, by the -hand clinging to the throne and the slightly bent head, just the -appropriate attitude of humble adoration, which he contrasts with the -almost nonchalant ease and confidence of the angels. Even in so purely -ceremonial a composition as this Giotto contrives to create a human -situation. - -In the planning of this picture Giotto has surpassed not only Duccio’s -and Cimabue’s versions of the Enthronement motive but his own earlier -work at Florence. The throne, similar in construction to that in the -Academy picture, no longer shows the inconsistencies of two conflicting -styles, but is of pure and exquisitely proportioned Gothic; the -difficult perspective of the arches at the side is rendered with -extraordinary skill though without mathematical accuracy. The relation -of the figure of Christ to the throne is here entirely satisfactory, -with the result that the great size of the figure no longer appears -unnatural, but as an easily accepted symbol of divinity. In the drawing -of the face of the Christ he has retained the hieratic solemnity given -by the rigid delineation of Byzantine art. - -But if the “Christ enthroned” is a triumph of well-calculated -proportions, the “Crucifixion of S. Peter” which formed one side of the -triptych, is even more remarkable for the beauty of its spacing and the -ingenuity of its arrangement. - -In designing such a panel with its narrow cusped arch and gold -background, the artist’s first consideration must be its effect as mere -pattern when seen on the altar at the end of a church. In his frescoes, -Giotto’s first preoccupation was with the drama to be presented; here it -was with the effect of sumptuous pattern. - -And the given data out of which the pattern was to be made were by no -means tractable. The subject of the Crucifixion of S. Peter was -naturally not a favourite one with artists, and scarcely any succeeded -in it entirely, even in the small dimensions of a predella piece, to -which it was generally relegated. For it is almost impossible to do away -with the unpleasant effect of a figure seen thus upside down. The -outstretched arms, which in the crucifixion of Christ give a -counterbalancing line to the long horizontal of the spectators, here -only increases the difficulty of the single upright. But Giotto, by a -brilliant inspiration,[33] found his solution in the other fact given by -his subject--namely, that the martyrdom took place between the goals of -the Circus of Nero. By making these huge pyramids adapted from two -well-known Roman monuments (the Septizonium and the pyramid of Cestius), -he has obtained from the gold background just that dignified effect of -spreading out above and contracting below which is so effective in -renderings of the crucifixion of Christ, an effect which he still -further emphasises by the two angels, whose spreading wings and floating -draperies increase the brocade-like richness of the symmetrical pattern. - -Nor, the pattern once assured, has Giotto failed of vivid dramatic -presentation. It is surprising to find crowded into so small a space so -many new poses all beautifully expressive of the individual shades of a -common feeling: the woman to the left of the cross leaning her head on -her hand as though sorrow had become a physical pain; the beautiful -figure of the youth, with long waving hair, who throws back both arms -with a despairing gesture; the woman lifting her robe to wipe her tears; -and, most exquisite of all, and most surprising, in its novelty and -truth to life, the figure of the girl to the left, drawn towards the -terrible scene by a motion of sympathy and yet shrinking back with -instinctive shyness and terror. In the child alone Giotto has, as was -usually the case, failed of a rhythmical and expressive pose. And what -an entirely new study of life is seen here in the variety of the types! -In one--the man whose profile cuts the sky to the left--he seems to have -been indebted to some Roman portrait-bust; another, on horseback to the -left, is clearly a Mongolian type, with slant eyes and pigtail, a -curious proof of the intercourse with the extreme East which the -Franciscan missionaries had already established. In the drawing of the -nude figure of S. Peter, in spite of the unfortunate proportion of the -head, the same direct study of nature has enabled Giotto to realise the -structure of the figure more adequately than any artist since Roman -times. One can well understand the astonishment and delight of Giotto’s -contemporaries at this unfolding of the new possibilities of art, which -could now interpret all the variety and richness of human life and could -so intensify its appeal to the emotions. One other peculiarity of this -picture is interesting and characteristic of Giotto’s attitude. In -painting the frame of his panel he did not merely add figures as -decorative and symbolic accessories, he brought them into relation with -the central action, for each of them gazes at S. Peter with a different -expression of pity and grief. Giotto had to be dramatic even in his -frames.[34] - -That Giotto remained in Rome till after the great Jubilee of 1300 is -shown by the fragment of his fresco of the Papal Benediction which still -remains on a pillar of S. John Lateran. There is every probability that -at this time he met Dante, who was collecting the materials for the -terrible portrait of Boniface VIII. which he drew in the “Inferno.” - -The next ascertainable date in Giotto’s life is that of the decoration -of the Arena chapel at Padua, begun in 1305. Here at last we are on -indisputable ground. The decoration of this chapel was conceived by -Giotto as a single whole, and was entirely carried out by him, though -doubtless with the help of assistants, and although it has suffered from -restoration it remains the completest monument to his genius. The -general effect of these ample silhouettes of golden yellow and red on a -ground of clear ultramarine is extraordinarily harmonious, and almost -gay. But essentially the design is made up of the sum of a number of -separate compositions. The time had not come for co-ordinating these -into a single scheme, as Michelangelo did in the ceiling of the Sistine. -In the composition of the separate scenes Giotto here shows for the -first time his full powers. Nearly every one of these is an entirely -original discovery of new possibilities in the relation of forms to one -another. The contours of the figures evoke to the utmost the ideal -comprehension of volume and mass. The space in which the figures move is -treated almost as in a bas-relief, of which they occupy a preponderant -part. As compared with the designs at Assisi the space is restricted, -and the figures amplified so that the plastic unity of the whole design -is more immediately apprehended. I doubt whether in any single building -one can see so many astonishing discoveries of formal relations as -Giotto has here made. Almost every composition gives one the shock of a -discovery at - -[Illustration: - -Giotto. Pietà Arena Chapel, Padua - -Plate VI.] - -once simple, inevitable, and instantly apprehended, and yet utterly -unforeseeable. In most compositions one can guess at some of the steps -by which the formal relations were established. Here one is at a loss to -conceive by what flight of imagination the synthesis has been attained. -We will consider a few in greater detail. - -Giotto was, I believe, the first artist to represent the Resurrection by -the _Noli me tangere_. The Byzantines almost invariably introduced the -Descent into Hades or the Three Maries at the Tomb. In any case it is -characteristic of Giotto to choose a subject where the human situation -is so intimate and the emotions expressed are so poignant. Here, as in -the “Navicella,” where he was free to invent a new composition, he -discards the bilateral arrangement, which was almost invariable in -Byzantine art, and concentrates all the interest in one corner of the -composition. The angels on the tomb are damaged and distorted, but in -the head and hands of the Magdalene we can realise Giotto’s greatly -increased power and delicacy of modelling as compared with the frescoes -at Assisi. It is impossible for art to convey more intensely than this -the beauty of such a movement of impetuous yearning. The action of the -Christ is as vividly realised; almost too obviously, indeed, does he -seem to be edging out of the composition in order to escape the -Magdalene’s outstretched hands. This is a striking instance of that -power which Giotto possessed more than any other Italian, more indeed -than any other artist except Rembrandt, the power of making perceptible -the flash of mutual recognition which passes between two souls at a -moment of sudden illumination. - -In the “Pietà” (Plate) a more epic conception is realised, for the -impression conveyed is of a universal and cosmic disaster: the air is -rent with the shrieks of desperate angels whose bodies are contorted in -a raging frenzy of compassion. And the effect is due in part to the -increased command, which the Paduan frescoes show, of simplicity and -logical directness of design. These massive boulder-like forms, these -draperies cut by only a few large sweeping folds, which suffice to give -the general movement of the figure with unerring precision, all show -this new tendency in Giotto’s art as compared with the more varied -detail, the more individual characterisation, of his early works. It is -by this consciously acquired and masterly simplicity that Giotto keeps -here, in spite of the unrestrained extravagance of passion, the -consoling dignity of style. If one compares it, for example, with the -works of Flemish painters, who explored the depths of human emotion with -a similar penetrating and sympathetic curiosity, one realises the -importance of what all the great Italians inherited from Græco-Roman -civilisation--the urbanity of a great style. And nowhere is it felt more -than here, where Giotto is dealing with emotions which classical art -scarcely touched. - -It is interesting that Giotto should first have attained to this perfect -understanding of style at Padua, where he was, as we know, in constant -intercourse with Dante. Dante must have often watched him, perhaps -helped him by suggestions, in decorating the chapel built with the -ill-gotten wealth of that Scrovegni whom he afterwards seated amid the -usurers on the burning sands of Hell. - -It is mainly by means of the composition and the general conception of -pose and movement that Giotto expresses the dramatic idea. And regarded -from that point of view, these frescoes are an astounding proof of -Giotto’s infallible intuitions. The characters he has created here are -as convincing, as ineffaceable, as any that have been created by poets. -The sad figure of Joachim is one never to be forgotten. In every -incident of his sojourn in the wilderness, after the rejection of his -offering in the temple, his appearance indicates exactly his mental -condition. When he first comes to the sheepfold, he gazes with such set -melancholy on the ground that the greeting of his dog and his shepherds -cannot arouse his attention; when he makes a sacrifice he crawls on -hands and knees in the suspense of expectation, watching for a sign from -heaven; even in his sleep we guess at his melancholy dreams; and in the -scene where he meets his wife at the Golden Gate on his return, Giotto -has touched a chord of feeling at least as profound as can be reached by -the most consummate master of the art of words. - -It is true that in speaking of these one is led inevitably to talk of -elements in the work which modern criticism is apt to regard as lying -outside the domain of pictorial art. It is customary to dismiss all that -concerns the dramatic presentation of the subject as literature or -illustration, which is to be sharply distinguished from the qualities of -design. But can this clear distinction be drawn in fact? The imaginings -of a playwright, a dramatic poet, and a dramatic painter have much in -common, but they are never at any point identical. Let us suppose a -story to be treated by all three: to each, as he dwells on the legend, -the imagination will present a succession of images, but those images, -even at their first formation, will be quite different in each case, -they will be conditioned and coloured by the art which the creator -practises, by his past observation of nature with a view to presentment -in that particular art. The painter, like Giotto, therefore, actually -imagines in terms of figures capable of pictorial presentment, he does -not merely translate a poetically dramatic vision into pictorial terms. -And to be able to do this implies a constant observation of natural -forms with a bias towards the discovery of pictorial beauty. To be able, -then, to conceive just the appropriate pose of a hand to express the -right idea of character and emotion in a picture, is surely as much a -matter of a painter’s vision as to appreciate the relative “values” of a -tree and cloud so as to convey the mood proper to a particular -landscape. - -Before leaving the Paduan frescoes, I must allude to those allegorical -figures of the virtues and vices in which Giotto has, as it were, -distilled the essence of his understanding of human nature. These -personified virtues and vices were the rhetorical commonplaces of the -day, but Giotto’s intuitive understanding of the expression of emotion -enabled him to give them a profound significance. He has in some -succeeded in giving not merely a person under the influence of a given -passion, but the abstract passion itself, not merely an angry woman, but -anger. To conceive thus a figure possessed absolutely by a single -passion implied, an excursion beyond the regions of experience; no -merely scientific observation of the effects of emotion would have -enabled him to conceive the figure of Anger. It required an imagination -that could range the remotest spaces thus to condense in visible form -the bestial madness of the passion, to depict what Blake would have -called the “diabolical abstract” of anger. - -We come now to the last great series of frescoes by Giotto which we -possess, those of the Bardi and Peruzzi chapels of Sta. Croce, his -maturest and most consummate works. From the very first Giotto had to -the full the power of seizing upon whatever in the forms of nature -expressed life and emotion, but the perfect understanding of the -conditions of a suave and gracious style was only slowly acquired. In -the Florentine frescoes it is the geniality, the persuasiveness of the -style which first strikes us. They have, indeed, an almost academic -perfection of design. - -The comparison of the “Death of S. Francis” here with the early fresco -of the subject at Assisi shows how far Giotto has moved from the literal -realism of his first works. At Assisi crowds of people push round the -bier, soldiers and citizens come in to see, there is all the shifting -variety of the actual event. Here the composition is sublimated and -refined, reduced to its purest elements. The scene is still vividly, -intensely real, but it is apprehended in a more pensive and meditative -vein. There is in the composition a feeling for space which imposes a -new mood of placidity and repose. This composition became the typical -formula for such subjects throughout the Renaissance, but it was never -again equalled. In spite of its apparent ease and simplicity, it is -really by the subtlest art that all these figures are grouped in such -readily apprehended masses without any sense of crowding and with such -variety of gesture in the figures. The fresco, which had remained for -more than a century under a coat of whitewash, was discovered in 1841 -and immediately disfigured by utter restoration. The artist,[35] with a -vague idea that Giotto was a decorative artist, and that decoration -meant something ugly and unnatural, surrounded the figures with hard -inexpressive lines. We can, therefore, only guess, by our knowledge of -Giotto elsewhere, and by the general idea of pose, how perfect was the -characterisation of the actors in the scene, how each responded -according to his temperament to the general sorrow, some in humble -prostration, one with a more intimate and personal affection, and one, -to whom the vision of the ascending soul is apparent, wrapt in mystic -ecstasy. - -An interesting characteristic of these late frescoes is the revival -which they declare of Giotto’s early love for classical architecture. He -may well have recognised the pictorial value of the large untroubled -rectangular spaces which it allowed. In the “Salome” he has approached -even more nearly to purely classic forms than in his earliest frescoes -at Assisi. The building has an almost Palladian effect with its square -parapets surmounted by statues, some of which are clearly derived from -the antique. In the soldier who brings in the Baptist’s head he has -reverted to the costume of the Roman soldier, whereas, in the allegory -of Chastity, the soldiers wear mediæval winged helmets. - -The fact that there is a free copy of this fresco by the Lorenzetti at -Siena made in 1331 gives us the period before which this must have been -finished. Here again the mood is singularly placid, but the intensity -with which Giotto realised a particularly dramatic moment is shown by a -curious detail in which this differs from the usual rendering of the -scene. Most artists, wishing to express the essentials of the story, -make Salome continue her dance while the head is brought in. But Giotto -was too deep a psychologist to make such an error. At the tragic moment -she stops dancing and makes sad music on her lyre, to show that she, -too, is not wanting in proper sensibility. - -There is evidence in these frescoes of an artistic quality which we -could scarcely have believed possible, and yet, as it is most evident in -those parts which are least damaged, it is impossible not to believe -that Giotto possessed it; and that is the real feeling for chiaroscuro -which these paintings show. It is not merely that the light falls in one -direction, though even that was a conception which was scarcely grasped -before Masaccio, but that Giotto actually composes by light and shade, -subordinates figures or groups of figures by letting them recede into -gloom and brings others into prominent light. This is particularly well -seen in the “Ascension of S. John” where the shadow of the building is -made use of to unify the composition and give depth and relief to the -imagined space. It is also an example of that beautiful atmospheric -tonality of which I have already spoken. In the figure of S. John -himself, Giotto seems to have the freedom and ease which we associate -with art of a much later date. There is scarcely a hint of archaism in -this figure. The head, with its perfect fusion of tones, its atmospheric -envelopment, seems already nearly as modern as a head by Titian. Even -the colour scheme, the rich earthy reds, the intense sweet blues of the -figures relieved against a broken green-grey, is a strange anticipation -of Cinquecento art. It seems as though Giotto in these works had himself -explored the whole of the promised land to which he led Italian -painting. - -It is true that we are conscious of a certain archaism here in the -relations of the figures and the architecture. A certain violence is -done to that demand for verisimilitude which, perhaps wrongly, we now -invariably make. But in the “Raising of Drusiana,” even this demand is -met. Here the figures all have their just proportions to one another, -and to the buildings, and to the town wall which stretches behind them. -The scene is imagined, not merely according to the conditions of the -dramatic idea, but according to the possibilities and limitations of -actual figures moving in a three dimensional space; even the perspective -of the ground is understood. Such an imaginative construction of three -dimensional space had its disadvantages as well as its advantages for -art, but in any case it is an astonishing indication of Giotto’s genius -that he thus foresaw the conditions which in the end would be accepted -universally in European art. There is scarcely anything here that -Raphael would have had to alter to adapt the composition to one of his -tapestry cartoons. - -Of the dramatic power of this I need add nothing to what has already -been said, but as this is the last of his works which we shall examine -it may afford an example of some of the characteristics of Giotto’s -draughtsmanship. For Giotto was one of the greatest masters of line that -the world has seen, and the fact that his knowledge of the forms of the -figure was comparatively elementary in no way interferes with his -greatness. It is not how many facts about an object an artist can -record, but how incisive and how harmonious with itself the record is, -that constitutes the essence of draughtsmanship. - -In considering the qualities of line, three main elements are to be -regarded: First, the decorative rhythm, our sense of sight being -constructed like our sense of sound, so that certain relations, probably -those which are capable of mathematical analysis, are pleasing, and -others discordant. Secondly, the significance of line as enabling us -imaginatively to reconstruct a real, not necessarily an actual, object -from it. The greatest excellence of this quality will be the -condensation of the greatest possible suggestion of real form into the -simplest, most easily apprehended line; the absence of confusing -superfluity on the one hand, and mechanical, and therefore meaningless -simplicity, on the other. Finally, we may regard line as a gesture, -which impresses us as a direct revelation of the artist’s personality in -the same way that handwriting does. - -Now, with Giotto, beautiful as his line undoubtedly is, it is not the -first quality, the decorative rhythm, that most immediately impresses -us. That is not the object of such deliberate and conscious research as -with some artists. It is in its significance for the expression of form -with the utmost lucidity, the most logical interrelation of parts that -his line is so impressive. Here, for instance, in the figure of the -kneeling woman, the form is expressed with perfect clearness; we feel at -once the relation of the shoulders to one another, the relation of the -torso to the pelvis, the main position of the thighs, and all this is -conveyed by a curve of incredible simplicity capable of instant -apprehension. To record so much with such economy requires not only a -rare imaginative grasp of structure, but a manual dexterity which makes -the story of Giotto’s O perfectly credible should one care to believe -it. - -Giotto’s line, regarded as an habitual gesture, is chiefly striking for -its breadth and dignity. It has the directness, the absence of -preciosity, which belongs to a generous and manly nature. The large -sweeping curves of his loose and full draperies are in part the direct -outcome of this attitude. - -It is difficult to avoid the temptation to say of Giotto that he was the -greatest artist that ever lived, a phrase which has been used of too -many masters to retain its full emphasis. But at least he was the most -prodigious phenomenon in the known history of art. Starting with little -but the crude realism of Cimabue, tempered by the effete accomplishment -of the Byzantines,[36] to have created an art capable of expressing the -whole range of human emotions; to have found, almost without a guide, -how to treat the raw material of life itself in a style so direct, so -pliant to the idea, and yet so essentially grandiose and heroic; to have -guessed intuitively almost all the principles of representation which it -required nearly two centuries of enthusiastic research to establish -scientifically--to have accomplished all this is surely a more -astounding performance than any other one artist has ever achieved. - -But the fascination Giotto’s art exercises is due in part to his -position in the development of modern culture. Coming at the same time -as Dante, he shares with him the privilege of seeing life as a single, -self-consistent, and systematic whole. It was a moment of equilibrium -between the conflicting tendencies of human activity, a moment when such -men as Dante and Giotto could exercise to the full their critical and -analytical powers without destroying the unity of a cosmic theory based -on theology. Such a moment was in its nature transitory: the free use of -all the faculties which the awakening to a new self-consciousness had -aroused, was bound to bring about antitheses which became more and more -irreconcilable as time went on. Only one other artist in later times was -able again to rise, by means of the conception of natural law, to a -point whence life could be viewed as a whole. Even so, it was by a more -purely intellectual effort, and Leonardo da Vinci could not keep the -same genial but shrewd sympathy for common humanity which makes Giotto’s -work so eternally refreshing. - -[Illustration: - -Castagno. Crucifixion Fresco in St. Apollonia, Florence - -Plate VII.] - - - - -THE ART OF FLORENCE[37] - - -The “artistic temperament”--as used in the press and the police court, -these words betray a general misunderstanding of the nature of art, and -of the artist whenever he becomes fully conscious of its purpose. The -idea of the artist as the plaything of whim and caprice, a -hypersensitive and incoherent emotionalist, is, no doubt, true of a -certain class of men, many of whom practise the arts; nothing could be -further from a true account of those artists whose work has had the -deepest influence on the tradition of art; nothing could be less true of -the great artists of the Florentine School. - -From the rise of modern art in the thirteenth century till now Florence -and France have been the decisive factors in the art of Europe. Without -them our art might have reflected innumerable pathetic or dramatic -moods, it might have illustrated various curious or moving situations, -it would not have attained to the conception of generalised truth of -form. - -To Florence of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and to France of -the seventeenth and succeeding centuries we owe the creation of -generalised or what, for want of a better word, we may call -“intellectual” art. - -In speaking of intellect it is necessary to discriminate between two -distinct modes of its operation. The intellect may seek to satisfy -curiosity by observation of the distinctions between one object and -another by means of analysis; but it may concern itself with the -discovery of fundamental relations between these objects, by the -construction of a synthetic system which satisfies the mind, both for -its truth to facts and its logical coherence. The artist may employ both -these modes. His curiosity about the phenomena of nature may lead him to -accurate observation and recognition of the variety and distinctness of -characters, but he also seeks to construe these distinct forms into -such a coherent whole as will satisfy the æsthetic desire for unity. -Perhaps the processes employed by the artist may not be identical with -the intellectual processes of science, but it is evident that they -present a very close analogy to them. - -It is a curious fact that at the beginning of the fifteenth century -in Italy, art was deeply affected by both kinds of intellectual -activity. Curiosity about natural forms in all their variety and -complexity--_naturalism_ in the modern sense--first manifested itself in -European art in Flanders, France, and North Italy about the second -decade of the fifteenth century. It appears that Italy actually led the -way in this movement, and that Lombardy was the point of origin. -Pisanello and Jacopo Bellini are the great exemplars in Italy of this -idea of exploring indefatigably and somewhat recklessly all those -detailed aspects of nature which their predecessors, occupied in the -grand Giottesque style, had scorned to notice. - -In Florence, too, this impulse was undoubtedly felt, but it is the great -distinction of the Florentine artists that, however much their curiosity -about particular forms may have been excited, their high intellectual -passion for abstract ideas impelled them more to the study of some -general principles underlying all appearance. They refused to admit the -given facts of nature except in so far as they could become amenable to -the generalising power of their art. Facts had to be digested into form -before they were allowed into the system. - -We can get an idea of what Florence of the fifteenth century meant for -the subsequent tradition of European art if we consider that if it had -not been for Florence the art of Italy might have been not altogether -unlike the art of Flanders and the Rhine--a little more rhythmical, a -little more gracious, perhaps, but fundamentally hardly more -significant. - -Although this typically Florentine attitude defined itself most clearly -under the stress of naturalism it was, of course, already characteristic -of earlier Florentine art. Giotto, indeed, had left the tradition of -formal completeness so firmly fixed in Florence that whatever new -material had to be introduced it could only be introduced into a clearly -recognised system of design. - -Of Giotto’s own work we rarely get a sight in England, the National -Gallery having missed the one great chance of getting him represented -some twenty years ago. But though Lady Jekyll’s single figure of Christ -can by its nature give no idea of his amazing and almost unequalled -power of discovering unexpected inevitabilities of formal relations, it -gives none the less something of Giotto’s peculiar beauty of drawing, -wherein the completest reality is attained without any attempted -verisimilitude. In Mr. Harris’s Bernardo Daddi we get nearer perhaps to -Giotto as a composer, and even in his Giovanni da Milano, in spite of -some Lombard grossness and sentimentality, the great tradition still -lives. - -Masaccio, represented here by Mr. Rickett’s single figure, is one of the -most mysterious personalities in art, and typically Florentine. His -mystery lies partly in our ignorance about him, partly in the difficulty -of grasping the rapidity of action, the precocity, of genius such as -his. Coming at the very beginning of the naturalistic movement he seized -with a strange complacency and ease upon the new material it offered, -but (and this is what astounds one) he instantly discovered how to -assimilate it perfectly to the formal requirements of design. So that -not only the discovery of the new material, but its digestion was with -him a simultaneous and almost instantaneous process. He was helped -perhaps by the fact that the new naturalism was as yet only a general -perception of new aspects of natural form. It was left for his younger -contemporaries to map out the new country methodically--to the group of -adventurous spirits--Brunelleschi, Donatello, Castagno, and Uccello--who -founded modern science, and gave to the understanding of classic art a -methodical basis. It is in this group that the fierce intellectual -passion of the Florentine genius manifests itself most clearly. -Perspective and anatomy were the two studies which promised to reveal to -them the secrets of natural form. The study of anatomy exemplifies -mainly the aspect of curiosity, though even in this the desire to find -the underlying principles of appearance is evident--on the other hand -perspective, to its first discoverers, appeared to promise far more than -an aid to verisimilitude, it may have seemed a visual revelation of the -structure of space and through that a key to the construction of -pictorial space. - -To our more penetrating study of æsthetic (for of all sciences, æsthetic -has been the greatest laggard) it is evident that neither perspective -nor anatomy have any very immediate bearing upon art--both of them are -means of ascertaining facts, and the question of art begins where the -question of fact ends. But artists have always had to excite themselves -with some kind of subsidiary intoxicant, and perspective and anatomy, -while they were still in their infancy, acted admirably as stimulants. -That they have by now become, for most artists, the dreariest of -sedatives may make it difficult to conceive this. But at all events in -that first generation they excited their devotees to an ardent search -for abstract unity of design. And this excitement went on to the next -generation as exemplified by the works of the Umbro-Florentines--Piero -della Francesca and Signorelli--and in Florence itself of Pollajuolo. - -But the scientific spirit once aroused was destined not to remain for -long so stimulating and helpful an assistant to the creation of design. -It was bound in the end to start trains of thought too complex and too -absorbing to occupy a subordinate place. Already in the rank and file of -Florentine artists, the Ghirlandajos, Filippino Lippis, and their -kindred, mere curiosity--naïve literalism--had undermined the tradition, -so that towards the last quarter of the century hardly any artist knew -how to design intelligibly on the scale of a fresco, whereas the merest -duffer of the fourteenth century could be certain of the volumes and -quantities of his divisions. - -But it is with Leonardo da Vinci that the higher aspects of the -scientific spirit first came into conflict with art. Doubtless this -conflict is not fundamental nor final, but only an apparent result of -human limitations; but to one who, like Leonardo, first had a Pisgah -prospect of that immense territory, to the exploration of which four -centuries of the intensest human effort have been devoted without yet -getting in sight of its boundaries--to such a man it was almost -inevitable that the scientific content of art should assume an undue -significance. Up till Leonardo one can say that the process of digesting -the new found material into æsthetic form had kept pace with -observation, though already in Verrocchio there is a sign of yielding to -the crude phenomenon. But with Leonardo himself the organising faculty -begins to break down under the stress of new matter. Leonardo himself -shared to the full the Florentine passion for abstraction, but it was -inevitable that he should be dazzled and fascinated by the vast -prospects that opened before his intellectual gaze. It was inevitable -that where such vast masses of new particulars revealed themselves to -his curiosity their claim for investigation should be the most -insistent. Not but what Leonardo did recognise the necessity for his art -of some restriction and choice. His keen observation had revealed to him -the whole gamut of atmospheric colour which first became a material for -design under Monet and his followers. But having described a picture -which would exactly correspond to a French painting of 1870, he rejects -the whole of this new material as unsuitable for art. But even his -rejection was not really a recognition of the claims of form, but only, -alas! of another scientific trend with which his mind had become -possessed. It was his almost prophetic vision of the possibilities of -psychology which determined more than anything else the lines of his -work. In the end almost everything was subordinated to the idea of a -kind of psychological illustration of dramatic themes--an illustration -which was not to be arrived at by an instinctive reconstruction from -within, but by deliberate analytic observation. Now in so far as the -movements of the soul could be interpreted by movements of the body as a -whole, the new material might lend itself readily to plastic -construction, but the minuter and even more psychologically significant -movements of facial expression demanded a treatment which hardly worked -for æsthetic unity. It involved a new use of light and shade, which in -itself tended to break down the fundamental divisions of design, though -later on Caravaggio and Rembrandt managed, not very successfully, to -pull it round so as to become the material for the basic rhythm. And in -any case the analytic trend of Leonardo’s mind became too much -accentuated to allow of a successful synthesis. Michelangelo, to some -extent, and Raphael still more, did, of course, do much to re-establish -a system of design on an enlarged basis which would admit of some of -Leonardo’s new content, but one might hazard the speculation that -European art has hardly yet recovered from the shock which Leonardo’s -passion for psychological illustration delivered. Certainly literalism -and illustration have through all these centuries been pressing dangers -to art--dangers which it has been the harder to resist in that they -allow of an appeal to that vast public to whom the language of form is -meaningless. - -In Florentine art, then, one may see at happy moments of equilibrium the -supreme advantages of intellectual art and at other and less fortunate -moments the dangers which beset so difficult an endeavour. It was after -all a Florentine who made the best prophecy of the results of modern -æsthetic when he said: “Finally good painting is a music and a melody -which intellect only can appreciate and that with difficulty.” - -[Illustration: - -Paolo Ucello. St. George and the Dragon Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate VIII.] - - - - -THE JACQUEMART-ANDRÉ COLLECTION[38] - - -The Jacquemart-André collection is not merely one of those accumulations -of the art of the past by which it has become the fashion for rich -people to impose themselves on the wonder of an ignorant public. It -shows that the lady who created it did so partly, at all events, because -of a quite personal and intimate love of beautiful things, a love which -did not have to seek for its justification and support in the opinion of -the world. - -The three pictures reproduced here are proof of the sincerity and -courage of Mdme. André’s artistic convictions. They offer scarcely any -foothold for the sentimental and associative understanding of pictures. -The “S. George” of Paolo Uccello (see Plate) might, it is true, be taken -as a “naïve,” “quaint,” or “primitive” rendering of an “old world” -legend--indeed, whilst I was admiring it I gathered from the comments of -those who lingered before it for a few seconds that this was the general -attitude--but to do so would be to misunderstand the picture completely. -Uccello, in fact, lends himself to misunderstanding, and Vasari, with -his eye to literary picturesqueness, has done his best to put us off the -scent. He made him an “original,” a harmless, ingenious, slightly -ridiculous crank, gifted, no doubt, but one whose gifts were wasted by -reason of his crankiness. And the legend created by Vasari has stuck. -Uccello has always seemed to be a little aside from the main road of -art, an agreeable, amusing diversion, one that we can enjoy with a -certain humorous and patronising detachment, as we enjoy the innocence -of some mediæval chronicler. Uccello, I admit, has lent himself to this -misunderstanding because from every other point of view but that of pure -design he comes up to the character Vasari has made current. No artist -was ever so helpless as he at the dramatic presentment of his theme. -Nothing can well be imagined less like a battle than his battle pieces, -nor if we think of the Deluge would our wildest fancies have ever -conceived anything remotely resembling the scene which he painted with -such literal precision, with such a mass of inconclusive and improbable -invention, in the Chiostro Verde of Sta. Maria Novella. - -The idea of verisimilitude is entirely foreign to him. And here comes in -the oddity and irony of his situation. He was the first or almost the -first great master of linear perspective. The study of perspective -became so engrossing to him that according to Vasari it wasted his -talent as an artist. - -Now perspective is the scientific statement of the nature of visual -appearance. To the modern artist it becomes an occasional assistance in -giving to his images an air of verisimilitude. Wherever a strict -adherence to the laws of perspective would give to his objects a strange -or unlikely look he frankly neglects it. But to Uccello perspective -seemed, perhaps wrongly, to have an altogether different value. To him -it appears to have been a method of recreating a visual world. That is -to say, he took certain data of appearance from observation, and by -handling them according to the laws of perspective he created a world, -which, owing to the simplicity of his data and the rigid application of -his laws, has far less resemblance to what we see than his -contemporaries and predecessors had contrived by rule of thumb. Had he -taken the whole of the data of observed form the application of the laws -of perspective would have become impossible, and he would have been -thrown back upon imitative realism and the literal acceptance of -appearance. Such was indeed what happened to the painters of Flanders -and the north, and such has become the usual method of modern realistic -art. But nothing was more abhorrent to the spirit of fifteenth-century -Florence than such an acceptance of the merely casual, and nothing is -more fundamentally opposed to the empirical realism of a Van Eyck or a -Frith than the scientific and abstract realism of Paolo Uccello. - -This passion, then, for an abstract and theoretical completeness of -rendering led Uccello to simplify the data of observed form to an -extraordinary extent, and his simplification anticipates in a curious -way that of the modern cubists, as one may see from the treatment of his -horses in the National Gallery battle-piece. - -It is one of the curiosities of the psychology of the artist that he is -generally trying very hard to do something which has nothing to - -[Illustration: - -Baldovinetti. Virgin and Child Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate IX.] - -do with what he actually accomplishes; that the fundamental quality of -his work seems to come out unconsciously as a by-product of his -conscious activity. And so it was in Uccello’s case. If one had asked -him what his perspective was for, he would probably have said that when -once it was completely mastered it would enable the artist to create at -will any kind of visual whole, and that this would have the same -completeness, the same authenticity as an actual scene. As a matter of -fact such a conception is unrealisable; the problem is too complex for -solution in this way, and what happened to Uccello was that the -simplifications and abstractions imposed upon his observation of nature -by the desire to construct his whole scene perspectively, really set -free in him his power of a purely æsthetic organisation of form. And it -is this, in fact, that makes his pictures so remarkable. In the -Jacquemart-André picture, for instance, we see how the complex whole -which such a scene as the legend of S. George suggests is reduced to -terms of astounding simplicity; saint, horse, dragon, princess are all -seen in profile because the problems of representation had to be -approached from their simplest aspect. The landscape is reduced to a -system of rectilinear forms seen at right angles to the picture plane -for the same reason. - -And out of the play of these almost abstract forms mainly rectangular, -with a few elementary curves repeated again and again, Uccello has -constructed the most perfect, the most amazingly subtle harmony. In -Uccello’s hands painting becomes almost as abstract, almost as pure an -art as architecture. And as his feeling for the interplay of forms, the -rhythmic disposition of planes, was of the rarest and finest, the most -removed from anything trivial or merely decorative (in the vulgar -sense), he passes by means of this power of formal organisation into a -region of feeling entirely remote from that which is suggested if we -regard his work as mere illustration. Judged as illustration the “S. -George” is quaint, innocent and slightly childish; as design it must -rank among the great masterpieces. - -Two other pictures in the Jacquemart-André collection illustrate the -same spirit of uncompromising æsthetic adventure which distinguishes one -branch of the Florentine school of the fifteenth century, and lifts it -above almost all that was being attempted elsewhere in Italy even at -this period of creative exuberance. - -Baldovinetti was at one time in close contact with Uccello, and of all -his works the “Madonna and Child” in the Jacquemart-André collection is -the most heroically uncompromising (Plate IX). No doubt he accepted more -material directly from nature than Uccello did. He was beginning to -explore the principles of atmospheric perspective which were destined -ultimately to break up the unity of pictorial design, but everything -that he takes is used with the same spirit of obedience to the laws of -architectonic harmony. The spacing of this design, the relations of -volume of the upright mass of the Virgin’s figure to the spaces of sky -and landscape have the unmistakable interdependence of great design. -Only a great creative artist could have discovered so definite a -relationship. The great mass of the rocky hill in the landscape and the -horizontal lines of the Child’s figure play into the central idea with -splendid effect. Only in the somewhat rounded and insensitive modelling -of the Virgin’s face does the weakness of Baldovinetti’s genius betray -itself. The contours are everywhere magnificently plastic; only when he -tries to create the illusion of plastic relief by modelling, -Baldovinetti becomes literal and uninspired. In his profile portrait in -the National Gallery he relies fortunately almost entirely on the -plasticity of the contour--in his late “Trinità” at the Accademia in -Florence the increasing desire for imitative realism has already gone -far to destroy this quality. - -The third picture (see Plate) which I have taken as illustrating my -theme is not, it is true, Florentine, but its author, Signorelli, kept -so constantly in touch with the scientific realists of Florence that he -may be counted almost as one of them, nor indeed did any of them surpass -him in uncompromising fidelity to the necessities of pure design. -Certainly there is nothing of the flattering or seductive qualities of -the common run of Umbrian art in this robust and audacious composition, -in which everything is arranged as it were concentrically around the -imposing mass of the Virgin’s figure. The gestures interpreted -psychologically are not on the same imaginative plane as the design -itself. Signorelli was ill at ease in interpreting any states but those -of great tension, and here the gestures are meant to be playful and -intimate. As in the Uccello, the illustrative pretext is at variance -with the design which it serves; and as in the Uccello, the design -itself, the scaffolding of the architectonic structure, is really what -counts. - -[Illustration: - -Signorelli. Holy Family Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate X.] - - - - -DÜRER AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES[39] - - -It is a habit of the human mind to make to itself symbols in order to -abbreviate its admiration for a class. So Dürer has come to stand for -German art somewhat as Raphael once stood for Italian. Such symbols -attract to themselves much of the adoration which more careful -worshippers would distribute over the Pantheon, and it becomes difficult -to appreciate them justly without incurring the charge of iconoclasm. -But this, in Dürer’s case, is the more difficult because, whatever one’s -final estimate of his art, his personality is at once so imposing and so -attractive, and has been so endeared to us by familiarity, that -something of this personal attachment has transferred itself to our -æsthetic judgment. - -The letters from Venice and the Diary of his journey in the Netherlands, -which form the matter of this volume, are indeed the singularly -fortunate means for this pleasant discourse with the man himself. They -reveal Dürer as one of the distinctively modern men of the Renaissance: -intensely, but not arrogantly, conscious of his own personality; -accepting with a pleasant ease the universal admiration of his genius--a -personal admiration, too, of an altogether modern kind; careful of his -fame as one who foresaw its immortality. They show him as having, though -in a far less degree, something of Leonardo da Vinci’s scientific -interest, certainly as having a quick, though naïve curiosity about the -world and a quite modern freedom from superstition. It is clear that his -dominating and yet kindly personality, no less than his physical beauty -and distinction, made him the centre of interest wherever he went. His -easy and humorous good-fellowship, of which the letters to Pirkheimer -are eloquent, won for him the admiring friendship of the best men of his -time. To all these characteristics we must add a deep and sincere -religious feeling, which led him to side with the leaders of the -Reformation, a feeling that comes out in his passionate sense of loss -when he thinks that Luther is about to be put to death, and that -prompted him to write a stirring letter to Erasmus, in which he urged -him to continue the work of reform. For all that, there is no trace in -him of either Protestantism or Puritanism. He was perhaps -fortunate--certainly as an artist he was fortunate--in living at a time -when the line of cleavage between the Reformers and the Church was not -yet so marked as to compel a decisive choice. The symbolism of the -Church still had for him its old significance, as yet quickened and not -discredited by the reformer’s energy. But intense as Dürer’s devotion -was, his religious feeling found its way to effective artistic -expression only upon one side, namely, the brooding sense which -accompanied it, of the imminence and terror of death. How much more -definite is the inspiration in the drawing of “Death on a Horse” (in the -British Museum), in the “Knight, Death and the Devil,” and in the allied -“Melancholia,” than it is in his renderings of the Virgin or indeed of -any of the scenes of Christian legend! It is this feeling, too, which -gives to his description of his mother’s death its almost terrible -literary beauty and power. Nor in the estimate of Dürer’s character must -one leave out the touching affection and piety which the family history -written by him in 1524 reveals. - -So much that is attractive and endearing in the man cannot but react -upon our attitude to his work--has done so, perhaps, ever since his own -day; and it is difficult to get far enough away from Dürer the man to be -perfectly just to Dürer the artist. But if we make the attempt, it -becomes clear, I think, that Dürer cannot take rank in the highest class -of creative geniuses. His position is none the less of great importance -and interest for his relation on the one hand to the Gothic tradition of -his country, and on the other to the newly perceived splendours of the -Italian Renaissance. - -Much must depend on our estimate of his last work, the “Four Apostles,” -at Munich. In that he summed up all that the patient and enthusiastic -labour of a lifetime had taught him. If we regard that as a work of the -highest beauty, if we can conscientiously put it beside the figures of -the Sistine Chapel, beside the Saints of Mantegna, or Signorelli, or -Piero della Francesca, then indeed Dürer’s labour was crowned with -success; but if we find in it rather a careful exposition of certain -theoretical principles, if we find that the matter is not entirely -transfused with the style, if we find a conflict between a certain naïve -crudity of vision and a straining after the grand manner, then we have -to say that Dürer’s art was the outcome of a magnificent and heroic but -miscalculated endeavour. - -It is one of the ironies of history that the Romans, the only Philistine -people among Mediterranean races, should have been the great means of -transmitting to the modern world that culture which they themselves -despised, and that the Germans should have laboured so long and hard to -atone for the heroism of their ancestors in resisting that beneficent -loss of liberty. Nuremberg of the fifteenth century was certainly given -over to the practice of fine art with a pathetic enthusiasm, and it -remains as a sad but instructive proof of how little good-will and -industry avail by themselves in such matters. The worship of mere -professional skill and undirected craftsmanship is there seen pushed to -its last conclusions, and the tourist’s wonder is prompted by the sight -of stone carved into the shapes of twisted metal, and wood simulating -the intricacies of confectionery, his admiration is canvassed by every -possible perversion of technical dexterity. Not “What a thing is done!” -but, “How difficult it must have been to do it!” is the exclamation -demanded. - -Of all that perverted technical ingenuity which flaunts itself in the -wavering stonework of a Kraft or the crackling woodwork of a Storr, -Dürer was inevitably the heir. He grew up in an atmosphere where the -acrobatic feats of technique were looked on with admiration rather than -contempt. Something of this clung to him through life, and he is always -recognised as the prince of craftsmen, the consummate technician. In all -this side of Dürer’s art we recognise the last over-blown efflorescence -of the mediæval craftsmanship of Germany, of the apprentice system and -the “master” piece; but that Gothic tradition had still left in it much -that was sound and sincere. Drawing still retained something of the -blunt, almost brutal frankness of statement, together with the sense of -the characteristic which marked its earlier period. And it is perhaps -this inheritance of Gothic directness of statement, this Gothic realism, -that accounts for what is ultimately of most value in Dürer’s work. -There exists in the Kunsthistorisches Akademie at Vienna a painting of a -man, dated 1394, which shows how much of Dürer’s portraiture was -already implicit in the Nuremberg school. In this remarkable work, -executed, if we may trust the date, nearly a century before Dürer, there -is almost everything that interests us in Dürer’s portraits. Indeed, it -has to an even greater extent that half-humorous statement of the -characteristic, that outrageous realism that makes the vivid appeal of -the Oswold Krell, and the absence of which in Dürer’s last years makes -the Holtschuer such a tiresome piece of brilliant delineation. - -Dürer was perhaps the greatest infant prodigy among painters, and the -drawing of himself at the age of twelve shows how early he had mastered -that simple and abrupt sincerity of Gothic draughtsmanship. One is -inclined to say that in none of his subsequent work did he ever surpass -this in all that really matters, in all that concerns the essential -vision and its adequate presentment. He increased his skill until it -became the wonder of the world and entangled him in its seductions; his -intellectual apprehension was indefinitely heightened, and his knowledge -of natural appearances became encyclopædic. - -What, then, lies at the root of Dürer’s art is this Gothic sense of the -characteristic, already menaced by the professional bravura of the late -Gothic craftsman. The superstructure is what Dürer’s industry and -intellectual acquisitiveness, acting in the peculiar conditions of his -day, brought forth. It is in short what distinguishes him as the pioneer -of the Renaissance in Germany. This new endeavour was in two directions, -one due mainly to the trend of native ideas, the other to Italian -influence. The former was concerned mainly with a new kind of realism. -In place of the older Gothic realism with its naïve and self-confident -statement of the salient characteristic of things seen, this new realism -strove at complete representation of appearance by means of perspective, -at a more searching and complete investigation of form, and a fuller -relief in light and shade. - -To some extent these aims were followed also by the Italians, and with -even greater scientific ardour: all the artists of Europe were indeed -striving to master the complete power of representation. But in Italy -this aim was never followed exclusively; it was constantly modified and -controlled by the idea of design, that is to say, of expression by means -of the pure disposition of contours and masses, and by the perfection -and ordering of linear rhythm. This notion of design as something other -than representation was indeed the common inheritance of European art -from the mediæval world, but - -[Illustration: - -Rembrandt. Calumny of Apelles, after Mantegna British Museum] - -[Illustration: - -Mantegna. Calumny of Apelles British Museum] - -[Illustration: - -Dürer. Calumny of Apelles British Museum - -Plate XI.] - -in Italy the principles of design were more profoundly embedded in -tradition, its demands were more clearly felt, and each succeeding -generation was quite as deeply concerned with the perfection of design -as with the mastery of representation. In the full Renaissance, indeed, -this idea of design became the object of fully conscious and deliberate -study, and the decadence of Italian art came about, not through -indifference to the claims of artistic expression, but through a too -purely intellectual and conscious study of them. The northern and -especially the Teutonic artists, who had not inherited so strongly this -architectonic sense, made indeed heroic efforts to acquire it, sometimes -by the futile method of direct imitation of a particular style, -sometimes--and this is the case with Dürer--by a serious effort of -æsthetic intelligence. But on the whole the attempt must be judged to -have failed, and northern art has drifted gradually towards the merely -photographic vision. - -Dürer strove strenuously in both these directions. He unquestionably -added immensely to the knowledge of actual form and to the power of -representation, but his eagerness led him to regard quantity of form -rather than its quality. With him drawing became a means of making -manifest the greatest possible amount of form, the utmost roundness of -relief, and his studies in pure design failed to keep pace with this. In -the end he could not use to significant purpose the increased material -at his disposal, and from the point of view of pure design his work -actually falls short of that of his predecessor, Martin Schongauer, who -indeed was benefited by lacking Dürer’s power of representation. - -From this point of view it may be worth while to examine in some detail -Dürer’s relations to Italian art. The earliest definite example of his -study of Italian art is in 1494, when he was probably in Venice for the -first time. It is a copy in pen and ink of an engraving of the “Death of -Orpheus” by some follower of Mantegna. The engraving is not the work of -a great artist, and Dürer’s copy shows his superior skill in the -rendering of form; but even here he has failed to realise the beauty of -spatial arrangement in the original, and his desire to enrich the design -with many skilfully drawn and convincing details results in a distinct -weakening of the dramatic effect. Again, in the same year we have two -drawings from engravings, this time by Mantegna himself. It is easy to -understand that of all Italians, Mantegna should have been the most -sympathetic to Dürer, and that he should have regretted more than any -other ill-fortune of his life,--more even than the similar fate that -prevented his meeting Schongauer,--Mantegna’s death just when he was -setting out to Mantua to learn from the great master. What Dürer saw in -Mantegna was his clear decision of line and his richly patterned effect. -In his pen-and-ink copies he tries to surpass the original in both these -ways, and indeed the effect is of greater complexity, with more fullness -and roundness of form. Where Mantegna is content with a firm statement -of the generalised contour of a limb, Dürer will give a curve for each -muscle. There is in Dürer’s copies a mass of brilliant detail; each part -is in a sense more convincingly real; but in doing this something of the -unity of rhythm and the easy relations of planes has been lost, and on -the whole the balance is against the copyist. It is curious that when in -time Rembrandt came to copy Mantegna he took the other way, and actually -heightened the dramatic effect by minute readjustments of planning, and -by a wilful simplification of the line.[40] - -Dürer evidently felt a profound reverence for Mantegna’s designs, for he -has altered them but little, and one might well imagine that even Dürer -could scarcely improve upon such originals. But it is even more -instructive to study his work upon the so-called Tarocchi engravings. -Here the originals were not executed by an artist of first-rate ability, -though the designs have much of Cossa’s splendid style. Dürer seems, -therefore, to have felt no particular constraint about altering them. -His alterations (see Plate) show us clearly what it was that he saw in -the originals and what he missed. In all these figures Dürer gives -increased verisimilitude: his feet are like actual feet, not the -schematic abstract of a foot that contents the Italian engraver; his -poses are more casual, less formal and symmetrical; and his draperies -are more ingeniously disposed; but none the less, from the point of view -of the expression of imaginative truth, there is not one of Dürer’s -figures which equals the original, not one in which some essential part -of the idea is not missed or at least less clearly stated. In general -the continuity of the contour is lost sight of and the rhythm frittered -away. In the Pope, for instance, Dürer loses all the grave sedateness of -the original by breaking the symmetry of the pose, its - -[Illustration: - - Tarocchi print. Celestial sphere] - -[Illustration: - -Dürer: after same - -Plate XII.] - -squareness and immovable aplomb. And with this goes, in spite of the -increased verisimilitude, the sense of reality. In the “Knight and Page” -not only is the movement of the knight missed by correcting a distortion -in the original, but the balance of the composition is lost by -displacing the page. In the “Primum Mobile” (see Plate) the ecstatic -rush of the figure is lost by slight corrections of the pose and by -giving to the floating drapery too complicated a design. It would be -tedious to go through these copies in detail, but enough has been said -to show how hard it was for Dürer, absorbed by his new curiosity in -representation, to grasp those primary and elemental principles of -design which were inherent in the Italian tradition. - -About the same time we find Dürer studying both Pollajuolo and Lorenzo -di Credi. The copy of Pollajuolo is not a good example of Dürer’s art; -it certainly misses the tension and inner life of Pollajuolo’s nudes. -The Lorenzo di Credi, as might be expected, is in many ways more than -adequate to the original, though as compared even with Credi, Dürer has -not a clear sense of the correlation of linear elements in the design. - -The next stage in Dürer’s connection with Italian art is his intimacy -with Jacopo de’ Barbari, who was settled in Nuremberg. From 1500 to 1505 -this influence manifests itself clearly in Dürer’s work. Unfortunately -Barbari was too second-rate an artist to help him much in the principles -of design, though he doubtless stimulated him to pursue those scientific -investigations into the theory of human proportions which held out the -delusive hope of reducing art to a branch of mathematics. - -It was not, however, until his second visit to Venice that Dürer -realised the inferiority, at all events, of Barbari, and it was then -that, through his amiable relations with Giovanni Bellini, he came -nearer than at any other moment of his life to penetrating the mysteries -of Italian design. It is in the letters from Venice, written at this -time, that his connection with the Venetian artists is made clear, and a -study of those writings will be found to illuminate in a most -interesting way Dürer’s artistic consciousness, and help to answer the -question of how he regarded his own work when seen in comparison with -the Venetians, and in what manner the Venetians regarded this wonder -worker from the north. - - - - -EL GRECO[41] - - -Mr. Holmes has risked a good deal in acquiring for the nation the new El -Greco. The foresight and understanding necessary to bring off such a -_coup_ are not the qualities that we look for from a Director of the -National Gallery. Patriotic people may even be inclined to think that -the whole proceeding smacks too much of the manner in which Dr. Bode in -past ages built up the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, largely at the expense -of English collections. Even before the acquisition of the El Greco -there were signs that Mr. Holmes did not fully understand the importance -of “muddling through.” And now with the El Greco he has given the -British public an electric shock. People gather in crowds in front of -it, they argue and discuss and lose their tempers. This might be -intelligible enough if the price were known to be fabulous, but, so far -as I am aware, the price has not been made known, so that it is really -about the picture that people get excited. And what is more, they talk -about it as they might talk about some contemporary picture, a thing -with which they have a right to feel delighted or infuriated as the case -may be--it is not like most old pictures, a thing classified and -museumified, set altogether apart from life, an object for vague and -listless reverence, but an actual living thing, expressing something -with which one has got either to agree or disagree. Even if it should -not be the superb masterpiece which most of us think it is, almost any -sum would have been well spent on a picture capable of provoking such -fierce æsthetic interest in the crowd. - -That the artists are excited--never more so--is no wonder, for here is -an old master who is not merely modern, but actually appears a good many -steps ahead of us, turning back to show us the way. Immortality if you -like! But the public--what is it that makes them “sit up” so -surprisingly, one wonders. What makes this El Greco “count” with them as -surely no Old Master ever did within memory? First, I suspect, the -extraordinary completeness of its realisation. Even the most casual -spectator, passing among pictures which retire discreetly behind their -canvases, must be struck by the violent attack of these forms, by a -relief so outstanding that by comparison the actual scene, the gallery -and one’s neighbours are reduced to the key of a Whistlerian Nocturne. -Partly, for we must face the fact, the melodramatic apparatus; the -“horrid” rocks, the veiled moon, the ecstatic gestures. Not even the -cinema star can push expression further than this. Partly, no doubt, the -clarity and the balanced rhythm of the design, the assurance and grace -of the handling; for, however little people may be conscious of it, -formal qualities do affect their reaction to a picture, though they may -pass from them almost immediately to its other implications. And -certainly here, if anywhere, formal considerations must obtrude -themselves even on the most unobservant. The extraordinary emphasis and -amplitude of the rhythm, which thus gathers up into a few sweeping -diagonals the whole complex of the vision, is directly exciting and -stimulating. It affects one like an irresistible melody, and makes that -organisation of all the parts into a single whole, which is generally so -difficult for the uninitiated, an easy matter for once. El Greco, -indeed, puts the problem of form and content in a curious way. The -artist, whose concern is ultimately and, I believe, exclusively with -form, will no doubt be so carried away by the intensity and completeness -of the design, that he will never even notice the melodramatic and -sentimental content which shocks or delights the ordinary man. It is -none the less an interesting question, though it is rather one of -artists’ psychology than of æsthetics, to inquire in what way these two -things, the melodramatic expression of a high-pitched religiosity and a -peculiarly intense feeling for plastic unity and rhythmic amplitude, -were combined in El Greco’s work; even to ask whether there can have -been any causal connection between them in the workings of El Greco’s -spirit. - -Strange and extravagantly individual as El Greco seems, he was not -really an isolated figure, a miraculous and monstrous apparition thrust -into the even current of artistic movement. He really takes his place -alongside of Bernini as the greatest exponent of the Baroque idea in -figurative art. And the Baroque idea goes back to Michelangelo. -Formally, its essence both in art and architecture was the utmost -possible enlargement of the unit of design. One can see this most easily -in architecture. To Bramante the façade of a palace was made up of a -series of storeys, each with its pilasters and windows related -proportionally to one another, but each a co-ordinate unit of design. To -the Baroque architect a façade was a single storey with pilasters going -the whole height, and only divided, as it were, by an afterthought into -subordinate groups corresponding to the separate storeys. When it came -to sculpture and painting the same tendency expressed itself by the -discovery of such movements as would make the parts of the body, the -head, trunk, limbs, merely so many subordinate divisions of a single -unit. Now to do this implied extremely emphatic and marked poses, though -not necessarily violent in the sense of displaying great muscular -strain. Such poses correspond as expression to marked and excessive -mental states, to conditions of ecstacy, or agony or intense -contemplation. But even more than to any actual poses resulting from -such states, they correspond to a certain accepted and partly -conventional language of gesture. They are what we may call rhetorical -poses, in that they are not so much the result of the emotions as of the -desire to express these emotions to the onlooker. - -When the figure is draped the Baroque idea becomes particularly evident. -The artists seek voluminous and massive garments which under the stress -of an emphatic pose take heavy folds passing in a single diagonal sweep -from top to bottom of the whole figure. In the figure of Christ in the -National Gallery picture El Greco has established such a diagonal, and -has so arranged the light and shade that he gets a statement of the same -general direction twice over, in the sleeve and in the drapery of the -thigh. - -Bernini was a consummate master of this method of amplifying the unit, -but having once set up the great wave of rhythm which held the figure in -a single sweep, he gratified his florid taste by allowing elaborate -embroidery in the subordinate divisions, feeling perfectly secure that -no amount of exuberance would destroy the firmly established scaffolding -of his design. - -Though the psychology of both these great rhetoricians is infinitely -remote from us, we tolerate more easily the gloomy and - -[Illustration: - -El Greco. Allegory Collection Zuloaga - -Plate XIII.] - -terrible extravagance of El Greco’s melodrama than the radiant -effusiveness and amiability of Bernini’s operas. - -But there is another cause which accounts for our profound difference of -feeling towards these two artists. Bernini undoubtedly had a great sense -of design, but he was also a prodigious artistic acrobat, capable of -feats of dizzying audacity, and unfortunately he loved popularity and -the success which came to him so inevitably. He was not fine enough in -grain to distinguish between his great imaginative gifts and the -superficial virtuosity which made the crowd, including his Popes, gape -with astonishment. Consequently he expressed great inventions in a -horribly impure technical language. El Greco, on the other hand, had the -good fortune to be almost entirely out of touch with the public--one -picture painted for the king was sufficient to put him out of court for -the rest of his life. And in any case he was a singularly pure artist, -he expressed his idea with perfect sincerity, with complete indifference -to what effect the right expression might have on the public. At no -point is there the slightest compromise with the world; the only issue -for him is between him and his idea. Nowhere is a violent form softened, -nowhere is the expressive quality of brushwork blurred in order to give -verisimilitude of texture; no harshness of accent is shirked, no crudity -of colour opposition avoided, wherever El Greco felt such things to be -necessary to the realisation of his idea. It is this magnificent courage -and purity, this total indifference to the expectations of the public, -that bring him so near to us to-day, when more than ever the artist -regards himself as working for ends unguessed at by the mass of his -contemporaries. It is this also which accounts for the fact that while -nearly every one shudders involuntarily at Bernini’s sentimental -sugariness, very few artists of to-day have ever realised for a moment -how unsympathetic to them is the literary content of an El Greco. They -simply fail to notice what his pictures are about in the illustrative -sense. - -But to return to the nature of Baroque art. The old question here turns -up. Did the dog wag his tail because he was pleased, or was he pleased -because his tail wagged? Did the Baroque artists choose ecstatic -subjects because they were excited about a certain kind of rhythm, or -did they elaborate the rhythm to express a feeling for extreme emotional -states? There is yet another fact which complicates the matter. Baroque -art corresponds well enough in time with the Catholic reaction and the -rise of Jesuitism, with a religious movement which tended to dwell -particularly on these extreme emotional states, and, in fact, the -Baroque artists worked in entire harmony with the religious leaders. - -This would look as though religion had inspired the artists with a -passion for certain themes, and the need to express these had created -Baroque art. - -I doubt if it was as simple as that. Some action and reaction between -the religious ideas of the time and the artists’ conception there may -have been, but I think the artists would have elaborated the Baroque -idea without this external pressure. For one thing, the idea goes back -behind Michelangelo to Signorelli, and in his case, at least, one can -see no trace of any preoccupation with those psychological states, but -rather a pure passion for a particular kind of rhythmic design. -Moreover, the general principle of the continued enlargement of the unit -of design was bound to occur the moment artists recovered from the -debauch of naturalism of the fifteenth century and became conscious -again of the demands of abstract design. - -In trying thus to place El Greco’s art in perspective, I do not in the -least disparage his astonishing individual force. That El Greco had to -an extreme degree the quality we call genius is obvious, but he was -neither so miraculous nor so isolated as we are often tempted to -suppose. - -The exuberance and abandonment of Baroque art were natural expressions -both of the Italian and Spanish natures, but they were foreign to the -intellectual severity of the French genius, and it was from France, and -in the person of Poussin, that the counterblast came. He, indeed, could -tolerate no such rapid simplification of design. He imposed on himself -endless scruples and compunctions, making artistic unity the reward of a -long process of selection and discovery. His art became difficult and -esoteric. People wonder sometimes at the diversity of modern art, but it -is impossible to conceive a sharper opposition than that between Poussin -and the Baroque. It is curious, therefore, that modern artists should be -able to look back with almost equal reverence to Poussin and to El -Greco. In part, this is due to Cézanne’s influence, for, from one point -of view, his art may be regarded as a synthesis of these two apparently -adverse conceptions of design. For Cézanne consciously studied both, -taking from Poussin his discretion and the subtlety of his rhythm, and -from El Greco his great discovery of the permeation of every part of the -design with a uniform and continuous plastic theme. The likeness is -indeed sometimes startling. One of the greatest critics of our time, von -Tschudi--of Swiss origin, I hasten to add, and an enemy of the -Kaiser--was showing me El Greco’s “Laocoon,” which he had just bought -for Munich, when he whispered to me, as being too dangerous a doctrine -to be spoken aloud even in his private room, “Do you know why we admire -El Greco’s handling so much? Because it reminds us of Cézanne.” - -No wonder, then, that for the artist of to-day the new El Greco is of -capital importance. For it shows us the master at the height of his -powers, at last perfectly aware of his personal conception and daring to -give it the completest, most uncompromising expression. That the picture -is in a marvellous state of preservation and has been admirably cleaned -adds greatly to its value. Dirty yellow varnish no longer interposes -here its hallowing influence between the spectator and the artist’s -original creation. Since the eye can follow every stroke of the brush, -the mind can recover the artist’s gesture and almost the movements of -his mind. For never was work more perfectly transparent to the idea, -never was an artist’s intention more deliberately and precisely -recorded. - - - - -THREE PICTURES IN TEMPERA BY WILLIAM BLAKE[42] - - -Blake’s finished pictures have never received the same attention nor -aroused the same admiration as his wash-drawings, his wood-cuts, or his -engravings. It is difficult to account for this comparative neglect, -since they not only show command of a technique which admits of the -completest realisation of the idea, but they seem actually to express -what was personal to Blake in a purer form than many of his other works, -with less admixture of those unfortunate caprices which the false -romantic taste of his day imposed too often even on so original and -independent a genius. The explanation may perhaps lie in the fact that -to most people Blake, for all his inimitable gifts, appears as a -divinely inspired amateur rather than as a finished master of his art, -and they are willing to tolerate what they regard as his imperfect -control of form in media which admit only of hints and suggestions of -the artist’s vision. - -There assuredly never was a more singular, more inexplicable phenomenon -than the intrusion, as though by direct intervention of Providence, of -this Assyrian spirit into the vapidly polite circles of -eighteenth-century London. The fact that, as far as the middle classes -of England were concerned, Puritanism had for a century and a half -blocked every inlet and outlet of poetical feeling and imaginative -conviction save one, may give us a clue to the causes of such a -phenomenon. It was the devotion of Puritan England to the Bible, to the -Old Testament especially, that fed such a spirit as Blake’s directly -from the sources of the most primeval, the vastest and most abstract -imagery which we possess. Brooding on the vague and tremendous images of -Hebrew and Chaldæan poetry, he arrived at such indifference to the -actual material world, at such an intimate perception of the elemental -forces which sway the spirit with immortal hopes and infinite terrors -when it is most withdrawn from its bodily conditions, that what was -given to his internal vision became incomparably more definite, more -precisely and more clearly articulated, than anything presented to his -senses. His forms are the visible counterparts to those words, like _the -deep, many waters_, _firmament_, _the foundations of the earth_, _pit_ -and _host_, whose resonant overtones blur and enrich the sense of the -Old Testament. Blake’s art moves us, if at all, by a similar evocation -of vast elemental forces. He deals directly with these spiritual -sensations, bringing in from external nature the least possible content -which will enable him to create visible forms at all. But though he -pushed them to their furthest limits, even he could not transcend the -bounds which beset pictorial language; even he was forced to take -something of external nature with him into his visionary world, and his -wildest inventions are but recombinations and distorted memories of the -actual objects of sense. - -By the strangest irony, too, the forms which came to his hand as the -readiest means of expressing his stupendous conceptions were in -themselves the least expressive, the least grandiose, that ever art has -dealt with. It was with the worn-out rags of an effete classical -tradition long ago emptied of all meaning, and given over to turgid -rhetorical display, that Blake had to piece together the visible -garments of his majestic and profound ideas. The complete obsession of -his nature by these ideas in itself compelled him to this: he was -entirely without curiosity about such trivial and ephemeral things as -the earth contained. His was the most anti-Hellenic temperament; he had -no concern, either gay or serious, with phenomena; they were too -transparent to arrest his eye, and that patient and scientific quarrying -from the infinite possibilities of nature of just the appropriate forms -to convey his ideas was beyond the powers with which nature and the poor -traditions of his day supplied him. Tintoretto, who had in some respects -a similar temperament, who felt a similar need of conveying directly the -revelations of his internal vision, was more happily situated. He was, -by comparison, a trivial and vulgar seer, but the richness and -expressive power of the forms which lay to his hand in Titian’s and -Michelangelo’s art enabled him to attain a more unquestionable -achievement. - -But, allowing for circumstances, what Blake did was surely more -considerable and implied a greater sheer lift of imaginative effort. -That it was an attempt which remained almost without consequences, -isolated and incomplete--marred, too, by a certain incoherence and want -of reasonable co-ordination--must be allowed, and may perhaps explain -why Blake is not universally admitted among our greatest. - -The Byzantine style, he declares, was directly and divinely revealed to -him; and whether this were so, or whether he obtained it by the dim -indications of Ottley’s prints, or through illuminated manuscripts, the -marvellous fact remains that he did succeed in recovering for a moment -that pristine directness and grandeur of expression which puts him -beside the great Byzantine designers as the only fit interpreter of -Hebrew mythology. His “Flight into Egypt”[43] will at once recall -Giotto’s treatment of the subject in the Arena chapel at Padua; but the -likeness is, in a sense, deceptive, for Giotto was working away from -Byzantinism as fast as Blake was working towards it, and the two pass -one another on the road. For there is here but little of Giotto’s tender -human feeling, less still of his robust rationalism; what they have in -common, what Blake rediscovered and Giotto inherited, is the sentiment -of supernatural dignity, the hieratic solemnity and superhuman -purposefulness of the gestures. Even more than in Giotto’s version, the -Virgin here sits on the ass as though enthroned in monumental state, her -limbs fixed in the rigid symmetry which oriental art has used to express -complete withdrawal from the world of sense. No less perfect in its -expressiveness of the strange and exalted mood is the movement, repeated -with such impressive monotony, in the figures of Joseph and the -archangel. It is absurd, we think, to deny to the man who discovered the -lines of these figures the power of draughtsmanship. Since Giotto’s day -scarcely any one has drawn thus--simplification has been possible only -as the last effort of consummate science refining away the superfluous; -but here the simplification of the forms is the result of an instinctive -passionate reaching out for the direct symbol of the idea. - -Blake’s art indeed is a test case for our theories of æsthetics. It -boldly makes the plea for art that it is a language for conveying -impassioned thought and feeling, which takes up the objects of sense - -[Illustration: - -Blake. Bathsheba Tate Gallery - -Plate XIV.] - -as a means to this end, owing them no allegiance and accepting from them -only the service that they can render for this purpose. “Poetry,” says -Blake, “consists in bold, daring, and masterly conceptions; and shall -painting be confined to the sordid drudgery of facsimile representations -of merely mortal and perishing substances, and not be, as poetry and -music are, elevated into its own proper sphere of invention and -visionary conception?” The theory that art appeals solely by the -associated ideas of the natural objects it imitates is easily refuted -when we consider music and architecture; in those at least the appeal to -the spirit is made directly in a language which has no other use than -that of conveying its own proper ideas and feelings. But in pictorial -art the fallacy that nature is the mistress instead of the servant seems -almost ineradicable, and it is difficult to convince people that -increased scientific investigation of phenomena, increased knowledge of -how things present themselves to our sight, changes the mode, but does -not necessarily increase the power, of pictorial expression. The -Byzantine artists, with a knowledge of appearances infinitely less than -that of the average art student of to-day, could compass the expression -of imaginative truths which our most accomplished realists dare not -attempt. The essential power of pictorial as of all other arts lies in -its use of a fundamental and universal symbolism, and whoever has the -instinct for this can convey his ideas, though possessed of only the -most rudimentary knowledge of the actual forms of nature; while he who -has it not can by no accumulation of observed facts add anything to the -spiritual treasure of mankind. Of this language of symbolic form in -which the spirit communicates its most secret and indefinable impulses -Blake was an eloquent and persuasive master. He could use it, too, to -the most diverse ends; and though the sublimity which is based upon -dread came most readily to his mind, he could express, as we have seen -in the “Flight into Egypt,” the sublimity of divine introspection. In -the “David and Bathsheba” (see Plate) he touches a different note, and -he shows his true power of symbolic expression in this, that it is not -by the treatment of the figure itself, not by any ordinary sensual -enticements, that he gives the atmosphere of voluptuous abandonment. It -is rather in the extravagant tropical flowers, in the architecture which -itself blossoms with oriental exuberance, in the fiery orange of the -clouds seen behind trees preternaturally virid, that the spirit is -bewildered with anticipations of extravagant bliss. The picture might be -described in Blake’s own terminology as the mental abstract of -voluptuousness. - -All art gives us an experience freed from the disturbing conditions of -actual life. Blake’s art, more concentrated than most, gives us an -experience which is removed more entirely from bodily and physiological -accompaniments, and our experience has the purity, the intensity, and -the abstraction of a dream. - - - - -CLAUDE[44] - - -In spite of all the attacks of critics, in spite of the development of -emphasis and high flavour in modern romantic landscape, which might well -have spoilt us for his cool simplicity, Claude still lives, not, indeed, -as one of the gods of the sale-room, but in the hearts of contemplative -and undemonstrative people. This is surely an interesting and -encouraging fact. It means that a very purely artistic and poetical -appeal still finds its response in the absence of all subsidiary -interests and attractions. The appeal is, indeed, a very limited one, -touching only certain highly self-conscious and sophisticated moods, but -it is, within its limits, so sincere and so poignant that Claude’s very -failings become, as it were, an essential part of its expression. These -failings are, indeed, so many and so obvious that it is not to be -wondered at if, now and again, they blind even a sensitive nature like -Ruskin’s to the fundamental beauty and grandeur of Claude’s revelation. -But we must be careful not to count as failings qualities which are -essential to the particular kind of beauty that Claude envisages, -though, to be quite frank, it is sometimes hard to make up one’s mind -whether a particular characteristic is a lucky defect or a calculated -negation. Take, for instance, the peculiar _gaucherie_ of his -articulations. Claude knows less, perhaps, than any considerable -landscape painter--less than the most mediocre of modern -landscapists--how to lead from one object to another. His foregrounds -are covered with clumsily arranged leaves which have no organic growth, -and which, as often as not, lie on the ground instead of springing from -it. His trees frequently isolate themselves helplessly from their parent -soil. In particular, when he wants a _repoussoir_ in the foreground at -either end of his composition he has recourse to a clumsily constructed -old bare trunk, which has little more meaning than a stage property. -Even in his composition there are _naïvetés_ which may or may not be -intentional: sometimes they have the happiest effect, at others they -seem not childlike but childish. Such, for instance, is his frequent -habit of dividing spaces equally, both vertically and horizontally, -either placing his horizontal line half-way up the picture, or a -principal building on the central vertical line. At times this seems the -last word of a highly subtilised simplicity, of an artifice which -conceals itself; at others one cannot be sure that it is not due to -incapacity. There is, in fact, a real excuse for Ruskin’s exaggerated -paradox that Claude’s drawings look like the work of a child of ten. -There is a whole world of beauty which one must not look for at all in -Claude. All that beauty of the sudden and unexpected revelation of an -unsuspected truth which the Gothic and Early Renaissance art provides is -absent from Claude. As the eye follows his line it is nowhere arrested -by a sense of surprise at its representative power, nor by that peculiar -thrill which comes from the communication of some vital creative force -in the artist. Compare, for instance, Claude’s drawing of mountains, -which he knew and studied constantly, with Rembrandt’s. Rembrandt had -probably never seen mountains, but he obtained a more intimate -understanding by the light of his inner vision than Claude could ever -attain to by familiarity and study. We need not go to Claude’s figures, -where he is notoriously feeble and superficially Raphaelesque, in order -to find how weak was his hold upon character, whatever the object he set -himself to interpret. In the British Museum there is a most careful and -elaborate study of the rocky shores of a stream. Claude has even -attempted here to render the contorted stratification of the river-bed, -but without any of that intimate imaginative grasp of the tension and -stress which underlie the appearance which Turner could give in a few -hurried scratches. No one, we may surmise, ever loved trees more deeply -than Claude, and we know that he prided himself on his careful -observation of the difference of their specific characters; and yet he -will articulate their branches in the most haphazard, perfunctory -manner. There is nothing in all Claude’s innumerable drawings which -reveals the inner life of the tree itself, its aspirations towards air -and light, its struggle with gravitation and wind, as one little drawing -by Leonardo da Vinci does. - -All these defects might pass more easily in a turbulent romanticist, -hurrying pell mell to get expressed some moving and dramatic scene, -careless of details so long as the main movement were ascertained, but -there is none of this fire in Claude. It is with slow ponderation and -deliberate care that he places before us his perfunctory and generalised -statements, finishing and polishing them with relentless assiduity, and -not infrequently giving us details that we do not desire and which add -nothing but platitude to the too prolix statement. - -All this and much more the admirer of Claude will be wise to concede to -the adversary, and if the latter ask wherein the beauty of a Claude lies -he may with more justice than in any other case fall back on the reply -of one of Du Maurier’s æsthetes, “in the picture.” For there is -assuredly a kind of beauty which is not only compatible with these -defects but perhaps in some degree depends on them. We know and -recognise it well enough in literature. To take a random instance. -Racine makes Titus say in “Bérénice”: “De mon aimable erreur je suis -désabusé.” This may be a dull, weak, and colourless mode of expression, -but if he had said with Shakespeare, “Now old desire doth in his -death-bed lie, and young affection gapes to be his heir,” we should feel -that it would destroy the particular kind of even and unaccented harmony -at which Racine aimed. Robert Bridges, in his essay on Keats, very aptly -describes for literature the kind of beauty which we find in -Shakespeare: “the power of concentrating all the far-reaching resources -of language on one point, so that a single and apparently effortless -expression rejoices the æsthetic imagination at the moment when it is -most expectant and exacting.” That, _ceteris paribus_, applies admirably -to certain kinds of design. It corresponds to the nervous touch of a -Pollajuolo or a Rembrandt. But Claude’s line is almost nerveless and -dull. Even when it is most rapid and free it never surprises us by any -intimate revelation of character, any summary indications of the central -truth. But it has a certain inexpressive beauty of its own. It is never -elegant, never florid, and, above all, never has any ostentation of -cleverness. The beauty of Claude’s work is not to be sought primarily in -his drawing: it is not a beauty of expressive parts but the beauty of a -whole. It corresponds in fact to the poetry of his century--to Milton or -Racine. It is in the cumulative effect of the perfect co-ordination of -parts none of which is by itself capable of absorbing our attention or -fascinating our imagination that the power of a picture by Claude lies. -It is the unity and not the content that affects us. There is, of -course, content, but the content is only adequate to its purpose and -never claims our attention on its own account. The objects he presents -to us have no claim on him but as parts of a scheme. They have no life -and purpose of their own, and for that very reason it is right that they -should be stated in vague and general terms. He wishes a tree to convey -to the eye only what the word “tree” might suggest at once to the inner -vision. We think first of the mass of waving shade held up against the -brilliance of the sky, and this, even with all his detailed elaboration, -is about where Claude, whether by good fortune or design, leaves us. It -is the same with his rocks, his water, his animals. They are all made -for the mental imagery of the contemplative wanderer, not of the acute -and ardent observer. But where Claude is supreme is in the marvellous -invention with which he combines and recombines these abstract symbols -so as to arouse in us more purely than nature herself can the mood of -pastoral delight. That Claude was deeply influenced by Virgil one would -naturally suppose from his antiquarian classicism, and a drawing in the -British Museum shows that he had the idea of illustrating the Æneid. In -any case his pictures translate into the language of painting much of -the sentiment of Virgil’s Eclogues, and that with a purity and grace -that rival his original. In his landscapes Melibœus always leaves his -goats to repose with Daphnis under the murmuring shade, waiting till his -herds come of themselves to drink at the ford, or in sadder moods of -passionless regret one hears the last murmurs of the lament for Gallus -as the well-pastured goats turn homewards beneath the evening star. - -Claude is the most ardent worshipper that ever was of the _genius loci_. -Of his landscapes one always feels that “some god is in this place.” -Never, it is true, one of the greater gods: no mysterious and fearful -Pan, no soul-stirring Bacchus or all-embracing Demeter; scarcely, though -he tried more than once deliberately to invoke them, Apollo and the -Muses, but some mild local deity, the inhabitant of a rustic shrine -whose presence only heightens the glamour of the scene. - -[Illustration: - -Claude. Landscape Prado, Madrid - -Plate XV.] - -It is the sincerity of this worship, and the purity and directness of -its expression, which makes the lover of landscape turn with such -constant affection to Claude, and the chief means by which he -communicates it is the unity and perfection of his general design; it is -not by form considered in itself, but by the planning of his tone -divisions, that he appeals, and here, at least, he is a past master. -This splendid architecture of the tone masses is, indeed, the really -great quality in his pictures; its perfection and solidity are what -enables them to bear the weight of so meticulous and, to our minds, -tiresome an elaboration of detail without loss of unity, and enables us -even to accept the enamelled hardness and tightness of his surface. But -many people of to-day, accustomed to our more elliptical and -quick-witted modes of expression, are so impatient of these qualities -that they can only appreciate Claude’s greatness through the medium of -his drawings, where the general skeleton of the design is seen without -its adornments, and in a medium which he used with perfect ease and -undeniable beauty. Thus to reject the pictures is, I think, an error, -because it was only when a design had been exposed to constant -correction and purification that Claude got out of it its utmost -expressiveness, and his improvisations steadily grow under his critical -revision to their full perfection. But in the drawings, at all events, -Claude’s great powers of design are readily seen, and the study of the -drawings has this advantage also, that through them we come to know of a -Claude whose existence we could never have suspected by examining only -his finished pictures. - -In speaking of the drawings it is well to recognise that they fall into -different classes with different purposes and aims. We need not, for -instance, here consider the records of finished compositions in the -“Liber Veritatis.” There remain designs for paintings in all stages of -completeness, from the first suggestive idea to the finished cartoon and -the drawings from nature. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to remark -that it would have been quite foreign to Claude’s conception of his art -to have painted a picture from nature. He, himself, clearly -distinguished sharply between his studies and his compositions. His -studies, therefore, were not incipient pictures, but exercises done for -his own pleasure or for the fertility they gave to his subsequent -invention, and they have the unchecked spontaneity and freedom of hand -that one would expect in such unreflecting work. These studies again -fall into two groups: first, studies of detail, generally of foliage or -of tree forms, and occasionally of rocks and flowers; and secondly, -studies of general effects. Of the studies of detail I have already said -something. They have the charm of an easy and distinguished calligraphy, -and of a refined selection of the decorative possibilities of the things -seen, but without any of that penetrating investigation of their vital -nature which gives its chief beauty to the best work of this kind. - -It is, indeed, in the second group of studies from nature that we come -from time to time upon motives that startle and surprise us. We find in -these a susceptibility to natural charms which, in its width of range -and freedom from the traditional limitations of the art of landscape, -is most remarkable. Here we find not only Claude the prim -seventeenth-century classic, but Claude the romanticist, anticipating -the chief ideas of Corot’s later development,[45] and Claude the -impressionist, anticipating Whistler and the discovery of Chinese -landscape, as, for instance, in the marvellous _aperçu_ of a mist -effect, in the British Museum.[46] Or, again, in a view which is quite -different from any of these, but quite as remote from the Claude of the -oil-paintings, in the great view of the Tiber, a masterpiece of hurried, -almost unconscious planning of bold contrasts of transparent gloom and -dazzling light on water and plain. - -The impression one gets from looking through a collection of Claude’s -drawings like that at the British Museum is of a man without any keen -feeling for objects in themselves, but singularly open to impressions of -general effects in nature, watching always for the shifting patterns of -foliage and sky to arrange themselves in some beautifully significant -pattern and choosing it with fine and critical taste. But at the same -time he was a man with vigorous ideas of the laws of design and the -necessity of perfectly realised unity, and to this I suppose one must -ascribe the curious contrast between the narrow limits of his work in -oil as compared with the wide range, the freedom - -[Illustration: - -Claude. Water-colour British Museum - -Plate XVI.] - -and the profound originality of his work as a draughtsman. Among all -these innumerable effects which his ready susceptibility led him to -record he found but a few which were capable of being reduced to that -logical and mathematical formula which he demanded before complete -realisation could be tolerated. In his drawings he composes sometimes -with strong diagonal lines, sometimes with free and unstable balance. In -his pictures he has recourse to a regular system of polarity, balancing -his masses carefully on either side of the centre, sometimes even -framing it in like a theatrical scene with two _repoussoirs_ pushed in -on either side. One must suppose, then, that he approached the -composition of his pictures with a certain timidity, that he felt that -safety when working on a large scale could only be secured by a certain -recognised type of structure, so that out of all the various moods of -nature to which his sensitive spirit answered only one lent itself to -complete expression. One wishes at times that he had tried more. There -is in the British Museum a half-effaced drawing on blue paper, an idea -for treating the _Noli me tangere_ which, had he worked it out, would -have added to his complete mastery of bucolic landscape a masterpiece of -what one may call tragic landscape. It is true that here, as elsewhere, -the figures are in themselves totally inadequate, but they suggested an -unusual and intense key to the landscape. On the outskirts of a dimly -suggested wood, the figures meet and hold converse; to the right the -mound of Calvary glimmers pale and ghost-like against the night sky, -while over the distant city the first pink flush of dawn begins. It is -an intensely poetical conception. Claude has here created a landscape in -harmony with deeper, more mystical aspirations than elsewhere, and, had -he given free rein to his sensibilities, we should look to him even more -than we do now as the greatest inventor of the motives of pure -landscape. As it is, the only ideas to which he gave complete though -constantly varied expression are those of pastoral repose. - -Claude’s view of landscape is false to nature in that it is entirely -anthropocentric. His trees exist for pleasant shade; his peasants to -give us the illusion of pastoral life, not to toil for a living. His -world is not to be lived in, only to be looked at in a mood of pleasing -melancholy or suave reverie. It is, therefore, as true to one aspect of -human desire as it is false to the facts of life. It may be admitted -that this is not the finest kind of art--it is the art of a self-centred -and refined luxury which looks on nature as a garden to its own -pleasure-house--but few will deny its genial and moderating charm, and -few of us live so strenuously as never to feel a sense of nostalgia for -that Saturnian reign to which Virgil and Claude can waft us. - - - - -AUBREY BEARDSLEY’S DRAWINGS[47] - - -Messrs. Carfax have on view the most complete collection of Beardsley’s -drawings that has hitherto been shown. The development of his precocious -and eccentric genius can here be studied in typical examples. We have -the drawings of his childhood--drawings inspired by Dicky Doyle and -Robida, but in which is already apparent his proclivity to the -expression of moral depravity. We pass at a leap from these crude and -artistically feeble works to the astonishing “Siegfried,” in which he is -already a complete and assured master of an entirely personal style. - -From this time onwards, for the remaining six years of his life, -Beardsley kept on producing with the fertility of those artists whom the -presage of an early death stimulates to a desperate activity. His style -was constantly changing in accidentals, but always the same in -essentials. He was a confirmed eclectic, borrowing from all ages and all -countries. And true eclectic and genuine artist as he was, he converted -all his borrowings to his own purposes. It mattered nothing what he fed -on; the strange and perverse economy of his nature converted the food -into a poison. His line is based upon that of Antonio Pollajuolo. Again -and again in his drawings of the nude we see how carefully he must have -copied that master of structural and nervous line. But he uses it for -something quite other than its original purpose; he converts it from a -line expressive of muscular tension and virile force into one expressive -of corruption and decay. Mantegna, too, was a favourite with Beardsley, -who seems to have had a kind of craving for the opposites to his own -predominant qualities; and from Mantegna, the most austere of Italians, -he derived again and again motives for his illustrations of depravity. -The eighteenth century, China, Japan, even the purest Greek art, were -all pressed into his service; the only thing he could do nothing with -was nature itself. Here he was entirely at a loss, and whenever he -yielded to the pressure of contemporary fashions and attempted to record -impressions of things seen, as in the topical illustrations of plays -which he contributed to the _Pall Mall Magazine_, he failed to be even -mediocre. Everything that was to be in the least expressive had to come -entirely from within, from the nightmares of his own imagination. - -His amazing gift of hand is perhaps the quality which most obviously -attracts attention, the quality which endeared him most to publishers -and process-block makers. It was the one indisputable quality he -possessed, not to be denied by the most adverse critic, and yet in -itself it is no more than thousands of journeymen artists--engravers, -die-cutters, and such like--have always possessed. Nor, to be perfectly -frank, is the quality of his line of a very high order; its precision is -not unfrequently mechanical. Whistler called him the last of the -writing-masters, and there was a truth in this, if we may add that the -style of writing which he favoured was degenerate. His long, meandering -flourishes ending in sharp spikes and dots, however firm and precise the -line, are often mean in intention and poor in quality. What is deserving -of real admiration is the fertility of his invention, the skill with -which he finds the formula which corresponds, in his peculiar language, -with what he wants to describe. As an instance, one may take the garden -background to the “Platonic Lament” in the Salome series, where the rose -trellis and cut yew-tree behind are brilliant examples of this kind of -epitomised description. Still more important artistically, and closely -connected with this power of invention, is the real beauty of his -spacing, the admirable planning of masses of black and white. At times, -as in the “Dancer’s Reward,” he rises almost to the height of the great -Greek vase-painters in this respect, though, if we look even at this in -detail, the line has an intricacy, a _mesquinerie_, which is the very -opposite of the Greek ideal of draughtsmanship. - -No less remarkable is his success in the decorative planning of three -tones, of black, white, and grey, and he divides these with such subtle -skill that for once it is not a mere false analogy to talk of the colour -effect of designs in black and white; for he so disposes the three -tones, getting the grey by an evenly distributed network of fine black -lines, that each tone produces the sensation of something as distinct -from the others as do flat washes of different tints. The “Frontispiece -to Salome” is an excellent example of this. - -Beardsley had, then, in an extraordinary degree the decorative impulse, -the motive which made the mediæval scribe flourish his pen all over the -margins of his vellum page; and, spurred by this impulse, he had the -patience of an Indian craftsman, covering whole sheets with minute dots -and scarcely perceptible lines. This instinct in its purest form rarely -makes for the finest art; it is only when controlled by a larger, more -genial sentiment for architectural mass that it becomes ennobled, and -with Beardsley, in spite of the bold oppositions of his blacks and -whites, in spite of his occasional wilful simplification, this rarely -occurred. One might even argue that to some extent Beardsley’s moral -perversity actually prevented him, in spite of his extraordinary -specific talent for design, from ever becoming a great designer. It is -just that _mesquinerie_ of line, that littleness and intricacy of the -mere decorator, that love of elegance rather than beauty, which on -purely artistic grounds one finds to be his great failing, that he -cherished as a means of expressing his diabolism. But if Beardsley was -corrupt, he was certainly sincere in his corruption. There is no -suggestion in his work, as in that of some modern artists, like Señor -Zuloaga, that corruption is an affectation taken up in order to astonish -the _bourgeoisie_. Beardsley is never funny or amusing or witty; his -attempts in this direction are contemptible; still less is he voluptuous -or seductive; he is very serious, very much in earnest. There is even a -touch of hieratic austerity and pomp in his style, as becomes the -arch-priest of a Satanic cultus. He has, indeed, all the stigmata of the -religious artist--the love of pure decoration, the patient elaboration -and enrichment of surface, the predilection for flat tones and precision -of contour, the want of the sense of mass and relief, the extravagant -richness of invention. It is as the Fra Angelico of Satanism that his -work will always have an interest for those who are curious about this -recurrent phase of complex civilisations. But if we are right in our -analysis of his work, the finest qualities of design can never be -appropriated to the expression of such morbid and perverted ideals; -nobility and geniality of design are attained only by those who, -whatever their actual temperament, cherish these qualities in their -imagination. - - - - -THE FRENCH POST-IMPRESSIONISTS[48] - - -When the first Post-Impressionist Exhibition was held in these Galleries -two years ago the English public became for the first time fully aware -of the existence of a new movement in art, a movement which was the more -disconcerting in that it was no mere variation upon accepted themes but -implied a reconsideration of the very purpose and aim as well as the -methods of pictorial and plastic art. It was not surprising, therefore, -that a public which had come to admire above everything in a picture the -skill with which the artist produced illusion should have resented an -art in which such skill was completely subordinated to the direct -expression of feeling. Accusations of clumsiness and incapacity were -freely made, even against so singularly accomplished an artist as -Cézanne. Such darts, however, fall wide of the mark, since it is not the -object of these artists to exhibit their skill or proclaim their -knowledge, but only to attempt to express by pictorial and plastic form -certain spiritual experiences; and in conveying these, ostentation of -skill is likely to be even more fatal than downright incapacity. - -Indeed, one may fairly admit that the accusation of want of skill and -knowledge, while ridiculous in the case of Cézanne is perfectly -justified as regards one artist represented (for the first time in -England) in the present Exhibition, namely, Rousseau. Rousseau was a -customhouse officer who painted without any training in the art. His -pretensions to paint made him the butt of a great deal of ironic wit, -but scarcely any one now would deny the authentic quality of his -inspiration or the certainty of his imaginative conviction. Here then is -one case where want of skill and knowledge do not completely obscure, -though they may mar, expression. And this is true of all perfectly naïve -and primitive art. But most of the art here seen is neither naïve nor -primitive. It is the work of highly civilised and modern men trying to -find a pictorial language appropriate to the sensibilities of the modern -outlook. - -[Illustration: - - Henri-Matisse. The Tea Party - - Plate XVII.] - -[Illustration: - - Pablo Picasso. Still Life - - Miss Stein - - Plate XVIII.] - -Another charge that is frequently made against these artists is that -they allow what is merely capricious, or even what is extravagant and -eccentric, in their work--that it is not serious, but an attempt to -impose on the good-natured tolerance of the public. This charge of -insincerity and extravagance is invariably made against any new -manifestation of creative art. It does not of course follow that it is -always wrong. The desire to impose by such means certainly occurs, and -is sometimes temporarily successful. But the feeling on the part of the -public may, and I think in this case does, arise from a simple -misunderstanding of what these artists set out to do. The difficulty -springs from a deep-rooted conviction, due to long-established custom, -that the aim of painting is the descriptive imitation of natural forms. -Now, these artists do not seek to give what can, after all, be but a -pale reflex of actual appearance, but to arouse the conviction of a new -and definite reality. They do not seek to imitate form, but to create -form; not to imitate life, but to find an equivalent for life. By that I -mean that they wish to make images which by the clearness of their -logical structure, and by their closely-knit unity of texture, shall -appeal to our disinterested and contemplative imagination with something -of the same vividness as the things of actual life appeal to our -practical activities. In fact, they aim not at illusion but at reality. - -The logical extreme of such a method would undoubtedly be the attempt to -give up all resemblance to natural form, and to create a purely abstract -language of form--a visual music; and the later works of Picasso show -this clearly enough. They may or may not be successful in their attempt. -It is too early to be dogmatic on the point, which can only be decided -when our sensibilities to such abstract forms have been more practised -than they are at present. But I would suggest that there is nothing -ridiculous in the attempt to do this. Such a picture as Picasso’s “Head -of a Man” would undoubtedly be ridiculous if, having set out to make a -direct imitation of the actual model, he had been incapable of getting a -better likeness. But Picasso did nothing of the sort. He has shown in -his “Portrait of Mlle. L. B.” that he could do so at least as well as -any one if he wished, but he is here attempting to do something quite -different. - -No such extreme abstraction marks the work of Matisse. The actual -objects which stimulated his creative invention are recognisable -enough. But here, too, it is an equivalence, not a likeness, of nature -that is sought. In opposition to Picasso, who is pre-eminently plastic, -Matisse aims at convincing us of the reality of his forms by the -continuity and flow of his rhythmic line, by the logic of his space -relations, and, above all, by an entirely new use of colour. In this, as -in his markedly rhythmic design, he approaches more than any other -European to the ideals of Chinese art. His work has to an extraordinary -degree that decorative unity of design which distinguishes all the -artists of this school. - -Between these two extremes we may find ranged almost all the remaining -artists. On the whole the influence of Picasso on the younger men is -more evident than that of Matisse. With the exception of Braque none of -them push their attempts at abstraction of form so far as Picasso, but -simplification along these lines is apparent in the work of Derain, -Herbin, Marchand, and L’Hote. Other artists, such as Doucet and Asselin, -are content with the ideas of simplification of form as existing in the -general tradition of the Post-Impressionist movement, and instead of -feeling for new methods of expression devote themselves to expressing -what is most poignant and moving in contemporary life. But however -various the directions in which different groups are exploring the -newly-found regions of expressive form they all alike derive in some -measure from the great originator of the whole idea, Cézanne. And since -one must always refer to him to understand the origin of these ideas, it -has been thought well to include a few examples of his work in the -present Exhibition, although this year it is mainly the moderns, and not -the old masters, that are represented. To some extent, also, the absence -of the earlier masters in the exhibition itself is made up for by the -retrospective exhibition of Monsieur Druet’s admirable photographs. Here -Cézanne, Gauguin, and Van Gogh can be studied at least in the main -phases of their development. - -Finally, I should like to call attention to a distinguishing -characteristic of the French artists seen here, namely, the markedly -Classic spirit of their work. This will be noted as distinguishing them -to some extent from the English, even more perhaps from the Russians, -and most of all from the great mass of modern painting in every country. -I do not mean by Classic, dull, pedantic, traditional, - -[Illustration: - -Georges Rouault. Profile Author’s Collection - - Plate XIX.] - -reserved, or any of those similar things which the word is often made to -imply. Still less do I mean by calling them Classic that they paint -“Visits to Æsculapius” or “Nero at the Colosseum.” I mean that they do -not rely for their effect upon associated ideas, as I believe Romantic -and Realistic artists invariably do. - -All art depends upon cutting off the practical responses to sensations -of ordinary life, thereby setting free a pure and as it were disembodied -functioning of the spirit; but in so far as the artist relies on the -associated ideas of the objects which he represents, his work is not -completely free and pure, since romantic associations imply at least an -imagined practical activity. The disadvantage of such an art of -associated ideas is that its effect really depends on what we bring with -us: it adds no entirely new factor to our experience. Consequently, when -the first shock of wonder or delight is exhausted the work produces an -ever lessening reaction. Classic art, on the other hand, records a -positive and disinterestedly passionate state of mind. It communicates a -new and otherwise unattainable experience. Its effect, therefore, is -likely to increase with familiarity. Such a classic spirit is common to -the best French work of all periods from the twelfth century onwards, -and though no one could find direct reminiscences of a Nicholas Poussin -here, his spirit seems to revive in the work of artists like Derain. It -is natural enough that the intensity and singleness of aim with which -these artists yield themselves to certain experiences in the face of -nature may make their work appear odd to those who have not the habit of -contemplative vision, but it would be rash for us, who as a nation are -in the habit of treating our emotions, especially our æsthetic emotions, -with a certain levity, to accuse them of caprice or insincerity. It is -because of this classic concentration of feeling (which by no means -implies abandonment) that the French merit our serious attention. It is -this that makes their art so difficult on a first approach but gives it -its lasting hold on the imagination. - - NOTE.--At least one French artist of great merit was un-represented - at the Post-Impressionist Exhibitions--Georges Rouault, a fellow - pupil with Matisse of Gustave Moreau. He stands alone in the - movement as being a visionary, though, unlike most visionaries, his - expression is based on a profound knowledge of natural appearances. - The profile here reproduced (see Plate) will give an idea of his - strangely individual and powerful style. (1920.) - - - - -DRAWINGS AT THE BURLINGTON FINE ARTS CLUB[49] - - -The Burlington Fine Arts Club have arranged a most interesting -collection of drawings by dead masters. Abandoning the club’s usual -method of taking a particular period or country, the committee have this -time allowed their choice to range over many periods and countries, -excluding only living artists, and admitting one so recently dead as -Degas. This variety of material naturally stimulates one to hazard some -general speculations on the nature of drawing as an art. “H. T.,” who -writes the preface to the catalogue, already points the way in this -direction by some _obiter dicta_. He points out that the essence of -drawing is not the line, but its content. He says: - - A single line may mean nothing beyond a line; add another alongside - and both disappear, and we are aware only of the contents, and a - form is expressed. The beauty of a line is in its result in the - form which it helps to bring into being. - -Here the author has undoubtedly pointed out the most essential quality -of good drawing. I should dispute, rather by way of excessive caution, -his first statement, “A single line may mean nothing beyond a line,” -since a line is always at its least the record of a gesture, indicating -a good deal about its maker’s personality, his tastes and even probably -the period when he lived; but I entirely agree that the main point is -always the effect of two lines to evoke the idea of a certain volume -having a certain form. When “H. T.” adds that “Draughtsmen know this, -but writers on art do not seem to,” he seems to be too sweeping. Even so -bad a writer on art as Pliny had picked up the idea from a Greek art -critic, for in describing the drawing of Parrhasios he says:[50] - - By the admission of artists he was supreme in contour. This is the - last subtlety of painting; for to paint the main body and centres - of objects is indeed something of an achievement, but one in which - many have been famous, but to paint the edges of bodies and express - the disappearing planes is rare in the history of art. For the - contour must go round itself and so end that it promises other - things behind and shows that which it hides. - -This is an admirable account, since it gives the clue to the distinction -between descriptive drawing and drawing in which the contour does not -arrest the form, but creates plastic relief of the whole enclosed -volume. Now, this plastic drawing can never be attained by a mere -_description_ of the edges of objects. Such a description, however -exact, can at the utmost do no more than recall vividly the original -object; it cannot enable the spectator to realise its plastic volume -more clearly than the original object would. Now, when we look at a -really good drawing we do get a much more vivid sense of a plastic -volume than we get from actual objects. - -Unfortunately this is a very severe test to apply, and would, I think, -relegate to an inferior class the vast majority of drawings, even of -those in the present exhibition. The vast majority of drawings even by -the celebrated masters do appeal mainly by other more subsidiary -qualities, by the brightness of their descriptive power, and by the -elegance and facility of their execution. There is an undoubted pleasure -in the contemplation of mere skill, and there are few ways of -demonstrating sheer skill of hand more convincingly than the drawing of -a complex series of curves with perfect exactitude and great rapidity. -And when the curves thus brilliantly drawn describe vividly some object -in life towards which we have pleasing associations we get a complex -pleasure which is only too likely to be regarded as an æsthetic -experience when in fact it is nothing of the kind. - -The author of the preface has quite clearly seen that this element of -brilliance in the execution of the line does frequently come into play, -and he considers this calligraphic quality to be always a sign of a -lowered æsthetic purpose, citing Tiepolo quite rightly as a great master -of such qualities. And he quite rightly points out that with the -deliberate pursuit of calligraphy there is always a tendency to -substitute type forms for individual forms. On the other hand, all good -drawing also tends to create types, since a type results from the -synthetic unity of the design. The real question here would seem to be -the fulness or emptiness of the type created, and it would be fair to -say that the calligraphic draughtsman accepted most readily an empty -type. For instance, one would have to admit that Ingres created a type, -and repeated it as much as Tiepolo, only Ingres continually generated -his type of form upon actual material, whereas Tiepolo tended merely to -repeat his without enriching it with fresh material. - -The exhibition has been to some extent arranged around Ingres, and as -many of his drawings as possible have been collected. Ingres has long -been accepted in the schools as _par excellence_ the great modern master -of drawing. His great saying, “_Le dessin c’est la probité de l’art_,” -has indeed become a watchword of the schools and an excuse for -indulgence in a great deal of gratuitous and misplaced moral feeling. It -has led to the display of all kinds of pedagogic folly. Art is a passion -or it is nothing. It is certainly a very bad moral gymnasium. It is -useless to try to make a kind of moral parallel bars out of the art of -drawing. You will certainly spoil the drawing, and it is doubtful if you -will get the morals. Drawing is a passion to the draughtsman just as -much as colour is to the colourist, and the draughtsman has no reason to -feel moral superiority because of the nature of his passion. He is -fortunate to have it, and there is an end of the matter. Ingres himself -had the passion for draughtsmanship very intensely, though perhaps one -would scarcely guess it from the specimens shown in this exhibition. -These unfortunately are, with few exceptions, taken from that large -class of drawings which he did as a young man in Rome. He was already -married, and was poor. He was engaged on some of his biggest and most -important compositions, on which he was determined to spare no pains or -labour; consequently he found himself forced to earn his living by doing -these brilliant and minutely accurate portraits of the aristocratic -tourists and their families, who happened to pass through Rome. These -drawings bear the unmistakable mark of their origins. They are -commissions, and they are done to satisfy the sitter. Anything like -serious research for form is out of the question; there is little here -but Ingres’s extreme facility and a certain negative good taste. -Probably the only drawing - -[Illustration: - -Ingres. Apotheosis of Napoleon Le Vicomte d’Arcy - - Plate XX.] - -here which shows Ingres’s more serious powers is the tight, elaborate -and rather repellent study for the “Apotheosis of Napoleon,” which is a -splendid discovery of composition within a round (see Plate). But the -real fact is, I believe, that Ingres’s power as a draughtsman hardly -ever comes out fully in his drawings; one must turn to his paintings to -see how great and sincere a researcher he was. In his drawings he was -too much pre-occupied with the perfect description of facts; when he -came to the painting he began that endless process of readjustment and -balance of contours which make him so great and original a designer. If -one places his drawings and studies from the nude for, say, his “Venus -Anadyomene” beside the photograph of the picture one gets some idea of -the tireless and passionate research for the exact correspondence of the -contours on either side of the figure which Ingres undertook. He throws -over one by one all the brilliant notations of natural form in the -studies, and arrives bit by bit at an intensely abstract and simplified -statement of the general relations. But though the new statement is -emptied of its factual content, it has now become far more compact, far -more intense in its plasticity. Here and there among Ingres’s -innumerable drawings one may find a nude study in which already this -process of elimination and balance has taken place, but the examples are -rare, and if one would understand why Ingres is one of the great masters -of design, one must face the slightly repellent quality of his oil -paintings rather than allow oneself to be seduced by the elegance and -ease of his drawings. - -It would, I think, be possible to show that very few great designers -have attained to full expression in line. I suspect, indeed, that the -whole tradition of art in Europe, since about the end of the fifteenth -century, has been against such complete expression. If we compare the -great masterpieces of pure drawing such as the drawings of figures on -Persian pots of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and the few -remaining examples of drawings by the Italian primitives of the -fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, with the vast mass of European -drawings subsequent to that date, we see, I think, the contrast of aims -and purpose of the two groups. Somewhere about the time of Filippino -Lippi there was formulated an idea of drawing which has more or less -held the field ever since in art schools. - -As most drawing has centred in the human figure we may describe it in -relation to that, the more so that this view of drawing undoubtedly came -in with the study of anatomy. The general principle is that there are -certain cardinal facts about the figure, or points of cardinal -importance in the rendering of structure--the artist is trained to -observe these with special care, since they become the _points de -repère_ for his drawing. And since they are thus specially observed they -are noted with a special accent. When once the artist has learned to -grasp the relations of these _points de repère_ firmly he learns also to -pass from one to the other with great ease and rapidity, not to say with -a certain indifference as to what happens in the passage. By this method -the essentials of structure and movement of a figure are accurately -given and the whole statement can be made with that easy facility and -rapidity of line which gives a peculiar pleasure. Such drawing has the -merit of being at once structurally accurate and more or less -calligraphically pleasing. The most admired masters, such as Vandyke, -Watteau, even to some extent Rubens, all exhibit the characteristics of -such a conception. Now in the earlier kind of drawing there were no -recognised _points de repère_, no particular moments of emphasis; the -line was so drawn that at every point its relation to the opposed -contour was equally close, the tension so to speak was always across the -line and not along its direction. The essential thing was the position -of the line, not its quality, so that there was the less inclination to -aim at that easy rapidity which marks the later draughtsmanship. -Essentially, then, this earlier drawing was less descriptive and more -purely evocative of form. It may well be that the demands made upon the -artist by the closer study of nature brought in by the Renaissance -became an almost insuperable barrier to artists in the attempt to find -any such completely synthetic vision of form as lay to hand for their -predecessors. We see, for instance, in Albert Dürer’s “Beetle” an -example of purely descriptive and analytic drawing with no attempt at -inner coherence of form. On the other hand, of course, all the great -formalists made deliberate efforts to come through the complex of -phenomena to some abstract synthesis. Fra Bartolomeo and Raphael clearly -made such abstraction a matter of deliberate study,[51] but as I have -pointed out in the case of Ingres, the - -[Illustration: - -Corot. Pencil drawing J. P. Heseltine, Esq. - - Plate XXI.] - -obsession of fact has generally forced the artist to such a long series -of experiments towards the final synthetic form that it is only in the -finished picture that it emerges fully. - -On the other hand, some modern masters have also found their way -through, more or less completely, and from this point of view few -drawings in the exhibition are as remarkable as the drawing of a seated -woman by Corot (see Plate). Here one supposes it may be a kind of -_naïveté_ of vision rather than the exhaustive process of an Ingres, -that has led Corot to this vividly realised plasticity of form. I find -the essentials of good drawing more completely realised here than in -almost any other drawing in the exhibition, and yet how little of a -professional draughtsman Corot was. It is hard to speak here of Degas’s -works as drawings. With one exception they are pastels and essentially -paintings, but they are of great beauty and show him victorious over his -own formidable cleverness, his unrivalled but dangerous power of witty -notation. - -At the opposite pole to Corot’s drawing with its splendid revelation of -plastic significance we must put Menzel with his fussy preoccupation -with undigested fact. It is hard indeed to see quite how Menzel’s -drawings found their way into this good company, except perhaps as -drunken helots, for they are conspicuously devoid of any æsthetic -quality whatever. They are without any rhythmic unity, without any -glimmering of a sense of style, and style though it be as cheap as -Rowlandson’s is still victorious over sheer misinformed literalness. -Somewhere between Menzel and Corot we must place Charles Keane, and I -fear, in spite of the rather exaggerated claims made for him in the -preface, he is nearer to Menzel, though even so, how much better! The -early Millais drawing is of course an astounding attempt by a man of -prodigious gift and no sensibility to pretend that he had the latter. It -is a pity there are no Rossettis here to show the authentic inspiration -of which this is the echo. - -I come now to the Rembrandts, of which there are several good examples. -Rembrandt always intrigues one by the multiplicity and diversity of his -gifts and the struggle between his profound imaginative insight and his -excessive talents. The fact is, I believe that Rembrandt was never a -linealist, that he never had the conception of contour clearly present -to him. He was too intensely and too inveterately a painter and a -chiaroscurist. The last thing he saw was a contour, and more than -anything else it eluded his vision. His vision was in fact so intensely -fixed on the interplay of planes, their modulation into one another, and -on the balance of directions, that with him the drawn line has a quite -peculiar and personal meaning. It is used first to indicate directions -of stress and movement, as, for instance, a straight line will be dashed -down to indicate, not the contour of a limb, but its direction, the line -along which stress of action takes place. He seems almost to dread the -contour, to prefer to make strokes either inside or outside of it, and -to trust to the imagination to discover its whereabouts, anything rather -than a final definite statement which would arrest the interplay of -planes. The line is also used to suggest very vaguely and tentatively -the division of planes; but almost always when he comes to use wash on -top of the line his washes go across the lines, so that here too one can -hardly say the line indicates the division so much as the approximate -position of a plane. - -In conclusion I would suggest that, the art of pure contour is -comparatively rare in modern art. For what I should cite as great and -convincing examples of that art I would ask the reader to turn to the -“Morgan Byzantine Enamels” (_Burlington Magazine_, vol. xxi. pp. 3, 65, -127, 219, 290), the “Manafi-i-Heiwan” (_Burlington Magazine_, vol. -xxiii. pp. 224, 261), and to Vignier, “Persian Pottery” (_Burlington -Magazine_, vol. xxv. p. 211), while other examples might be found among -Byzantine and Carolingian miniaturists. - -Now, this art depends upon a peculiarly synthetic vision and a peculiar -system of distortion, without which the outline would arrest the -movement of planes too definitely. There indeed is the whole crux of the -art of line drawing; the line generates a volume, but it also arrests -the planes too definitely: that is why in some great modern artists, as -we saw in the case of Rembrandt, there is a peculiar kind of dread of -the actual contour. It is felt by those who are sensitive to the -interplay and movement of planes that the line must in some way, by its -quality or its position, or by breaks or repetitions, avoid arresting -the imagination by too positive a statement. It was almost a peculiarity -of the early art that I have cited that it was able to express a form in -a quite complete, evenly drawn contour without this terrible negative -effect of the line. I say almost a peculiarity, because I think - -[Illustration: - - Henri-Matisse. Pen drawing - - Plate XXII.] - -a few quite modern artists, such as Matisse (see Plate) and perhaps -Modigliani, have recovered such a power, but in the great mass of post -Renaissance drawing the art of the pure contour in line has broken down, -and the essential qualities even of the great linealists are only to be -seen fully in their paintings; the drawn line itself has had to take on -other functions. - - - - -PAUL CÉZANNE[52] - - -In a society which is as indifferent to works of art as our modern -industrialism it seems paradoxical that artists of all kinds should loom -so large in the general consciousness of mankind--that they should be -remembered with reverence and boasted of as national assets when -statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers are forgotten. The great mass of modern -men could rub along happily enough without works of art or at least -without new ones, but society would be sensibly more bored if the artist -died out altogether. The fact is that every honest bourgeois, however -sedate and correct his life, keeps a hidden and scarce-admitted yearning -for that other life of complete individualism which hard necessity or -the desire for success has denied him. In contemplating the artist he -tastes vicariously these forbidden joys. He regards the artist as a -strange species, half idiot, half divine, but above all irresponsibly -and irredeemably himself. He seems equally strange in his outrageous -egoism and his superb devotion to an idea. - -Also in a world where the individual is squeezed and moulded and -polished by the pressure of his fellow-men the artist remains -irreclaimably individual--in a world where every one else is being -perpetually educated the artist remains ineducable--where others are -shaped he grows. Cézanne realised the type of the artist in its purest -most unmitigated form, and M. Vollard has had the wit to write a book -about Cézanne and not about Cézanne’s pictures. The time may come when -we shall require a complete study of Cézanne’s work, a measured judgment -of his achievement and position--it would probably be rash to attempt it -as yet. Meanwhile we have M. Vollard’s portrait, at once documented and -captivating. Should the book ever become as well known as it deserves -there would be, one guesses, - -[Illustration: - -Cézanne. Portrait of the Artist Collection Pellerin - - Plate XXIII.] - -ten people fascinated by Cézanne for one who would walk down the street -to see his pictures. - -The art historian may sometimes regret that Vasari did not give us more -of the æsthetics of his time; but Vasari knew his business, knew, -perhaps, that the æsthetics of an age are quickly superseded but that -the human document remains of perennial interest to mankind. M. Vollard -has played Vasari to Cézanne and done so with the same directness and -simplicity, the same narrative ease, the same insatiable delight in the -oddities and idiosyncrasies of his subject. And what a model he had to -paint! Every word and every gesture he records stick out with the rugged -relief of a character in which everything is due to the compulsion of -inner forces, in which nothing has been planed down or smoothed away by -external pressure--not that external pressure was absent but that the -inner compulsion--the inevitable bent of Cézanne’s temperament, was -irresistible. In one very important detail Cézanne was spared by -life--he always had enough to live on. The thought of a Cézanne having -to earn his living is altogether too tragic. But if life spared him in -this respect his temperament spared him nothing--for this rough -Provençal countryman had so exasperated a sensibility that the smallest -detail of daily life, the barking of a dog, the noise of a lift in a -neighbouring house, the dread of being touched even by his own son might -produce at any moment a nervous explosion. At such times his first -relief was in cursing and swearing, but if this failed the chances were -that his anger vented itself on his pictures--he would cut one to pieces -with his palette knife, or failing that roll it up and throw it into the -stove. M. Vollard describes with delightful humour the tortures he -endured in the innumerable sittings which he gave Cézanne for his -portrait--with what care he avoided any subject of conversation which -might lead to misunderstanding. But with all his adroitness there were -one or two crises in which the portrait was threatened with the dreaded -knife--fortunately Cézanne always found some other work on which to vent -his indignation, and the portrait survived, though after a hundred and -fifteen sittings, in which Cézanne exacted the immobility of an apple, -the portrait was left incomplete. “I am not displeased with the shirt -front,” was Cézanne’s characteristic appreciation. - -Two phrases continually recur in Cézanne’s conversation which show his -curious idiosyncrasies. One the often-quoted one of his dread that any -one might “_lui jeter le grappin dessus_” and the other “_moi qui suis -faible dans la vie_.” They express his constant attitude of distrust of -his kind--for him all women were “_des veaux et des calculatrices_”--his -dread of any possible invasion of his personality, and his sense of -impotence in face of the forces of life. - -None the less, though he pathetically exaggerated his weakness he never -seems to have had the least doubt about his supreme greatness as an -artist; what troubled and irritated him was his incapacity to express -his “sensation” in such terms as would make its meaning evident to the -world. It was for this reason that he struggled so obstinately and -hopelessly to get into the “Salon de M. Bougereau.” His attitude to -conventional art was a strange mixture of admiration at its skill and of -an overwhelming horror of its emptiness--of its so “horrible -resemblance.” - -The fact is that Cézanne had accepted uncritically all the conventions -in the pathetic belief that it was the only way of safety for one “so -feeble in life.” So he continued to believe in the Catholic Church not -from any religious conviction but because “Rome was so strong”--so, too, -he believed in the power and importance of the “Salon de Bougereau” -which he hated as much as he feared. So, too, with what seems a -paradoxical humility he let it be known, when his fame had already been -established among the intelligent, that he would be glad to have the -Legion of Honour. But here, too, he was destined to fail. The weighty -influence and distinguished position of his friends could avail nothing -against the undisguised horror with which any official heard the dreaded -name of Cézanne. And it appeared that Cézanne was the only artist in -France for whom this distinction was inaccessible, even through -“influence.” Nothing is stranger in his life than the contrast between -the idea the public formed of Cézanne and the reality. He was one of -those men destined to give rise to a legend which completely -obscured the reality. He was spoken of as the most violent of -revolutionaries--Communard and Anarchist were the favourite -epithets--and all the time he was a timid little country gentleman of -immaculate respectability who subscribed whole-heartedly to any -reactionary opinion which could establish his “soundness.” He was a -timid man who really believed - -[Illustration: - - Cézanne. Gardanne - - Plate XXIV.] - -in only one thing, “his little sensation”; who laboured incessantly to -express this peculiar quality and who had not the faintest notion of -doing anything that could shock the feelings of any mortal man or woman. -No wonder then that when he looked up from his work and surveyed the -world with his troubled and imperfect intellectual vision he was amazed -and perturbed at the violent antagonism which he had all unconsciously -provoked. No wonder that he became a shy, distrustful misanthrope, -almost incapable of any association with his kind. - -I have suggested that Cézanne was the perfect realisation of the type of -the artist--I doubt whether in the whole of Vasari’s great picture -gallery there is a more complete type of “original.” But in order to -accept this we must banish from our mind the conventional idea of the -artist as a man of flamboyant habits and calculated pose. Nothing is -less possible to the real artist than pose--he is less capable of it -than the ordinary man of business because more than any one else his -external activities are determined from within by needs and instincts -which he himself barely recognises. - -On the other hand the imitation artist is a past master of pose, he -poses as the sport of natural inclinations whilst he is really -deliberately exploiting his caprices; and as he has a natural instinct -for the limelight this variety of the “Cabotin” generally manages to sit -for the portrait of the artist. Cézanne, then, though his external life -was that of the most irreproachable of country gentlemen, though he went -to mass every Sunday and never willingly left the intimacy of family -life, was none the less the purest and most unadulterated of artists, -the most narrowly confined to his single activity, the most purely -disinterested and the most frankly egoistic of men. - -Cézanne had no intellectual independence. I doubt if he had the faintest -conception of intellectual truth, but this is not to deny that he had a -powerful mind. On the contrary he had a profound intelligence of -whatever came within his narrow outlook on life, and above all he had -the gift of expression, so that however fantastic, absurd, or naïve his -opinions may have been, they were always expressed in such racy and -picturesque language that they become interesting as revelations of a -very human and genuine personality. - -One of the tragi-comedies of Cézanne’s life was the story of his early -friendship with Zola, followed in middle life by a gradual estrangement, -and at last a total separation. It is perhaps the only blot in M. -Vollard’s book that he has taken too absolutely Cézanne’s point of view, -and has hardly done justice to Zola’s goodness of heart. The cause of -friction, apart from Cézanne’s habitual testiness and ill-humour, was -that Zola’s feeling for art, which had led him in his youth to a heroic -championship of the younger men, faded away in middle life. His own -practice of literature led him further and further away from any concern -with pure art, and he failed to recognise that his own early prophecy of -Cézanne’s greatness had come true, simply because he himself had become -a popular author, and Cézanne had failed of any kind of success. -Unfortunately Zola, who had evidently lost all real æsthetic feeling, -continued to talk about art, and worse than that he had made the hero of -“L’Œuvre” a more or less recognisable portrait of his old friend. -Cézanne could not tolerate Zola’s gradual acquiescence in worldly ideals -and ways of life, and when the Dreyfusard question came up not only did -his natural reactionary bias make him a vehement anti-Dreyfusard but he -had no comprehension whatever of the heroism of Zola’s actions; he found -him merely ridiculous, and believed him to be engaged in an -ill-conceived scheme of self-advertisement. But for all his contempt of -Zola his affection remained deeper than he knew, and when he heard the -news of Zola’s death Cézanne shut himself alone up in his studio, and -was heard sobbing and groaning throughout the day. - -Cézanne’s is not the only portrait in M. Vollard’s entertaining -book--there are sketches of many characters, among them the few strange -and sympathetic men who appreciated and encouraged Cézanne in his early -days. Of Cabaner the musician M. Vollard has collected some charming -notes. Cabaner was a “philosopher,” and singularly indifferent to the -chances of life. During the siege of Paris he met Coppée, and noticing -the shells which were falling he became curious. “Where do all these -bullets come from?” Coppée: “It would seem that it is the besiegers who -send them.” Cabaner, after a silence: “Is it always the Prussians?” -Coppée, impatiently: “Who on earth could it be?” Cabaner: “I don’t know -... other nations!” But the book is so full of good stories that I must -resist the temptation to quote. - -[Illustration: - - Cézanne. The Artist’s Wife - - Plate XXV.] - -Fortunately M. Vollard has collected also a large number of Cézanne’s -_obiter dicta_ on art. These have all Cézanne’s pregnant wisdom and racy -style. They often contain a whole system of æsthetics in a single -phrase, as, for instance: “What’s wanted is to do Poussin over again -from Nature.” - -They show, moreover, the natural bias of Cézanne’s feelings and their -gradual modification as his understanding became more profound. What -comes out clearly, and it must never be forgotten in considering his -art, is that his point of departure was from Romanticism. Delacroix was -his god and Ingres, in his early days, his devil--a devil he learned -increasingly to respect, but never one imagines really to love, “_ce -Dominique est très fort mais il m’emm_----.” That Cézanne became a -supreme master of formal design every one would nowadays admit, but -there is some excuse for those contemporaries who complained of his want -of drawing. He was not a master of line in the sense in which Ingres -was. “The contour escapes me,” as he said. That is to say he arrived at -the contour by a study of the interior planes; he was always plastic -before he was linear. In his early works, such, for instance, as the -“Scène de plein air” (see Plate), he is evidently inspired by Delacroix; -he is almost a romanticist himself in such work, and his design is built -upon the contrasts of large and rather loosely drawn silhouettes of dark -and light. In fact it is the method of Tintoretto, Rubens, and -Delacroix. - -In the “Bathers resting,” painted in 1877, there is already a great -change. It is rather by the exact placing of plastic units than by -continuous flowing silhouettes that the design holds. Giorgione, -perhaps, is behind this, but no longer Tintoretto, and, above all, -Poussin has intervened. - -In later works, such as the portrait of “Mme. Cézanne in a greenhouse,” -the plasticity has become all-important, there is no longer any -suggestion of a romantic _decor_; all is reduced to the purest terms of -structural design. - -These notes on Cézanne’s development are prompted by the illustrations -in M. Vollard’s book. These are numerous and excellent, and afford a -better opportunity for a general study of Cézanne’s _œuvre_ than any -other book. In fact, when the time comes for the complete appreciation -of Cézanne M. Vollard’s book will be the most important document -existing. It should, however, have a far wider appeal than that. I hope -that after the war M. Vollard will bring out a small cheap -edition[53]--it should become a classic biography. To say, as I would, -that M. Vollard’s book is a monument worthy of Cézanne himself is to -give it the highest praise. - -[Illustration: - - Cézanne. Le ruisseau - - Plate XXVI.] - - - - -RENOIR - - -What a lover of the commonplace Renoir was! It is a rare quality among -artists. A theoretically pure artist exists no more than a Euclidean -point, but if such a being could exist, every possible actual sight -would be equally suitable as a point of departure for his artistic -vision. Everything would stir in him the impulse to creation. He would -have no predilections, no tastes for this or that kind of thing. In -practice every artist is set going by some particular kind of scene in -nature, and for the most part artists have to search out some unusual or -unexplored aspect of things. Gauguin, for instance, had to go as far as -Tahiti. When Renoir heard of this, he said, in a phrase which revealed -his own character: “Pourquoi? On peint si bien a Batignolles.” But there -are plenty of artists who paint more or less well at Batignolles or -Bloomsbury and yet are not lovers of the commonplace. Like Walter -Sickert, for instance, they find their Tahiti in Mornington Crescent. -Though they paint in commonplace surroundings, they generally contrive -to catch them at an unexpected angle. Something odd or exotic in their -taste for life seems to be normal to artists. The few artists or writers -who have shared the tastes of the average man have, as a rule, been like -Dickens--to take an obvious case--very imperfect and very impure -artists, however great their genius. Among great artists one thinks at -once of Rubens as the most remarkable example of a man of common tastes, -a lover of all that was rich, exuberant and even florid. Titian, too, -comes nearly up to the same standard, except that in youth his whole -trend of feeling was distorted by the overpowering influence of -Giorgione, whose tastes were recondite and strange. Renoir, in the -frankness of his colour harmonies, in his feeling for design and even in -the quality of his pigment, constantly reminds us of these two. Now it -is easier to see how an artist of the sixteenth or seventeenth century -could develop commonplace tastes than one of our own times. For with -the nineteenth century came in a gradual process of differentiation of -the artist from the average man. The modern artist finds himself so -little understood by the crowd, in his aims and methods, that he tends -to become distinct in his whole attitude to life. - -What, then, is so peculiar about Renoir is that he has this perfectly -ordinary taste in things and yet remains so intensely, so purely, an -artist. The fact is perhaps that he was so much an artist that he never -had to go round the corner to get his inspiration; the immediate, -obvious, front view of everything was more than sufficient to start the -creative impulse. He enjoyed instinctively, almost animally, all the -common good things of life, and yet he always kept just enough -detachment to feel his delight æsthetically--he kept, as it were, just -out of reach of appetite. - -More than any other great modern artist Renoir trusted implicitly to his -own sensibility; he imposed no barrier between his own delight in -certain things and the delight which he communicates. He liked -passionately the obviously good things of life, the young human animal, -sunshine, sky, trees, water, fruit; the things that every one likes; -only he liked them at just the right distance with just enough -detachment to replace appetite by emotion. He could rely on this -detachment so thoroughly that he could dare, what hardly any other -genuine modern has dared to say how much he liked even a pretty sight. -But what gives his art so immediate, so universal an appeal is that his -detachment went no further than was just necessary. His sensibility is -kept at the exact point where it is transmuted into emotion. And the -emotion, though it has of course the generalised æsthetic feeling, keeps -something of the fulness and immediacy of the simpler attitude. Not that -Renoir was either naïve or stupid. When he chose he showed that he was -capable of logical construction and vigorous design. But for his own -pleasure he would, as he himself said, have been satisfied to make -little isolated records of his delight in the detail of a flower or a -lock of hair. With the exception of “Les Parapluies” at the National -Gallery we have rarely seen his more deliberate compositions in England. -But in all his work alike Renoir remains the man who could trust -recklessly his instinctive reaction to life. - -Let me confess that these characteristics--this way of keeping, - -[Illustration: - -Renoir. Judgement of Paris. Collection Halvossen - -Plate XXVII.] - -as it were, just out of reach of appetite--makes Renoir to me, -personally, a peculiarly difficult artist. My taste for exotic artists -such as Cosima Tura and his kin amounts at times to a vice. -Consequently, I am sometimes in danger of not doing Renoir justice, -because at the first approach to one of his pictures I miss the purely -accessory delight of an unexpected attitude. The first approach to one -of his pictures may indeed remind one of pictures that would be the -delight of the servants’ hall, so unaffectedly simple is his acceptance -of the charm of rosy-cheeked girls, of pretty posies and dappled -sunlight. And yet one knows well enough that Renoir was as “artful” as -one could wish. Though he had not the biting wit of a Degas, he had a -peculiar love of mischievous humour; he was anything but a harmless or -innocent character. All his simplicity is on the surface only. The -longer one looks, the deeper does Renoir retire behind veil after veil -of subtlety. And yet, compared with some modern artists, he was, after -all, easy and instinctively simple. Even his plastic unity was arrived -at by what seems a more natural method than, say, Cézanne’s. Whereas -Cézanne undertook his indefatigable research for the perspective of the -receding planes, Renoir seems to have accepted a very simple general -plastic formula. Whatever Cézanne may have meant by his celebrated -saying about cones and cylinders, Renoir seems to have thought the -sphere and cylinder sufficient for his purpose. The figure presents -itself to his eye as an arrangement of more or less hemispherical bosses -and cylinders, and he appears generally to arrange the light so that the -most prominent part of each boss receives the highest light. From this -the planes recede by insensible gradations towards the contour, which -generally remains the vaguest, least ascertained part of the modelling. -Whatever lies immediately behind the contour tends to become drawn into -its sphere of influence, to form an undefined recession enveloping and -receiving the receding planes. As the eye passes away from the contour, -new but less marked bosses form themselves and fill the background with -repetitions of the general theme. The picture tends thus to take the -form of a bas-relief in which the recessions are not into the profound -distances of pictorial space, but only back, as it were, to the block -out of which the bossed reliefs emerge, though, of course, by means of -atmospheric colour the eye may interpret these recessions as distance. -This is clearly in marked contrast to Cézanne’s method of suggesting -endless recessions of planes with the most complicated interwoven -texture. - -Renoir’s drawing takes on the same fundamental simplicity. An Ingres -arrived at the simplified statement necessary for great design by a -process of gradual elimination of all the superfluous sinuosities which -his hand had recorded in the first drawing from nature. Renoir seems -never to have allowed his eye to accept more than the larger elements of -mass and direction. His full, rounded curves embrace the form in its -most general aspect. With advancing years and continually growing -science he was able, at last, to state this essential synthesis with -amazing breadth and ease. He continually increased the amplitude of his -forms until, in his latest nudes, the whole design is filled with a few -perfectly related bosses. Like Titian’s, Renoir’s power of design -increased visibly up to the very end of his life. True, he was capable -at all periods of conceiving large and finely co-ordinated compositions, -such as “Les Parapluies” and the “Charpentier family”; but at the end -even the smallest studies have structural completeness. - - - - -A POSSIBLE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE[54] - - -Houses are either builders’ houses or architects’ houses. Not that -speculative builders do not employ architects, but they generally employ -architects who efface themselves behind the deadly conventionality and -bewildering fantasy of their façades. Architects’ houses are generally -built to the order of a gentleman who wishes his house to have some -distinctive character, to stand out from the common herd of houses, -either by its greater splendour or its greater discretion. The builder’s -house, like the dresses of the lower middle class, is generally an -imitation of the gentleman’s, only of a fashion that has just gone out -of date and imitated badly in cheaper materials. No one defends it. It -is made so because you must make a house somehow, and bought because it -is the usual and therefore inevitable thing. No one enjoys it, no one -admires it, it is accepted as part of the use and wont of ordinary life. -The gentleman’s and architect’s house is different. Here time and -thought, and perhaps great ingenuity and taste are employed in giving to -the house an individual character. Unfortunately this individual -character is generally terribly conscious of its social aspect, of how -the house will look, not to those who live in it so much as to those who -come to visit. We have no doubt outlived the more vulgar forms of this -social consciousness, those which led to the gross display of merely -expensive massiveness and profusion. Few modern houses would satisfy Mr. -Podsnap. But its subtler forms are still apparent. They generally make -themselves felt in the desire to be romantic. As it requires much too -much imagination to find romance in the present, one looks for it in the -past, and so a dive is made into some period of history, and its -monuments studied and copied, and finally “adapted” to the more -elaborate exigencies of modern life. But, alas, these divers into the -past seem never to have been able to find the pearl of romance, for, -ever since the craze began in the eighteenth century, they have been -diving now here, now there, now into Romanesque, now into Gothic, now -into Jacobean, now into Queen Anne. They have brought up innumerable -architectural “features” which have been duly copied by modern -machinery, and carefully glued on to the houses, and still the owners -and the architects, to do them justice, feel restless, and are in search -of some new old style to try. The search has flagged of late, people -know it is useless, and here and there architects have set to work -merely to build so well and with such a fine sense of the material -employed that the result should satisfy the desire for comeliness -without the use of any style. I am thinking of some of Mr. Blow’s -earlier works where a peculiar charm resulted from the unstinting care -with which every piece of material had been chosen and the whole fitted -together almost as though the stones had been precious stones instead of -flints or bricks. - -But on the whole the problem appears to be still unsolved, and the -architects go on using styles of various kinds with greater or less -degrees of correctness. This they no longer do with the old zest and -hope of discovery, but rather with a languid indifference and with -evident marks of discouragement. - -Now style is an admirable thing, it is the result of ease and coherence -of feeling, but unfortunately a borrowed style is an even stronger proof -of muddled and befogged emotions than the total absence of style. The -desire for a style at all costs, even a borrowed style, is part of that -exaggerated social consciousness which in other respects manifests -itself as snobbery. What if people were just to let their houses be the -direct outcome of their actual needs, and of their actual way of life, -and allow other people to think what they like. What if they behaved in -the matter of houses as all people wish to behave in society without any -undue or fussy self-consciousness. Wouldn’t such houses have really a -great deal more character, and therefore interest for others, than those -which are deliberately made to look like something or other. Instead of -looking like something, they would then be something. - -The house which I planned and built for myself was the result of certain -particular needs and habits. I had originally no idea of building a -house: I had so often heard the proverb that “Fools build houses for -wise men to live in,” that I had come to believe it, but I required a -house of a certain size for my family within easy reach of London. I -looked at a great many houses and found that those which had a -sufficient number of rooms were all gentlemen’s establishments, with -lodge, stabling, and green-houses. Now it was characteristic of my purse -that I could not afford to keep up a gentleman’s establishment and of my -tastes that I could not endure to. I was a town dweller, and I wanted a -town house and a little garden in the country. As I could not find what -I wanted, the idea came into my head that I must build it or go without. -The means at my disposal were definitely limited; the question was -therefore whether I could build a house of the required size with that -sum. I made a plan containing the number of rooms of the sizes I -required, and got an estimate. It was largely in excess of the sum I -possessed for the purpose. I feared I must give up my scheme when I met -a friend who had experimented in building cheap cottages on his estate, -and learned from him that the secret of economy was concentration of -plan. I also discovered in discussing my first estimate that roofs were -cheaper than walls. I thereupon started on a quite different plan, in -which I arranged the rooms to form as nearly as possible a solid block, -and placed a number of the rooms in a hipped or Mansard roof. It will be -seen that, so far, the planning of the house was merely the discovery of -a possible equation between my needs and the sum at my disposal. - -But in trying to establish this equation I had found it necessary to -make the rooms rather smaller than I should have liked, and having a -great liking for large and particularly high interiors--I hate -Elizabethan rooms with their low ceilings in spite of their prettiness, -and I love the interiors of the baroque palaces of Italy--I determined -to have one room of generous dimensions and particularly of great -height. This large room surrounded by small rooms was naturally made -into a general living-place, with arrangements by means of a lift to -enable it to be used as a dining hall if there were more in the house -than could be accommodated in the small breakfast room. - -The estimate for this new concentrated plan, in spite of the large -dimensions of the living place, came to little more than half the -estimate for the former plan, and made my project feasible, provided -that I could calculate all details and did not run into extras. - -So far then there has been no question of architecture; it has been -merely solving the problem of personal needs and habits, and of cost, -and if architecture there is to be, it should, I think, come directly -out of the solution of these problems. The size and disposition of the -plan having thus been fixed, the elevations are given in outline, and -the only question is how the rectangle of each elevation is to be -treated. Doors and windows are the elements of the design, and here -again something will already be determined by needs or tastes. There is -need of a certain amount of light, and my own taste is to have as much -as possible, so that the windows had to be large rectangles. But when -all these things are determined by need there is still a wide margin of -choice--the size of the panes in the windows, the depth of recess of the -windows within the wall, the flatness or relief of each element. All -these and many more are still matters of choice, and it is through the -artist’s sense of proportion and his feeling for the plastic relief of -the whole surface that a work of mere utility may become a work of art. -In the case of the main elevation of my house I found that when all the -windows, including the long windows of the high living-place, were duly -arranged, there was a want of unity owing to the nearly equal balance -between the horizontal and vertical members. I therefore underlined the -slight projection of the central part (a projection enforced by by-laws) -by varying the material, replacing at this point the plaster of the -walls by two bands of red brick. In this way the vertical effect of the -central part was made to dominate the whole façade. The artistic or -architectural part of this house was confined, then, merely to the -careful choice of proportions within certain fixed limits defined by -needs, and neither time, money, nor thought were expended on giving the -house the appearance of any particular style. - -I have gone thus at length into the history of my own house merely as an -example of the way in which, I think, a genuine architecture, and in the -end, no doubt, an architectural style, might arise. It requires a -certain courage or indifference to public opinion on the part of the -owner. My own house is neighboured by houses of the most gentlemanly -picturesqueness, houses from which tiny gables with window slits jut out -at any unexpected angle, and naturally it is regarded as a monstrous -eyesore by their inhabitants. Indeed, when I first came here it was -supposed that the ugliness of my house was so apparent that I myself -could not be blind to it, and should not resent its being criticised in -my presence. They were quite right, I did not resent it; I was only very -much amused. - -To arrive at such a genuine domestic architecture as I conceive, -requires, then, this social indifference to surrounding snobbishness on -the part of the owner, and it requires a nice sense of proportion and a -feeling for values of plastic relief on the part of the artist who -designs the house, but it does not require genius or even any -extraordinary talent to make a genuine and honest piece of domestic -architecture which will continue to look distinguished when the last -“style” but one having just become _démodé_ already stinks in the -nostrils of all cultured people. - - - - -JEAN MARCHAND[55] - - -There are some thirty pictures by M. Jean Marchand now on view at the -Carfax Gallery in Bury Street. This gives one an occasion for reviewing -the work of this comparatively young artist. M. Marchand belongs, of -course, to the revolutionary movement of this century in that he derives -the general principles of his art from Cézanne, but he is the most -traditional of revolutionaries. Not by the wildest stretch of the -imagination could one conceive of M. Marchand deliberately or -consciously doing anything to astonish the public. It is quite true that -no genuine artist ever did, but some artists have found an added -piquancy in the thought that inventions that occurred to them would in -point of fact have this adventitious charm. But with M. Marchand such -possibilities seem more remote than with most of his compeers. An -extreme simplicity and directness of outlook and a touching sincerity in -all he does are the most prominent characteristics of his work. Not that -he makes one suppose him to be too naïve to play tricks with his art; on -the contrary, one sees that he is highly self-conscious and -intellectual, but that he knows the utter futility of any deliberate -emphasis on the artist’s part. He knows that any effect of permanent -value must flow directly from the matter in hand; that it is useless to -make anything appear more interesting or impressive than it is; that, -whatever his vision is, it must be accepted literally, and without any -attempt to add to its importance or effectiveness. - -In short, M. Marchand is a classic artist--one might almost in these -days say a French artist, and count it as synonymous, but that one -remembers that the French, too, have had their orgies of romantic -emphasis, and have always ready to hand a convention of coldly -exaggerated rhetoric. Moreover, if one thinks of a nearly allied -painter - -[Illustration: - -Marchand. Still Life Author’s Collection - -Plate XXVIII.] - -such as Derain, whose work is so terribly _interesting_, one sees that -to a quite peculiar degree M. Marchand exemplifies the sentimental -honesty of the French. I leave the question open whether this is a moral -trait, or is not rather the result of a clearer perception than we often -attain to of the extreme futility of lying where art is concerned. - -Certainly one can imagine the temptations for a man of M. Marchand’s -great technical ability to choose some slightly wilful or fantastic -formula of vision and to exploit it for what it might bring out; for M. -Marchand was handicapped in any competition for notoriety by the very -normality and sanity of his vision. Compared to the descriptions of -sketches in “Jane Eyre,” his pictures would be judged to be entirely -lacking in imagination. He never tries to invent what he has not -actually seen. Almost any of the ordinary things of life suffice for his -theme--a loaf of bread or a hat left on the table, a rather vulgar -French château restored by Viollet-le-Duc with a prim garden and -decorous lake, a pot of aspidistra in a suburban window. These and the -like are the subjects of his pictures, and he paints the objects -themselves in all their vulgar everydayness. They do not become excuses -for abstract designs; they retain in his pictures all their bleak -commonplaceness. - -Any one unfamiliar with his pictures who read such an account of his -work might think M. Marchand was a dull literalist, whose mere -accomplishment it is to render the similitude of objects. But such a -conclusion would be entirely wrong. However frankly M. Marchand accepts -the forms of objects, however little his normal vision distorts or -idealises them, however consciously and deliberately he chooses the -arrangement, he does build up by sheer method and artistic science a -unity which has a singularly impressive quality. I heard some one say, -in front of a still life which represented a white tablecloth, a glass -tumbler, an earthenware water-bottle and a loaf of bread, that it was -like Buddha. With such a description as I give of the picture the -appreciation sounds precious and absurd; before the picture it seems -perfectly just. For M. Marchand has attained the reward of his -inflexible honesty; his construction is so solid and unfaltering, he -builds up his designs with such massive and direct handling, that -without the slightest suggestion of emphasis, without any underlining, -the effect comes through; the material becomes expressive; he becomes a -creator, and not a mere adapter of form. - -For the understanding of his personality it is interesting to consider -his Cubist period, since Marchand’s reaction to Cubism is typical of his -nature. Cubism, like S. Paul, has been all things to all men--at least -to almost all artists of the present generation. To some it has been a -doctrine and a revelation; to some it has been a convenient form of -artistic journalism; to some it has been a quick road to notoriety, to -some an aid to melodramatic effect. To M. Marchand it was just a useful -method and a gymnastic. He used it for just what it could give him as an -exercise in the organisation of form. It was to him like a system of -notation to a mathematician, a means of handling quantities which -without it would have been too elusive and too infinite to grasp. By -means of Cubism the infinity of a sphere could be reduced to half a -dozen planes, each of which he could learn to relate to all the other -planes in the picture; and the singular ease and directness of his -plastic construction seem to be due to his early practice of Cubist -methods. Having once learned by this process of willed and deliberate -analysis how to handle complex forms, he has been able to throw away the -scaffolding and to construct palpably related and completely unified -designs with something approaching the full complexity of natural forms, -though the lucid statement and the ease of handling which it actuates -testify to the effect of his apprenticeship in Cubism. Such a use of a -theory--as a method, not as a doctrine--seems to me typical of M. -Marchand’s balanced judgment, of his alert readiness to use any and -every means that could conduce to his slow and methodical development, -and hold out hopes of a continued growth. - -M. Marchand, so assured, so settled an artist, is still young. In the -landscapes which he did in the South of France just before the war he -explored a peculiarly persuasive and harmonious scheme of colour, based -on warm ochres, earth reds, and dull blues. These pictures have the -envelopment and the sonorous harmony of some early Italian masters in -spite of the frank oppositions and the vigorous scaffolding of modern -design. In the later work done in the last year he shows a new sense of -colour, a new sharpness and almost an audacity, if one can imagine so -well-balanced a nature capable of audacity. He uses dull neutral -colours, the dirty white of a cloudy sky, harsh dull greens and blacks, -the obvious and unattractive colours that so frequently occur in nature; -but he uses them in such combinations, and with such accents of tone and -such subtly prepared accordances and oppositions, that these obvious -dull colours strike one as fascinating discoveries. This is the height -of artistic science, so to accept the obvious and commonplace that it -gives one the pleasant shock of paradox. It seems hardly rash to -foretell for him a solid and continually growing fame. - - - - -RETROSPECT[56] - - -The work of re-reading and selecting from the mass of my writings as an -art critic has inevitably brought me up against the question of its -consistency and coherence. Although I do not think that I have -republished here anything with which I entirely disagree, I cannot but -recognise that in many of these essays the emphasis lies in a different -place from where I should now put it. Fortunately I have never prided -myself upon my unchanging constancy of attitude, but unless I flatter -myself I think I can trace a certain trend of thought underlying very -different expressions of opinion. Now since that trend seems to me to be -symptomatic of modern æsthetic, and since it may perhaps explain much -that seems paradoxical in the actual situation of art, it may be -interesting to discuss its nature even at the cost of being -autobiographical. - -In my work as a critic of art I have never been a pure Impressionist, a -mere recording instrument of certain sensations. I have always had some -kind of æsthetic. A certain scientific curiosity and a desire for -comprehension have impelled me at every stage to make generalisations, -to attempt some kind of logical co-ordination of my impressions. But, on -the other hand, I have never worked out for myself a complete system -such as the metaphysicians deduce from _a priori_ principles. I have -never believed that I knew what was the ultimate nature of art. My -æsthetic has been a purely practical one, a tentative expedient, an -attempt to reduce to some kind of order my æsthetic impressions up to -date. It has been held merely until such time as fresh experiences might -confirm or modify it. Moreover, I have always looked on my system with a -certain suspicion. I have recognised that if it ever formed too solid a -crust it might stop the inlets of fresh experience, and I can count -various occasions when my principles would have led me to condemn, and -when my sensibility has played the part of Balaam with the effect of -making temporary chaos of my system. That has, of course, always -rearranged itself to take in the new experience, but with each such -cataclysm it has suffered a loss of prestige. So that even in its latest -form I do not put forward my system as more than a provisional induction -from my own æsthetic experiences. - -I have certainly tried to make my judgment as objective as possible, but -the critic must work with the only instrument he possesses--namely, his -own sensibility with all its personal equations. All that he can -consciously endeavour is to perfect that tool to its utmost by studying -the traditional verdicts of men of æsthetic sensibility in the past, and -by constant comparison of his own reactions with those of his -contemporaries who are specially gifted in this way. When he has done -all that he can in this direction--and I would allow him a slight bias -in favour of agreement with tradition--he is bound to accept the verdict -of his own feelings as honestly as he can. Even plain honesty in this -matter is more difficult to attain than would be admitted by those who -have never tried it. In so delicate a matter as the artistic judgment -one is liable to many accidental disturbing influences, one can scarcely -avoid temporary hypnotisms and hallucinations. One can only watch for -and try to discount these, taking every opportunity to catch one’s -sensibility unawares before it can take cover behind prejudices and -theories. - -When the critic holds the result of his reaction to a work of art -clearly in view he has next to translate it into words. Here, too, -distortion is inevitable, and it is here that I have probably failed -most of accuracy, for language in the hands of one who lacks the mastery -of a poet has its own tricks, its perversities and habits. There are -things which it shies at and goes round, there are places where it runs -away and, leaving the reality which it professes to carry tumbled out at -the tail of the cart, arrives in a great pother, but without the goods. - -But in spite of all these limitations and the errors they entail it -seems to me that the attempt to attain objective judgments has not -altogether failed, and that I seem to myself to have been always groping -my way towards some kind of a reasoned and practical æsthetic. Many -minds have been engaged alongside of mine in the same pursuit. I think -we may claim that partly as a result of our common efforts a rather -more intelligent attitude exists in the educated public of to-day than -obtained in the last century. - -Art in England is sometimes insular, sometimes provincial. The -pre-Raphaelite movement was mainly an indigenous product. The dying -echoes of this remarkable explosion reverberated through the years of my -nonage, but when I first began to study art seriously the vital movement -was a provincial one. After the usual twenty years of delay, provincial -England had become aware of the Impressionist movement in France, and -the younger painters of promise were working under the influence of -Monet. Some of them even formulated theories of naturalism in its most -literal and extreme form. But at the same time Whistler, whose -Impressionism was of a very different stamp, had put forward the purely -decorative idea of art, and had tried in his “Ten o’clock,” perhaps too -cavalierly, to sweep away the web of ethical questions, distorted by -æsthetic prejudices, which Ruskin’s exuberant and ill-regulated mind had -spun for the British public. - -The Naturalists made no attempt to explain why the exact and literal -imitation of nature should satisfy the human spirit, and the -“Decorators” failed to distinguish between agreeable sensations and -imaginative significance. - -After a brief period during which I was interested in the new -possibilities opened up by the more scientific evaluation of colour -which the Impressionists practised, I came to feel more and more the -absence in their work of structural design. It was an innate desire for -this aspect of art which drove me to the study of the Old Masters and, -in particular, those of the Italian Renaissance, in the hope of -discovering from them the secret of that architectonic idea which I -missed so badly in the work of my contemporaries. I think now that a -certain amount of “cussedness” led me to exaggerate what was none the -less a genuine personal reaction. Finding myself out of touch with my -generation I took a certain pleasure in emphasising my isolation. I -always recognised fully that the only vital art of the day was that of -the Impressionists whose theories I disbelieved, and I was always able -to admit the greatness of Degas and Renoir. But many of my judgments of -modern art were too much affected by my attitude. I do not think I ever -praised Mr. Wilson Steer or Mr. Walter Sickert as much as they deserved, -and I looked with too - -[Illustration: - - Seurat. La Baignade - - Plate XXIX.] - -great indulgence on some would-be imitators of the Old Masters. But my -most serious lapse was the failure to discover the genius of Seurat (see -Plate), whose supreme merits as a designer I had every reason to -acclaim. I cannot even tell now whether I ever saw his work in the -exhibitions of the early nineties, but if I did his qualities were -hidden from me by the now transparent veil of pointillism--a -pseudo-scientific system of atmospheric colour notation in which I took -no interest. - -I think I can claim that my study of the Old Masters was never much -tainted by archæological curiosity. I tried to study them in the same -spirit as I might study contemporary artists, and I always regretted -that there was no modern art capable of satisfying my predilections. I -say there was no modern art because none such was known to me, but all -the time there was one who had already worked out the problem which -seemed to me insoluble of how to use the modern vision with the -constructive design of the older masters. By some extraordinary ill luck -I managed to miss seeing Cézanne’s work till some considerable time -after his death. I had heard of him vaguely from time to time as a kind -of hidden oracle of ultra-impressionism, and, in consequence, I expected -to find myself entirely unreceptive to his art. To my intense surprise I -found myself deeply moved. I have discovered the article in which I -recorded this encounter, and though the praise I gave would sound -grudging and feeble to-day--for I was still obsessed by ideas about the -content of a work of art--I am glad to see that I was so ready to scrap -a long-cherished hypothesis in face of a new experience. - -In the next few years I became increasingly interested in the art of -Cézanne and of those like Gauguin and van Goch who at that time -represented the first effects of his profound influence on modern art, -and I gradually recognised that what I had hoped for as a possible event -of some future century had already occurred, that art had begun to -recover once more the language of design and to explore its so long -neglected possibilities. Thus it happened that when at the end of 1911, -by a curious series of chances, I was in a position to organise an -exhibition at the Grafton Galleries, I seized the opportunity to bring -before the English public a selection of works conforming to the new -direction. For purposes of convenience it was necessary to give these -artists a name, and I chose, as being the vaguest and most -non-committal, the name of Post-Impressionist. This merely stated their -position in time relatively to the Impressionist movement. In conformity -with my own previous prejudices against Impressionism, I think I -underlined too much their divorce from the parent stock. I see now more -clearly their affiliation with it, but I was none the less right in -recognising their essential difference, a difference which the -subsequent development of Cubism has rendered more evident. Of late the -thesis of their fundamental opposition has been again enforced in the -writings of M. Lhote. - -If I may judge by the discussions in the press to which this exhibition -gave rise, the general public failed to see that my position with regard -to this movement was capable of a logical explanation, as the result of -a consistent sensibility. I tried in vain to explain what appeared to me -so clear, that the modern movement was essentially a return to the ideas -of formal design which had been almost lost sight of in the fervid -pursuit of naturalistic representation. I found that the cultured public -which had welcomed my expositions of the works of the Italian -Renaissance now regarded me as either incredibly flippant or, for the -more charitable explanation was usually adopted, slightly insane. In -fact, I found among the cultured who had hitherto been my most eager -listeners the most inveterate and exasperated enemies of the new -movement. The accusation of anarchism was constantly made. From an -æsthetic point of view this was, of course, the exact opposite of the -truth, and I was for long puzzled to find the explanation of so -paradoxical an opinion and so violent an enmity. I now see that my crime -had been to strike at the vested emotional interests. These people felt -instinctively that their special culture was one of their social assets. -That to be able to speak glibly of Tang and Ming, of Amico di Sandro and -Baldovinetti, gave them a social standing and a distinctive cachet. This -showed me that we had all along been labouring under a mutual -misunderstanding, _i.e._ that we had admired the Italian primitives for -quite different reasons. It was felt that one could only appreciate -Amico di Sandro when one had acquired a certain considerable mass of -erudition and given a great deal of time and attention, but to admire a -Matisse required only a certain sensibility. One could feel fairly sure -that one’s maid could not rival one in the former case, but might by a -mere haphazard gift of Providence - -[Illustration: - -Derain. Still Life Author’s Collection - -Plate XXX.] - -surpass one in the second. So that the accusation of revolutionary -anarchism was due to a social rather than an æsthetic prejudice. In any -case the cultured public was determined to look upon Cézanne as an -incompetent bungler, and upon the whole movement as madly revolutionary. -Nothing I could say would induce people to look calmly enough at these -pictures to see how closely they followed tradition, or how great a -familiarity with the Italian primitives was displayed in their work. Now -that Matisse has become a safe investment for persons of taste, and that -Picasso and Derain have delighted the miscellaneous audience of the -London Music Halls with their designs for the Russian Ballet, it will be -difficult for people to believe in the vehemence of the indignation -which greeted the first sight of their works in England. - -In contrast to its effect on the cultured public the Post-Impressionist -exhibition aroused a keen interest among a few of the younger English -artists and their friends. With them I began to discuss the problems of -æsthetic that the contemplation of these works forced upon us. - -But before explaining the effects of these discussions upon my æsthetic -theory I must return to consider the generalisations which I had made -from my æsthetic experiences up to this point. - -In my youth all speculations on æsthetic had revolved with wearisome -persistence around the question of the nature of beauty. Like our -predecessors we sought for the criteria of the beautiful, whether in art -or nature. And always this search led to a tangle of contradictions or -else to metaphysical ideas so vague as to be inapplicable to concrete -cases. - -It was Tolstoy’s genius that delivered us from this _impasse_, and I -think that one may date from the appearance of “What is Art?” the -beginning of fruitful speculation in æsthetic. It was not indeed -Tolstoy’s preposterous valuation of works of art that counted for us, -but his luminous criticism of past æsthetic systems, above all, his -suggestions that art had no special or necessary concern with what is -beautiful in nature, that the fact that Greek sculpture had run -prematurely to decay through an extreme and non-æsthetic admiration of -beauty in the human figure afforded no reason why we should for ever -remain victims of their error. - -It became clear that we had confused two distinct uses of the word -beautiful, that when we used beauty to describe a favourable æsthetic -judgment on a work of art we meant something quite different from our -praise of a woman, a sunset or a horse as beautiful. Tolstoy saw that -the essence of art was that it was a means of communication between -human beings. He conceived it to be _par excellence_ the language of -emotion. It was at this point that his moral bias led him to the strange -conclusion that the value of a work of art corresponded to the moral -value of the emotion expressed. Fortunately he showed by an application -of his theory to actual works of art to what absurdities it led. What -remained of immense importance was the idea that a work of art was not -the record of beauty already existent elsewhere, but the expression of -an emotion felt by the artist and conveyed to the spectator. - -The next question was, Of what kind of emotions is art the expression? -Is love poetry the expression of the emotion of love, tragedy the -expression of pity and fear, and so forth? Clearly the expression in art -has some similarity to the expression of these emotions in actual life, -but it is never identical. It is evident that the artist feels these -emotions in a special manner, that he is not entirely under their -influence, but sufficiently withdrawn to contemplate and comprehend -them. My “Essay in Æsthetic” here reprinted, elaborates this point of -view, and in a course of unpublished lectures I endeavoured to divide -works of visual art according to the emotional point of view, adopting -the classification already existing in poetry into Epic, Dramatic, -Lyric, and Comedic. - -I conceived the form of the work of art to be its most essential -quality, but I believed this form to be the direct outcome of an -apprehension of some emotion of actual life by the artist, although, no -doubt, that apprehension was of a special and peculiar kind and implied -a certain detachment. I also conceived that the spectator in -contemplating the form must inevitably travel in an opposite direction -along the same road which the artist had taken, and himself feel the -original emotion. I conceived the form and the emotion which it conveyed -as being inextricably bound together in the æsthetic whole. - -About the time I had arrived at these conclusions the discussion of -æsthetic stimulated by the appearance of Post-Impressionism began. It -became evident through these discussions that some artists who were -peculiarly sensitive to the formal relations of works of art, and who -were deeply moved by them, had almost no sense of the emotions which I -had supposed them to convey. Since it was impossible in these cases to -doubt the genuineness of the æsthetic reaction it became evident that I -had not pushed the analysis of works of art far enough, had not -disentangled the purely æsthetic elements from certain accompanying -accessories. - -It was, I think, the observation of these cases of reaction to pure form -that led Mr. Clive Bell in his book, “Art,” to put forward the -hypothesis that however much the emotions of life might appear to play a -part in the work of art, the artist was really not concerned with them, -but only with the expression of a special and unique kind of emotion, -the æsthetic emotion. A work of art had the peculiar property of -conveying the æsthetic emotion, and it did this in virtue of having -“significant form.” He also declared that representation of nature was -entirely irrelevant to this and that a picture might be completely -non-representative. - -This last view seemed to me always to go too far since any, even the -slightest, suggestion of the third dimension in a picture must be due to -some element of representation. What I think has resulted from Mr. Clive -Bell’s book, and the discussions which it has aroused on this point is -that the artist is free to choose any degree of representational -accuracy which suits the expression of his feeling. That no single fact, -or set of facts, about nature can be held to be obligatory for artistic -form. Also one might add as an empirical observation that the greatest -art seems to concern itself most with the universal aspects of natural -form, to be the least pre-occupied with particulars. The greatest -artists appear to be most sensitive to those qualities of natural -objects which are the least obvious in ordinary life precisely because, -being common to all visible objects, they do not serve as marks of -distinction and recognition. - -With regard to the expression of emotion in works of art I think that -Mr. Bell’s sharp challenge to the usually accepted view of art as -expressing the emotions of life has been of great value. It has led to -an attempt to isolate the purely æsthetic feeling from the whole complex -of feelings which may and generally do accompany the æsthetic feeling -when we regard a work of art. - -Let us take as an example of what I mean Raphael’s “Transfiguration,” -which a hundred years ago was perhaps the most admired picture in the -world, and twenty years ago was one of the most neglected. It is at once -apparent that this picture makes a very complex appeal to the mind and -feelings. To those who are familiar with the Gospel story of Christ it -brings together in a single composition two different events which -occurred simultaneously at different places, the Transfiguration of -Christ and the unsuccessful attempt of the Disciples during His absence -to heal the lunatic boy. This at once arouses a number of complex ideas -about which the intellect and feelings may occupy themselves. Goethe’s -remark on the picture is instructive from this point of view. “It is -remarkable,” he says, “that any one has ever ventured to query the -essential unity of such a composition. How can the upper part be -separated from the lower? The two form one whole. Below the suffering -and the needy, above the powerful and helpful--mutually dependent, -mutually illustrative.” - -It will be seen at once what an immense complex of feelings -interpenetrating and mutually affecting one another such a work sets up -in the mind of a Christian spectator, and all this merely by the content -of the picture, its subject, the dramatic story it tells. - -Now if our Christian spectator has also a knowledge of human nature he -will be struck by the fact that these figures, especially in the lower -group, are all extremely incongruous with any idea he is likely to have -formed of the people who surrounded Christ in the Gospel narrative. And -according to his prepossessions he is likely to be shocked or pleased to -find instead of the poor and unsophisticated peasants and fisherfolk who -followed Christ, a number of noble, dignified, and academic gentlemen in -impossible garments and purely theatrical poses. Again the -representation merely as representation, will set up a number of -feelings and perhaps of critical thoughts dependent upon innumerable -associated ideas in the spectator’s mind. - -Now all these reactions to the picture are open to any one who has -enough understanding of natural form to recognise it when represented -adequately. There is no need for him to have any particular sensibility -to form as such. - -Let us now take for our spectator a person highly endowed with the -special sensibility to form, who feels the intervals and relations of - -[Illustration: - -Raphael. The Transfiguration Vatican - -Plate XXXI.] - -forms as a musical person feels the intervals and relations of tones, -and let us suppose him either completely ignorant of, or indifferent to, -the Gospel story. Such a spectator will be likely to be immensely -excited by the extraordinary power of co-ordination of many complex -masses in a single inevitable whole, by the delicate equilibrium of many -directions of line. He will at once feel that the apparent division into -two parts is only apparent, that they are co-ordinated by a quite -peculiar power of grasping the possible correlations. He will almost -certainly be immensely excited and moved, but his emotion will have -nothing to do with the emotions which we have discussed since in the -former case, ex-hypothesi, our spectator has no clue to them. - -It is evident then that we have the possibility of infinitely diverse -reactions to a work of art. We may imagine, for instance, that our pagan -spectator, though entirely unaffected by the story, is yet conscious -that the figures represent men, and that their gestures are indicative -of certain states of mind and, in consequence, we may suppose that -according to an internal bias his emotion is either heightened or -hindered by the recognition of their rhetorical insincerity. Or we may -suppose him to be so absorbed in purely formal relations as to be -indifferent even to this aspect of the design as representation. We may -suppose him to be moved by the pure contemplation of the spatial -relations of plastic volumes. It is when we have got to this point that -we seem to have isolated this extremely elusive æsthetic quality which -is the one constant quality of all works of art, and which seems to be -independent of all the prepossessions and associations which the -spectator brings with him from his past life. - -A person so entirely pre-occupied with the purely formal meaning of a -work of art, so entirely blind to all the overtones and associations of -a picture like the Transfiguration is extremely rare. Nearly every one, -even if highly sensitive to purely plastic and spatial appearances, will -inevitably entertain some of those thoughts and feelings which are -conveyed by implication and by reference back to life. The difficulty is -that we frequently give wrong explanations of our feelings. I suspect, -for instance, that Goethe was deeply moved by the marvellous discovery -of design, whereby the upper and lower parts cohere in a single whole, -but the explanation he gave of this feeling took the form of a moral and -philosophical reflection. - -It is evident also that owing to our difficulty in recognising the -nature of our own feelings we are liable to have our æsthetic reaction -interfered with by our reaction to the dramatic overtones and -implications. I have chosen this picture of the Transfiguration -precisely because its history is a striking example of this fact. In -Goethe’s time rhetorical gesture was no bar to the appreciation of -æsthetic unity. Later on in the nineteenth century, when the study of -the Primitives had revealed to us the charm of dramatic sincerity and -naturalness, these gesticulating figures appeared so false and -unsympathetic that even people of æsthetic sensibility were unable to -disregard them, and their dislike of the picture as illustration -actually obliterated or prevented the purely æsthetic approval which -they would probably otherwise have experienced. It seems to me that this -attempt to isolate the elusive element of the pure æsthetic reaction -from the compounds in which it occurs has been the most important -advance of modern times in practical æsthetic. - -The question which this simile suggests is full of problems; are these -chemical compounds in the normal æsthetically gifted spectator, or are -they merely mixtures due to our confused recognition of what goes on in -the complex of our emotions? The picture I have chosen is also valuable, -just at the present time, from this point of view. Since it presents in -vivid opposition for most of us a very strong positive (pleasurable) -reaction on the purely æsthetic side, and a violently negative (painful) -reaction in the realm of dramatic association. - -But one could easily point to pictures where the two sets of emotions -seem to run so parallel that the idea that they reinforce one another is -inevitably aroused. We might take, for instance, Giotto’s “Pietà.” In my -description of that (p. 110), it will be seen that the two currents of -feeling ran so together in my own mind that I regarded them as being -completely fused. My emotion about the dramatic idea seemed to heighten -my emotion about the plastic design. But at present I should be inclined -to say that this fusion of two sets of emotion was only apparent and was -due to my imperfect analysis of my own mental state. - -Probably at this point we must hand over the question to the -experimental psychologist. It is for him to discover whether this fusion -is possible, whether, for example, such a thing as a song really -exists, that is to say, a song in which neither the meaning of the words -nor the meaning of the music predominates; in which music and words do -not merely set up separate currents of feeling, which may agree in a -general parallelism, but really fuse and become indivisible. I expect -that the answer will be in the negative. - -If on the other hand such a complete fusion of different kinds of -emotion does take place, this would tend to substantiate the ordinary -opinion that the æsthetic emotion has greater value in highly -complicated compounds than in the pure state. - -Supposing, then, that we are able to isolate in a work of art this -purely æsthetic quality to which Mr. Clive Bell gives the name of -“significant form.” Of what nature is it? And what is the value of this -elusive and--taking the whole mass of mankind--rather uncommon æsthetic -emotion which it causes? I put these questions without much hope of -answering them, since it is of the greatest importance to recognise -clearly what are the questions which remain to be solved. - -I think we are all agreed that we mean by significant form something -other than agreeable arrangements of form, harmonious patterns, and the -like. We feel that a work which possesses it is the outcome of an -endeavour to express an idea rather than to create a pleasing object. -Personally, at least, I always feel that it implies the effort on the -part of the artist to bend to our emotional understanding by means of -his passionate conviction some intractable material which is alien to -our spirit. - -I seem unable at present to get beyond this vague adumbration of the -nature of significant form. Flaubert’s “expression of the idea” seems to -me to correspond exactly to what I mean, but, alas! he never explained, -and probably could not, what he meant by the “idea.” - -As to the value of the æsthetic emotion--it is clearly infinitely -removed from those ethical values to which Tolstoy would have confined -it. It seems to be as remote from actual life and its practical -utilities as the most useless mathematical theorem. One can only say -that those who experience it feel it to have a peculiar quality of -“reality” which makes it a matter of infinite importance in their lives. -Any attempt I might make to explain this would probably land me in the -depths of mysticism. On the edge of that gulf I stop. - - - - -INDEX - - -Albigensian crusade, 99 - -American and Chinese art, 74 - -Architecture, domestic, 183 - -----, styles in, 180 - -Art and Christianity, 87 - ----- and the Franciscan movement, 87, 88 - ----- and Poetry, 194 - -----, associated ideas in, 159 - -----, classic, 159 - -----, emotion and form in, 194 - -----, public indifference to, 168 - -----, Realistic, 159 - -----, Romantic, 159 - -Artist and the community, 168 - -----, pure, 175 - -Asselin, 158 - -Associated ideas in art, 159 - -Assisi, upper church at, 103 - -----, great church at, 87 - -Assyrian art, 80 - -“Athenæum,” 52 - -Author and Cézanne, 191 - ----- and Gauguin, 191 - ----- and Impressionists, 190 - ----- and the public, 192 - ----- and Old Masters, 190, 191 - ----- and Seurat, 191 - ----- and van Goch, 191 - ----- and Mr. Walter Sickert, 190 - ----- and Mr. Wilson Steer, 190 - -Author’s æsthetic, 188, 189 - ----- house, 180 - -Aztecs and Incas, 70 - - -Babelon, M., 77 - -Babylon and Nineveh bas-reliefs, 78 - -Baldovinetti, 126 - ----- and Ucello, 126 - -Baldovinetti’s _Madonna and Child_, 126 - ----- portrait in Nat. Gall., 126 - ----- _Trinity_; Accademia, Florence, 126 - -Balfour, Mr., 60 - -Baroque architect, 136 - ----- art and Catholic reaction, 138 - ----- art and Poussin, 138 - ----- idea and El Greco, 135-139 - ----- idea and Michelangelo, 136, 138 - ----- idea and Signorelli, 138 - ----- in Spanish and Italian art, 138 - -Bartolommeo, Fra, 164 - -Bastien-Lepage, 17 - -Beardsley and Antonio Pollajuolo, 153 - ----- and Mantegna, 153 - ----- and Nature, 153 - -Beardsley’s art, influences on, 153 - -Beauty, nature of, 193, 194 - -Beethoven, 19 - -Bell, Mr. Clive, book on art, 195, 199 - -Bellini, Giovanni, and Dürer, 133 - -Berenson, Mr., 100 - -Bernini and El Greco, 135, 136, 137 - -Besnard, M., 96, 97 - -Blake and the Byzantine style, 142 - ----- and Giotto, 111, 142 - ----- and the Old Testament, 140, 141 - ----- and Michelangelo, 141 - ----- and Tintoretto, 141 - ----- on poetry, 143 - -Blake’s temperament, 141 - -Bleek, Miss, 64 - -Blow, Mr., 180 - -Bobrinsky, Prince, 79, 80 - -Bode, Dr., 134 - -Bourgeois attitude to art, 168 - -Bramante, 136 - -Braque, 158 - -Bridges, Robert, 147 - -British public, 190 - -Browning, 42 - -Brunelleschi, 4 - -Bumble, 42 - -Bushman and Assyrian art, 58 - ----- and Palæolithic art, 61-63 - -Byzantine style and Blake, 142 - - -Cabaner, 172 - -Caravaggio, 5 - -Cézanne, 42, 158 - ----- and Delacroix, 173 - ----- and El Greco, 139 - ----- and Ingres, 173 - ----- and Marchand, 184 - ----- and Poussin, 173 - ----- and Renoir, 177, 178 - ----- and Rubens’ method, 173 - ----- and Tintoretto’s method, 173 - ----- and Zola, 172 - -----, criticism of, 156 - ----- misunderstood by his contemporaries, 169 - -----, Poussin and El Greco, 138, 139 - ----- the perfect type of artist, 168, 171 - -Cézanne’s character, 169, 170, 171 - -Chateaubriand, 6 - -_Charpentier family_, by Renoir, 178 - -Chelsea Book Club, 65 - -Chinese and American art, 74 - ----- and Negro cultures, 67 - ----- art and Matisse, 158 - ----- landscape, Claude and, 150 - ----- painting, 21 - -Chosroes relief, 78, 79 - -Christianity and art, 87 - -Cimabue and Giotto, 103, 106, 107_n_ - -Cinematograph, 13 - -Cinquecento art and Giotto, 114 - -Classic art, 159 - -Claude and Chinese landscape, 150 - ----- and Corot, 150 - ----- and Turner, 146 - -Claude and Whistler, 150 - -----, Ruskin on, 145, 146 - ----- and Leonardo da Vinci, 146 - ----- and Rembrandt, 146 - ----- “Liber Veritatis,” 149 - -----, influence of Virgil on, 148, 152 - -Claude’s articulations, 145 - ----- figures, 146 - ----- romanticism, 150 - -Coco style, 29 - -Colour, Giotto’s, 114 - -Conceptual art, 62, 63 - -Contour in painting, 160, 161 - -Copée, 172 - -Corot and Claude, 150 - ----- as a draughtsman, 165 - -Corot’s drawing of a seated woman, 165 - -Cosima Tura, 176 - -Cosmati, 99, 100, 104 - -Cossa, 132 - -Credi, Lorenzo di, and Dürer, 133 - -Critic’s function, 189 - -Cubism, 192 - ----- and Marchand, 186 - ----- and Ucello, 124 - - -Daddi, Bernardo, and Giotto, 108_n_ - -Dante, 2, 97, 98, 108, 110, 116 - -David, 5 - -“Decorators,” 190 - -Degas, 20, 176, 190 - ----- as a draughtsman, 165 - -Delacroix and Cézanne, 173 - -Derain, 158, 159, 193 - ----- and Marchand, 185 - -Dickens, 175 - -Dickey Doyle, 153 - -Doucet, 158 - -Drama, Italian, beginning of, 101_n_ - -Drawing of contours, great examples, 166 - ----- of the figure, 164 - ----- of Italian Primitives, 163 - ----- of Renoir and Ingres compared, 178 - -----, Persian, 163 - -Druet’s, M., photographs, 158 - -Duccio and Giotto, 106 - -Dürer and the Gothic tradition, 129 - ----- and Leonardo da Vinci, 127 - ----- and Lorenzo di Credi, 133 - ----- and Giovanni Bellini, 133 - -Dürer and Jacopo de’Barbari, 133 - ----- and Mantegna, 131, 132 - ----- and Pollajuolo, 133 - ----- and Raphael, 127 - ----- and Schongauer, 132 - -Dürer’s “Beetle,” 164 - ----- letters and diary, 127 - - -El Greco and Baroque idea, 135-139 - ----- and Bernini, 135, 136, 137 - ----- and British public, 134 - ----- and Cézanne, 139 - -----, Poussin and Cézanne, 138, 139 - -Emotion and form in art, 194, 197 - -England and French Impressionism, 190 - -English Art considered, 190 - - -Fatimite textiles, 79 - -Figure drawing, 164 - -Filippino Lippi, 163 - -Flaubert, 199 - -Flemish and Florentine art, 124 - ----- painting and Giotto, 110 - -Florentine art, a characteristic of, 125 - ----- and Flemish art, 124 - -Forli, Melozzo da, 104 - -Form in art, 107 - -Francesca, Piero della, 4 - -Franciscan movement and art, 87, 88 - -Francis, St., 2, 87, 88, 112 - -French art classic, 158, 159, 184 - -French, English and Russian art compared, 158 - - -Gamp, Mrs., 97 - -Gauguin, 158, 175 - -Germans, the, 129 - -Ghiberti’s commentary, 87 - -Giorgione, 175 - -Giotto and Barnardo Daddi, 108_n_ - ----- and Blake, in, 142 - ----- and Cimabue, 103, 106, 107_n_ - ----- and Cinquecento art, 114 - ----- and classical architecture, 113 - ----- and Duccio, 106 - ----- and European art, 115 - ----- and Flemish painting, 110 - ----- and Leonardo da Vinci, 116 - ----- and Lorenzetti, 113 - ----- and Masaccio, 113 - ----- and pre-Raphaelitism, 103 - -Giotto and Raphael, 115 - ----- and Rembrandt, 110 - ----- as draughtsman, 115, 116 - -Giotto’s colour, 114 - ----- figure of Joachim, 111 - ----- invention of Tempera, 105 - ----- _Pietà_, 110, 198 - ----- place as an artist, 116 - -Goethe, 197, 198 - -Gothic tradition and Dürer, 129, 130 - -Græco-Roman art, 76, 77, 78 - -Grunwedel, Dr., 76 - -Guatemala and Yucatan, 71 - - -Head, Henry, F.R.S., 62 - -Herbin, 158 - -Hermitage, 79 - -Holmes, Mr. C. J., 134 - -Homer, 97 - -House, author’s, 180 - -Houses, architects’, 179 - -----, builders’, 179 - -----, dwelling, 180 - -Huxley, 8 - - -Jacquemart-André collection, 123-126 - -“Jane Eyre,” 185 - -_Jeremiah_ of Michelangelo, 23 - -Johnson, Dr., 65 - -Joyce, Mr., 69, 73, 75 - - -Kaiser Friedrich Museum, 47, 134 - -----, the, 47 - -Karlsruhe Museum, 78 - -Keats, 147 - -Keene, Charles, as a draughtsman, 165 - -Kingsborough, Lord, 71 - -Kraft’s stonework, 129 - -Krell, Oswald, 130 - -Kunsthistorisches Akademie, Vienna, 129 - - -Incas and Aztecs, 70 - -Ingres, 164 - ----- and Cézanne, 173 - ----- as a designer, 163 - ----- as a draughtsman, 162 - -----, effect of poverty on his art, 162 - -Ingres’ drawing, _The Apotheosis of Napoleon_, 163 - ----- painting and drawing compared, 163 - -Lecoq, Dr., 76 - -Leeche’s drawings, 28 - -Lehmann, Dr., 74 - -Leonardo da Vinci, 4, 24 - ----- and Claude, 146 - ----- and Dürer, 127 - ----- and Giotto, 116 - -L’Hote, 158 - -----, M., writings of, 192 - -“Liber Veritatis” of Claude, 149 - -Limoges enamels, 77 - -Lincoln Cathedral, 78 - -Line, the function of, in drawing, 160 - -----, qualities of, 115 - -----, rarity of great design expressed in, 163 - -Loewy, Prof., 56, 57 - -Lorenzetti and Giotto, 113 - - -Malatesta, Sigismondo, 87 - -Mantegna and Beardsley, 153 - ----- and Dürer, 131, 132 - ----- and Rembrandt, 132 - -Marchand, 158 - -----, a classic artist, 184 - ----- and Cézanne, 184 - ----- and Cubism, 186 - ----- and Derain, 185 - -Masaccio and Giotto, 113 - -Matisse, 158, 193 - ----- and Chinese art, 158 - ----- as a draughtsman, 167 - -Maya art, 71, 72, 73 - -Melozzo da Forli, 105 - -Meredith, 28 - -Mesopotamian art, 79 - -Michelangelo, 19, 23, 24, 109 - ----- and Baroque idea, 136, 138 - ----- and Blake, 141 - -Middle Ages, 29 - -Millais’ drawing, 165 - -Milton, 147 - -Minzel as a draughtsman, 165 - -Modigliani as a draughtsman, 167 - -Monet, 17, 190 - -Money, Mr., 48 - -Music, 15 - -----, psychology of, 199 - - -National Gallery, 134 - -Nature, 24, 25 - -Naturalists, 190 - -Navicella mosaic, 104 - -Negro and European sculpture, 66 - -Neolithic art, 63 - -Nuremberg school, 130 - - -Old Testament and Blake, 140, 141 - -Ottley’s prints, 142 - -Oxford movement, 6 - - -_Pall Mall Gazette_, 154 - -_Parapluies, Les_, by Renoir, 176 - -Patine, 38, 39 - -Pelliot, M., 76 - -Perspective, 124, 125 - -Picasso, 157, 158, 193 - -_Pietà_, by Giotto, 110 - -Pindar, 87 - -Pliny on painting, 160, 161 - -Podsnap, Mr., 179 - -Poetry and art, 194 - -----, Blake on, 143 - -Pollajuolo, Antonio and Beardsley, 153 - -----, 147 - ----- and Dürer, 133 - -Pompeii, 30, 79 - -Post-Impressionism, 194 - -Post-Impressionists at the Grafton Gallery, 191, 193 - -----, criticism of, 156, 157 - -Poussin, 159 - ----- and Baroque art, 138 - ----- and Cézanne, 173 - -----, El Greco, and Cézanne, 138 - -Pre-Raphaelite movement, 190 - -Primitives, study of, in England, 198 - -_Primum Mobile_ in Tarocchi prints, 133 - -Psychologists and art, 54 - -Public indifference to art, 168 - - -Racine, 147 - -Raphael, 19, 164 - ----- and Dürer, 127 - -Raphael’s “Transfiguration,” 196, 198 - -Realistic art, 159 - -Rembrandt, 5, 20, 147 - ----- and Claude, 146 - ----- and Giotto, 110 - ----- and Mantegna, 132 - ----- as a draughtsman, 165, 166 - -Rembrandt’s characteristics, 165 - -Renaissance, 76 - -Renoir and Cézanne, 177, 178, 190 - ----- and Titian, 178 - -Renoir compared to Giorgione and Titian, 175 - -Renoir’s “Charpentier Family,” 178 - ----- “Les Parapluies,” 176, 178 - -Robida, 153 - -Rodin, 38 - -Romans, the, 129 - -Romantic art, 159 - -Romanticism, Claude’s, 150 - -Ross, Dr. Denman, 21 - -Rossetti’s relationship to Millais, 165 - -Rousseau, 156 - -Rowlandson’s style in drawing, 165 - -Rubens, 164, 175 - -Ruskin, 14, 38 - ----- on Claude, 145, 146 - - -S. Bonaventura, 87, 101, 102 - -S. Francis, 2, 87, 88, 112 - -_S. Peter’s Crucifixion_, by Giotto, 107 - -Sassanid art, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 - -Schongauer and Dürer, 132 - -Scrovegni, 110 - -Sculpture, Greek, 57 - -Shakespeare, 147 - -Shaw, Mr. Bernard, 41 - -Shelley, 42 - -Sickert, Mr. Walter, 175 - -Sicily, 77 - -Siegfried, 153 - -Sigismondo Malatesta, 87 - -“Significant Form,” 199 - -Signorelli and Baroque idea, 138 - ----- and Florence, 126 - ----- and Ucello, 126 - ----- and Umbrian art, 126 - -Signorelli’s _Holy Family_, 126 - -Smith, Robertson, 9 - -Song, psychology of, 199 - -Spectator of a picture, psychology of, 196, 197 - -Spencer, Herbert, 8, 9 - -Stefaneschi, Cardinal, 103, 104, 105, 108_n_ - -Stein, Dr., 76 - -Storr’s woodwork, 129, 130 - -Subject picture, 53 - -Sung, 32 - - -Tahiti, 175 - -Tarrocchi engravings, 132 - -Tempera, Giotto’s invention, 105 - -Tennyson, 24, 26 - -Tiepolo, 161, 162 - -Tintoretto and Blake, 141 - -Titian, 19, 175 - ----- and Renoir compared, 178 - -Tolstoy, 16, 18, 19 - -Tolstoy’s “What is Art?” 193, 199 - -Todi, Jacopone di, 87 - -_Tondo_ of Michelangelo, 23 - -Tongue, Miss, 57, 59 - -Tura, Cosima, 177 - -Turner and Claude, 146 - -Tussaud, Mme., 5 - - -Ucello, 4 - ----- and Baldovinetti, 126 - ----- and Cubism, 124 - -Ucello and Van Eyck, 124 - ----- and perspective, 124, 125 - ----- and Signorelli, 126 - -Ucello’s “St. George,” 123, 125 - - -Vandyke, 164 - -Van Eyck and Ucello, 124 - ----- Gogh, 158 - -Varnish, 139 - -Vasari, 87, 169 - ----- and Ucello, 123 - -Victorians and art, 65 - -Viollet-le-Duc, 185 - -Virgil’s influence on Claude, 148, 152 - -Von Tschudi, 139 - - -Waldus, Petrus, 99, 100 - -Watteau, 164 - -Wells, H. G., 36 - -“What is Art?” by Tolstoy, 18 - -Whistler, 7 - ----- and Beardsley, 154 - ----- and Claude, 150 - ----- and Ruskin, 190 - -Whistler’s Impressionism, 190 - -Whittier, 26 - - -Young, Brigham, 74 - -Yucatan and Guatemala, 71 - - -Zola, 5 - ----- and Cézanne, 172 - -Zuloaga, Señor, 155 - - - THE END - - - PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND - BECCLES. - - -FOOTNOTES: - - [1] From notes of a lecture given to the Fabian Society, 1917. - - [2] New Quarterly, 1909. - - [3] Rodin is reported to have said, “A woman, a mountain, a - horse--they are all the same thing; they are made on the same - principles.” That is to say, their forms, when viewed with the - disinterested vision of the imaginative life, have similar emotional - elements. - - [4] I do not forget that at the death of Tennyson the writer in the - _Daily Telegraph_ averred that “level beams of the setting moon - streamed in upon the face of the dying bard”; but then, after all, in - its way the _Daily Telegraph_ is a work of art. - - [5] Athenæum, 1919. - - [6] Athenæum, 1919. - - [7] Reprinted with considerable alterations from “The Great State.” - (Harper. 1912.) - - [8] Athenæum, 1919. - - [9] Burlington Magazine, 1910. - - [10] “The Rendering of Nature in Early Greek Art.” By Emmanuel Loewy. - Translated by J. Fothergill. Duckworth. 1907. - - [11] “Bushman Drawings,” copied by M. Helen Tongue, with a preface by - Henry Balfour. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1909. £3 3_s._ net. - - [12] This absence of decorative feeling may be due to the irregular - and vague outlines of the picture space. It is when the picture must - be fitted within determined limits that decoration begins. I have - noticed that children’s drawings are never decorative when they have - the whole surface of a sheet of paper to draw on, but they will design - a frieze with well-marked rhythm when they have only a narrow strip. - - [13] This is certainly the case with the Australian Bushmen. - - [14] Athenæum, 1920. - - [15] Burlington Magazine, 1918. - - [16] Thomas A. Joyce, (1) “South American Archæology,” London - (Macmillan), 1912; (2) “Mexican Archæology,” London (Lee Warner), - 1914; (3) “Central American Archæology,” London and New York (Putnam), - 1916. - - [17] _The Burlington Magazine_, vol. xvii., p. 22 (April, 1910). - - [18] Burlington Magazine, 1910. - - [19] G. Migeon, _Gazette des Beaux-Arts_, June, 1905, and “Manuel - d’Art Musulman,” p. 226. - - [20] I cannot help calling attention, though without any attempt at - explaining it, to the striking similarity to these Sassanid and early - Mohammedan water jugs shown by an example of Sung pottery lent by Mr. - Eumorfopoulos to the recent exhibition at the Burlington Fine Arts - Club, Case A, No. 43. Here a very similar form of spout is modelled - into a phœnix’s head. - - [21] The following, from the Monthly Review, 1901, is perhaps more - than any other article here reprinted, at variance with the more - recent expressions of my æsthetic ideas. It will be seen that great - emphasis is laid on Giotto’s expression of the dramatic idea in his - pictures. I still think this is perfectly true so far as it goes, nor - do I doubt that an artist like Giotto did envisage such an expression. - Where I should be inclined to disagree is that there underlies this - article a tacit assumption not only that the dramatic idea may have - inspired the artist to the creation of his form, but that the value - of the form for us is bound up without recognition of the dramatic - idea. It now seems to me possible by a more searching analysis of our - experience in front of a work of art to disentangle our reaction to - pure form from our reaction to its implied associated ideas. - - [22] _Cf._ H. Thode: “Franz von Assisi.” - - [23] Dr. J. P. Richter: “Lectures on the National Gallery.” - - [24] One picture, however, ascribed by Vasari to Cimabue, namely, the - Madonna of the National Gallery, does not bear the characteristics of - this group. Dr. Richter’s argument for giving the Rucellai painting - to Duccio depends largely on the likeness of this to the Maesta, but - there is no reason to cling so closely to Vasari’s attributions. If we - except the National Gallery Madonna, which shows the characteristics - of the Siennese school, these pictures, including the Rucellai - Madonna, will be found to cohere by many common peculiarities not - shared by Duccio. Among these we may notice the following: The eye - has the upper eyelid strongly marked; it has a peculiar languishing - expression, due in part to the large elliptical iris (Duccio’s eyes - have a small, bright, round iris with a keen expression); the nose is - distinctly articulated into three segments; the mouth is generally - slewed round from the perpendicular; the hands are curiously curved, - and in all the Madonnas clutch the supports of the throne; the hair - bows seen upon the halos have a constant and quite peculiar shape; the - drapery is designed in rectilinear triangular folds, very different - from Duccio’s more sinuous and flowing line. The folds of the drapery - where they come to the contour of the figure have no effect upon the - form of the outline, an error which Duccio never makes. Finally, the - thrones in all these pictures have a constant form; they are made - of turned wood with a high footstool, and are seen from the side; - Duccio’s is of stone and seen from the front. That the Rucellai - Madonna has a morbidezza which is wanting in the earlier works can - hardly be considered a sufficient distinction to set against the - formal characteristics. It is clearly a later work, painted probably - about the year 1300, and Cimabue, like all the other artists of the - time, was striving constantly in the direction of greater fusion of - tones. - - [25] I should speak now both with greater confidence and much greater - enthusiasm of Cimabue. The attempt of certain scholars to dispose of - him as a myth has broken down. The late Mr. H. P. Horne found that - the documents cited by Dr. Richter to prove that Duccio executed the - Rucellai Madonna referred to another picture. I had also failed in - my estimate to consider fully the superb crucifix by Cimabue in the - Museum of Sta. Croce, a work of supreme artistic merit. In general my - defence of Cimabue, though right enough as far as it goes, appears - to me too timid and my estimate of his artistic quality far too low - (1920). - - [26] The important position here assigned to the Roman school has been - confirmed by the subsequent discovery of Cavallini’s frescoes in Sta. - Cecilia at Rome (1920). - - [27] “Drunken with the love of compassion of Christ, the blessed - Francis would at times do such-like things as this; for the passing - sweet melody of the spirit within him, seething over outwardly, did - often find utterance in the French tongue, and the strain of the - divine whisper that his ear had caught would break forth into a French - song of joyous exulting.” Then pretending with two sticks to play a - viol, “and making befitting gestures, (he) would sing in French of - our Lord Jesus Christ.”--“The Mirror of Perfection,” edited by P. - Sabatier, transl. by S. Evans. - - [28] “Florentine Painters of the Renaissance and Central Italian - Painters of the Renaissance,” by B. Berenson. - - [29] This was the first “representation” of the kind in Italy, and - is of interest as being the beginning of the Italian Drama, and also - of that infinite series of allegorical pageants, sometimes sacred, - sometimes secular, which for three centuries played such a prominent - part in city life and affected Italian art very intimately. - - [30] The Master of the Cecilia altar-piece has been the object of much - research since this article was written, and a considerable number of - important works are now ascribed to him with some confidence. He has - been tentatively identified with Buffalonaceo by Dr. Siren. See _Burl. - Mag._, December, 1919; January, October, 1920. - - [31] This quality is to be distinguished from that conscious - naturalistic study of atmospheric envelopment which engrossed the - attention of some artists of the cinquecento; it is a decorative - quality which may occur at any period in the development of painting - if only an artist arises gifted with a sufficiently delicate - sensitiveness to the surface-quality of his work. - - [32] I cannot recall any example in pre-Giottesque art. - - [33] Derived, no doubt, but greatly modified, from Cimabue’s treatment - of the subject at Assisi. - - [34] The attribution of the Stefaneschi altar-piece to Giotto is much - disputed and some authorities give it to Bernardo Daddi. I still - incline to the idea that it is the work of Giotto and the starting - point of Bernardo Daddi’s style (1920). - - [35] His name was Bianchi. ‘Faut il se plaindre,’ says M. Maurice - Denis in his Théories, ‘qu’un Bianchi, plutôt que les laisser périr, - ait ajouté un peu de la froidure de Flandrin aux fresques de Giotto à - Santa Croce.’ - - [36] This passage now seems to me to underestimate the work of - Giotto’s predecessors with which we are now much better acquainted - (1920). - - [37] Burlington Fine Arts Club Exhibition of Florentine Paintings, - 1919. - - [38] Burlington Magazine, 1914. - - [39] Introduction to Dürer’s Letters and Diary. Merrymount Press, - Boston (1909). - - [40] See Plate, where I have also added Dürer’s version of the - subject. This is of course a new design and not a copy of Mantegna’s - drawing, though I suspect it is based on a vague memory of it. In - any case it shows admirably the distinguishing points of Dürer’s - methods of conception, his love of complexity, and his accumulation of - decorative detail. - - [41] Athenæum, 1920. - - [42] Burlington Magazine, 1904. - - [43] Now in the possession of W. Graham Robertson, Esq. - - [44] Burlington Magazine, 1907. - - [45] As, for instance, in a wonderful drawing, “On the Banks of the - Tiber,” in Mr. Heseltine’s collection. - - [46] It is not impossible that Claude got the hint for such a - treatment as this from the impressionist efforts of Græco-Roman - painters. That he studied such works we know from a copy of one by him - in the British Museum. - - [47] Athenæum, 1904. - - [48] Preface to Catalogue of second Post-Impressionist Exhibition, - Grafton Galleries, 1912. - - [49] Burlington Magazine, 1912. - - [50] I have had to paraphrase this passage, but add the original. - Whether my paraphrase is correct in detail or not, I think there can - be little doubt about the general meaning. - - Plin., _Nat. Hist._, xxxv. 67: “Parrhasius ... confessione artificum - in liniis extremis palmam adeptus. Hæc est picturæ summa sublimitas; - corpora enim pingere et media rerum est quidem magni operis, sed in - quo multi gloriam tulerint. Extrema corporum facere et desinentis - picturæ modum includere rarum in successu artis invenitur. Ambire enim - debet se extremitas ipsa, et sic desinere ut promittat alia post se - ostendatque etiam quae occultat.” - - [51] See No. 62, where, so far as possible, all the forms are reduced - to a common measure by interpreting them all in terms of an elongated - ovoid. - - [52] Burlington Magazine, 1917: “Paul Cézanne,” by Ambroise Vollard - (Paris, 1915). - - [53] This has been done. “Paul Cézanne,” by Ambroise Vollard (Paris). - - [54] Vogue, 1918. - - [55] Athenæum, 1919. - - [56] 1920. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vision and Design, by Roger Fry - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISION AND DESIGN *** - -***** This file should be named 54154-0.txt or 54154-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/5/54154/ - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Vision and Design - -Author: Roger Fry - -Release Date: February 12, 2017 [EBook #54154] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISION AND DESIGN *** - - - - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Image unvavailable: cover" /></a> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border: 2px black solid;margin:auto auto;max-width:50%; -padding:1%;"> -<tr><td> - -<p class="c"><a href="#CONTENTS">Contents.</a><br /> -<a href="#INDEX">Index.</a> -<br /><a href="#LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">List of Illustrations</a><br /> <span class="nonvis">(In certain versions of this etext [in certain browsers] -clicking on the image -will bring up a larger version.)</span></p> - -<p class="c">(etext transcriber's note)</p></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><a name="front" id="front"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/i_frontis_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_frontis_sml.jpg" width="370" height="516" alt="Image unvavailable: /#/> -Maya Sculpture (portion) from Piedras Negras - -Frontispiece" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Maya Sculpture (portion) from Piedras Negras</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Frontispiece</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="font-size:150%;"> -<tr> -<td colspan="3" class="c" style="border-top:4px solid black; -border-left:4px solid black; -border-right:4px solid black;"><big><big>VISION AND DESIGN</big></big></td> -</tr> - -<tr><td - style="border-top:4px solid black; -border-left:4px solid black;border-bottom:4px solid black; -border-right:4px solid black;"></td> - -<td class="c" style="border-bottom:4px solid black;"><small>BY</small><br /> -ROGER FRY<br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -<br /><br /><br /><br /> -<small> -LONDON<br /> -CHATTO & WINDUS<br /> -1920</small></td> - -<td style="border-top:4px solid black; -border-left:4px solid black;border-bottom:4px solid black; -border-right:4px solid black;"></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p class="c"> - -<small><i>All rights reserved</i><br /> -<br /> -PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED<br /> -LONDON AND BECCLES</small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> book contains a selection from my writings on Art extending over a -period of twenty years. Some essays have never before been published in -England; and I have also added a good deal of new matter and made slight -corrections throughout. In the laborious work of hunting up lost and -forgotten publications, and in the work of selection, revision, and -arrangement I owe everything to Mr. R. R. Tatlock’s devoted and patient -labour.</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p class="c"> -DEDICATED<br /> - -TO<br /> - -MY SISTER MARGERY<br /> - -<small>WITHOUT WHOSE GENTLE BUT PERSISTENT PRESSURE<br /> -THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MADE</small> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ART_AND_LIFE">ART AND LIFE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#AN_ESSAY_IN_AESTHETICS">AN ESSAY IN ÆSTHETICS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_011">11</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_OTTOMAN_AND_THE_WHATNOT">THE OTTOMAN AND THE WHATNOT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_026">26</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_ARTISTS_VISION">THE ARTIST’S VISION</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_031">31</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ART_AND_SOCIALISM">ART AND SOCIALISM</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_036">36</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ART_AND_SCIENCE">ART AND SCIENCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_052">52</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_ART_OF_THE_BUSHMEN">THE ART OF THE BUSHMEN</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_056">56</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#NEGRO_SCULPTURE">NEGRO SCULPTURE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_065">65</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#ANCIENT_AMERICAN_ART">ANCIENT AMERICAN ART</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_069">69</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_MUNICH_EXHIBITION_OF_MOHAMMEDAN_ART">THE MUNICH EXHIBITION OF MOHAMMEDAN ART</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_076">76</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#GIOTTO">GIOTTO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_087">87</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_ART_OF_FLORENCE">THE ART OF FLORENCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_JACQUEMART-ANDRE_COLLECTION">THE JACQUEMART-ANDRÉ COLLECTION</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#DURER_AND_HIS_CONTEMPORARIES">DÜRER AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#EL_GRECO">EL GRECO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THREE_PICTURES_IN_TEMPERA_BY_WILLIAM_BLAKE">THREE PICTURES IN TEMPERA BY WILLIAM BLAKE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_140">140</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#CLAUDE">CLAUDE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#AUBREY_BEARDSLEYS_DRAWINGS">AUBREY BEARDSLEY’S DRAWINGS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_FRENCH_POST-IMPRESSIONISTS">THE FRENCH POST-IMPRESSIONISTS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#DRAWINGS_AT_THE_BURLINGTON_FINE_ARTS_CLUB">DRAWINGS AT THE BURLINGTON FINE ARTS CLUB</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#PAUL_CEZANNE">PAUL CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_168">168</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#RENOIR">RENOIR</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_175">175</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#A_POSSIBLE_DOMESTIC_ARCHITECTURE">A POSSIBLE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_179">179</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#JEAN_MARCHAND">JEAN MARCHAND</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_184">184</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#RETROSPECT">RETROSPECT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_188">188</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>TO FACE PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#front">MAYA SCULPTURE (PORTION) FROM PIEDRAS NEGRAS</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#front"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_009">THIRTEENTH-CENTURY SCULPTURE IN THE CLOISTER OF ST. JOHN LATERAN</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_009">GROUP FROM <i>THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS</i>. BY AUGUSTE RODIN</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_009">SCULPTURE IN PLASTER. BY HENRI-MATISSE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_010"><i>LA DONNA GRAVIDA.</i> BY RAPHAEL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_010">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_010">PORTRAIT OF MISS GERTRUDE STEIN. BY PABLO PICASSO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_010">10</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_066">NEGRO SCULPTURE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_066">66</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_080">FATIMITE BRONZES</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_080">80</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_086">PERSIAN PAINTING, END OF THIRTEENTH CENTURY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_086">86</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_108"><i>PIETÀ.</i> BY GIOTTO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_117"><i>CRUCIFIXION.</i> BY CASTAGNO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_123"><i>ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.</i> BY UCELLO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_123">123</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_125"><i>VIRGIN AND CHILD.</i> BY BALDOVINETTI</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_126"><i>HOLY FAMILY.</i> BY SIGNORELLI</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_126">126</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_131"><i>THE CALUMNY OF APELLES.</i> BY REMBRANDT, MANTEGNA, DÜRER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_131">131</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_132">CELESTIAL SPHERE. TAROCCHI PRINT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_132">132</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_132">CELESTIAL SPHERE. BY DÜRER</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_132">132</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_136">ALLEGORY. BY EL GRECO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_136">136</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_142"><i>BATHSHEBA.</i> BY WILLIAM BLAKE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_142">142</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_148">LANDSCAPE. BY CLAUDE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_150">LANDSCAPE IN WATER-COLOUR. BY CLAUDE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_150">150</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_156"><i>TEA PARTY.</i> BY HENRI-MATISSE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_156">STILL LIFE. BY PABLO PICASSO</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_159"><i>PROFILE.</i> BY GEORGES ROUAULT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_159">159</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_163"><i>APOTHEOSIS OF NAPOLEON.</i> BY INGRES</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_163">163</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_165">PENCIL DRAWING. BY COROT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_165">165</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_166">PEN DRAWING. BY HENRI-MATISSE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_166">166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_168">PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST. BY CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_168">168</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_170"><i>GARDANNE.</i> BY CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_170">170</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_172"><i>SCÈNE DE PLEIN AIR.</i> BY CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_172">THE ARTIST’S WIFE. BY CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_172">172</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_174"><i>LE RUISSEAU.</i> BY CÉZANNE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_174">174</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_176"><i>JUDGEMENT OF PARIS.</i> BY RENOIR</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_176">176</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_184">STILL LIFE. BY MARCHAND</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_184">184</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_190"><i>LA BAIGNADE.</i> BY SEURAT</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_190">190</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_192">STILL LIFE. BY DERAIN</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_192">192</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#page_196"><i>THE TRANSFIGURATION.</i> BY RAPHAEL</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_196">196</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>VISION AND DESIGN</h1> - -<h2><a name="ART_AND_LIFE" id="ART_AND_LIFE"></a>ART AND LIFE<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor1">[1]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN we look at ancient works of art we habitually treat them not merely -as objects of æsthetic enjoyment but also as successive deposits of the -human imagination. It is indeed this view of works of art as -crystallised history that accounts for much of the interest felt in -ancient art by those who have but little æsthetic feeling and who find -nothing to interest them in the work of their contemporaries where the -historical motive is lacking and they are left face to face with bare -æsthetic values.</p> - -<p>I once knew an old gentleman who had retired from his city office to a -country house—a fussy, feeble little being who had cut no great figure -in life. He had built himself a house which was preternaturally hideous; -his taste was deplorable and his manners indifferent; but he had a -dream, the dream of himself as an exquisite and refined intellectual -dandy living in a society of elegant frivolity. To realise this dream he -had spent large sums in buying up every scrap of eighteenth-century -French furniture which he could lay hands on. These he stored in an -immense upper floor in his house which was always locked except when he -went up to indulge in his dream and to become for a time a courtier at -Versailles doing homage to the du Barry, whose toilet-tables and -what-nots were strewn pell-mell about the room without order or effect -of any kind. Such is an extreme instance of the historical way of -looking at works of art. For this old gentleman, as for how many an -American millionaire, art was merely a help to an imagined dream life.</p> - -<p>To many people then it seems an easy thing to pass thus directly from -the work of art to the life of the time which produced it. We all in -fact weave an imagined Middle Ages around the parish church<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> and an -imagined Renaissance haunts us in the college courts of Oxford and -Cambridge. We don’t, I fancy, stop to consider very closely how true the -imagined life is: we are satisfied with the prospect of another sort of -life which we might have lived, which we often think we might have -preferred to our actual life. We don’t stop to consider much how far the -pictured past corresponds to any reality, certainly not to consider what -proportion of the whole reality of the past life gets itself embalmed in -this way in works of art. Thus we picture our Middle Ages as almost -entirely occupied with religion and war, our Renaissance as occupied in -learning, and our eighteenth century as occupied in gallantry and wit. -Whereas, as a matter of fact, all of these things were going on all the -time while the art of each period has for some reason been mainly taken -up with the expression of one or another activity. There is indeed a -certain danger in accepting too naïvely the general atmosphere—the -ethos, which the works of art of a period exhale. Thus when we look at -the thirteenth-century sculpture of Chartres or Beauvais we feel at once -the expression of a peculiar gracious piety, a smiling and gay -devoutness which we are tempted to take for the prevailing mood of the -time—and which we perhaps associate with the revelation of just such a -type of character in S. Francis of Assisi. A study of Salimbeni’s -chronicle with its interminable record of squalid avarice and meanness, -or of the fierce brutalities of Dante’s Inferno are necessary -correctives of such a pleasant dream.</p> - -<p>It would seem then that the correspondence between art and life which we -so habitually assume is not at all constant and requires much correction -before it can be trusted. Let us approach the same question from another -point and see what result we obtain. Let us consider the great -revolutions in art and the revolutions in life and see if they coincide. -And here let me try to say what I mean by life as contrasted with art. I -mean the general intellectual and instinctive reaction to their -surroundings of those men of any period whose lives rise to complete -self-consciousness. Their view of the universe as a whole and their -conception of their relations to their kind. Of course their conception -of the nature and function of art will itself be one of the most varying -aspects of life and may in any particular period profoundly modify the -correspondence of art to life.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the greatest revolution in life that we know of at all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> -intimately was that which effected the change from Paganism to -Christianity. That this was no mere accident is evident from the fact -that Christianity was only one of many competing religions, all of which -represented a closely similar direction of thought and feeling. Any one -of these would have produced practically the same effect, that of -focussing men’s minds on the spiritual life as opposed to the material -life which had pre-occupied them for so long. One cannot doubt then that -here was a change which denoted a long prepared and inevitable -readjustment of men’s attitude to their universe. Now the art of the -Roman Empire showed no trace whatever of this influence; it went on with -precisely the same motives and principles which had satisfied Paganism. -The subjects changed and became mainly Christian, but the treatment was -so exactly similar that it requires more than a cursory glance to say if -the figure on a sarcophagus is Christ or Orpheus, Moses or Æsculapius.</p> - -<p>The next great turning-point in history is that which marks the triumph -of the forces of reaction towards the close of the twelfth century—a -reaction which destroyed the promising hopes of freedom of thought and -manners which make the twelfth century appear as a foretaste of modern -enlightenment. Here undoubtedly the change in life corresponds very -closely with a great change in art—the change from the Romanesque to -the Gothic, and at first sight we might suppose a causal connection -between the two. But when we consider the nature of the changes in the -two sequences, this becomes very doubtful. For whereas in the life of -the Middle Ages the change was one of reaction—the sharp repression by -the reactionary forces of a gradual growth of freedom—the change in art -is merely the efflorescence of certain long prepared and anticipated -effects. The forms of Gothic architecture were merely the answer to -certain engineering problems which had long occupied the inventive -ingenuity of twelfth-century architects, while in the figurative arts -the change merely showed a new self-confidence in the rendering of the -human figure, a newly developed mastery in the handling of material. In -short, the change in art was in the opposite direction to that in life. -Whereas in life the direction of movement was sharply bent backwards, in -art the direction followed on in a continuous straight line.</p> - -<p>It is true that in one small particular the reaction did have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span> direct -effect on art. The preaching of S. Bernard of Clairvaux did impose on -the architects who worked for the Cistercian order a peculiar -architectural hypocrisy. They were bound by his traditional influence to -make their churches have an appearance of extreme simplicity and -austerity, but they wanted nevertheless to make them as magnificent and -imposing as possible. The result was a peculiar style of ostentatious -simplicity. Paray le Monial is the only church left standing in which -this curious and, in point of fact, depressing evidence of the direct -influence of the religious reaction on art is to be seen, and, as a -curiosity in psychological expression, it is well worth a visit. For the -rest the movement of art went on entirely unaffected by the new -orientation of thought.</p> - -<p>We come now to the Renaissance, and here for the first time in our -survey we may, I think, safely admit a true correspondence between the -change in life and the change in art. The change in life, if one may -generalise on such a vast subject, was towards the recognition of the -rights of the individual to complete self-realisation and the -recognition of the objective reality of the material universe which -implied the whole scientific attitude—and in both these things the -exemplar which men put before themselves was the civilisation of Greece -and Rome. In art the change went <i>pari passu</i> with the change in life, -each assisting and directing the other—the first men of science were -artists like Brunelleschi, Ucello, Piero della Francesca and Leonardo da -Vinci. The study of classical literature was followed in strict -connection with the study of classical canons of art, and the greater -sense of individual importance found its expression in the new -naturalism which made portraiture in the modern sense possible.</p> - -<p>For once then art and the other functions of the human spirit found -themselves in perfect harmony and direct alliance, and to that harmony -we may attribute much of the intensity and self-assurance of the work of -the great Renaissance artists. It is one of the rarest of good fortunes -for an artist to find himself actually understood and appreciated by the -mass of his educated contemporaries, and not only that, but moving -alongside of and in step with them towards a similar goal.</p> - -<p>The Catholic reaction retarded and impeded the main movement of -Renaissance thought, but it did not really succeed either in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> -suppressing it or changing the main direction of its current. In art it -undoubtedly had some direct effect, it created a new kind of insincerity -of expression, a florid and sentimental religiosity—a new variety of -bad taste, the rhetorical and over-emphatic. And I suspect that art was -already prepared for this step by a certain exhaustion of the impulsive -energy of the Renaissance—so that here too we may admit a -correspondence.</p> - -<p>The seventeenth century shows us no violent change in life, but rather -the gradual working out of the principles implicit in the Renaissance -and the Catholic reaction. But here we come to another curious want of -correspondence between art and life, for in art we have a violent -revolution, followed by a bitter internecine struggle among artists. -This revolution was inaugurated by Caravaggio, who first discovered the -surprising emotional possibilities of chiaroscuro and who combined with -this a new idea of realism—realism in the modern sense, viz., the -literal acceptance of what is coarse, common, squalid or undistinguished -in life—realism in the sense of the novelists of Zola’s time. To -Caravaggio’s influence we might trace not only a great deal of -Rembrandt’s art but the whole of that movement in favour of the -extravagantly impressive and picturesque, which culminated in the -romantic movement of the nineteenth century. Here, then, is another -surprising want of correspondence between art and life.</p> - -<p>In the eighteenth century we get a curious phenomenon. Art goes to -court, identifies itself closely with a small aristocratic clique, -becomes the exponent of their manners and their tastes. It becomes a -luxury. It is no longer in the main stream of spiritual and intellectual -effort, and this seclusion of art may account for the fact that the next -great change in life—the French Revolution and all its accompanying -intellectual ferment—finds no serious correspondence in art. We get a -change, it is true; the French Republicans believed they were the -counterpart of the Romans, and so David had to invent for them that -peculiarly distressing type of the ancient Roman—always in heroic -attitudes, always immaculate, spotless and with a highly polished ‘Mme. -Tussaud’ surface. By-the-by, I was almost forgetting that we do owe Mme. -Tussaud to the French Revolution. But the real movement of art lay in -quite other directions to David—lay in the gradual unfolding of the -Romanticist conception of the world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span>—a world of violent emotional -effects, of picturesque accidents, of wild nature, and this was a long -prepared reaction from the complacent sophistication of -eighteenth-century life. It is possible that one may associate this with -the general state of mind that produced the Revolution, since both were -a revolt against the established order of the eighteenth century; but -curiously enough it found its chief ally in the reaction which followed -the Revolution, in the neo-Christianism of Chateaubriand and the new -sentimental respect for the age of faith—which, incidentally, appeared -so much more picturesque than the age of reason.</p> - -<p>It would be interesting at this point to consider how far during the -nineteenth century reactionary political and religious thought was -inspired primarily by æsthetic considerations—a curious instance of the -counter-influence of art on life might perhaps be discovered in the -devotees of the Oxford movement. But this would take us too far afield.</p> - -<p>The foregoing violently foreshortened view of history and art will show, -I hope, that the usual assumption of a direct and decisive connection -between life and art is by no means correct. It may, I hope, give pause -to those numerous people who have already promised themselves a great -new art as a result of the present war, though perhaps it is as well to -let them enjoy it in anticipation, since it is, I fancy, the only way in -which they are likely to enjoy a great art of any kind. What this survey -suggests to me is that if we consider this special spiritual activity of -art we find it no doubt open at times to influences from life, but in -the main self-contained—we find the rhythmic sequences of change -determined much more by its own internal forces—and by the readjustment -within it, of its own elements—than by external forces. I admit, of -course, that it is always conditioned more or less by economic changes, -but these are rather conditions of its existence at all than directive -influences. I also admit that under certain conditions the rhythms of -life and of art may coincide with great effect on both; but in the main -the two rhythms are distinct, and as often as not play against each -other.</p> - -<p>We have, I hope, gained some experience with which to handle the real -subject of my inquiry, the relation of the modern movement in art to -life. To understand it we must go back to the impressionist<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> movement, -which dates from about 1870. The artists who called themselves -impressionists combined two distinct ideas. On the one hand they upheld, -more categorically than ever before, the complete detachment of the -artistic vision from the values imposed on vision by everyday life—they -claimed, as Whistler did in his “10 o’clock,” to be pure artists. On the -other hand a group of them used this freedom for the quasi-scientific -description of new effects of atmospheric colour and atmospheric -perspective, thereby endowing painting with a quite new series of colour -harmonies, or at least of harmonies which had not been cultivated by -European painters for many hundreds of years. They did more than -this—the effects thus explored were completely unfamiliar to the -ordinary man, whose vision is limited to the mere recognition of objects -with a view to the uses of everyday life. He was forced, in looking at -their pictures, to accept as artistic representation something very -remote from all his previous expectations, and thereby he also acquired -in time a new tolerance in his judgments on works of art, a tolerance -which was destined to bear a still further strain in succeeding -developments.</p> - -<p>As against these great advantages which art owes to impressionism we -must set the fact that the pseudo-scientific and analytic method of -these painters forced artists to accept pictures which lacked design and -formal co-ordination to a degree which had never before been permitted. -They, or rather some of them, reduced the artistic vision to a -continuous patchwork or mosaic of coloured patches without architectural -framework or structural coherence. In this, impressionism marked the -climax of a movement which had been going on more or less steadily from -the thirteenth century—the tendency to approximate the forms of art -more and more exactly to the representation of the totality of -appearance. When once representation had been pushed to this point where -further development was impossible, it was inevitable that artists -should turn round and question the validity of the fundamental -assumption that art aimed at representation; and the moment the question -was fairly posed it became clear that the pseudo-scientific assumption -that fidelity to appearance was the measure of art had no logical -foundation. From that moment on it became evident that art had arrived -at a critical moment, and that the greatest revolution in art that had -taken place since Græco-Roman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> impressionism became converted into -Byzantine formalism was inevitable. It was this revolution that Cézanne -inaugurated and that Gauguin and van Goch continued. There is no need -here to give in detail the characteristics of this new movement: they -are sufficiently familiar. But we may summarise them as the -re-establishment of purely æsthetic criteria in place of the criterion -of conformity to appearance—the rediscovery of the principles of -structural design and harmony.</p> - -<p>The new movement has, also, led to a new canon of criticism, and this -has changed our attitude to the arts of other times and countries. So -long as representation was regarded as the end of art, the skill of the -artist and his proficiency in this particular feat of representation -were regarded with an admiration which was in fact mainly non-æsthetic. -With the new indifference to representation we have become much less -interested in skill and not at all interested in knowledge. We are thus -no longer cut off from a great deal of barbaric and primitive art the -very meaning of which escaped the understanding of those who demanded a -certain standard of skill in representation before they could give -serious consideration to a work of art. In general the effect of the -movement has been to render the artist intensely conscious of the -æsthetic unity of the work of art, but singularly naïve and simple as -regards other considerations.</p> - -<p>It remains to be considered whether the life of the past fifty years has -shown any such violent reorientation as we have found in the history of -modern art. If we look back to the days of Herbert Spencer and Huxley, -what changes are there in the general tendencies of life? The main ideas -of rationalism seem to me to have steadily made way—there have been -minor counter revolutions, it is true, but the main current of active -thought has surely moved steadily along the lines already laid down. I -mean that the scientific attitude is more and more widely accepted. The -protests of organised religion and of various mysticisms seem to grow -gradually weaker and to carry less weight. Hardly any writers or -thinkers of first-rate calibre now appear in the reactionary camp. I -see, in short, no big change in direction, no evident revulsion of -feeling.</p> - -<p>None the less I suppose that a Spencer would be impossible now and that -the materialism of to-day is recognisably different from the materialism -of Spencer. It would be very much less naïvely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<p><a name="plateI" id="plateI"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_009fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_009fp_sml.jpg" alt="Image unvavailable: 13th Cent. Sculpture in the Cloister of S. John Lateran" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="text-align:left;"> -<tr> -<td>13th Cent. Sculpture in the Cloister of S. John<br /> Lateran</td> -<td>Auguste Rodin. Group from <br />“The Burghers of Calais”</td> -<td>Henri Matisse. Sculpture in<br /> Plaster</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td> </td><td> </td><td class="rt">Property of the Artist</td></tr> -<tr><td>Plate I.</td></tr> -</table></div> - -<p class="nind">self-confident. It would admit far greater difficulties in presenting -its picture of the universe than would have occurred to Spencer. The -fact is that scepticism has turned on itself and has gone behind a great -many of the axioms that seemed self-evident to the earlier rationalists. -I do not see that it has at any point threatened the superstructure of -the rationalist position, but it has led us to recognise the necessity -of a continual revision and reconstruction of these data. Rationalism -has become less arrogant and less narrow in its vision. And this is -partly due also to the adventure of the scientific spirit into new -regions. I refer to all that immense body of study and speculation which -starts from Robertson Smith’s “Religion of the Israelites.” The -discovery of natural law in what seemed to earlier rationalists the -chaotic fancies and caprices of the human imagination. The assumption -that man is a mainly rational animal has given place to the discovery -that he is, like other animals, mainly instinctive. This modifies -immensely the attitude of the rationalist—it gives him a new charity -and a new tolerance. What seemed like the wilful follies of mad or -wicked men to the earlier rationalists are now seen to be inevitable -responses to fundamental instinctive needs. By observing mankind the man -of science has lost his contempt for him. Now this I think has had an -important bearing on the new movement in art. In the first place I find -something analogous in the new orientation of scientific and artistic -endeavour. Science has turned its instruments in on human nature and -begun to investigate its fundamental needs, and art has also turned its -vision inwards, has begun to work upon the fundamental necessities of -man’s æsthetic functions.</p> - -<p>But besides this analogy, which may be merely accidental and not causal, -I think there can be little doubt that the new scientific development -(for it is in no sense a revolution) has modified men’s attitude to art. -To Herbert Spencer religion was primitive fear of the unknown and art -was sexual attraction—he must have contemplated with perfect -equanimity, almost with satisfaction, a world in which both these -functions would disappear. I suppose that the scientific man of to-day -would be much more ready to admit not only the necessity but the great -importance of æsthetic feeling for the spiritual existence of man. The -general conception of life in the mid-nineteenth century ruled out art -as noxious, or at best, a useless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> frivolity, and above all as a mere -survival of more primitive stages of evolution.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, the artist of the new movement is moving into a -sphere more and more remote from that of the ordinary man. In proportion -as art becomes purer the number of people to whom it appeals gets less. -It cuts out all the romantic overtones of life which are the usual bait -by which men are induced to accept a work of art. It appeals only to the -æsthetic sensibility, and that in most men is comparatively weak.</p> - -<p>In the modern movement in art, then, as in so many cases in past -history, the revolution in art seems to be out of all proportion to any -corresponding change in life as a whole. It seems to find its sources, -if at all, in what at present seem like minor movements. Whether the -difference between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries will in -retrospect seem as great in life as they already do in art I cannot -guess—at least it is curious to note how much more conscious we are of -the change in art then we are in the general change in thought and -feeling.</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>—The original lecture was not illustrated, but the opportunity of -publishing this summary of it has suggested the possibility of -introducing a few examples to illustrate one point, viz., the extent to -which the works of the new movement correspond in aim with the works of -early art while being sharply contrasted with those of the penultimate -period. This will be, perhaps, most evident in <a href="#plateI">Plate I</a>, where I have -placed a figure from the cloisters of S. John Lateran, carved by a -thirteenth-century sculptor—then one of Rodin’s <i>Burghers of Calais</i>, -and then Matisse’s unfinished alto-rilievo figure. Here there is no need -to underline the startling difference shown by Rodin’s descriptive -method from the more purely plastic feeling of the two other artists. -Matisse and the thirteenth-century artist are much closer together than -Matisse and Rodin.</p> - -<p>In <a href="#plateII">Plate II</a> I have placed Picasso beside Raphael. Here the obvious fact -is the common preoccupation of both artists with certain problems of -plastic design and the similarity of their solutions. Had I had space to -put a Sargent beside these the same violent contrast would have been -produced.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p><a name="plateII" id="plateII"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_010fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_010fp_sml.jpg" width="549" height="337" alt="Image unvavailable: Raphael. “La Donna Gravida” Pitti Palace, Florence - -" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr> -<td class="l">Raphael. “La Donna Gravida” </td><td class="rt"> Pitti Palace, Florence</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="l">Pablo Picasso. Portrait of Miss Gertrude Stein </td><td class="rt"> Miss Gertrude Stein</td> - -</tr> - -<tr><td>Plate II.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="AN_ESSAY_IN_AESTHETICS" id="AN_ESSAY_IN_AESTHETICS"></a>AN ESSAY IN ÆSTHETICS<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor1">[2]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> CERTAIN painter, not without some reputation at the present day, once -wrote a little book on the art he practises, in which he gave a -definition of that art so succinct that I take it as a point of -departure for this essay.</p> - -<p>“The art of painting,” says that eminent authority, “is the art of -imitating solid objects upon a flat surface by means of pigments.” It is -delightfully simple, but prompts the question—Is that all? And, if so, -what a deal of unnecessary fuss has been made about it. Now, it is -useless to deny that our modern writer has some very respectable -authorities behind him. Plato, indeed, gave a very similar account of -the affair, and himself put the question—is it then worth while? And, -being scrupulously and relentlessly logical, he decided that it was not -worth while, and proceeded to turn the artists out of his ideal -republic. For all that, the world has continued obstinately to consider -that painting was worth while, and though, indeed, it has never quite -made up its mind as to what, exactly, the graphic arts did for it, it -has persisted in honouring and admiring its painters.</p> - -<p>Can we arrive at any conclusions as to the nature of the graphic arts, -which will at all explain our feelings about them, which will at least -put them into some kind of relation with the other arts, and not leave -us in the extreme perplexity, engendered by any theory of mere -imitation? For, I suppose, it must be admitted that if imitation is the -sole purpose of the graphic arts, it is surprising that the works of -such arts are ever looked upon as more than curiosities, or ingenious -toys, are ever taken seriously by grown-up people. Moreover, it will be -surprising that they have no recognisable affinity with other arts, such -as music or architecture, in which the imitation of actual objects is a -negligible quantity.</p> - -<p>To form such conclusions is the aim I have put before myself in this -essay. Even if the results are not decisive, the inquiry may lead us to -a view of the graphic arts that will not be altogether unfruitful.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<p>I must begin with some elementary psychology, with a consideration of -the nature of instincts. A great many objects in the world, when -presented to our senses, put in motion a complex nervous machinery, -which ends in some instinctive appropriate action. We see a wild bull in -a field; quite without our conscious interference a nervous process goes -on, which, unless we interfere forcibly, ends in the appropriate -reaction of flight. The nervous mechanism which results in flight causes -a certain state of consciousness, which we call the emotion of fear. The -whole of animal life, and a great part of human life, is made up of -these instinctive reactions to sensible objects, and their accompanying -emotions. But man has the peculiar faculty of calling up again in his -mind the echo of past experiences of this kind, of going over it again, -“in imagination” as we say. He has, therefore, the possibility of a -double life; one the actual life, the other the imaginative life. -Between these two lives there is this great distinction, that in the -actual life the processes of natural selection have brought it about -that the instinctive reaction, such, for instance, as flight from -danger, shall be the important part of the whole process, and it is -towards this that the man bends his whole conscious endeavour. But in -the imaginative life no such action is necessary, and, therefore, the -whole consciousness may be focussed upon the perceptive and the -emotional aspects of the experience. In this way we get, in the -imaginative life, a different set of values, and a different kind of -perception.</p> - -<p>We can get a curious side glimpse of the nature of this imaginative life -from the cinematograph. This resembles actual life in almost every -respect, except that what the psychologists call the conative part of -our reaction to sensations, that is to say, the appropriate resultant -action is cut off. If, in a cinematograph, we see a runaway horse and -cart, we do not have to think either of getting out of the way or -heroically interposing ourselves. The result is that in the first place -we <i>see</i> the event much more clearly; see a number of quite interesting -but irrelevant things, which in real life could not struggle into our -consciousness, bent, as it would be, entirely upon the problem of our -appropriate reaction. I remember seeing in a cinematograph the arrival -of a train at a foreign station and the people descending from the -carriages; there was no platform, and to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> intense surprise I saw -several people turn right round after reaching the ground, as though to -orientate themselves; an almost ridiculous performance, which I had -never noticed in all the many hundred occasions on which such a scene -had passed before my eyes in real life. The fact being that at a station -one is never really a spectator of events, but an actor engaged in the -drama of luggage or prospective seats, and one actually sees only so -much as may help to the appropriate action.</p> - -<p>In the second place, with regard to the visions of the cinematograph, -one notices that whatever emotions are aroused by them, though they are -likely to be weaker than those of ordinary life, are presented more -clearly to the consciousness. If the scene presented be one of an -accident, our pity and horror, though weak, since we know that no one is -really hurt, are felt quite purely, since they cannot, as they would in -life, pass at once into actions of assistance.</p> - -<p>A somewhat similar effect to that of the cinematograph can be obtained -by watching a mirror in which a street scene is reflected. If we look at -the street itself we are almost sure to adjust ourselves in some way to -its actual existence. We recognise an acquaintance, and wonder why he -looks so dejected this morning, or become interested in a new fashion in -hats—the moment we do that the spell is broken, we are reacting to life -itself in however slight a degree, but, in the mirror, it is easier to -abstract ourselves completely, and look upon the changing scene as a -whole. It then, at once, takes on the visionary quality, and we become -true spectators, not selecting what we will see, but seeing everything -equally, and thereby we come to notice a number of appearances and -relations of appearances, which would have escaped our vision before, -owing to that perpetual economising by selection of what impressions we -will assimilate, which in life we perform by unconscious processes. The -frame of the mirror then, does, to some extent, turn the reflected scene -from one that belongs to our actual life into one that belongs rather to -the imaginative life. The frame of the mirror makes its surface into a -very rudimentary work of art, since it helps us to attain to the -artistic vision. For that is what, as you will already have guessed, I -have been coming to all this time, namely that the work of art is -intimately connected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> with the secondary imaginative life, which all men -live to a greater or lesser extent.</p> - -<p>That the graphic arts are the expression of the imaginative life rather -than a copy of actual life might be guessed from observing children. -Children, if left to themselves, never, I believe, copy what they see, -never, as we say, “draw from nature,” but express, with a delightful -freedom and sincerity, the mental images which make up their own -imaginative lives.</p> - -<p>Art, then, is an expression and a stimulus of this imaginative life, -which is separated from actual life by the absence of responsive action. -Now this responsive action implies in actual life moral responsibility. -In art we have no such moral responsibility—it presents a life freed -from the binding necessities of our actual existence.</p> - -<p>What then is the justification for this life of the imagination which -all human beings live more or less fully? To the pure moralist, who -accepts nothing but ethical values, in order to be justified, it must be -shown not only <i>not</i> to hinder but actually to forward right action, -otherwise it is not only useless but, since it absorbs our energies, -positively harmful. To such a one two views are possible, one the -Puritanical view at its narrowest, which regards the life of the -imagination as no better or worse than a life of sensual pleasure, and -therefore entirely reprehensible. The other view is to argue that the -imaginative life does subserve morality. And this is inevitably the view -taken by moralists like Ruskin, to whom the imaginative life is yet an -absolute necessity. It is a view which leads to some very hard special -pleading, even to a self-deception which is in itself morally -undesirable.</p> - -<p>But here comes in the question of religion, for religion is also an -affair of the imaginative life, and, though it claims to have a direct -effect upon conduct, I do not suppose that the religious person if he -were wise would justify religion entirely by its effect on morality, -since that, historically speaking, has not been by any means uniformly -advantageous. He would probably say that the religious experience was -one which corresponded to certain spiritual capacities of human nature, -the exercise of which is in itself good and desirable apart from their -effect upon actual life. And so, too, I think the artist might if he -chose take a mystical attitude, and declare that the fullness and -completeness of the imaginative life he leads may correspond to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> an -existence more real and more important than any that we know of in -mortal life.</p> - -<p>And in saying that, his appeal would find a sympathetic echo in most -minds, for most people would, I think, say that the pleasures derived -from art were of an altogether different character and more fundamental -than merely sensual pleasures, that they did exercise some faculties -which are felt to belong to whatever part of us there may be which is -not entirely ephemeral and material.</p> - -<p>It might even be that from this point of view we should rather justify -actual life by its relation to the imaginative, justify nature by its -likeness to art. I mean this, that since the imaginative life comes in -the course of time to represent more or less what mankind feels to be -the completest expression of its own nature, the freest use of its -innate capacities, the actual life may be explained and justified in its -approximation here and there, however partially and inadequately, to -that freer and fuller life.</p> - -<p>Before leaving this question of the justification of art, let me put it -in another way. The imaginative life of a people has very different -levels at different times, and these levels do not always correspond -with the general level of the morality of actual life. Thus in the -thirteenth century we read of barbarity and cruelty which would shock -even us; we may I think admit that our moral level, our general humanity -is decidedly higher to-day, but the level of our imaginative life is -incomparably lower; we are satisfied there with a grossness, a sheer -barbarity and squalor which would have shocked the thirteenth century -profoundly. Let us admit the moral gain gladly, but do we not also feel -a loss; do we not feel that the average business man would be in every -way a more admirable, more respectable being if his imaginative life -were not so squalid and incoherent? And, if we admit any loss then, -there is some function in human nature other than a purely ethical one, -which is worthy of exercise.</p> - -<p>Now the imaginative life has its own history both in the race and in the -individual. In the individual life one of the first effects of freeing -experience from the necessities of appropriate responsive action is to -indulge recklessly the emotion of self-aggrandisement. The day-dreams of -a child are filled with extravagant romances in which he is always the -invincible hero. Music—which of all the arts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> supplies the strongest -stimulus to the imaginative life, and at the same time has the least -power of controlling its direction—music, at certain stages of people’s -lives, has the effect merely of arousing in an almost absurd degree this -egoistic elation, and Tolstoy appears to believe that this is its only -possible effect. But with the teaching of experience and the growth of -character the imaginative life comes to respond to other instincts and -to satisfy other desires, until, indeed, it reflects the highest -aspirations and the deepest aversions of which human nature is capable.</p> - -<p>In dreams and when under the influence of drugs the imaginative life -passes out of our own control, and in such cases its experiences may be -highly undesirable, but whenever it remains under our own control it -must always be on the whole a desirable life. That is not to say that it -is always pleasant, for it is pretty clear that mankind is so -constituted as to desire much besides pleasure, and we shall meet among -the great artists, the great exponents, that is, of the imaginative -life, many to whom the merely pleasant is very rarely a part of what is -desirable. But this desirability of the imaginative life does -distinguish it very sharply from actual life, and is the direct result -of that first fundamental difference, its freedom from necessary -external conditions. Art, then, is, if I am right, the chief organ of -the imaginative life, it is by art that it is stimulated and controlled -within us, and, as we have seen, the imaginative life is distinguished -by the greater clearness of its perception, and the greater purity and -freedom of its emotion.</p> - -<p>First with regard to the greater clearness of perception. The needs of -our actual life are so imperative, that the sense of vision becomes -highly specialised in their service. With an admirable economy we learn -to see only so much as is needful for our purposes; but this is in fact -very little, just enough to recognise and identify each object or -person; that done, they go into an entry in our mental catalogue and are -no more really seen. In actual life the normal person really only reads -the labels as it were on the objects around him and troubles no further. -Almost all the things which are useful in any way put on more or less -this cap of invisibility. It is only when an object exists in our lives -for no other purpose than to be seen that we really look at it, as for -instance at a China ornament or a precious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> stone, and towards such even -the most normal person adopts to some extent the artistic attitude of -pure vision abstracted from necessity.</p> - -<p>Now this specialisation of vision goes so far that ordinary people have -almost no idea of what things really look like, so that oddly enough the -one standard that popular criticism applies to painting, namely, whether -it is like nature or not, is one which most people are, by the whole -tenour of their lives, prevented from applying properly. The only things -they have ever really <i>looked</i> at being other pictures; the moment an -artist who has looked at nature brings to them a clear report of -something definitely seen by him, they are wildly indignant at its -untruth to nature. This has happened so constantly in our own time that -there is no need to prove it. One instance will suffice. Monet is an -artist whose chief claim to recognition lies in the fact of his -astonishing power of faithfully reproducing certain aspects of nature, -but his really naïve innocence and sincerity was taken by the public to -be the most audacious humbug, and it required the teaching of men like -Bastien-Lepage, who cleverly compromised between the truth and an -accepted convention of what things looked like, to bring the world -gradually round to admitting truths which a single walk in the country -with purely unbiassed vision would have established beyond doubt.</p> - -<p>But though this clarified sense perception which we discover in the -imaginative life is of great interest, and although it plays a larger -part in the graphic arts than in any other, it might perhaps be doubted -whether, interesting, curious, fascinating as it is, this aspect of the -imaginative life would ever by itself make art of profound importance to -mankind. But it is different, I think, with the emotional aspect. We -have admitted that the emotions of the imaginative are generally weaker -than those of actual life. The picture of a saint being slowly flayed -alive, revolting as it is, will not produce the actual physical -sensations of sickening disgust that a modern man would feel if he could -assist at the actual event; but they have a compensating clearness of -presentment to the consciousness. The more poignant emotions of actual -life have, I think, a kind of numbing effect analogous to the paralysing -influence of fear in some animals; but even if this experience be not -generally admitted, all will admit that the need for responsive action -hurries us along and prevents us from ever realising<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> fully what the -emotion is that we feel, from co-ordinating it perfectly with other -states. In short, the motives we actually experience are too close to us -to enable us to feel them clearly. They are in a sense unintelligible. -In the imaginative life, on the contrary, we can both feel the emotion -and watch it. When we are really moved at the theatre we are always both -on the stage and in the auditorium.</p> - -<p>Yet another point about the emotions of the imaginative life—since they -require no responsive action we can give them a new valuation. In real -life we must to some extent cultivate those emotions which lead to -useful action, and we are bound to appraise emotions according to the -resultant action. So that, for instance, the feelings of rivalry and -emulation do get an encouragement which perhaps they scarcely deserve, -whereas certain feelings which appear to have a high intrinsic value get -almost no stimulus in actual life. For instance, those feelings to which -the name of the cosmic emotion has been somewhat unhappily given find -almost no place in life, but, since they seem to belong to certain very -deep springs of our nature, do become of great importance in the arts.</p> - -<p>Morality, then, appreciates emotion by the standard of resultant action. -Art appreciates emotion in and for itself.</p> - -<p>This view of the essential importance in art of the expression of the -emotions is the basis of Tolstoy’s marvellously original and yet -perverse and even exasperating book, “What is Art,” and I willingly -confess, while disagreeing with almost all his results, how much I owe -to him.</p> - -<p>He gives an example of what he means by calling art the means of -communicating emotions. He says, let us suppose a boy to have been -pursued in the forest by a bear. If he returns to the village and merely -states that he was pursued by a bear and escaped, that is ordinary -language, the means of communicating facts or ideas; but if he describes -his state first of heedlessness, then of sudden alarm and terror as the -bear appears, and finally of relief when he gets away, and describes -this so that his hearers share his emotions, then his description is a -work of art.</p> - -<p>Now in so far as the boy does this in order to urge the villagers to go -out and kill the bear, though he may be using artistic methods, his -speech is not a pure work of art; but if of a winter evening the boy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> -relates his experience for the sake of the enjoyment of his adventure in -retrospect, or better still, if he makes up the whole story for the sake -of the imagined emotions, then his speech becomes a pure work of art. -But Tolstoy takes the other view, and values the emotions aroused by art -entirely for their reaction upon actual life, a view which he -courageously maintains even when it leads him to condemn the whole of -Michelangelo, Raphael and Titian, and most of Beethoven, not to mention -nearly everything he himself has written, as bad or false art.</p> - -<p>Such a view would, I think, give pause to any less heroic spirit. He -would wonder whether mankind could have always been so radically wrong -about a function that, whatever its value be, is almost universal. And -in point of fact he will have to find some other word to denote what we -now call art. Nor does Tolstoy’s theory even carry him safely through -his own book, since, in his examples of morally desirable and therefore -good art, he has to admit that these are to be found, for the most part, -among works of inferior quality. Here, then, is at once the tacit -admission that another standard than morality is applicable. We must -therefore give up the attempt to judge the work of art by its reaction -on life, and consider it as an expression of emotions regarded as ends -in themselves. And this brings us back to the idea we had already -arrived at, of art as the expression of the imaginative life.</p> - -<p>If, then, an object of any kind is created by man not for use, for its -fitness to actual life, but as an object of art, an object subserving -the imaginative life, what will its qualities be? It must in the first -place be adapted to that disinterested intensity of contemplation, which -we have found to be the result of cutting off the responsive action. It -must be suited to that heightened power of perception which we found to -result therefrom.</p> - -<p>And the first quality that we demand in our sensations will be order, -without which our sensations will be troubled and perplexed, and the -other quality will be variety, without which they will not be fully -stimulated.</p> - -<p>It may be objected that many things in nature, such as flowers, possess -these two qualities of order and variety in a high degree, and these -objects do undoubtedly stimulate and satisfy that clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> disinterested -contemplation which is characteristic of the æsthetic attitude. But in -our reaction to a work of art there is something more—there is the -consciousness of purpose, the consciousness of a peculiar relation of -sympathy with the man who made this thing in order to arouse precisely -the sensations we experience. And when we come to the higher works of -art, where sensations are so arranged that they arouse in us deep -emotions, this feeling of a special tie with the man who expressed them -becomes very strong. We feel that he has expressed something which was -latent in us all the time, but which we never realised, that he has -revealed us to ourselves in revealing himself. And this recognition of -purpose is, I believe, an essential part of the æsthetic judgment -proper.</p> - -<p>The perception of purposeful order and variety in an object gives us the -feeling which we express by saying that it is beautiful, but when by -means of sensations our emotions are aroused we demand purposeful order -and variety in them also, and if this can only be brought about by the -sacrifice of sensual beauty we willingly overlook its absence.</p> - -<p>Thus, there is no excuse for a china pot being ugly, there is every -reason why Rembrandt’s and Degas’ pictures should be, from the purely -sensual point of view, supremely and magnificently ugly.</p> - -<p>This, I think, will explain the apparent contradiction between two -distinct uses of the word beauty, one for that which has sensuous charm, -and one for the æsthetic approval of works of imaginative art where the -objects presented to us are often of extreme ugliness. Beauty in the -former sense belongs to works of art where only the perceptual aspect of -the imaginative life is exercised, beauty in the second sense becomes as -it were supersensual, and is concerned with the appropriateness and -intensity of the emotions aroused. When these emotions are aroused in a -way that satisfies fully the needs of the imaginative life we approve -and delight in the sensations through which we enjoy that heightened -experience, because they possess purposeful order and variety in -relation to those emotions.</p> - -<p>One chief aspect of order in a work of art is unity; unity of some kind -is necessary for our restful contemplation of the work of art as a -whole, since if it lacks unity we cannot contemplate it in its entirety, -but we shall pass outside it to other things necessary to complete its -unity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span></p> - -<p>In a picture this unity is due to a balancing of the attractions to the -eye about the central line of the picture. The result of this balance of -attractions is that the eye rests willingly within the bounds of the -picture. Dr. Denman Ross of Harvard University has made a most valuable -study of the elementary considerations upon which this balance is based -in his “Theory of Pure Design.” He sums up his results in the formula -that a composition is of value in proportion to the number of orderly -connections which it displays.</p> - -<p>Dr. Ross wisely restricts himself to the study of abstract and -meaningless forms. The moment representation is introduced forms have an -entirely new set of values. Thus a line which indicated the sudden bend -of a head in a certain direction would have far more than its mere value -as line in the composition because of the attraction which a marked -gesture has for the eye. In almost all paintings this disturbance of the -purely decorative values by reason of the representative effect takes -place, and the problem becomes too complex for geometrical proof.</p> - -<p>This merely decorative unity is, moreover, of very different degrees of -intensity in different artists and in different periods. The necessity -for a closely woven geometrical texture in the composition is much -greater in heroic and monumental design than in genre pieces on a small -scale.</p> - -<p>It seems also probable that our appreciation of unity in pictorial -design is of two kinds. We are so accustomed to consider only the unity -which results from the balance of a number of attractions presented to -the eye simultaneously in a framed picture that we forget the -possibility of other pictorial forms.</p> - -<p>In certain Chinese paintings the length is so great that we cannot take -in the whole picture at once, nor are we intended to do so. Sometimes a -landscape is painted upon a roll of silk so long that we can only look -at it in successive segments. As we unroll it at one end and roll it up -at the other we traverse wide stretches of country, tracing, perhaps, -all the vicissitudes of a river from its source to the sea, and yet, -when this is well done, we have received a very keen impression of -pictorial unity.</p> - -<p>Such a successive unity is of course familiar to us in literature and -music, and it plays its part in the graphic arts. It depends upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> the -forms being presented to us in such a sequence that each successive -element is felt to have a fundamental and harmonious relation with that -which preceded it. I suggest that in looking at drawings our sense of -pictorial unity is largely of this nature; we feel, if the drawing be a -good one, that each modulation of the line as our eye passes along it -gives order and variety to our sensations. Such a drawing may be almost -entirely lacking in the geometrical balance which we are accustomed to -demand in paintings, and yet have, in a remarkable degree, unity.</p> - -<p>Let us now see how the artist passes from the stage of merely gratifying -our demand for sensuous order and variety to that where he arouses our -emotions. I will call the various methods by which this is effected, the -emotional elements of design.</p> - -<p>The first element is that of the rhythm of the line with which the forms -are delineated.</p> - -<p>The drawn line is the record of a gesture, and that gesture is modified -by the artist’s feeling which is thus communicated to us directly.</p> - -<p>The second element is mass. When an object is so represented that we -recognise it as having inertia we feel its power of resisting movement, -or communicating its own movement to other bodies, and our imaginative -reaction to such an image is governed by our experience of mass in -actual life.</p> - -<p>The third element is space. The same sized square on two pieces of paper -can be made by very simple means to appear to represent either a cube -two or three inches high, or a cube of hundreds of feet, and our -reaction to it is proportionately changed.</p> - -<p>The fourth element is that of light and shade. Our feelings towards the -same object become totally different according as we see it strongly -illuminated against a black background or dark against light.</p> - -<p>A fifth element is that of colour. That this has a direct emotional -effect is evident from such words as gay, dull, melancholy in relation -to colour.</p> - -<p>I would suggest the possibility of another element, though perhaps it is -only a compound of mass and space: it is that of the inclination to the -eye of a plane, whether it is impending over or leaning away from us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<p>Now it will be noticed that nearly all these emotional elements of -design are connected with essential conditions of our physical -existence: rhythm appeals to all the sensations which accompany muscular -activity; mass to all the infinite adaptations to the force of gravity -which we are forced to make; the spatial judgment is equally profound -and universal in its application to life; our feeling about inclined -planes is connected with our necessary judgments about the conformation -of the earth itself; light, again, is so necessary a condition of our -existence that we become intensely sensitive to changes in its -intensity. Colour is the only one of our elements which is not of -critical or universal importance to life, and its emotional effect is -neither so deep nor so clearly determined as the others. It will be -seen, then, that the graphic arts arouse emotions in us by playing upon -what one may call the overtones of some of our primary physical needs. -They have, indeed, this great advantage over poetry, that they can -appeal more directly and immediately to the emotional accompaniments of -our bare physical existence.</p> - -<p>If we represent these various elements in simple diagrammatic terms, -this effect upon the emotions is, it must be confessed, very weak. -Rhythm of line, for instance, is incomparably weaker in its stimulus of -the muscular sense than is rhythm addressed to the ear in music, and -such diagrams can at best arouse only faint ghost-like echoes of -emotions of differing qualities; but when these emotional elements are -combined with the presentation of natural appearances, above all with -the appearance of the human body, we find that this effect is -indefinitely heightened.</p> - -<p>When, for instance, we look at Michelangelo’s “Jeremiah,” and realise -the irresistible momentum his movements would have, we experience -powerful sentiments of reverence and awe. Or when we look at -Michelangelo’s “Tondo” in the Uffizi, and find a group of figures so -arranged that the planes have a sequence comparable in breadth and -dignity to the mouldings of the earth mounting by clearly-felt -gradations to an overtopping summit, innumerable instinctive reactions -are brought into play.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<p>At this point the adversary (as Leonardi da Vinci calls him) is likely -enough to retort, “You have abstracted from natural forms a number of -so-called emotional elements which you yourself admit are very weak when -stated with diagrammatic purity; you then put them back, with the help -of Michelangelo, into the natural forms whence they were derived, and at -once they have value, so that after all it appears that the natural -forms contain these emotional elements ready made up for us, and all -that art need do is to imitate Nature.”</p> - -<p>But, alas! Nature is heartlessly indifferent to the needs of the -imaginative life; God causes His rain to fall upon the just and upon the -unjust. The sun neglects to provide the appropriate limelight effect -even upon a triumphant Napoleon or a dying Cæsar.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> Assuredly we have -no guarantee that in nature the emotional elements will be combined -appropriately with the demands of the imaginative life, and it is, I -think, the great occupation of the graphic arts to give us first of all -order and variety in the sensuous plane, and then so to arrange the -sensuous presentment of objects that the emotional elements are elicited -with an order and appropriateness altogether beyond what Nature herself -provides.</p> - -<p>Let me sum up for a moment what I have said about the relation of art to -Nature, which is, perhaps, the greatest stumbling-block to the -understanding of the graphic arts.</p> - -<p>I have admitted that there is beauty in Nature, that is to say, that -certain objects constantly do, and perhaps any object may, compel us to -regard it with that intense disinterested contemplation that belongs to -the imaginative life, and which is impossible to the actual life of -necessity and action; but that in objects created to arouse the æsthetic -feeling we have an added consciousness of purpose on the part of the -creator, that he made it on purpose not to be used but to be regarded -and enjoyed; and that this feeling is characteristic of the æsthetic -judgment proper.</p> - -<p>When the artist passes from pure sensations to emotions aroused by means -of sensations, he uses natural forms which, in themselves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> are -calculated to move our emotions, and he presents these in such a manner -that the forms themselves generate in us emotional states, based upon -the fundamental necessities of our physical and physiological nature. -The artist’s attitude to natural form is, therefore, infinitely various -according to the emotions he wishes to arouse. He may require for his -purpose the most complete representation of a figure, he may be -intensely realistic, provided that his presentment, in spite of its -closeness to natural appearance, disengages clearly for us the -appropriate emotional elements. Or he may give us the merest suggestion -of natural forms, and rely almost entirely upon the force and intensity -of the emotional elements involved in his presentment.</p> - -<p>We may, then, dispense once for all with the idea of likeness to Nature, -of correctness or incorrectness as a test, and consider only whether the -emotional elements inherent in natural form are adequately discovered, -unless, indeed, the emotional idea depends at any point upon likeness, -or completeness of representation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_OTTOMAN_AND_THE_WHATNOT" id="THE_OTTOMAN_AND_THE_WHATNOT"></a>THE OTTOMAN AND THE WHATNOT<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor1">[5]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>UCH were the outlandish names of the two great clans that marched under -the flag of the Antimacassar to the resounding periods of Mr. Podsnap’s -rhetoric. For all the appearance of leisure, for all the absence of -hustle, those were strenuous days. Respectability and “the young person” -were perpetually menaced by inveterate human nature, and were always or -nearly always just being saved as by a miracle. But in the end it was -the boast of the Victorians that they had established a system of taboos -almost as complicated and as all-pervading as that of the Ojibbeways or -the Waramunga. The Ottoman, which seated two so conveniently, was liable -to prove a traitor, but what the Ottoman risked could be saved by the -Whatnot, with Tennyson and John Greenleaf Whittier to counsel and -assuage. One of the things they used to say in those days, quite loudly -and distinctly, was: “Distance lends enchantment to the view.” It seemed -so appropriate at the frequent and admirably organised picnics that at -last it was repeated too often, and the time came when, under pain of -social degradation, it was forbidden to utter the hated words. But now -that we are busy bringing back the Ottoman and the Whatnot from the -garret and the servants’ hall to the drawing-room, we may once more -repeat the phrase with impunity, and indeed this article has no other -purpose than to repeat once more (and with how new a relish!): “Distance -lends enchantment to the view.”</p> - -<p>Also, with our passion for science and exact measurement, we shall wish -to discover the exact distance at which enchantment begins. And this is -easier than might be supposed; for any one who has lived long enough -will have noticed that a certain distance lends a violent disgust to the -view—that as we recede there comes a period of oblivion and total -unconsciousness, to be succeeded when consciousness returns by the -ecstasy, the nature of which we are considering.</p> - -<p>I, alas! can remember the time when the Ottoman and Whatnot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> still -lingered in the drawing-rooms of the less fashionable and more -conservative bourgeoisie; lingered despised, rejected, and merely -awaiting their substitutes. I can remember the sham Chippendale and the -sham old oak which replaced them. I can remember a still worse horror—a -genuine modern style which as yet has no name, a period of black -polished wood with spidery lines of conventional flowers incised in the -wood and then gilt. These things must have belonged to the eighties—I -think they went with the bustle; but as they are precisely at the -distance where unconsciousness has set in, it is more difficult to me to -write the history of this period than it would be to tell of the -sequence of styles in the Tang dynasty. And now, having watched the -Whatnot disappear, I have the privilege of watching its resurrection. I -have passed from disgust, through total forgetfulness, into the joys of -retrospection.</p> - -<p>Now my belief is that none of these feelings have anything to do with -our æsthetic reactions to the objects as works of art. The odd thing -about either real or would-be works of art, that is to say, about any -works made with something beyond a purely utilitarian aim—the odd thing -is that they can either affect our æsthetic sensibilities or they can -become symbols of a particular way of life. In this aspect they affect -our historical imagination through our social emotions. That the -historical images they conjure up in us are probably false has very -little to do with it; the point is that they exist for us, and exist for -most people, far more vividly and poignantly than any possible æsthetic -feelings. And somehow the works of each period come to stand for us as -symbols of some particular and special aspect of life. A Limoges casket -evokes the idea of a life of chivalrous adventure and romantic devotion; -an Italian cassone gives one a life of intellectual ferment and -Boccaccian freedom; before a Caffieri bronze or a Riesener bureau one -imagines oneself an exquisite aristocrat proof against the deeper -passions, and gifted with a sensuality so refined and a wit so ready -that gallantry would be a sufficient occupation for a lifetime. Whoever -handling a Louis XV. tabatière reflected how few of the friends of its -original owner ever washed, and how many of them were marked with -smallpox? The fun of these historical evocations is precisely in what -they leave out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span></p> - -<p>And in order that this process of selection and elimination may take -place, precise and detailed knowledge must have faded from the -collective memory, and the blurred but exquisite outlines of a -generalisation must have been established.</p> - -<p>We have just got to this point with the Victorian epoch. It has just got -its vague and generalised <i>Stimmung</i>. We think as we look at Leech’s -drawings, or sit in a bead-work chair, of a life which was the perfect -flower of bourgeoisie. The aristocracy with their odd irregular ways, -the Meredith heroines and heroes, are away in the background; <i>the</i> -Victorian life is of the upper bourgeoisie. It is immensely leisured, -untroubled by social problems, unblushingly sentimental, impenitently -unintellectual, and devoted to sport. The women are exquisitely trained -to their social functions; they respond unfailingly to every sentimental -appeal; they are beautifully ill-informed, and yet yearning for -instruction; they have adorable tempers and are ever so mildly -mischievous. The men can afford, without fear of impish criticism, to -flaunt their whiskers in the sea breeze, and to expatiate on their -contempt for everything that is not correct.</p> - -<p>Here, I suppose, is something like the outline of that generalised -historical fancy that by now emanates so fragrantly from the marble -inlaid tables and the beadwork screens of the period. How charming and -how false it is, one sees at once when one reflects that we imagine the -Victorians for ever playing croquet without ever losing their tempers.</p> - -<p>It is evident, then, that we have just arrived at the point where our -ignorance of life in the Victorian period is such as to allow the -incurable optimism of memory to build a quite peculiar little earthly -paradise out of the boredoms, the snobberies, the cruel repressions, the -mean calculations and rapacious speculations of the mid-nineteenth -century. Go a little later, and the imagination is hopelessly hampered -by familiarity with the facts of life which the roseate mist has not yet -begun to transmute. But let those of us who are hard at work collecting -Victorian paper-weights, stuffed hummingbirds and wax flowers reflect -that our successors will be able to create quite as amusing and -wonderful interiors out of the black wood cabinets and “æsthetic” -crewel-work of the eighties. They will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> not be able to do this until -they have constructed the appropriate social picture, the outlines of -which we cannot dimly conceive. We have at this moment no inkling of the -kind of lies they will invent about the eighties to amuse themselves; we -only know that when the time comes the legend will have taken shape, and -that, from that moment on, the objects of the time will have the -property of emanation.</p> - -<p>So far it has been unnecessary even to consider whether the objects of -the Victorian period are works of art or not; all that is necessary is -that they should have some margin of freedom from utility, some scope -for the fancy of their creators. And the Victorian epoch is, I think, -unusually rich in its capacity for emanation, for it was the great -period of <i>fancy work</i>. As the age-long traditions of craftsmanship and -structural design, which had lingered on from the Middle Ages, finally -faded out under the impact of the new industrialism, the amateur stepped -in, his brain teeming with fancies. Craftsmanship was dead, the -craftsman replaced either by the machine or by a purely servile and -mechanical human being, a man without tradition, without ideas of his -own, who was ready to accomplish whatever caprices the amateur or the -artist might set him to. It was an age of invention and experiment, an -age of wildly irresponsible frivolity, curiosity and sentimentality. To -gratify sentiment, nature was opposed to the hampering conventions of -art; to gratify fatuous curiosity, the most improbable and ill-suited -materials conceivable were used. What they call in France <i>le style -coco</i> is exactly expressive of this. A drawing of a pheasant is coloured -by cutting up little pieces of real pheasant’s feathers and sticking -them on in the appropriate places. Realistic flowers are made out of -shells glued together, or, with less of the pleasant shock of the -unexpected, out of wax or spun glass. They experiment in colour, using -the new results of chemistry boldly, greens from arsenic, magenta and -maroons from coal-tar, with results sometimes happy, sometimes -disastrous; but always we feel behind everything the capricious fancy of -the amateur with his desire to contribute by some joke or conjuring -trick to the social amenities. The general groundwork of design, so far -as any tradition remains at all, is a kind of bastard baroque passing at -times into a flimsy caricature of rococo, but almost always so overlaid -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> transfigured by the fancies of the amateur as to be hardly -recognisable, and yet all, by now, so richly redolent of its social -legend as to have become a genuine style.</p> - -<p>There is reason enough, then, why we should amuse ourselves by -collecting Victorian objects of art, or at least those of us who have -the special social-historical sensibility highly developed. But so -curiously intertwisted are our emotions that we are always apt to put a -wrong label on them, and the label “beauty” comes curiously handy for -almost any of the more spiritual and disinterested feelings. So our -collector is likely enough to ask us to admire his objects, not for -their social emanations, but for their intrinsic æsthetic merit, which, -to tell the truth, is far more problematical. Certain it is that the use -of material at this period seems to be less discriminating, and the -sense of quality feebler, than at any previous period of the world’s -history, at all events since Roman times—Pompeii, by-the-by, was a -thoroughly Victorian city. The sense of design was also chaotically free -from all the limitations of purpose and material, and I doubt if it -attained to that perfect abstract sense of harmony which might justify -any disregard of those conditions. No, on the whole it will be better to -recognise fully how endearing, how fancy-free, how richly evocative are -the objects of the Victorian period than to trouble our heads about -their æsthetic value.</p> - -<p>The discovery of Victorian art is due to a few enterprising and original -artists. In a future article I hope to show why it is to the artist -rather than to the collector that we always owe such discoveries, and -also why artists are of all people the most indifferent to the æsthetic -value of the objects they recommend to our admiration.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_ARTISTS_VISION" id="THE_ARTISTS_VISION"></a>THE ARTIST’S VISION<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor1">[6]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N the preceding article I stated that artists always lead the way in -awakening a new admiration for forgotten and despised styles, and that -in doing so they anticipate both the archæologist and the collector. I -also suggested that they were of all people the least fitted to report -upon the æsthetic value of the objects they pressed upon us.</p> - -<p>Biologically speaking, art is a blasphemy. We were given our eyes to see -things, not to look at them. Life takes care that we all learn the -lesson thoroughly, so that at a very early age we have acquired a very -considerable ignorance of visual appearances. We have learned the -meaning for life of appearances so well that we understand them, as it -were, in shorthand. The subtlest differences of appearance that have a -utility value still continue to be appreciated, while large and -important visual characters, provided they are useless for life, will -pass unnoticed. With all the ingenuity and resource which manufacturers -put into their business, they can scarcely prevent the ordinary eye from -seizing on the minute visual characteristics that distinguish margarine -from butter. Some of us can tell Canadian cheddar at a glance, and no -one was ever taken in by sham suède gloves.</p> - -<p>The sense of sight supplies prophetic knowledge of what may affect the -inner fortifications, the more intimate senses of taste and touch, where -it may already be too late to avert disaster. So we learn to read the -prophetic message, and, for the sake of economy, to neglect all else. -Children have not learned it fully, and so they look at things with some -passion. Even the grown man keeps something of his unbiological, -disinterested vision with regard to a few things. He still looks at -flowers, and does not merely see them. He also keeps objects which have -some marked peculiarity of appearance that catches his eye. These may be -natural, like precious stones,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> fossils, incrustations and such like; or -they may be manufactured entirely with a view to pleasing by -peculiarities of colour or shape, and these are called ornaments. Such -articles, whether natural or artificial, are called by those who sell -them ‘curios,’ and the name is not an unhappy one to denote the kind of -interest which they arouse. As I showed in a previous article, such -objects get attached to them a secondary interest, arising from the kind -of social milieu that they were made for, so that they become not merely -curious for the eye, but stimulating to our social-historical -imagination.</p> - -<p>The vision with which we regard such objects is quite distinct from the -practical vision of our instinctive life. In the practical vision we -have no more concern after we have read the label on the object; vision -ceases the moment it has served its biological function. But the -curiosity vision does contemplate the object disinterestedly; the object -<i>ex hypothesi</i> has no significance for actual life; it is a play or -fancy object, and our vision dwells much more consciously and -deliberately upon it. We notice to some extent its forms and colours, -especially when it is new to us.</p> - -<p>But human perversity goes further even than this in its misapplication -of the gift of sight. We may look at objects not even for their -curiosity or oddity, but for their harmony of form and colour. To arouse -such a vision the object must be more than a ‘curio’: it has to be a -work of art. I suspect that such an object must be made by some one in -whom the impulse was not to please others, but to express a feeling of -his own. It is probably this fundamental difference of origin between -the ‘curio’ or ornament and the work of art that makes it impossible for -any commercial system, with its eye necessarily on the customer, ever to -produce works of art, whatever the ingenuity with which it is attempted.</p> - -<p>But we are concerned here not with the origin, but with the vision. This -is at once more intense and more detached from the passions of the -instinctive life than either of the kinds of vision hitherto discussed. -Those who indulge in this vision are entirely absorbed in apprehending -the relation of forms and colour to one another, as they cohere within -the object. Suppose, for example, that we are looking at a Sung bowl; we -apprehend gradually the shape of the outside contour, the perfect -sequence of the curves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> and the subtle modifications of a certain type -of curve which it shows; we also feel the relation of the concave curves -to the outside contour; we realise that the precise thickness of the -walls is consistent with the particular kind of matter of which it is -made, its appearance of density and resistance; and finally we -recognise, perhaps, how satisfactory for the display of all these -plastic qualities are the colour and the dull lustre of the glaze. Now -while we are thus occupied there comes to us, I think, a feeling of -purpose; we feel that all these sensually logical conformities are the -outcome of a particular feeling, or of what, for want of a better word, -we call an idea; and we may even say that the pot is the expression of -an idea in the artist’s mind. Whether we are right or not in making this -deduction, I believe it nearly always occurs in such æsthetic -apprehension of an object of art. But in all this no element of -curiosity, no reference to actual life, comes in; our apprehension is -unconditioned by considerations of space or time; it is irrelevant to us -to know whether the bowl was made seven hundred years ago in China, or -in New York yesterday. We may, of course, at any moment switch off from -the æsthetic vision, and become interested in all sorts of -quasi-biological feelings; we may inquire whether it is genuine or not, -whether it is worth the sum given for it, and so forth; but in -proportion as we do this we change the focus of our vision; we are more -likely to examine the bottom of the bowl for traces of marks than to -look at the bowl itself.</p> - -<p>Such, then, is the nature of the æsthetic vision, the vision with which -we contemplate works of art. It is to such a vision, if to anything -outside himself, that the artist appeals, and the artist in his spare -hours may himself indulge in the æsthetic vision; and if one can get him -to do so, his verdict is likely to be as good as any one’s.</p> - -<p>The artist’s main business in life, however, is carried on by means of -yet a fourth kind of vision, which I will call the creative vision. -This, I think, is the furthest perversion of the gifts of nature of -which man is guilty. It demands the most complete detachment from any of -the meanings and implications of appearances. Almost any turn of the -kaleidoscope of nature may set up in the artist this detached and -impassioned vision, and, as he contemplates the particular field of -vision, the (æsthetically) chaotic and accidental<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> conjunction of forms -and colours begins to crystallise into a harmony; and as this harmony -becomes clear to the artist, his actual vision becomes distorted by the -emphasis of the rhythm which has been set up within him. Certain -relations of directions of line become for him full of meaning; he -apprehends them no longer casually or merely curiously, but -passionately, and these lines begin to be so stressed and stand out so -clearly from the rest that he sees them far more distinctly than he did -at first. Similarly colours, which in nature have almost always a -certain vagueness and elusiveness, become so definite and clear to him, -owing to their now necessary relation to other colours, that if he -chooses to paint his vision he can state them positively and definitely. -In such a creative vision the objects as such tend to disappear, to lose -their separate unities, and to take their places as so many bits in the -whole mosaic of vision. The texture of the whole field of vision becomes -so close that the coherence of the separate patches of tone and colour -within each object is no stronger than the coherence with every other -tone and colour throughout the field.</p> - -<p>In such circumstances the greatest object of art becomes of no more -significance than any casual piece of matter; a man’s head is no more -and no less important than a pumpkin, or, rather, these things may be so -or not according to the rhythm that obsesses the artist and crystallises -his vision. Since it is the habitual practice of the artist to be on the -look out for these peculiar arrangements of objects that arouse the -creative vision, and become material for creative contemplation, he is -liable to look at all objects from this point of view. In so far as the -artist looks at objects only as part of a whole field of vision which is -his own potential picture, he can give no account of their æsthetic -value. Every solid object is subject to the play of light and shade, and -becomes a mosaic of visual patches, each of which for the artist is -related to other visual patches in the surroundings. It is irrelevant to -ask him, while he is looking with this generalised and all-embracing -vision, about the nature of the objects which compose it. He is likely -even to turn away from works of art in which he may be tempted to -relapse into an æsthetic vision, and so see them as unities apart from -their surroundings. By preference he turns to objects which make no -strong æsthetic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> appeal in themselves. But he may like objects which -attract by some oddity or peculiarity of form or colour, and thereby -suggest to him new and intriguing rhythms. In his continual and restless -preoccupation with appearance he is capable of looking at objects from -which both æsthetic and even curious vision may turn instinctively, or -which they may never notice, so little prospect of satisfaction do they -hold out. But the artist may always find his satisfaction, the material -for his picture, in the most unexpected quarters. Objects of the most -despised periods, or objects saturated for the ordinary man with the -most vulgar and repulsive associations, may be grist to his mill. And so -it happened that while the man of culture and the connoisseur firmly -believed that art ended with the brothers Adam, Mr. Walter Sickert was -already busy getting hold of stuffed birds and wax flowers just for his -own queer game of tones and colours. And now the collector and the -art-dealer will be knocking at Mr. Sickert’s door to buy the treasures -at twenty times the price the artist paid for them. Perhaps there are -already younger artists who are getting excited about the tiles in the -refreshment room at South Kensington, and, when the social legend has -gathered round the names of Sir Arthur Sullivan and Connie Gilchrist, -will inspire in the cultured a deep admiration for the “æsthetic” -period.</p> - -<p>The artist is of all men the most constantly observant of his -surroundings, and the least affected by their intrinsic æsthetic value. -He is more likely on the whole to paint a slum in Soho than St. Paul’s, -and more likely to do a lodging-house interior than a room at Hampton -Court. He may, of course, do either, but his necessary detachment comes -more easily in one case than the other. The artist is, I believe, a very -good critic if you can make him drop his own job for a minute, and -really attend to some one else’s work of art; but do not go to him when -he is on duty as an artist if you want a sound judgment about objects of -art. The different visions I have discussed are like the different gears -of a motor-car, only that we sometimes step from one gear into another -without knowing it, and the artist may be on the wrong gear for -answering us truly. Mr. Walter Sickert is likely to have a Sickert in -his eye when he gives us a panegyric on a bedroom candlestick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="ART_AND_SOCIALISM" id="ART_AND_SOCIALISM"></a>ART AND SOCIALISM<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor1">[7]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> AM not a Socialist, as I understand that word, nor can I pretend to -have worked out those complex estimates of economic possibility which -are needed before one can endorse the hopeful forecasts of Lady Warwick, -Mr. Money, and Mr. Wells. What I propose to do here is first to discuss -what effect plutocracy, such as it is to-day, has had of late, and is -likely to have in the near future, upon one of the things which I should -like to imagine continuing upon our planet—namely, art. And then -briefly to prognosticate its chances under such a regime as my -colleagues have sketched.</p> - -<p>As I understand it, art is one of the chief organs of what, for want of -a better word, I must call the spiritual life. It both stimulates and -controls those indefinable overtones of the material life of man which -all of us at moments feel to have a quality of permanence and reality -that does not belong to the rest of our experience. Nature demands with -no uncertain voice that the physical needs of the body shall be -satisfied first; but we feel that our real human life only begins at the -point where that is accomplished, that the man who works at some -uncreative and uncongenial toil merely to earn enough food to enable him -to continue to work has not, properly speaking, a human life at all.</p> - -<p>It is the argument of commercialism, as it once was of aristocracy, that -the accumulation of surplus wealth in a few hands enables this spiritual -life to maintain its existence, that no really valuable or useless work -(for from this point of view only useless work has value) could exist in -the community without such accumulations of wealth. The argument has -been employed for the disinterested work of scientific research. A -doctor of naturally liberal and generous impulses told me that he was -becoming a reactionary simply because he feared that public bodies would -never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> give the money necessary for research with anything like the same -generosity as is now shown by the great plutocrats. But Sir Ray -Lankester does not find that generosity sufficient, and is prepared at -least to consider a State more ample-spirited.</p> - -<p>The situation as regards art and as regards the disinterested love of -truth is so similar that we might expect this argument in favour of a -plutocratic social order to hold equally well for both art and science, -and that the artist would be a fervent upholder of the present system. -As a matter of fact, the more representative artists have rarely been -such, and not a few, though working their life long for the plutocracy, -have been vehement Socialists.</p> - -<p>Despairing of the conditions due to modern commercialism, it is not -unnatural that lovers of beauty should look back with nostalgia to the -age when society was controlled by a landed aristocracy. I believe, -however, that from the point of view of the encouragement of great -creative art there is not much difference between an aristocracy and a -plutocracy. The aristocrat usually had taste, the plutocrat frequently -has not. Now taste is of two kinds, the first consisting in the negative -avoidance of all that is ill-considered and discordant, the other -positive and a by-product; it is that harmony which always results from -the expression of intense and disinterested emotion. The aristocrat, by -means of his good taste of the negative kind, was able to come to terms -with the artist; the plutocrat has not. But both alike desire to buy -something which is incommensurate with money. Both want art to be a -background to their radiant self-consciousness. They want to buy beauty -as they want to buy love; and the painter, picture-dealer, and the -pander try perennially to persuade them that it is possible. But living -beauty cannot be bought; it must be won. I have said that the -aristocrat, by his taste, by his feeling for the accidentals of beauty, -did manage to get on to some kind of terms with the artist. Hence the -art of the eighteenth century, an art that is prone before the -distinguished patron, subtly and deliciously flattering and yet always -fine. In contrast to that the art of the nineteenth century is coarse, -turbulent, clumsy. It marks the beginning of a revolt. The artist just -managed to let himself be coaxed and cajoled by the aristocrat, but when -the aristocratic was succeeded by the plutocratic patron with less<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> -conciliatory manners and no taste, the artist rebelled; and the history -of art in the nineteenth century is the history of a band of heroic -Ishmaelites, with no secure place in the social system, with nothing to -support them in the unequal struggle but a dim sense of a new idea, the -idea of the freedom of art from all trammels and tyrannies.</p> - -<p>The place that the artists left vacant at the plutocrat’s table had to -be filled, and it was filled by a race new in the history of the world, -a race for whom no name has yet been found, a race of pseudo-artists. As -the prostitute professes to sell love, so these gentlemen professed to -sell beauty, and they and their patrons rollicked good-humouredly -through the Victorian era. They adopted the name and something of the -manner of artists; they intercepted not only the money, but the titles -and fame and glory which were intended for those whom they had -supplanted. But, while they were yet feasting, there came an event which -seemed at the time of no importance, but which was destined to change -ultimately the face of things, the exhibition of ancient art at -Manchester in 1857. And with this came Ruskin’s address on the Political -Economy of Art, a work which surprises by its prophetic foresight when -we read it half a century later. These two things were the Mene Tekel of -the orgy of Victorian Philistinism. The plutocrat saw through the -deception; it was not beauty the pseudo-artist sold him, any more than -it was love which the prostitute gave. He turned from it in disgust and -decided that the only beauty he could buy was the dead beauty of the -past. Thereupon set in the worship of <i>patine</i> and the age of forgery -and the detection of forgery. I once remarked to a rich man that a -statue by Rodin might be worthy even of his collection. He replied, -“Show me a Rodin with the <i>patine</i> of the fifteenth century, and I will -buy it.”</p> - -<p><i>Patine</i>, then, the adventitious material beauty which age alone can -give, has come to be the object of a reverence greater than that devoted -to the idea which is enshrined within the work of art. People are right -to admire <i>patine</i>. Nothing is more beautiful than gilded bronze of -which time has taken toll until it is nothing but a faded shimmering -splendour over depths of inscrutable gloom; nothing finer than the dull -glow which Pentelic marble has gathered from past centuries of sunlight -and warm Mediterranean breezes. <i>Patine</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> is good, but it is a surface -charm added to the essential beauty of expression; its beauty is -literally skin-deep. It can never come into being or exist in or for -itself; no <i>patine</i> can make a bad work good, or the forgers would be -justified. It is an adjectival and ancillary beauty scarcely worthy of -our prolonged contemplation.</p> - -<p>There is to the philosopher something pathetic in the Plutocrat’s -worship of <i>patine</i>. It is, as it were, a compensation for his own want -of it. On himself all the rough thumb and chisel marks of his maker—and -he is self-made—stand as yet unpolished and raw; but his furniture, at -least, shall have the distinction of age-long acquaintance with good -manners.</p> - -<p>But the net result of all this is that the artist has nothing to hope -from the plutocrat. To him we must be grateful indeed for that brusque -disillusionment of the real artist, the real artist who might have -rubbed along uneasily for yet another century with his predecessor, the -aristocrat. Let us be grateful to him for this; but we need not look to -him for further benefits, and if we decide to keep him the artist must -be content to be paid after he is dead and vicariously in the person of -an art-dealer. The artist must be content to look on while sums are -given for dead beauty, the tenth part of which, properly directed, would -irrigate whole nations and stimulate once more the production of vital -artistic expression.</p> - -<p>I would not wish to appear to blame the plutocrat. He has often honestly -done his best for art; the trouble is not of his making more than of the -artist’s, and the misunderstanding between art and commerce is bound to -be complete. The artist, however mean and avaricious he may appear, -knows that he cannot really sell himself for money any more than the -philosopher or the scientific investigator can sell himself for money. -He takes money in the hope that he may secure the opportunity for the -free functioning of his creative power. If the patron could give him -that instead of money he would bless him; but he cannot, and so he tries -to get him to work not quite freely for money; and in revenge the artist -indulges in all manner of insolences, even perhaps in sharp practices, -which make the patron feel, with some justification, that he is the -victim of ingratitude and wanton caprice. It is impossible that the -artist should work for the plutocrat; he must work for himself, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> -it is only by so doing that he can perform the function for which he -exists; it is only by working for himself that he can work for mankind.</p> - -<p>If, then, the particular kind of accumulation of surplus wealth which we -call plutocracy has failed, as surely it has signally failed, to -stimulate the creative power of the imagination, what disposition of -wealth might be conceived that would succeed better? First of all, a -greater distribution of wealth, with a lower standard of ostentation, -would, I think, do a great deal to improve things without any great -change in other conditions. It is not enough known that the patronage -which really counts to-day is exercised by quite small and humble -people. These people with a few hundreds a year exercise a genuine -patronage by buying pictures at ten, twenty, or occasionally thirty -pounds, with real insight and understanding, thereby enabling the young -Ishmaelite to live and function from the age of twenty to thirty or so, -when perhaps he becomes known to richer buyers, those experienced -spenders of money who are always more cautious, more anxious to buy an -investment than a picture. These poor, intelligent first patrons to whom -I allude belong mainly to the professional classes; they have none of -the pretensions of the plutocrat and none of his ambitions. The work of -art is not for them, as for him, a decorative backcloth to his stage, -but an idol and an inspiration. Merely to increase the number and -potency of these people would already accomplish much; and this is to be -noticed, that if wealth were more evenly distributed, if no one had a -great deal of wealth, those who really cared for art would become the -sole patrons, since for all it would be an appreciable sacrifice, and -for none an impossibility. The man who only buys pictures when he has as -many motor-cars as he can conceivably want would drop out as a patron -altogether.</p> - -<p>But even this would only foster the minor and private arts; and what the -history of art definitely elucidates is that the greatest art has always -been communal, the expression—in highly individualised ways, no -doubt—of common aspirations and ideals.</p> - -<p>Let us suppose, then, that society were so arranged that considerable -surplus wealth lay in the hands of public bodies, both national and -local; can we have any reasonable hope that they would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> show more skill -in carrying out the delicate task of stimulating and using the creative -power of the artist?</p> - -<p>The immediate prospect is certainly not encouraging. Nothing, for -instance, is more deplorable than to watch the patronage of our -provincial museums. The gentlemen who administer these public funds -naturally have not realised so acutely as private buyers the lesson so -admirably taught at Christie’s, that pseudo or Royal-Academic art is a -bad investment. Nor is it better if we turn to national patronage. In -Great Britain, at least, we cannot get a postage stamp or a penny even -respectably designed, much less a public monument. Indeed, the tradition -that all public British art shall be crassly mediocre and inexpressive -is so firmly rooted that it seems to have almost the prestige of -constitutional precedent. Nor will any one who has watched a committee -commissioning a presentation portrait, or even buying an old master, be -in danger of taking too optimistic a view. With rare and shining -exceptions, committees seem to be at the mercy of the lowest common -denominator of their individual natures, which is dominated by fear of -criticism; and fear and its attendant, compromise, are bad masters of -the arts.</p> - -<p>Speaking recently at Liverpool, Mr. Bernard Shaw placed the present -situation as regards public art in its true light. He declared that the -corruption of taste and the emotional insincerity of the mass of the -people had gone so far that any picture which pleased more than ten per -cent. of the population should be immediately burned....</p> - -<p>This, then, is the fundamental fact we have to face. And it is this that -gives us pause when we try to construct any conceivable system of public -patronage.</p> - -<p>For the modern artist puts the question of any socialistic—or, indeed, -of any completely ordered—state in its acutest form. He demands as an -essential to the proper use of his powers a freedom from restraint such -as no other workman expects. He must work when he feels inclined; he -cannot work to order. Hence his frequent quarrels with the burgher who -knows he has to work when he is disinclined, and cannot conceive why the -artist should not do likewise. The burgher watches the artist’s wayward -and apparently quite unmethodical activity, and envies his job. Now, in -any Socialistic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> State, if certain men are licensed to pursue the -artistic calling, they are likely to be regarded by the other workers -with some envy. There may be a competition for such soft jobs among -those who are naturally work-shy, since it will be evident that the -artist is not called to account in the same way as other workers.</p> - -<p>If we suppose, as seems not unlikely, in view of the immense numbers who -become artists in our present social state, that there would be this -competition for the artistic work of the community, what methods would -be devised to select those required to fill the coveted posts? Frankly, -the history of art in the nineteenth century makes us shudder at the -results that would follow. One scarcely knows whether they would be -worse if Bumble or the Academy were judge. We only know that under any -such conditions <i>none</i> of the artists whose work has ultimately counted -in the spiritual development of the race would have been allowed to -practise the coveted profession.</p> - -<p>There is in truth, as Ruskin pointed out in his “Political Economy of -Art,” a gross and wanton waste under the present system. We have -thousands of artists who are only so by accident and by name, on the one -hand, and certainly many—one cannot tell how many—who have the special -gift but have never had the peculiar opportunities which are to-day -necessary to allow it to expand and function. But there is, what in an -odd way consoles us, a blind chance that the gift and the opportunity -may coincide; that Shelley and Browning may have a competence, and -Cézanne a farm-house he could retire to. Bureaucratic Socialism would, -it seems, take away even this blind chance that mankind may benefit by -its least appreciable, most elusive treasures, and would carefully -organise the complete suppression of original creative power; would -organise into a universal and all-embracing tyranny the already -overweening and disastrous power of endowed official art. For we must -face the fact that the average man has two qualities which would make -the proper selection of the artist almost impossible. He has, first of -all, a touching proclivity to awe-struck admiration of whatever is -presented to him as noble by a constituted authority; and, secondly, a -complete absence of any immediate reaction to a work of art until his -judgment has thus been hypnotised by the voice of authority. Then, and -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> till then, he sees, or swears he sees, those adorable Emperor’s -clothes that he is always agape for.</p> - -<p>I am speaking, of course, of present conditions, of a populace whose -emotional life has been drugged by the sugared poison of pseudo-art, a -populace saturated with snobbishness, and regarding art chiefly for its -value as a symbol of social distinctions. There have been times when -such a system of public patronage as we are discussing might not have -been altogether disastrous. Times when the guilds represented more or -less adequately the genuine artistic intelligence of the time; but the -creation, first of all, of aristocratic art, and finally of pseudo-art, -have brought it about that almost any officially organised system would -at the present moment stereotype all the worst features of modern art.</p> - -<p>Now, in thus putting forward the extreme difficulties of any system of -publicly controlled art, we are emphasising perhaps too much the idea of -the artist as a creator of purely ideal and abstract works, as the -medium of inspiration and the source of revelation. It is the artist as -prophet and priest that we have been considering, the artist who is the -articulate soul of mankind. Now, in the present commercial State, at a -time when such handiwork as is not admirably fitted to some purely -utilitarian purpose has become inanely fatuous and grotesque, the artist -in this sense has undoubtedly become of supreme importance as a -protestant, as one who proclaims that art is a reasonable function, and -one that proceeds by a nice adjustment of means to ends. But if we -suppose a state in which all the ordinary objects of daily life—our -chairs and tables, our carpets and pottery—expressed something of this -reasonableness instead of a crazy and vapid fantasy, the artist as a -pure creator might become, not indeed of less importance—rather -more—but a less acute necessity to our general living than he is -to-day. Something of the sanity and purposefulness of his attitude might -conceivably become infused into the work of the ordinary craftsman, -something, too, of his creative energy and delight in work. We must, -therefore, turn for a moment from the abstractly creative artist to the -applied arts and those who practise them.</p> - -<p>We are so far obliged to protect ourselves from the implications of -modern life that without a special effort it is hard to conceive the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> -enormous quantity of “art” that is annually produced and consumed. For -the special purpose of realising it I take the pains to write the -succeeding paragraphs in a railway refreshment-room, where I am actually -looking at those terribly familiar but fortunately fleeting images which -such places afford. And one must remember that public places of this -kind merely reflect the average citizen’s soul, as expressed in his -home.</p> - -<p>The space my eye travels over is a small one, but I am appalled at the -amount of “art” that it harbours. The window towards which I look is -filled in its lower part by stained glass; within a highly elaborate -border, designed by some one who knew the conventions of -thirteenth-century glass, is a pattern of yellow and purple vine leaves -with bunches of grapes, and flitting about among these many small birds. -In front is a lace curtain with patterns taken from at least four -centuries and as many countries. On the walls, up to a height of four -feet, is a covering of lincrusta walton stamped with a complicated -pattern in two colours, with sham silver medallions. Above that a -moulding but an inch wide, and yet creeping throughout its whole with a -degenerate descendant of a Græco-Roman carved guilloche pattern; this -has evidently been cut out of the wood by machine or stamped out of some -composition—its nature is so perfectly concealed that it is hard to say -which. Above this is a wall-paper in which an effect of -eighteenth-century satin brocade is imitated by shaded staining of the -paper. Each of the little refreshment-tables has two cloths, one -arranged symmetrically with the table, the other a highly ornate printed -cotton arranged “artistically” in a diagonal position. In the centre of -each table is a large pot in which every beautiful quality in the -material and making of pots has been carefully obliterated by methods -each of which implies profound scientific knowledge and great inventive -talent. Within each pot is a plant with large dark-green leaves, -apparently made of india-rubber. This painful catalogue makes up only a -small part of the inventory of the “art” of the restaurant. If I were to -go on to tell of the legs of the tables, of the electric-light fittings, -of the chairs into the wooden seats of which some tremendous mechanical -force has deeply impressed a large distorted anthemion—if I were to -tell of all these things, my reader and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> might both begin to realise -with painful acuteness something of the horrible toil involved in all -this display. Display is indeed the end and explanation of it all. Not -one of these things has been made because the maker enjoyed the making; -not one has been bought because its contemplation would give any one any -pleasure, but solely because each of these things is accepted as a -symbol of a particular social status. I say their contemplation can give -no one pleasure; they are there because their absence would be resented -by the average man who regards a large amount of futile display as in -some way inseparable from the conditions of that well-to-do life to -which he belongs or aspires to belong. If everything were merely clean -and serviceable he would proclaim the place bare and uncomfortable.</p> - -<p>The doctor who lines his waiting-room with bad photogravures and worse -etchings is acting on exactly the same principle; in short, nearly all -our “art” is made, bought, and sold merely for its value as an -indication of social status.</p> - -<p>Now consider the case of those men whose life-work it is to stimulate -this eczematous eruption of pattern on the surface of modern -manufactures. They are by far the most numerous “artists” in the -country. Each of them has not only learned to draw but has learned by -sheer application to put forms together with a similitude of that -coherence which creative impulse gives. Probably each of them has -somewhere within him something of that creative impulse which is the -inspiration and delight of every savage and primitive craftsman; but in -these manufacturer’s designers the pressure of commercial life has -crushed and atrophied that creative impulse completely. Their business -is to produce, not expressive design, but dead patterns. They are -compelled, therefore, to spend their lives behaving in an entirely -idiotic and senseless manner, and that with the certainty that no one -will ever get positive pleasure from the result; for one may hazard the -statement that until I made the effort just now, no one of the thousands -who use the refreshment-rooms ever really <i>looked</i> at the designs.</p> - -<p>This question of the creation and consumption of art tends to become -more and more pressing. I have shown just now what an immense mass of -art is consumed, but this is not the same art<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> as that which the genuine -artist produces. The work of the truly creative artist is not merely -useless to the social man—it appears to be noxious and inassimilable. -Before art can be “consumed” the artistic idea must undergo a process of -disinfection. It must have extracted and removed from it all, or nearly -all, that makes it æsthetically valuable. What occurs when a great -artist creates a new idea is somewhat as follows: We know the process -well enough, since it has taken place in the last fifty years. An artist -attains to a new vision. He grasps this with such conviction that he is -able to express it in his work. Those few people in his immediate -surroundings who have the faculty of æsthetic perception become very -much excited by the new vision. The average man, on the other hand, -lacks this faculty and, moreover, instinctively protects the rounded -perfection of his universe of thought and feeling from the intrusion of -new experience; in consequence he becomes extremely irritated by the -sight of works which appear to him completely unintelligible. The -misunderstanding between this small minority and the public becomes -violent. Then some of the more intelligent writers on art recognise that -the new idea is really related to past æsthetic expressions which have -become recognised. Then a clever artist, without any individual vision -of his own, sees the possibility of using a modification of the new -idea, makes an ingenious compromise between it and the old, generally -accepted notions of art. The public, which has been irritated by its -incomprehension of the new idea, finding the compromise just -intelligible, and delighted to find itself cleverer than it thought, -acclaims the compromising intermediary as a genius. The process of -disinfection thus begun goes on with increasing energy and rapidity, and -before long the travesty of the new idea is completely assimilable by -the social organism. The public, after swallowing innumerable imitations -of the new idea, may even at last reluctantly accept the original -creator as a great man, but generally not until he has been dead for -some time and has become a vague and mythical figure.</p> - -<p>It is literally true to say that the imitations of works of art are more -assimilable by the public than originals, and therefore always tend to -fetch a higher price in the market at the moment of their production.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<p>The fact is that the average man uses art entirely for its symbolic -value. Art is in fact the symbolic currency of the world. The possession -of rare and much coveted works of art is regarded as a sign of national -greatness. The growth and development of the Kaiser Friedrich museum was -due to the active support of the late Emperor, a man whose distaste for -genuine art is notorious, but whose sense of the symbolic was highly -developed. Large and expensively ornamented buildings become symbols of -municipal greatness. The amount of useless ornaments on façades of their -offices is a valuable symbol of the financial exuberance of big -commercial undertakings; and, finally, the social status of the -individual is expressed to the admiring or envious outer world by the -streamlines of an aristocratic motor-car, or the superfluity of lace -curtains in the front windows of a genteel suburban villa.</p> - -<p>The social man, then, lives in a world of symbols, and though he presses -other things into his service, such, for instance, as kings, footmen, -dogs, women, he finds in art his richest reservoir of symbolic currency. -But in a world of symbolists the creative artist and the creative man of -science appear in strange isolation as the only people who are not -symbolists. They alone are up against certain relations which do not -stand for something else, but appear to have ultimate value, to be real.</p> - -<p>Art as a symbolic currency is an important means of the instinctive life -of man, but art as created by the artist is in violent revolt against -the instinctive life, is an expression of the reflective and fully -conscious life. It is natural enough, then, that before it can be used -by the instinctive life it must be deprived by travesty of its too -violent assertion of its own reality. Travesty is necessary at first to -make it assimilable, but in the end long familiarity may rob even -original works of art of their insistence, so that, finally, even the -great masterpieces may become the most cherished symbols of the lords of -the instinctive life, may, as in fact they frequently do, become the -property of millionaires.</p> - -<p>A great deal of misunderstanding and ill-feeling between the artist and -the public comes from a failure to realise the necessity of this process -of assimilation of the work of art to the needs of the instinctive -life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<p>I suspect that a very similar process takes place with regard to truth. -In order that truth may not outrage too violently the passions and -egoisms of the instinctive life it, too, must undergo a process of -deformation.</p> - -<p>Society, for example, accepts as much of the ascertainable truth as it -can stand at a given period in the form of the doctrine of its organised -religion.</p> - -<p>Now what effect would the development of the Great State which this book -anticipates have upon all this? First, I suppose that the fact that -every one had to work might produce a new reverence, especially in the -governing body, for work, a new sense of disgust and horror at wasteful -and purposeless work. Mr. Money has written of waste of work; here in -unwanted pseudo-art is another colossal waste. Add to this ideal of -economy in work the presumption that the workers in every craft would be -more thoroughly organised and would have a more decisive voice in the -nature and quality of their productions. Under the present system of -commercialism the one object, and the complete justification, of -producing any article is, that it can be made either by its intrinsic -value, or by the fictitious value put upon it by advertisement, to sell -with a sufficient profit to the manufacturer. In any socialistic state, -I imagine—and to a large extent the Great State will be socialistic at -least—there would not be this same automatic justification for -manufacture; people would not be induced artificially to buy what they -did not want, and in this way a more genuine scale of values would be -developed. Moreover, the workman would be in a better position to say -how things should be made. After years of a purely commercial standard, -there is left even now, in the average workman, a certain bias in favour -of sound and reasonable workmanship as opposed to the ingenious -manufacture of fatuous and fraudulent objects; and, if we suppose the -immediate pressure of sheer necessity to be removed, it is probable that -the craftsman, acting through his guild organisations, would determine -to some extent the methods of manufacture. Guilds might, indeed, regain -something of the political influence that gave us the Gothic cathedrals -of the Middle Ages. It is quite probable that this guild influence would -act as a check on some innovations in manufacture which, though bringing -in a profit, are really disastrous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> to the community at large. Of such a -nature are all the so-called improvements whereby decoration, the whole -value of which consists in its expressive power, is multiplied -indefinitely by machinery. When once the question of the desirability of -any and every production came to be discussed, as it would be in the -Great State, it would inevitably follow that some reasonable and -scientific classifications would be undertaken with regard to machinery. -That is to say, it would be considered in what processes and to what -degree machinery ought to replace handiwork, both from the point of view -of the community as a whole and from that of the producer. So far as I -know, this has never been undertaken even with regard to mere economy, -no one having calculated with precision how far the longer life of -certain hand-made articles does not more than compensate for increased -cost of production. And I suppose that in the Great State other things -besides mere economy would come into the calculation. The Great State -will live, not hoard.</p> - -<p>It is probable that in many directions we should extend mechanical -operations immensely, that such things as the actual construction of -buildings, the mere laying and placing of the walls might become -increasingly mechanical. Such methods, if confined to purely structural -elements, are capable of beauty of a special kind, since they can -express the ordered ideas of proportion, balance, and interval as -conceived by the creative mind of the architect. But in process of time -one might hope to see a sharp line of division between work of this kind -and such purely expressive and non-utilitarian design as we call -ornament; and it would be felt clearly that into this field no -mechanical device should intrude, that, while ornament might be -dispensed with, it could never be imitated, since its only reason for -being is that it conveys the vital expressive power of a human mind -acting constantly and directly upon matter.</p> - -<p>Finally, I suppose that in the Great State we might hope to see such a -considerable levelling of social conditions that the false values put -upon art by its symbolising of social status would be largely destroyed -and, the pressure of mere opinion being relieved, people would develop -some more immediate reaction to the work of art than they can at present -achieve.</p> - -<p>Supposing, then, that under the Great State it was found<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> impossible, at -all events at first, to stimulate and organise the abstract creative -power of the pure artist, the balance might after all be in favour of -the new order if the whole practice of applied art could once more -become rational and purposeful. In a world where the objects of daily -use and ornament were made with practical common sense, the æsthetic -sense would need far less to seek consolation and repose in works of -pure art.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, in the long run mankind will not allow this function, -which is necessary to its spiritual life, to lapse entirely. I imagine, -however, that it would be much safer to penalise rather than to -stimulate such activity, and that simply in order to sift out those with -a genuine passion from those who are merely attracted by the apparent -ease of the pursuit. I imagine that the artist would naturally turn to -one of the applied arts as his means of livelihood; and we should get -the artist coming out of the <i>bottega</i>, as he did in fifteenth-century -Florence. There are, moreover, innumerable crafts, even besides those -that are definitely artistic, which, if pursued for short hours (Sir Leo -Money has shown how short these hours might be), would leave a man free -to pursue other callings in his leisure.</p> - -<p>The majority of poets to-day are artists in this position. It is -comparatively rare for any one to make of poetry his actual means of -livelihood. Our poets are, first of all, clerks, critics, civil -servants, or postmen. I very much doubt if it would be a serious loss to -the community if the pure graphic artist were in the same position. That -is to say, that all our pictures would be made by amateurs. It is quite -possible to suppose that this would be not a loss, but a great gain. The -painter’s means of livelihood would probably be some craft in which his -artistic powers would be constantly occupied, though at a lower tension -and in a humbler way. The Great State aims at human freedom; -essentially, it is an organisation for leisure—out of which art grows; -it is only a purely bureaucratic Socialism that would attempt to control -the æsthetic lives of men.</p> - -<p>So I conceive that those in whom the instinct for abstract creative art -was strongest would find ample opportunities for its exercise, and that -the temptation to simulate this particular activity would be easily -resisted by those who had no powerful inner compulsion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>In the Great State, moreover, and in any sane Socialism, there would be -opportunity for a large amount of purely private buying and selling. Mr. -Wells’s Modern Utopia, for example, hypothecates a vast superstructure -of private trading. A painter might sell his pictures to those who were -engaged in more lucrative employment, though one supposes that with the -much more equal distribution of wealth the sums available for this would -be incomparably smaller than at present; a picture would not be a -speculation, but a pleasure, and no one would become an artist in the -hope of making a fortune.</p> - -<p>Ultimately, of course, when art had been purified of its present -unreality by a prolonged contact with the crafts, society would gain a -new confidence in its collective artistic judgment, and might even -boldly assume the responsibility which at present it knows it is unable -to face. It might choose its poets and painters and philosophers and -deep investigators, and make of such men and women a new kind of kings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="ART_AND_SCIENCE" id="ART_AND_SCIENCE"></a>ART AND SCIENCE<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor1">[8]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE author of an illuminating article, “The Place of Science,” in <i>The -Athenæum</i> for April 11th, distinguishes between two aspects of -intellectual activity in scientific work. Of these two aspects one -derives its motive power from curiosity, and this deals with particular -facts. It is only when, through curiosity, man has accumulated a mass of -particular observations that the second intellectual activity manifests -itself, and in this the motive is the satisfaction which the mind gets -from the contemplation of inevitable relations. To secure this end the -utmost possible generalisation is necessary.</p> - -<p>In a later article S. says boldly that this satisfaction is an æsthetic -satisfaction: “It is in its æsthetic value that the justification of the -scientific theory is to be found, and with it the justification of the -scientific method.” I should like to pose to S. at this point the -question of whether a theory that disregarded facts would have equal -value for science with one which agreed with facts. I suppose he would -say No; and yet, so far as I can see, there would be no purely æsthetic -reason why it should not. The æsthetic value of a theory would surely -depend solely on the perfection and complexity of the unity attained, -and I imagine that many systems of scholastic theology, and even some -more recent systems of metaphysic, have only this æsthetic value. I -suspect that the æsthetic value of a theory is not really adequate to -the intellectual effort entailed unless, as in a true scientific theory -(by which I mean a theory which embraces all the known relevant facts), -the æsthetic value is reinforced by the curiosity value which comes in -when we believe it to be true. But now, returning to art, let me try to -describe rather more clearly its analogies with science.</p> - -<p>Both of these aspects—the particularising and the generalising—have -their counterparts in art. Curiosity impels the artist to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> -consideration of every possible form in nature: under its stimulus he -tends to accept each form in all its particularity as a given, -unalterable fact. The other kind of intellectual activity impels the -artist to attempt the reduction of all forms, as it were, to some common -denominator which will make them comparable with one another. It impels -him to discover some æsthetically intelligible principle in various -forms, and even to envisage the possibility of some kind of abstract -form in the æsthetic contemplation of which the mind would attain -satisfaction—a satisfaction curiously parallel to that which the mind -gets from the intellectual recognition of abstract truth.</p> - -<p>If we consider the effects of these two kinds of intellectual activity, -or rather their exact analogues, in art, we have to note that in so far -as the artist’s curiosity remains a purely intellectual curiosity it -interferes with the perfection and purity of the work of art by -introducing an alien and non-æsthetic element and appealing to -non-æsthetic desires; in so far as it merely supplies the artist with -new motives and a richer material out of which to build his designs, it -is useful but subsidiary. Thus the objection to a “subject picture,” in -so far as one remains conscious of the subject as something outside of, -and apart from, the form, is a valid objection to the intrusion of -intellect, of however rudimentary a kind, into an æsthetic whole. The -ordinary historical pictures of our annual shows will furnish perfect -examples of such an intrusion, since they exhibit innumerable appeals to -intellectual recognitions without which the pictures would be -meaningless. Without some previous knowledge of Caligula or Mary Queen -of Scots we are likely to miss our way in a great deal of what passes -for art to-day.</p> - -<p>The case of the generalising intellect, or rather its analogue, in art -is more difficult. Here the recognition of relations is immediate and -sensational—perhaps we ought to consider it as curiously akin to those -cases of mathematical geniuses who have immediate intuition of -mathematical relations which it is beyond their powers to prove—so that -it is by analogy that we may talk of it at all as intellectual. But the -analogy is so close that I hope it may justify the use I here suggest. -For in both cases the utmost possible generalisation is aimed at, and in -both the mind is held in delighted equilibrium by the contemplation of -the inevitable relations of all the parts in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> whole, so that no need -exists to make reference to what is outside the unity, and this becomes -for the time being a universe.</p> - -<p>It will be seen how close the analogies are between the methods and aims -of art and science, and yet there remains an obstinate doubt in the mind -whether at any point they are identical. Probably in order to get much -further we must wait for the psychologists to solve a number of -problems; meanwhile this at least must be pointed out—that, allowing -that the motives of science are emotional, many of its processes are -purely intellectual, that is to say, mechanical. They could be performed -by a perfectly non-sentient, emotionless brain, whereas at no point in -the process of art can we drop feeling. There is something in the common -phraseology by which we talk of <i>seeing</i> a point or an argument, whereas -we <i>feel</i> the harmony of a work of art; and for some reason we attach a -more constant emotional quality to feeling than to seeing, which is so -constantly used for coldly practical ends.</p> - -<p>From the merest rudiments of pure sensation up to the highest efforts of -design each point in the process of art is inevitably accompanied by -pleasure; it cannot proceed without it. If we describe the process of -art as a logic of sensation, we must remember that the premises are -sensations, and that the conclusion can only be drawn from them by one -who is in an emotional state with regard to them. Thus a harmony in -music cannot be perceived by a person who merely hears accurately the -notes which compose it—it can only be recognised when the relations of -those notes to one another are accompanied by emotion. It is quite true -that the recognition of inevitability in thought is normally accompanied -by a pleasurable emotion, and that the desire for this mental pleasure -is the motive force which impels to the making of scientific theory. But -the inevitability of the relations remains equally definite and -demonstrable whether the emotion accompanies it or not, whereas an -æsthetic harmony simply does not exist without the emotional state. The -harmony is not <i>true</i> (to use our analogy) unless it is felt with -emotion.</p> - -<p>None the less, perhaps, the highest pleasure in art is identical with -the highest pleasure in scientific theory. The emotion which accompanies -the clear recognition of unity in a complex seems to be so similar in -art and in science that it is difficult not to suppose that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> they are -psychologically the same. It is, as it were, the final stage of both -processes. This unity-emotion in science supervenes upon a process of -pure mechanical reasoning; in art it supervenes upon a process of which -emotion has all along been an essential concomitant.</p> - -<p>It may be that in the complete apprehension of a work of art there -occurs more than one kind of feeling. There is generally a basis of -purely physiological pleasure, as in seeing pure colours or hearing pure -sounds; then there is the specifically æsthetic emotion by means of -which the necessity of relations is apprehended, and which corresponds -in science to the purely logical process; and finally there is the -unity-emotion, which may not improbably be of an identical kind in both -art and science.</p> - -<p>In the art of painting we may distinguish between the unity of texture -and the unity of design. I know quite well that these are not really -completely separable, and that they are to some extent mutually -dependent; but they may be regarded as separate for the purpose of -focussing our attention. Certainly we can think of pictures in which the -general architecture of the design is in no way striking or remarkable -which yet please us by the perfection of the texture, that is to say, -the ease with which we apprehend the necessary relationship of one -shape, tone or colour with its immediately surrounding shapes, tones or -colours; our æsthetic sense is continually aroused and satisfied by the -succession of inevitable relationships. On the other hand, we know of -works of art in which the unity and complexity of the texture strike us -far less than the inevitable and significant relationship of the main -divisions of the design—pictures in which we should say that the -composition was the most striking beauty. It is when the composition of -a picture, adequately supported as it must be by significance of -texture, reveals to us the most surprising and yet inevitable -relationships that we get most strongly the final unity-emotion of a -work of art. It is these pictures that are, as S. would say of certain -theories, the most significant for contemplation. Nor before such works -can we help implicitly attributing to their authors the same kind of -power which in science we should call “great intellect,” though perhaps -in both the term “great imaginative organisation” would be better.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_ART_OF_THE_BUSHMEN" id="THE_ART_OF_THE_BUSHMEN"></a>THE ART OF THE BUSHMEN<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor1">[9]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N the history of mankind drawing has at different times and among -different races expressed so many different conceptions, and has used -such various means, that it would seem to be not one art, but many. It -would seem, indeed, that it has its origins in several quite distinct -instincts of the human race, and it may not be altogether unimportant -even for the modern draughtsman to investigate these instincts in their -simpler manifestations in order to check and control his own methods. -The primitive drawing of our own race is singularly like that of -children. Its most striking peculiarity is the extent to which it is -dominated by the concepts of language. In a child’s drawing we find a -number of forms which have scarcely any reference to actual appearances, -but which directly symbolise the most significant concepts of the thing -represented. For a child, a man is the sum of the concept’s head (which -in turn consists of eyes, nose, mouth), arms, hands (five fingers), -legs, feet. Torso is not a concept which interests him, and it is, -therefore, usually reduced to a single line which serves to link the -concept-symbol head with those of the legs. The child does, of course, -know that the figure thus drawn is not like a man, but it is a kind of -hieroglyphic script for a man, and satisfies his desire for expression. -Precisely the same phenomenon occurs in primitive art; the symbols for -concepts gradually take on more and more of the likeness to appearances, -but the mode of approach remains even in comparatively advanced periods -the same. The artist does not seek to transfer a visual sensation to -paper, but to express a mental image which is coloured by his conceptual -habits.</p> - -<p>Prof. Loewy<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> has investigated the laws which govern representation in -early art, and has shown that the influence of the early<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> artist’s ideas -of representation persist in Greek sculpture down to the time of -Lysippus. He enumerates seven peculiarities of early drawing, of which -the most important are that the figures are shown with each of their -parts in its broadest aspect, and that the forms are stylised—<i>i.e.</i> -present linear formations that are regular or tend to regularity.</p> - -<p>Of the first of these peculiarities Egyptian and Assyrian sculpture, -even of the latest and most developed periods, afford constant examples. -We see there the head in profile, the eye full face, the shoulders and -breast full face, and by a sudden twist in the body the legs and feet -again in profile. In this way each part is presented in that aspect -which most clearly expresses its corresponding visual concepts. Thus a -foot is much more clearly denoted by its profile view than by the -rendering of its frontal appearance—while no one who was asked to think -of an eye would visualise it to himself in any other than a full-face -view. In such art, then, the body is twisted about so that each part may -be represented by that aspect which the mental image aroused by the name -of the part would have, and the figure becomes an ingenious compound of -typical conceptual images. In the case of the head two aspects are -accepted as symbolic of the concept “head,” the profile and the -full-face; but it is very late in the development of art before men are -willing to accept any intermediate position as intelligible or -satisfactory. It is generally supposed that early art avoids -foreshortening because of its difficulty. One may suppose rather that it -is because the foreshortened view of a member corresponds so ill with -the normal conceptual image, and is therefore not accepted as -sufficiently expressive of the idea. Yet another of the peculiarities -named by Prof. Loewy must be mentioned, namely, that the “conformation -and movement of the figures and their parts are limited to a few typical -shapes.” And these movements are always of the simplest kinds, since -they are governed by the necessity of displaying each member in its -broadest and most explicit aspect. In particular the crossing of one -limb over another is avoided as confusing.</p> - -<p>Such in brief outline are some of the main principles of drawing both -among primitive peoples and among our own children. It is not a little -surprising then to find, when we turn to Miss Tongue’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> careful copies -of the drawings executed by the Bushmen of South Africa<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> that the -principles are more often contradicted than exemplified. We find, it is -true, a certain barbaric crudity and simplicity which give these -drawings a superficial resemblance to children’s drawings or those of -primitive times, but a careful examination will show how different they -are. The drawings are of different periods, though none of them probably -are of any considerable antiquity, since the habit of painting over an -artist’s work when once he was forgotten obtained among the bushmen no -less than with more civilised people. These drawings are also of very -different degrees of skill. They represent for the most part scenes of -the chase and war, dances and festivals, and in one case there is an -illustration to a bushman story and one figure is supposed to represent -a ghost. There is no evidence of deliberate decorative purpose in these -paintings. The figures are cast upon the walls of the cave in such a way -as to represent, roughly, the actual scenes.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> Nothing could be more -unlike primitive art than some of these scenes. For instance, the battle -fought between two tribes over the possession of some cattle, is -entirely unlike battle scenes such as we find in early Assyrian reliefs. -There the battle is schematic, all the soldiers of one side are in -profile to right, all the soldiers of the opposing side are in profile -to left. The whole scene is perfectly clear to the intelligence, it -follows the mental image of what a battle ought to be, but is entirely -unlike what a battle ever is. Now, in the Bushman drawing, there is -nothing truly schematic; it is difficult to find out the soldiers of the -two sides; they are all mixed up in a confused hurly-burly, some -charging, others flying, and here and there single combats going on at a -distance from the main battle. But more than this, the men are in every -conceivable attitude, running, standing, kneeling, crouching, or turning -sharply round in the middle of flight to face the enemy once more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<p>In fact we have, in all its confusion, all its indeterminate variety and -accident, a rough silhouette of the actual appearance of such a scene as -viewed from above, for the Bushman makes this sacrifice of actual -appearance to lucidity of statement—that he represents the figures as -spread out over the ground, and not as seen one behind another.</p> - -<p>Or take again <a href="#plateXI">Plate XI</a> of Miss Tongue’s album; the scene is the Veldt -with elands and rheboks scattered over its surface. The animals are -arranged in the most natural and casual manner; sometimes in this case -part of one animal is hidden by the animal in front; but what strikes -one most is the fact that extremely complicated poses are rendered with -the same ease as the more frequent profile view, and that momentary -actions are treated with photographic verisimilitude. See <a href="#fig1">Figs. 1</a> and <a href="#fig2">2</a>.</p> - -<p><a name="fig1" id="fig1"></a> -<a name="fig2" id="fig2"></a></p> -<div class="figleft"> -<a href="images/i_059_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_059_sml.png" width="310" height="198" alt="Image unvavailable: Fig. 1." /></a> - -</div> - -<p>Another surprising instance of this is shown in Fig. 3, taken from Plate -XIX of Miss Tongue’s book, and giving a rhebok seen from behind in a -most difficult and complicated attitude. Or again, the man running in -Fig. 5. Here is the silhouette of a most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> complicated gesture with -foreshortening of one thigh and crossing of the arm holding the bow over -the torso, rendered with apparent certainty and striking verisimilitude. -Most curious of all are the cases of which Fig. 4 is an example, of -animals trotting, in which the gesture is seen by us to be true only -because our slow and imperfect vision has been helped out by the -instantaneous photograph. Fifty years ago we should have rejected such a -rendering as absurd; we now know it to be a correct statement of one -movement in the action of trotting.</p> - -<p>Another point to be noticed is that in primitive and in children’s art -such features as eyes, ears, horns, tails, since they correspond to -well-marked concepts, always tend to be drawn disproportionately large -and prominent. Now, in the Bushman drawings, the eye, the most -significant of all, is frequently omitted, and when represented bears -its true proportion to the head. Similarly, horns, ears, and tails are -never exaggerated. Indeed, however faulty these drawings may be, they -have one great quality, namely, that each figure is seen as a single -entity, and the general character of the silhouette is aimed at rather -than a sum of the parts. Those who have taught drawing to children will -know with what infinite pains civilised man arrives at this power.</p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 76px;"> -<a href="images/i_060_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_060_sml.png" width="76" height="90" alt="Image unvavailable: Fig. 6." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">Fig. 6.</span> -</div> - -<p>By way of contrast to these extraordinary performances of the Bushman -draughtsman, I give in outline, Fig. 6, the two horses of a chariot on -an early (Dipylon) Greek vase. The man who drew it was incomparably more -of an artist; but how entirely his intellectual and conceptual way of -handling phenomena has obscured his vision! His two horses are a sum of -concept-symbols, arranged with great orderliness and with a decorative -feeling, but without any sort of likeness to appearance. Mr. Balfour, in -his preface to Miss Tongue’s book, notices briefly some of these -striking characteristics of the Bushman drawings. He says:—</p> - -<p>“The paintings are remarkable not only for the realism exhibited by so -many, but also for a freedom from the limitation to delineation in -profile which characterises for the most part the drawings of primitive -peoples, especially where animals are concerned. Attitudes of a kind -difficult to render were ventured upon without hesitation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> and an -appreciation even of the rudiments of perspective is occasionally to be -noted, though only in a crude and uncertain form. The practice of -endeavouring to represent more than could be seen at one time, a habit -so characteristic of the art of primitive peoples as also of civilised -children, is far less noticeable in Bushman art than might have been -expected from the rudimentary general culture of these people, and one -does not see instances of <i>both</i> eyes being indicated upon a profile -face, or a mouth in profile on a full face, such as are so familiar in -the undeveloped art of children and of most backward races.”</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 134px;"> -<a href="images/i_061_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_061_sml.png" width="134" height="117" alt="Image unvavailable: Fig. 7." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">Fig. 7.</span> -</div> - -<p>Since, then, Bushman drawing has little analogy to the primitive art of -our own races, to what can we relate it? The Bushmen of Australia have -apparently something of the same power of transcribing pure visual -images, but the most striking case is that of Palæolithic man. In the -caves of the Dordogne and of Altamira in Spain, Palæolithic man has left -paintings which date from about 10,000 <small>B.C.</small>, in which, as far as mere -naturalism of representation of animals goes, he has surpassed anything -that not only our own primitive peoples, but even the most accomplished -animal draughtsmen have ever achieved. Fig. 7 shows in outline a bison -from Altamira. The certainty and completeness of the pose, the perfect -rhythm and the astonishing verisimilitude of the movement are evident -even in this. The Altamira drawings show a much higher level of -accomplishment than those of the Bushmen, but the general likeness is so -great as to have suggested the idea that the Bushmen are descendants of -Palæolithic man who have remained at the same rudimentary stage as -regards the other arts of life, and have retained something of their -unique power of visual transcription.</p> - -<p>Whether this be so or not, it is to be noted that all the peoples whose -drawing shows this peculiar power of visualisation belong to what we -call the lowest of savages; they are certainly the least civilisable, -and the South African Bushmen are regarded by other native<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> races in -much the same way that we look upon negroes. It would seem not -impossible that the very perfection of vision, and presumably of the -other senses<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> with which the Bushmen and Palæolithic man were -endowed, fitted them so perfectly to their surroundings that there was -no necessity to develop the mechanical arts beyond the elementary -instruments of the chase. We must suppose that Neolithic man, on the -other hand, was less perfectly adapted to his surroundings, but that his -sensual defects were more than compensated for by increased intellectual -power. This greater intellectual power manifested itself in his desire -to classify phenomena, and the conceptual view of nature began to -predominate. And it was this habit of thinking of things in terms of -concepts which deprived him for ages of the power to see what they -looked like. With Neolithic man drawing came to express man’s thought -about things rather than his sensations of them, or rather, when he -tried to reproduce his sensations, his habits of thought intervened, and -dictated to his hand orderly, lucid, but entirely non-naturalistic -forms.</p> - -<p>How deeply these visual-conceptual habits of Neolithic man have sunk -into our natures may be seen by their effects upon hysterical patients, -a statement which I owe to the kindness of Dr. Henry Head, F.R.S. If the -word “chest” is mentioned most people see a vague image of a flat -surface on which are marked the sternum and the pectoral muscles; when -the word “back” is given, they see another flat or almost flat surface -with markings of the spine and the shoulder-blades; but scarcely any -one, having these two mental images called up, thinks of them as parts -of a continuous cylindrical body. Now, in the case of some hysterical -patients anæsthesia is found just over some part of the body which has -been isolated from the rest in thought by means of the conceptual image. -It will occur, for instance, in the chest, but will not go beyond the -limits which the conceptualised visual image of a chest defines. Or it -will be associated with the concept hand, and will stop short at the -wrists. It is not surprising, then, that a mode of handling the -continuum of natural appearance, which dictates even the behaviour of -disease, should have profoundly modified all artistic representations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> -of nature since the conceptual habit first became strongly marked in -Neolithic man. An actual definition of drawing given by a child may be -quoted in this connection, “First I think and then I draw a line round -my think.”</p> - -<div class="figright" style="width: 133px;"> -<a href="images/i_063_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_063_sml.png" width="133" height="149" alt="Image unvavailable: Fig. 8." /></a> -<br /> -<span class="caption">Fig. 8.</span> -</div> - -<p>It would be an exaggeration to suppose that Palæolithic and Bushman -drawings are entirely uninfluenced by the concepts which even the most -primitive people must form. Indeed, the preference for the profile view -of animals—though as we have seen other aspects are frequent—would -alone indicate this, but they appear to have been at a stage of -intellectual development where the concepts were not so clearly grasped -as to have begun to interfere with perception, and where therefore the -retinal image passed into a clear memory picture with scarcely any -intervening mental process. In the art of even civilised man we may, I -think, find great variations in the extent to which the conceptualising -of visual images has proceeded. Egyptian and Assyrian art remained -intensely conceptual throughout, no serious attempt was made to give -greater verisimilitude to the symbols employed. The Mycenæan artists, on -the other hand, seem to have been appreciably more perceptual, but the -Greeks returned to an intensely conceptualised symbolism in which some -of their greatest works of art were expressed, and only very gradually -did they modify their formulæ so as to admit of some approach to -verisimilitude, and even so the appeal to vision was rather by way of -correcting and revising accepted conceptual images than as the -foundation of a work of art. The art of China, and still more of Japan, -has been distinctly more perceptual. Indeed, the Japanese drawings of -birds and animals approach more nearly than those of any other civilised -people to the immediacy and rapidity of transcription of Bushman and -Palæolithic art. The Bushman silhouettes of cranes (Fig. 8) might almost -have come from a Japanese screen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> Like Japanese drawings, they show an -alertness to accept the silhouette as a single whole instead of -reconstructing it from separately apprehended parts. It is partly due to -Japanese influence that our own Impressionists have made an attempt to -get back to that ultra-primitive directness of vision. Indeed they -deliberately sought to deconceptualise art. The artist of to-day has -therefore to some extent a choice before him of whether he will <i>think</i> -form like the early artists of European races or merely <i>see</i> it like -the Bushmen. Whichever his choice, the study of these drawings can -hardly fail to be of profound interest. The Bushmen paintings on the -walls of caves and sheltered rocks are fast disappearing; the race -itself, of which Miss Bleek gives a fascinating account, is now nothing -but a remnant. The treatment that they have received at the hands of the -white settlers does not seem to have been conspicuously more sympathetic -or intelligent than that meted out to them by negro conquerors, and thus -the opportunity of solving some of the most interesting problems of -human development has been for ever lost. The gratitude of all students -of art is due to Miss Tongue and Miss Bleek, by whose zeal and industry -these remains of a most curious phase of primitive art have been -adequately recorded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="NEGRO_SCULPTURE" id="NEGRO_SCULPTURE"></a>NEGRO SCULPTURE<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor1">[14]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HAT a comfortable mental furniture the generalisations of a century ago -must have afforded! What a right little, tight little, round little -world it was when Greece was the only source of culture, when Greek art, -even in Roman copies, was the only indisputable art, except for some -Renaissance repetitions! Philosophy, the love of truth, liberty, -architecture, poetry, drama, and for all we knew music—all these were -the fruits of a special kind of life, each assisted the development of -the other, each was really dependent on all the rest. Consequently if we -could only learn the Greek lessons of political freedom and intellectual -self-consciousness all the rest would be added unto us.</p> - -<p>And now, in the last sixty years, knowledge and perception have poured -upon us so fast that the whole well-ordered system has been blown away, -and we stand bare to the blast, scarcely able to snatch a hasty -generalisation or two to cover our nakedness for a moment.</p> - -<p>Our desperate plight comes home to one at the Chelsea Book Club, where -are some thirty chosen specimens of negro sculpture. If to our ancestors -the poor Indian had “an untutored mind,” the Congolese’s ignorance and -savagery must have seemed too abject for discussion. One would like to -know what Dr. Johnson would have said to any one who had offered him a -negro idol for several hundred pounds. It would have seemed then sheer -lunacy to listen to what a negro savage had to tell us of his emotions -about the human form. And now one has to go all the way to Chelsea in a -chastened spirit and prostrate oneself before his “stocks and stones.”</p> - -<p>We have the habit of thinking that the power to create expressive -plastic form is one of the greatest of human achievements, and the names -of great sculptors are handed down from generation to generation, so -that it seems unfair to be forced to admit that certain nameless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> -savages have possessed this power not only in a higher degree than we at -this moment, but than we as a nation have ever possessed it. And yet -that is where I find myself. I have to admit that some of these things -are great sculpture—greater, I think, than anything we produced even in -the Middle Ages. Certainly they have the special qualities of sculpture -in a higher degree. They have indeed complete plastic freedom; that is -to say, these African artists really conceive form in three dimensions. -Now this is rare in sculpture. All archaic European sculpture—Greek and -Romanesque, for instance—approaches plasticity from the point of view -of bas-relief. The statue bears traces of having been conceived as the -combination of front, back, and side bas-reliefs. And this continues to -make itself felt almost until the final development of the tradition. -Complete plastic freedom with us seems only to come at the end of a long -period, when the art has attained a high degree of representational -skill and when it is generally already decadent from the point of view -of imaginative significance.</p> - -<p>Now, the strange thing about these African sculptures is that they bear, -as far as I can see, no trace of this process. Without ever attaining -anything like representational accuracy they have complete freedom. The -sculptors seem to have no difficulty in getting away from the -two-dimensional plane. The neck and the torso are conceived as -cylinders, not as masses with a square section. The head is conceived as -a pear-shaped mass. It is conceived as a single whole, not arrived at by -approach from the mask, as with almost all primitive European art. The -mask itself is conceived as a concave plane cut out of this otherwise -perfectly unified mass.</p> - -<p>And here we come upon another curious difference between negro sculpture -and our own, namely, that the emphasis is utterly different. Our -emphasis has always been affected by our preferences for certain forms -which appeared to us to mark the nobility of man. Thus we shrink from -giving the head its full development; we like to lengthen the legs and -generally to force the form into a particular type. These preferences -seem to be dictated not by a plastic bias, but by our reading of the -physical symbols of certain qualities which we admire in our kind, such, -for instance, as agility, a commanding presence, or a pensive brow. The -negro, it seems, either has no such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_066fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_066fp_sml.jpg" width="190" height="375" alt="Image unvavailable: Negro Sculpture Collection Guillaume - -Plate III. - -" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr> -<td>Negro Sculpture</td> -<td class="rt"> Collection Guillaume</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate III.</td> -</tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">preferences, or his preferences happen to coincide more nearly with what -his feeling for pure plastic design would dictate. For instance, the -length, thinness, and isolation of our limbs render them extremely -refractory to fine plastic treatment, and the negro scores heavily by -his willingness to reduce the limbs to a succession of ovoid masses -sometimes scarcely longer than they are broad. Generally speaking, one -may say that his plastic sense leads him to give its utmost amplitude -and relief to all the protuberant parts of the body, and to get thereby -an extraordinarily emphatic and impressive sequence of planes. So far -from clinging to two dimensions, as we tend to do, he actually -underlines, as it were, the three-dimensionalness of his forms. It is in -some such way, I suspect, that he manages to give to his forms their -disconcerting vitality, the suggestion that they make of being not mere -echoes of actual figures, but of possessing an inner life of their own. -If the negro artist wanted to make people believe in the potency of his -idols he certainly set about it in the right way.</p> - -<p>Besides the logical comprehension of plastic form which the negro shows, -he has also an exquisite taste in his handling of material. No doubt in -this matter his endless leisure has something to do with the marvellous -finish of these works. An instance of this is seen in the treatment of -the tattoo cicatrices. These are always rendered in relief, which means -that the artist has cut away the whole surface around them. I fancy most -sculptors would have found some less laborious method of interpreting -these markings. But this patient elaboration of the surface is -characteristic of most of these works. It is seen to perfection in a -wooden cup covered all over with a design of faces and objects that look -like clubs in very low relief. The <i>galbe</i> of this cup shows a subtlety -and refinement of taste comparable to that of the finest Oriental -craftsmen.</p> - -<p>It is curious that a people who produced such great artists did not -produce also a culture in our sense of the word. This shows that two -factors are necessary to produce the cultures which distinguish -civilised peoples. There must be, of course, the creative artist, but -there must also be the power of conscious critical appreciation and -comparison. If we imagined such an apparatus of critical appreciation as -the Chinese have possessed from the earliest times<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> applied to this -negro art, we should have no difficulty in recognising its singular -beauty. We should never have been tempted to regard it as savage or -unrefined. It is for want of a conscious critical sense and the -intellectual powers of comparison and classification that the negro has -failed to create one of the great cultures of the world, and not from -any lack of the creative æsthetic impulse, nor from lack of the most -exquisite sensibility and the finest taste. No doubt also the lack of -such a critical standard to support him leaves the artist much more at -the mercy of any outside influence. It is likely enough that the negro -artist, although capable of such profound imaginative understanding of -form, would accept our cheapest illusionist art with humble enthusiasm.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="ANCIENT_AMERICAN_ART" id="ANCIENT_AMERICAN_ART"></a>ANCIENT AMERICAN ART<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor1">[15]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span>OTHING in the history of our Western civilisation is more romantic nor -for us more tantalising than the story of the discovery and the wanton -destruction of the ancient civilisations of America. Here were two -complex civilisations which had developed in complete independence of -the rest of the world; even so completely independent of each other -that, for all their general racial likeness, they took on almost -opposite characters. If only we could know these alternative efforts of -the human animal to come to terms with nature and himself with something -like the same fulness with which we know the civilisations of Greece and -Rome, what might we not learn about the fundamental necessities of -mankind? They would have been for us the opposite point of our orbit; -they would have given us a parallax from which we might have estimated -the movements of that dimmest and most distant phenomenon, the social -nature of man. And as it is, what scraps of ill-digested and -ill-arranged information and what fragments of ruined towns have to -suffice us! Still, so fascinating is the subject that we owe Mr. -Joyce<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> a debt of gratitude for the careful and thorough accumulation -of all the material which the archæological remains afford. These by -themselves would be only curious or beautiful as the case may be; their -full value and significance can only come out when they are illustrated -by whatever is known of their place in the historical sequence of the -civilisations. Mr. Joyce gives us what is known of the outlines of -Mexican and Peruvian history as far as it can be deciphered from the -early accounts of Spanish invaders and from the original documents, and -he brings the facts thus established to bear on the antiquities. -Unfortunately for the reader of these books, the story is terribly -involved and complicated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> even when it is not dubious. Thus in Mexico we -have to deal with an almost inextricable confusion of tribes and -languages having much in common, but each interpreting their common -mythology and religion in a special manner. Even Greek mythology, which -we once seemed to know fairly well, takes on under the pressure of -modern research an unfamiliar formlessness—becomes indistinct and -shifting in its outlines; and the various civilisations of Mexico, each -with its innumerable gods and goddesses with varying names and varying -attributes, produce on the mind a sense of bewildering and helpless -wonder, and still more a sense of pervading horror at the underlying -nature of the human imagination. For one quality emerges in all the -different aspects of their religions, its hideous inhumanity and -cruelty, its direct inspiration of all the most ingenious tortures both -in peace and war—above all, the close alliance between religion and -war, and going with both of these the worship of suffering as an end in -itself. Only at one point in this nightmare of inhumanity do we get a -momentary sense of pleasure—itself a savage one—that is in the -knowledge that at certain sacred periods the priests, whose main -business was the torturing of others, were themselves subjected to the -purificatory treatment. A bas-relief in the British Museum shows with -grim realism the figure of a kneeling priest with pierced tongue, -pulling a rope through the hole. Under such circumstances one would at -least hesitate to accuse the priesthood of hypocrisy.</p> - -<p>When we turn to Peru the picture is less grim. The Incas do not seem to -have been so abjectly religious as the Aztecs; they had at least -abolished human sacrifice, which the Aztecs practised on a colossal -scale, and though the tyranny of the governing classes was more highly -organised, it was inspired by a fairly humane conception.</p> - -<p>But we must leave the speculations on such general questions, which are -as regards these books incidental to the main object, and turn to the -consideration of the archæological remains and the investigation of -their probable sequence and dating.</p> - -<p>Our attitude to the artistic remains of these civilisations has a -curious history. The wonder of the Spanish invaders at the sight of vast -and highly organised civilisations where only savagery was expected has -never indeed ceased, but the interest in their remains<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> has changed from -time to time. The first emotion they excited besides wonder was the -greed of the conquerors for the accumulated treasure. Then among the -more cultivated Spaniards supervened a purely scientific curiosity to -which we owe most of our knowledge of the indigenous legend and history. -Then came the question of origins, which is still as fascinating and -unsettled as ever, and to the belief that the Mexicans were the lost ten -tribes of Israel we owe Lord Kingsborough’s monumental work in nine -volumes on Mexican antiquities. To such odd impulses perhaps, rather -than to any serious appreciation of their artistic merits, we owe the -magnificent collection of Mexican antiquities in the British Museum. -Indeed, it is only in this century that, after contemplating them from -every other point of view, we have begun to look at them seriously as -works of art. Probably the first works to be admitted to this kind of -consideration were the Peruvian pots in the form of highly realistic -human heads and figures.<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p> - -<p>Still more recently we have come to recognise the beauty of Aztec and -Maya sculpture, and some of our modern artists have even gone to them -for inspiration. This is, of course, one result of the general æsthetic -awakening which has followed on the revolt against the tyranny of the -Græco-Roman tradition.</p> - -<p>Both in Mexico and Peru we have to deal with at least two, possibly -four, great cultures, each overthrown in turn by the invasion of less -civilised, more warlike tribes, who gradually adopt the general scheme -of the older civilisation. In Mexico there is no doubt about the -superiority, from an artistic point of view, of the earlier culture—the -Aztecs had everything to learn from the Maya, and they never rose to the -level of their predecessors. The relation is, in fact, curiously like -that of Rome to Greece. Unfortunately we have to learn almost all we -know of Maya culture through their Aztec conquerors, but the ruins of -Yucatan and Guatemala are by far the finest and most complete vestiges -left to us.</p> - -<p>In Peru also we find in the Tihuanaco gateway a monument of some -pre-Inca civilisation, and one that in regard to the art of sculpture -far surpasses anything that the later culture reveals. It is of special -interest, moreover, for its strong stylistic likeness to the Maya<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> -sculpture of Yucatan. This similarity prompts the interesting -speculation that the earlier civilisations of the two continents had -either a common origin or points of contact, whereas the Inca and Aztec -cultures seem to drift entirely apart. The Aztecs carry on at a lower -level the Maya art of sculpture, whereas the Incas seem to drop -sculpture almost entirely, a curious fact in view of the ambitious -nature of their architectural and engineering works. One seems to guess -that the comparatively humane socialistic tyranny of the Incas developed -more and more along purely practical lines, whilst the hideous -religiosity of the Aztecs left a certain freedom to the imaginative -artist.</p> - -<p>In looking at the artistic remains of so remote and strange a -civilisation one sometimes wonders how far one can trust one’s æsthetic -appreciation to interpret truly the feelings which inspired it. In -certain works one cannot doubt that the artist felt just as we feel in -appreciating his work. This must, I think, hold on the one hand of the -rich ornamental arabesques of Maya buildings or the marvellous inlaid -feather and jewel work of either culture; and on the other hand, when we -look at the caricatural realistic figures of Truxillo pottery we need -scarcely doubt that the artist’s intention agrees with our appreciation, -for such a use of the figure is more or less common to all -civilisations. But when we look at the stylistic sculpture of Maya and -Aztec art, are we, one wonders, reading in an intention which was not -really present? One wonders, for instance, how far external and -accidental factors may not have entered in to help produce what seems to -us the perfect and delicate balance between representational and purely -formal considerations. Whether the artist was not held back both by -ritualistic tradition and the difficulty of his medium from pushing -further the actuality of his presentation—whether, in fact, the artist -deplored or himself approved just that reticence which causes our -admiration. At times Maya sculpture has a certain similarity to Indian -religious sculptural reliefs, particularly in the use of flat surfaces -entirely incrusted with ornaments in low relief; but on the whole the -comparison is all in favour of the higher æsthetic sensibility of the -Maya artists, whose co-ordination of even the most complicated forms -compares favourably with the incoherent luxuriance of most Indian work.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span></p> - -<p>In this, as in so many of its characteristics, Maya art comes much -nearer to early Chinese sculpture; and again one wonders that such a -civilisation should have produced such sensitive and reasoned -designs—designs which seem to imply a highly developed self-conscious -æsthetic sensibility. Nor do the Maya for all their hieratic ritualism -seem to fall into the dead, mechanical repetition which the endless -multiplication of religious symbols usually entails, as, for instance, -most markedly in Egyptian art. But this strange difference between what -we know of Mexican civilisation and what we might have interpreted from -the art alone is only one more instance of the isolation of the æsthetic -from all other human activities. The Frontispiece to this book gives an -example of Maya sculpture from Piedras Negras. Mr. Joyce, in his learned -and plausible theory of the dating of Mexican monuments, ascribes these -remains to a date of about 50-200 <small>A.D.</small></p> - -<p>They are certainly among the finest remains of Maya sculpture, and this -example shows at once the extreme richness of the decorative effect and -the admirable taste with which this is co-ordinated in a plastic whole -in which the figure has its due predominance. Though the relief of the -ornamental part is kept flat and generally square in section, it has -nothing of the dryness and tightness that such a treatment often -implies.</p> - -<p>Mr. Joyce’s books are compiled with amazing industry, and contain a vast -accumulation of information. If we have a complaint, it is that for -those who are not specialists this information is poured out in almost -too uniform a flood, with too little by way of general ideas to enable -the mind to grasp or relate them properly. If some of the minor details -of obscure proper names had been relegated to the notes, it would have -been possible to seize the general outlines more readily. The books are -rather for reference than adapted to consecutive reading. In his -judgments on the various speculations to which these civilisations have -given rise Mr. Joyce is, as one would expect from so careful a scholar, -cautious and negative. He does not, as far as I remember, even allude to -the theory of the Lost Ten Tribes, but he does condescend to discuss the -theory of cultural influence from Eastern Asia which has more than once -been put forward by respectable ethnologists. He decides against this -fascinating hypothesis more definitely than one would expect—more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span></p> - -<div class="figleft" style="width: 97px;"> -<a href="images/i_074_lg.png"> -<img src="images/i_074_sml.png" width="97" height="121" alt="Image unvavailable: " /></a> -</div> - -<p class="nind">definitely, I should say, than the facts before us allow. He declares, -for instance, that the calendrical system of Mexico shows no similarity -with those of Eastern Asia, whereas Dr. Lehmann gives a circumstantial -account of a very curious likeness, the almost exact correspondence of -two quite peculiar systems of reckoning. My own bias in favour of the -theory of Eastern Asiatic influence is, I confess, based on what may -seem very insufficient grounds, namely, the curious likeness of the -general treatment of naturalistic forms and the peculiar character of -the stylisation of natural forms in early Chinese and American art. It -is of course impossible to define a likeness of general character which -depends so largely on feeling, but it consists to some extent in the -predilection for straight lines and rectangles—a spiral in nature -becoming in both early Chinese and American art a sequence of -rectangular forms with rounded corners. What is more remarkable is that -the further back we go in Chinese art the greater the resemblance -becomes, so that a Chou bronze, or still more the carved horns which -have survived from the Shang dynasty, are extraordinarily like Maya or -Tihuanaco sculpture. Again, it is curious to note how near to early -Chinese bronzes are the tripod vases of the Guetar Indians. All these -may of course be of quite independent origin, but their similarity -cannot be dismissed lightly in view of the long persistence in any -civilisation of such general habits of design. Thus the general habits -of design of the Cretan civilisation persisted into Greek and even Roman -and Christian art; the habits of design of Chinese artists have -persisted, though through great modifications, for more than three -thousand years. One other fact which may seem almost too isolated and -insignificant may perhaps be put forward here. In a history of the -Mormons, published in 1851, there is given a figure of an inscribed -bronze (see Figure) which was dug up by the Mormons in Utah in 1843. -Since Brigham Young pretended to have dug up the original book of Mormon -his followers had a superstitious reverence for all such treasure trove, -and probably the bronze<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> still exists and might be worth investigation. -Now this drawing, here reproduced, looks to me like an extremely bad and -unintelligent reproduction of an early Chinese object, in general -appearance not unlike certain early pieces of jade. It is fairly certain -that at the time the Mormons discovered this, no such objects had found -their way out of China, since the interest in and knowledge of this -period of Chinese art is of much later growth. So it appears conceivable -that the object, whatever its nature, is a relic of some early cultural -invasion from Eastern Asia. The physical possibilities of such invasions -from the Far East certainly seem to be under-estimated by Mr. Joyce.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MUNICH_EXHIBITION_OF_MOHAMMEDAN_ART" id="THE_MUNICH_EXHIBITION_OF_MOHAMMEDAN_ART"></a>THE<br /> -MUNICH EXHIBITION OF MOHAMMEDAN ART<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor1">[18]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T would be hard to exaggerate the importance of this exhibition for -those who are interested in the history not alone of Oriental but of -European art. Perhaps the most fascinating problem that presents itself -to the art historian is that of the origins of mediæval art. Until we -understand more or less completely how in the dim centuries of the later -Empire and early middle age the great transformation of Græco-Roman into -mediæval art was accomplished, we cannot quite understand the -Renaissance itself, nor even the form which the whole modern art of -Europe has come in the course of centuries to assume. And on this -problem the Munich exhibition throws many illuminating sidelights. Early -Mohammedan art is seen here to be a meeting point of many influences. -There are still traces of the once widespread Hellenistic tradition, -though this is seen to be retreating before the refluent wave of -aboriginal ideas. Sassanid art had already been the outcome of these -contending forces, and the pre-eminence of Sassanid art in forming early -Mohammedan styles is clearly brought out in this exhibition. Then there -is a constant exchange with Byzantium, and finally continual waves of -influence, sometimes fertilising, sometimes destructive, from that great -reservoir of Central Asian civilisation, the importance of which is now -at last being gradually revealed to us by the discoveries of Dr. Stein, -Drs. Lecoq and Grunwedel, and M. Pelliot.</p> - -<p>And through this great clearing-house of early Mohammedan art there are -signs of influences passing from West to East. The most striking example -is that of the plate in cloisonnée enamel from the Landes Museum at -Innsbruck. Here we have the one certain example of Mohammedan cloisonnée -enamel established by its dedication<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> to a prince of the Orthokid -dynasty of the twelfth century. It is extraordinary that this solitary -example should alone have survived from what must, judging from the -technical excellence of this specimen, have once been a flourishing -craft. The general effect of the intricate pattern of animal forms upon -a whiteish ground suggests, on the one hand, the earliest examples of -Limoges enamels, and on the other the early Chinese, and there can be -little doubt that the Chinese did in fact derive their knowledge of -cloisonnée, which they themselves called “Western ware,” from these -early Mohammedan craftsmen, who had themselves learned the technique -from Byzantium.</p> - -<p>But on the whole the stream of influence is in the opposite direction, -from East to West, and one realises at Munich that in the great period -of artistic discovery and formation of styles the near East and the West -were developing in closest contact and harmony. Indeed the most fertile, -if not actually the most resplendent, period of both arts, was attained -whilst they were still almost indistinguishable. If it were not for the -habit of these early Mohammedan craftsmen of interweaving inscriptions -into their designs, a habit which endears them quite especially to -art-historians, how many works of Oriental manufacture would have been -ascribed to Europe? In spite of these inscriptions, indeed, such an -authority as M. Babelon has sought to place to the account of Western -artists the superb cut crystal vessels, of which the noblest example is -the inscribed ewer of the tenth century in the treasury of S. Mark’s. Or -take again the textiles. In the exhibition there are a number of -fragments of textiles of the tenth to the twelfth centuries, in which -the general principle of design is the same; for the most part the -surface is covered by circular reserves in which severely -conventionalised figures of hunters, lions, or monsters are placed in -pairs symmetrically confronted. Only minute study has enabled -specialists to say that some were made in Sassanid, Persia, some in -Byzantium, some in Sicily, and some in Western Europe. The dominant -style in all these is again derived from Sassanid art. And here once -more one must note the strange recrudescence after so long of Assyrian -types and motives, and its invasion of Western Europe, through -Byzantium, Sicily, and Spain.</p> - -<p>What strikes us most in comparing Græco-Roman art with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> new art -which gradually emerges in the middle ages is that, on the one hand, we -have a series of decorative designs never so remarkable for vitality as -for their elegance, and become by the time of the Roman Empire only less -perfunctory and mechanical than the patterns of modern times; and on the -other hand an art in which the smallest piece of pattern-making shows a -tense vitality even in its most purely geometrical manifestations, and -the figure is used with a new dramatic expressiveness unhindered by the -artist’s ignorance of actual form. Now in the splendid photographs of -the Sassanid rock carvings which Dr. Sarre has taken and which are -exposed at Munich, we can see something of this process of the creation -of the new vital system of design. In the earlier reliefs, those of the -time of Sapor, we have, it is true, a certain theatrical splendour of -pose and setting, but in the actual forms some flaccidity and inflation. -The artists who wrought them show still the predominance of the worn-out -Hellenistic tradition which spread in Alexander’s wake over Asia. In the -stupendous relief of Chosroes at Tak-i-Bostan, on the other hand, we -have all the dramatic energy, the heraldic splendour of the finest -mediæval art, and the source of this new inspiration is seen to be the -welling up once more of the old indigenous Mesopotamian art. We have -once more that singular feeling for stress, for muscular tension, and -for dramatic oppositions, which distinguish the bas-reliefs of Babylon -and Nineveh from all other artistic expressions of the antique world. It -would be possible by the help of exhibits at Munich to trace certain -Assyrian forms right through to Mediæval European art. Take, for -instance, the lion heads on the pre-Babylonian mace from Goudea in the -Louvre; one finds a precisely similar convention for the lion head on -the Sassanid repoussé metalwork found in Russia. Once again it occurs in -the superb carved rock crystal waterspout lent by the Karlsruhe Museum -(Room 54), and one finds it again on the font of Lincoln Cathedral and -in the lions that support the doorway columns of Italian cathedrals. In -all these there is a certain community of style, a certain way of -symbolising the leonine nature which one may look for in vain in Greek -and Græco-Roman art.</p> - -<p>Even if this seem too forced an interpretation of facts, it is none the -less clear that everywhere in early Mohammedan art this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> recrudescence -of Assyrian forms may be traced, and that their influence was scarcely -less upon Europe than upon the near East. Dr. Sarre has taken a tracing -of the pattern which is represented in low relief upon the robes of -Chosroes in the Tak-i-Bostan relief. In South Kensington Museum there is -an almost identical piece of silk brocade which actually comes from the -ruins of Khorsabad, and in the same museum one may find more than one -Byzantine imitation of this design and closely similar ones made in -Sicily; and the conventional winged monster which forms the basis of -these designs has a purely Assyrian air.</p> - -<p>In Egypt, too, it would seem that there was before the Arab invasion a -marked recrudescence of indigenous native design which enabled the -Coptic craftsmen gradually to transform the motives given to them by -Roman conquerors into something entirely non-Hellenistic. And the -incredible beauty of the Fatimite textiles of the tenth, eleventh, and -twelfth centuries, of which a few precious relics are shown in Room 17, -preserve something, especially in the bird forms, of this antique -derivation.</p> - -<p>But to return once more to Sassanid art. The specimens from the -Hermitage and Prince Bobrinsky’s collections form an object lesson of -extraordinary interest in the development of early Mohammedan art. They -have inherited and still retain that extreme realisation of massive -splendour, that fierce assertion of form and positive statement of -relief which belongs to the art of the great primitive Empires, and most -of all to the art of Mesopotamia, and yet they already adumbrate the -forms of Mohammedan art into which they pass by insensible degrees. -Here, too, we find vestiges of the dying Hellenistic tradition. One of -Prince Bobrinsky’s bronzes, a great plate, has, for instance, a design -composed of classic vases, from which spring stems which bend round into -a series of circles, a design which might almost be matched as regards -form, though not as regards spirit, in the wall decorations of Pompeii. -Or take again the superb repoussé silver plate representing a Sassanid -king spearing a lion. Here the floating drapery of the king and the edge -of his tunic show a deliberately schematised rendering of the -traditional folds of the Greek peplos. But how much more Assyrian than -Greek is the whole effect—the dramatic tension of the figures<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> -expressed by an emphasis on all the lines of muscular effort, as in the -legs of the horse and the lions. How Assyrian, too, is the feeling for -relief, and the predilection for imbricated or closely set parallel -lines as in the lions’ manes. In the conventional rock under one of the -lions one seems to see also a hint of Chinese forms.</p> - -<p>Still more Assyrian is another plate, the arrangement of which recalls -the reliefs of Assurbanipal or Sennacherib, and yet already there are -forms which anticipate Mohammedan art; the gate of the city, its -crenelations, and the forms of the helmets of the soldiers, all have an -air of similarity with far later Mohammedan types. Another plate, not -reproduced here, shows a Sassanid king regaling himself with wine and -music, and gives already more than a hint of the favourite designs of -the Rhages potters or the bronze workers of Mossoul.</p> - -<p>Among Prince Bobrinsky’s bronzes which were found in the Caucasus is a -late Sassanid aquamanile in the form of a bird. It is already almost -Mohammedan, though retaining something of the extreme solidity and -weight of earlier art. Once more, in the aggressive schematisation of -the form of the tail and the suggestion of feathers by a series of -deeply marked parallel lines, we get a reminiscence of Assyrian art, -while in the treatment of the crest there is the more florid -interweaving of curves which adumbrate not only Mohammedan but Indian -forms.</p> - -<p>In the aquamanile in the form of a horse (see Plate) the Sassanid -influence is still predominant, but there can be no doubt that this is -already Mohammedan, probably of the eighth or ninth century. We have -already here the characteristics of Fatimite bronzes, of which a few -specimens are shown at Munich. The great griffin of Pisa could not, of -course, be moved from the Campo Santo, nor are the two specimens in the -Louvre shown, but the stag from the Bavarian National Museum is there -and affords a most interesting comparison with Prince Bobrinsky’s horse. -Both have the same large generalisation of form, and in both we have the -curious effect of solidity and mass produced by the shortened hind legs, -with the half-squatting movement to which that gives rise.</p> - -<p>The Bobrinsky horse is obviously more primitive, and probably indicates -the beginnings of a school of bronze plastic in Mesopotamia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_080fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_080fp_sml.jpg" width="224" height="447" alt="Image unvavailable: Fatimite Bronzes Bobrinsky Collection - -Plate IV." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Fatimite Bronzes</td> -<td class="rt">Bobrinsky Collection</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate IV.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">nearly parallel to that of Egypt. This school, however, never developed -as fully along sculptural lines, and at a comparatively early date -abandoned sculpture for the art of bronze inlay, of which Mossoul was -the great centre in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In the incised -designs on the horse we have an example of the early forms of the -palmette ornament and of the interlacing curves which form the basis of -most subsequent Mohammedan patterns. Within the reserves formed by the -<i>intreccie</i> are small figures, of which one—that of a man seated and -playing the lute—can just be made out in the reproduction. It is -already typical of the figure design which the Mohammedan artists -developed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.</p> - -<p>By way of comparison with this Mesopotamian example, Plate, Fig. 2, -shows a supreme example of Fatimite sculpture of the twelfth century. It -is, indeed, a matter for regret that Mohammedan artists so soon -abandoned an art for which they showed such extraordinary aptitude. The -lion which comes from the Kassel Museum has already been published by M. -Migeon,<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> but is of such rare beauty and interest in relation to the -Sassanid works here described that it seemed desirable to reproduce it -again. It shows the peculiar characteristics of all the art produced for -the Fatimite court, its exquisite perfection and refinement of taste, -its minuteness of detail and finish together with a large co-ordination -of parts, a rhythmic feeling for contour and the sequence of planes, -which have scarcely ever been equalled. And all these qualities of -refinement, almost of sophistication, which Fatimite art possesses, do -not, as we see here, destroy the elementary imaginative feeling for the -vitality of animal forms. In the case in which this masterpiece of -Mohammedan sculpture is shown there is also seen the celebrated lion -which once belonged to the painter Fortuny. Noble though this is in -general conception, the coarseness of its workmanship and the want of -subtlety in its proportions, in comparison with the Kassel lion, makes -it evident that it is not from the same school of Egyptian craftsmen, -but probably of Spanish origin.</p> - -<p>Yet another of the Bobrinsky bronzes of about the same date as the horse -is already typically Mohammedan as may be seen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> by the leaf forms and -the <i>intreccie</i> of the crest, but how much of the antique Sassanid -proportions and sense of relief is still retained! It is believed to be -from Western Turkestan and of the eighth or ninth century. One must -suppose that Sassanid forms travelled North and East as well as South -and West, and helped in the formation of that Central Asian art which -becomes the dominant factor in the later centuries of Mohammedan, more -especially of Persian, art.</p> - -<p>Before leaving the question of Sassanid influences I must mention the -series of bronze jugs in the Bobrinsky and Sarre collections. The -general form is obviously derived from classic originals, but they have -a peculiar spout of a rectangular shape placed at right angles on the -top of the main opening. The effect of this is to give two openings, one -for pouring the water in, the other for pouring it out at right angles. -Now in the early Mossoul water jugs we see numerous examples of what are -clearly derivations of this form passing by gradual degrees into the -familiar neck with spout attached but not separated, which is typical of -later Mohammedan water jugs. This evolution can be traced step by step -in the Munich Exhibition, and leaves no doubt of the perfect continuity -of Sassanid and Mohammedan forms.<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> - -<p>One of the features of early Mohammedan art is the vitality of its -floral and geometrical ornament, the system of which is uniformly spread -throughout the Mohammedan world. The question of where and how this -system of ornament arose is not easily solved, but there are indications -that Egypt was the place of its earliest development. Its characteristic -forms seem certainly derived from the universal palmette of Græco-Roman -decoration. The palmette, so rigid, unvarying and frequently so lifeless -in the hands of Græco-Roman artists, became the source of the flexible -and infinitely varied systems of Mohammedan design, so skilfully -interwoven, so subtly adapted to their purpose, that the supremacy of -Mohammedan art in this particular has been recognised and perpetuated in -the word Arabesque.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> It is curious to note that the history of this -development is almost a repetition of what occurred many centuries -before in the formation of the system of Celtic ornament. There, too, -the Greek palmette was the point of departure. The Celtic bronze-workers -adopted a cursive abbreviation of it which allowed of an almost too -unrestrained flexibility in their patterns, but one peculiarly adapted -to their bronze technique. In the case of Mohammedan art it would seem -that the change from the palmette was effected by Coptic wood-carvers -and by the artists who decorated in plaster the earliest Egyptian -mosques. Indeed, one may suspect that the transformation of Græco-Roman -ornament had already been initiated by Coptic workers in pre-Mohammedan -times. One or two exhibits of Coptic reliefs in woodwork in Room 48 show -how far this process had already gone. The Coptic wood-carvers arrived -at an extremely simple and economical method of decoration by incisions -with a gouge, each ending in a spiral curve, and so set as to leave in -relief a sequence of forms resembling a half-palmette, and at times -approaching very closely to the characteristic interlacing “trumpet” -forms of Celtic ornament. A similar method was employed with even -greater freedom and with a surprising richness and variety of effect in -the plaster decorations of the earliest mosques, such as that of Ibn -Tulun. In this way there was developed a singularly easy and rhythmic -manner of filling any given space with interlaced and confluent forms -suited to the caligraphic character of Mohammedan design. It cannot be -denied that in course of time it pandered to the besetting sin of the -oriental craftsman, his intolerable patience and thoughtless industry, -and became in consequence as dead in its mere intricacy and complexity -as the Græco-Roman original in its frigid correctness. The periods of -creation in ornamental design seem indeed to be even rarer than those of -creation in the figurative arts, and if the greater part of Mohammedan -art shows, along with increasing technical facility, a constant -degradation in ornamental design it is no exception to a universal rule. -At any rate, up to the end of the thirteenth century its vitality was as -strong and its adaptability even greater than the ornamental design of -Christian Europe.</p> - -<p>The design based on the half-palmette adapted itself easily to other -materials than wood and plaster. In an even more cursive<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> form it was -used alike by miniaturists and the closely allied painters on pottery. -Of the former a good instance is that of a manuscript of Dioscorides, -written and painted by Abdullah ben el-Fadhl in the year 1223 <small>A.D.</small> It is -of Mesopotamian origin and shows in the decorative treatment of the -figures a close affinity with the painting on contemporary pottery from -Rakka. It is surprising how much character and even humour the artist -gives to figures which are conceived in a purely calligraphic and -abstract manner, and what richness and nobility of style there is in the -singularly economical and rapid indications of brocaded patterns in the -robes. Here we see how, in the hands of the miniaturists, the -half-palmette ornament becomes even more cursive and flexible, more -readily adapted to any required space than in the hands of the -wood-carver and plasterer.</p> - -<p>The whole of the figure-design of this period, as seen in the pottery of -Rakka, Rhages, and Sultanabad, shows the same characteristics. It is all -calligraphic rather than naturalistic, but it is notable how much -expression is attained within the flexible formula which these -Mohammedan artists had evolved. The requirements of the potter’s craft -stimulated the best elements of such a school of draughtsmanship, and -for their power of creating an illusion of real existence by the sheer -swiftness and assurance of their rhythm, few draughtsmen have surpassed -the unknown masters who threw their indications of scenes from -contemporary life upon the fragile bowls and lustred cups of early -Syrian and Persian pottery.</p> - -<p>It is generally believed now that not only in ceramics and metal work, -but even in glass, Fatimite culture was pre-eminent. Probably no such -collection of enamelled oriental glass has ever been brought together as -that at Munich.</p> - -<p>An example of glass of Egyptian origin bearing the date 737 <small>A.D.</small>, -belonging to Dr. Fouquet, shows how early the manufacture of glass was -already established in Egypt. To Egypt, too, must be ascribed the -splendid crystals and carved glass-work in which the Munich Exhibition -is particularly rich. One of these is the so-called Hedwig glass from -the Rijksmuseum, at Amsterdam. It has two finely conventionalised lions -and eagles which resemble the types of Fatimite sculpture. It is -described by Migeon (“Manuel,” p. 378)<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span> as being of moulded glass, but -the design is probably cut on the wheel in the manner employed for -rock-crystal. Among the examples of carved crystal one of the finest is -the less well-known example of a waterspout in the shape of a lion’s -head, lent by the Karlsruhe Museum. In all these figures the distinctive -quality of Fatimite art, its combination of massive grandeur of design -with extreme refinement, are apparent.</p> - -<p>None the less, the evidence in favour of Syrian and Mesopotamian centres -of glass-industry is very strong, and if many of the pieces, especially -the earliest ones, are still relegated to Egypt, some of the finest are -still ascribed, though on no very conclusive grounds, to the Syrian -workshops. The finest of these belong to the late twelfth and early -thirteenth centuries, and, generally speaking, the work of the -fourteenth century shows a decline. Perhaps the most splendid specimen -known is the large bottle from the treasury of S. Stephen’s, Vienna. The -glass in this and the kindred piece from the same place shows a peculiar -brownish yellow tone almost of the colour of honey, which gives the most -perfect background to the enamelled figure-decoration. In the choice of -subjects with a predominance of scenes from the chase there is -undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the scenes on the encrusted -bronze work of Mossoul, and this, so far as it goes, makes in favour of -a Syrian origin. But whatever their origin, the finest of these pieces -show a decorative splendour and a perfection of taste which has assured -their appreciation from the days of the Crusaders. Already in the -inventory of Charles V. of France such pieces, frequently mounted on -silver stands, figure among the King’s choicest treasures. Nor was the -appreciation of this beautiful craft confined to Europe. One of the many -proofs of a continual interchange between the Mohammedan and Chinese -civilisations is seen in the number of examples of this glass which have -come from China. In Munich there is a magnificent bowl lent by Dr. Sarre -which is of Chinese provenance, and numerous other pieces have been -recorded.</p> - -<p>The collection of incrusted bronzes at Munich is extremely rich, ranging -from the twelfth-century work, in which plastic relief is still used, -accompanied by sparse incrustations of red copper upon the almost strawy -yellow bronze, to the fourteenth and fifteenth-century<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> work, in which -plastic relief has altogether disappeared, and elaborate incrustations -of silver and even gold give to the surface an extreme profusion of -delicate interwoven traceries. Here, too, the earliest work shows the -finest sense of design. The specimen from the Piet Latauderie -collection, still retains in its relief of stylistic animals a feeling -for mass and grandeur inherited from Sassanid metal-workers, and the -incrustations, though exquisitely wrought, are kept in due subordination -to the general design. Some of the thirteenth-century pieces, though -already tending to too great intricacy, still attain to a finely -co-ordinated effect by the use of reserves filled with boldly designed -figures. Some of the best of these contain scenes borrowed from -Christian mythology, among which I may mention, as a superb example, the -great bowl belonging to the Duc d’Arenberg.</p> - -<p>I have alluded at various points to the influence of Chinese art upon -Mohammedan. Among the most decisive and curious instances of this is a -bronze mirror with the signs of the Zodiac in relief. Round the edge is -an inscription of dedication to one of the Orthokid princes. It is of -Mesopotamian workmanship. Here the derivation from Chinese mirrors, -which date back to Han times, is unmistakable, and is seen in every -detail, even to the griffin-head in the centre, pierced to allow of the -string by which it was carried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_086fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_086fp_sml.jpg" width="294" height="343" alt="Image unvavailable: Persian Painting, end of 13th century Morgan Collection - -Plate V. - -" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Persian Painting, end of 13th century </td> -<td class="rt">Morgan Collection</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate V.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="GIOTTO" id="GIOTTO"></a>GIOTTO<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor1">[21]</a><br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">The Church of S. Francesco at Assisi</span></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>E find abundant evidences in studying early Christian art that -Christianity at its origin exercised no new stimulating influence upon -its development, but if it were claimed for the Franciscan movement that -it brought about the great outburst of Italian art the position would be -harder to refute: and indeed what S. Francis accomplished, the literal -acceptance by official Christendom of Christ’s teaching, was tantamount -to the foundation of a new religion, and the heresy of some of his -followers, who regarded his as a final dispensation superseding that of -the New Testament, can scarcely have seemed unreasonable to those who -witnessed the change in the temper of society which his example brought -about. S. Francis was the great orthodox heretic. What he effected -within the bounds of the Church, for a time at all events, was only -accomplished for later times by a rupture with the Papal power. He -established the idea of the equality of all men before God and the -immediate relationship of the individual soul to the Deity. He enabled -every man to be his own priest. To the fervour with which these ideas -were grasped by his countrymen we may ascribe to some extent the extreme -individualism of the Italian Renaissance, the absence of the barriers of -social caste to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> aspirations of the individual and the passionate -assertion on his part of the right to the free use of all his -activities. No doubt the individualism of, say, a Sigismondo Malatesta -in the fifteenth century was very different to anything which S. Francis -would have approved; none the less such a view of life was rendered -possible by the solvent action of his teaching on the fixed forms of -society.</p> - -<p>But of more immediate importance to our purpose is the æsthetic element -in S. Francis’ teaching. To say that in his actions S. Francis aimed at -artistic effect would perhaps give a wrong impression of his character, -but it is true that his conception of holiness was almost as much an -æsthetic as a moral one. To those who know S. Bonaventura’s life a -number of stories will suggest themselves, which indicate a perfectly -harmonious attitude to life rather than a purely moral one: stories such -as that of the sheep which was given to him, and which he received -joyfully because of its simplicity and innocence, “and holding it in his -hands he admonished it to be intent to praise God and to keep itself -from offending the brethren; and the sheep observed fully the -commandment of the Blessed Francis, and when it heard the brethren -singing in the choir ran thither quickly, and without any teaching bent -before the altar of the Blessed Virgin and bleated, as though it had -human reason.”</p> - -<p>S. Francis, the “Jongleur de Dieu,” was actually a poet before his -conversion, and his whole life had the pervading unity and rhythm of a -perfect work of art. Not that he was a conscious artist. The whole -keynote of the Franciscan teaching was its spontaneity, but his feelings -for moral and æsthetic beauty were intimately united. Indeed, his life, -like the Italian art which in a sense arose from it, like the Gothic -French art which was a simultaneous expression of the same spirit, -implies an attitude, as rare in life as in art, in which spiritual and -sensuous beauty are so inextricably interwoven that instead of -conflicting they mutually intensify their effects.</p> - -<p>Not only was the legend of S. Francis’ life full of suggestions of -poetical and artistic material, but his followers rewrote the New -Testament from the Franciscan point of view, emphasising the poetical -and dramatic elements of the story. In particular they shifted the focus -of interest by making the relationship of the Virgin to her son the -central motive of the whole. It will be seen that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> Italian artists down -to Raphael turned rather to the Franciscan than the Vulgate version.<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> -In fact, S. Bonaventura and the great poet of the movement, the -cultivated and ecstatic Jacopone di Todi, did for the Christian legend -very much what Pindar did for classical mythology; without altering the -doctrine they brought into full relief its human and poetical -significance.</p> - -<p>It is not surprising, then, to find that the great church at Assisi, -built with all the magnificence that the whole of Italy could contribute -to honour the spouse of Divine Poverty, should be the cradle of the new -art of Italy—the neo-Christian or Franciscan art, as we might almost -call it.</p> - -<p>The lower church of S. Francesco was probably decorated almost -immediately after the building was finished, between 1240 and 1250, but -these early works are almost obliterated by a second decoration -undertaken after 1300. We must therefore turn to the upper church, the -paintings of which were probably completed before 1300, as the chief -source of our knowledge of the emergence of the new Italian style. It -was there that the Italian genius first attained to self-expression in -the language of monumental painting—a language which no other nation of -modern Europe has ever been able to command except in rare and isolated -instances.</p> - -<p>And here we plunge at once into a very difficult, perhaps an insoluble -problem: who were the painters who carried out this immense scheme of -decoration? The archives of the church have been searched in vain, and -we are left with a sentence of Ghiberti’s commentary, and Vasari, who -here proves an uncertain guide, so that we are thrown chiefly on the -resources of internal evidence.</p> - -<p>The paintings of the upper church may be briefly enumerated thus: In the -choir are faint remains of frescoes of the life of the Virgin; in the -right transept a Crucifixion and other subjects almost obliterated; in -the left transept another Crucifixion, better preserved, and archangels -in the triforium. The nave is divided into an upper and lower series; -the upper series contains scenes of the Old and New Testaments, the -lower is devoted to the legend of S. Francis, and in alternate vaults of -the roof are paintings of single figures.</p> - -<p>It would be out of place to discuss all these frescoes in detail,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> but -it may be worth while to select certain typical ones, around which the -rest may be grouped, and see how far they bear out what little -documentary and traditional authority we have.</p> - -<p>We will begin with the Crucifixion of the left transept, which is -clearly by an artist of decided and marked personality. It is certainly -less pleasing and less accomplished than the works of the later -Byzantine school, and in spite of certain motives, such as the floating -drapery of the Christ, which show Byzantine reminiscences, it is derived -in the main from the native Italian tradition. This is shown in the -stumpy proportions of the figures and the crude, not to say hideous, -realism of the faces of the crowd. The classical origin of the tradition -is still traceable in the sandalled feet and the reminiscence of the -toga in some of the draperies. But the chief interest lies in the -serious attempt made by the artist to give dramatic reality to the scene -in a way never attempted by the less human Byzantines. The action of the -Magdalen throwing up both arms in despair is really impressive, and this -is a more vivacious rendering of a gesture traditional in Western early -Christian art; an instance occurs in the fifth century MS. of Genesis at -Vienna. But the artist shows his originality more in the expressive and -sometimes beautiful poses of the weeping angels and the natural -movements of the Virgin and S. John.</p> - -<p>Very nearly allied to this are the archangels of the triforium, and some -of the frescoes of the upper scenes in the nave, such as the Nativity -and the Betrayal. These belong to the same group, though they are not -necessarily by the master of the Crucifixion himself.</p> - -<p>As we proceed along the nave, still keeping to the upper series, we come -upon another distinct personality, whose work is typified in the -Deception of Isaac. In certain qualities this master is not altogether -unlike the master of the Crucifixion. Like him, he replaces the purely -schematic linear rendering of drapery by long streaks of light and dark -paint, so arranged as to give the idea of actual modelling in relief. -But he does this not only with greater naturalism, but with a greatly -increased sense of pure beauty. The painting is not hieratic and formal, -as the Byzantine would have made it, nor has it that overstrained -attempt at dramatic vehemence which we saw in the Crucifixion. The faces -have remarkable beauty, and throughout<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> there is a sense of placid and -dignified repose which is rare in mediæval work. It is, in fact, -decidedly classical, and classical, too, in a sense different from the -vague reminiscences of classic origin which permeate early Christian -art, and were faintly echoed in the Crucifixion. Rachel especially, with -her full, well-rounded eyes, wide apart and set deep in their sockets, -her straight nose and small mouth, might almost have come straight from -a Pompeian picture.</p> - -<p>The hair, too, instead of being in tangled masses, as in the -Crucifixion, or rendered by parallel lines, as in the Sacrifice of -Isaac, is drawn into elegantly disposed curls, which yet have something -of the quality of hair, and which remind us of the treatment in classic -bronzes.</p> - -<p>The last vault of the nave, with the Doctors of the Church, is by an -artist who is extremely similar to the last, and clearly belongs to the -same group. The level brows nearly meeting over the bridge of the nose, -the straight profile and the curled hair show the similarity, as does -also the drapery. The classic tendencies of this artist may be seen in -the amorini caryatides in the extreme corners of the spandril, while the -decoration of one of the arches of the church by the same hand has, -arising from an urn of pure classic design, a foliated scrollwork, in -which centaurs disport themselves.</p> - -<p>In the lower series representing the Life of S. Francis we are at once -struck by the resemblances to the last two paintings. The Pope, who is -approving the rule of S. Francis, is almost a repetition of one of the -Doctors of the Church. We have the same peculiar drapery with shiny, -slippery, high lights, broadly washed on in well-disposed folds. The -faces, too, though they are more individual and far more expressive, -are, nevertheless, built on the same lines. They have similar straight -profiles, the same deeply-cut level brows, which tend to meet in a line -across the nose. The general impression it makes is that it is by a -younger artist than the master of the Esau fresco, but one who has a -keener feeling for reality and a far deeper sense of the dramatic -situation.</p> - -<p>We will now turn to the historical evidence. The earliest and best is -that of Ghiberti (early fifteenth century), who tells us simply that -Giotto painted the S. Francis legend. Vasari says that Cimabue worked -first in the lower church with Greek artists, and then did the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> whole of -the upper church, except the S. Francis legend, which he ascribes to -Giotto. In addition to these we have a sixteenth-century MS. and an -account of the church by Petrus Rudolphus of the same period, which -agree that both Giotto and Cimabue painted in the upper church.</p> - -<p>We may take it, then, that we have fairly good evidence for ascribing -the S. Francis series in the main to Giotto, and a consensus of -traditional opinion that somewhere in the other frescoes we ought to -discover Cimabue.</p> - -<p>The name of Cimabue is fraught with tender associations. To the last -generation, happy in its innocence, it was familiar as a household word. -Browning could sing without a qualm: “My painter—who, but Cimabue?” The -cult of Cimabue became fashionable; it offended Philistine nostrils and -received its due castigation from Mr. Punch. And now, alas, he would be -a bold man who dared to say that he admired Cimabue, who dared to do -more than profess a pious belief in his existence. Only recently a -distinguished critic<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> has endeavoured to hand over to Duccio di -Buoninsegna the very stronghold of the Cimabue faith, the altar-piece of -the Rucellai Chapel in Sta. Maria Novella. But the myth dies hard, and -Florentine guides will still point out the portraits of all Cimabue’s -relations in the little figures round the frame. Ever since the time of -Rumohr, however, who considered him to be little more than an emanation -of Vasari’s brain heated by patriotic fervour, it has been established -that we have no documentary evidence for any single picture by him. We -do know, however, that at the very end of his life he executed the -mosaic of the apse in the cathedral at Pisa. But this is a much restored -work, and originally can have been little but an adaptation of a -Byzantine design, and it throws no light on his work as a painter. In -any case, all criticisms of his reputation in his own day, whether -deserved or not, must fall to the ground before Dante’s celebrated -lines, “Credette Cimabue nella pittura Tener lo campo, ed ora ha Giotto -il grido,” for on this point Dante is first-rate evidence. And that -being the case, there is a probability, almost amounting to certainty, -that the man who “held the field” in painting would be requisitioned for -the greatest national undertaking of his day, the decoration of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> S. -Francesco at Assisi, even though, as we have seen, it would be -impossible to accept Vasari’s statement that he did the whole.</p> - -<p>In looking for Cimabue among the groups of the upper church which we -have selected, it will be worth while to take as an experimental guide -other works ascribed traditionally to our artist. If these should agree -in their artistic qualities with one another and with any one group at -Assisi, we shall have some probability in favour of our view. And the -result of such a process is to find in the master of the Crucifixion our -elusive and celebrated painter.</p> - -<p>It would be wearisome to go in detail through all these works; it will -suffice to say that in certain marked peculiarities they all agree with -one another and with the Crucifixion. The most striking likeness will be -found between the heads which appear under the Virgin’s throne in the -picture in the Academy at Florence, which Vasari attributes to Cimabue, -and the grotesque heads to the right of the Crucifixion. There is the -same crude attempt at realism, the same peculiar matted hair, the same -curious drawing of the eye-socket which gives the appearance of -spectacles. The characteristics of this picture will again be found in -the Cimabue of the Louvre which comes from Pisa, where he is known to -have worked. Very similar, too, in innumerable details of architectural -setting, of movement of hands and heads, and of drapery is the fresco of -the Madonna Enthroned and S. Francis, in the lower church at Assisi. -Finally, the Rucellai Madonna, in spite of its very superior qualities, -which must be due to its being a later work, answers in many detailed -tests to the characteristics of this group of paintings.<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span></p> - -<p>And now, having found our Cimabue in the master of the Crucifixion, what -must our verdict be on his character as an artist? Frankly we must admit -that he is not to be thought of in the same category with the master of -the Esau fresco, much less with Duccio or Giotto.<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> There is, however, -in his work that spark of vitality which the Italians rightly prized -above Byzantine accomplishment. He gave to his historical compositions a -rude dramatic vigour, and to his Madonnas and Angels a suggestion of -sentimental charm which borders on affectation; he was, in fact, a -sentimental realist whose relation to the Byzantine masters must have -been something like that of Caravaggio to the academic school of the -Caracci.</p> - -<p>We come next to the master of the Deception of Isaac, and the closely -allied, if not identical, painter who did the Four Doctors of the vault. -We have already noticed the likeness of these works to the legend of S. -Francis, which we may take provisionally to be Giotto’s; but, in spite -of the similarity of technique, they are inspired by a very diverse -sentiment. They are not dramatic and intense as Giotto’s; they show a -more conscious aspiration after style; the artist will not allow the -requirements of formal beauty to be disturbed by the desire for -expressive and life-like gestures. Where, then, could an artist of this -period acquire such a sense of pure classic beauty in painting? In -sculpture it might be possible to find classic models throughout Italy -as Niccolo did at Pisa, but Rome was the only place which could fulfil -the requirements for a painter. There must at this time have been many -more remains of classical painting among the ruins of the Palatine than -are now to be seen, and it is a natural conclusion that the artist who -painted the figure of Rachel was directly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> inspired by them. Nor is -there anything difficult in the assumption that this unknown precursor -of Giotto was a Roman artist, for the Roman school of painting was by -far the most precocious of any in Italy. At Subiaco there are frescoes, -some of which must date from the lifetime of S. Francis, which already, -as in the portrait of S. Francis himself, show a certain freedom from -Byzantine formalism. But it is in the works of the Cosmati, Jacopo -Torriti, Rusutti, and Cavallini in the latter half of the thirteenth -century that we see how vigorous and progressive an art was springing up -in Rome.<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> Had not the removal of the Popes to Avignon in the -fourteenth century left the city a prey to internal discord, we can -hardly doubt that the Roman would have been one of the greatest and -earliest developed schools of Italian painting. As it is, we find in the -mosaics under the apse of Sta. Maria in Trastevere, executed about the -year 1290, compositions in every way comparable to Giotto’s frescoes. -These mosaics, too, have architectural accessories which are very -similar to the architecture of the “Doctors of the Church” at Assisi. -The architecture based on a study of classic forms is of the kind always -associated with the Cosmati family. It will be seen that it is quite -distinct from the architecture of Cimabue’s and Duccio’s Madonnas, but -that it becomes the normal treatment in Giotto’s frescoes.</p> - -<p>There is, then, a curiously close analogy between the origins of -neo-Christian painting and neo-Christian sculpture in Italy; just as -Giovanni Pisano’s work was preceded by the purely classic revival which -culminated in Niccolo’s Baptistery pulpit, so in painting Giotto’s work -emerges from a similar classic revival based on the study of Roman -wall-paintings. The perfect similarity between Niccolo Pisano’s -sentiment and that of the master of the Esau fresco may be realised by -comparing the action of Rachel’s hand in the fresco with that of the -Virgin in the Annunciation of the Baptistery pulpit. In both we have the -same autarchic conception of character conveyed by the same measured -ease of gesture, which contrasts vividly with the more expansive ideals -of neo-Christian art, of which Giotto appears from the first as the most -perfect representative.</p> - -<p>In examining the series of frescoes describing the life of S.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> Francis -we find varieties in the proportions of the figures and in the types of -features which suggest the co-operation of more than one artist, but the -spirit that inspires the compositions throughout is one. And this -afflatus which suddenly quickens so much that was either tentative or -narrowly accomplished into a new fulness of life, a new richness of -expression, is, we may feel certain, due to the genius of Giotto.</p> - -<p>If we look at one of these frescoes, such, for example, as the Presepio -at Greccio, and at the same time endeavour to transport ourselves into -the position of a contemporary spectator, what will strike us most -immediately and make the most startling general impression is its -actuality. Here at last, after so many centuries of copying the -traditional forms handed down from a moribund Pagan art—centuries -during which these abstractions had become entirely divorced from the -life of the time—here at last was an artist who gave a scene as it must -have happened, with every circumstance evidently and literally rendered. -The scene of the institution of the Presepio takes place in a little -chapel divided from the body of the church by a marble wall. The pulpit -and crucifix are therefore seen from behind, the latter leaning forward -into the church and showing from the chapel only the wooden battens and -fastenings of the back. The singing-desk in the centre is drawn with -every detail of screws and adjustments, while the costume of the -bystanders is merely the ordinary fashionable dress of the day. The -research for actuality could not be carried farther than this. When some -years ago a French painter painted the scene of Christ at the house of -the Pharisee with the figures in evening dress it aroused the most -vehement protests, and produced for a time a shock of bewilderment and -surprise. This is not to suggest any real analogy between the works of -the two artists, but merely that the innovation made by Giotto must have -been in every way as surprising to his contemporaries. Nor was Giotto’s, -like M. Béraud’s, a <i>succès de scandale</i>; on the contrary, it was -immediately recognised as satisfying a want which had been felt ever -since the legend of S. Francis, the setting of which belonged to their -own time and country, had been incorporated by the Italians in their -mythology. The earliest artists had tried to treat the subject according -to the formulas of Byzantine biblical scenes, but with such -unsatisfactory results as may be seen in the altar-piece of the Bardi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> -Chapel of Sta. Croce at Florence. In Giotto’s frescoes at Assisi it -acquired for the first time a treatment in which the desire for -actuality was fully recognised. But actuality alone would not have -satisfied Giotto’s patrons; it was necessary that the events should be -presented as scenes of everyday life, but it was also necessary that -they should possess that quality of universal and eternal significance -which distinguishes a myth from a mere historical event. It was even -more necessary that they should be heroic than that they should be -actual. And it was in his power to satisfy such apparently -self-contradictory conditions that Giotto’s unique genius manifested -itself. It was this that made him the greatest story-teller in line, the -supreme epic-painter of the world. The reconciliation of these two aims, -actuality and universality, is indeed the severest strain on the power -of expression. To what a temperature must the imagination be raised -before it can fuse in its crucible those refractory squalid trivialities -unconsecrated by time and untinged by romance with which the artist must -deal if he is to be at once “topical” and heroic, to be at one and the -same time in “Ercles’ vein” and Mrs. Gamp’s. Even in literature it is a -rare feat. Homer could accomplish it, and Dante, but most poets must -find a way round. In Dante the power is constantly felt. He could not -only introduce the politics and personalities of his own time, but he -could use such similes as that of old tailors peering for their needles’ -eyes, a half-burnt piece of paper, dogs nozzling for fleas, and still -more unsavoury trivialities, without for a moment lowering the high key -in which his comedy was pitched. The poet deals, however, with the vague -and blurred mental images which words call up, but the painter must -actually present the semblance of the thing in all its drab familiarity. -And yet Giotto succeeded. He could make the local and particular stand -for a universal idea.</p> - -<p>But, without detracting in any way from what was due to Giotto’s -superlative genius, it may be admitted that something was given by the -propitious moment of his advent. For the optics of the imagination are -variable: in an age like the present, men and events grow larger as they -recede into the mist of the past; it is rarely that we think of a man as -truly great till he has for long received the consecration of death. But -there must be periods when men have a surer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> confidence in their own -judgments—periods of such creative activity that men can dare to -measure the reputations of their contemporaries, which are of their own -creation, against the reputations of antiquity—and in such periods the -magnifying, mythopoetical effect, which for us comes only with time, -takes place at once, and swells their contemporaries to heroic -proportions. It was thus that Dante saw those of his own time—could -even see himself—in the proportions they must always bear. The fact -that S. Francis was canonised two years after death, and within twenty -years was commemorated by the grandest monument in Italy, is a striking -proof of that superb self-confidence.</p> - -<p>We will return to the frescoes: the evidence for their being in the main -by Giotto himself rests not only on the general consensus of tradition, -but upon the technical characteristics and, most of all, upon the -imaginative conception of the subjects. None the less, in so big a work -it is probable that assistants were employed to carry out Giotto’s -designs, and this will account for many slight discrepancies of style. -Certain frescoes, however—notably the last three of the series—show -such marked differences that we must suppose that one of these -assistants rose to the level of an original creative artist.</p> - -<p>In the fresco of S. Francis kneeling before the Pope, we have already -noticed Giotto’s close connection with the artists of the Roman school. -Their influence is not confined to the figures and drapery; the -architecture—in which it may be noted, by the way, that Giotto has -already arrived instinctively at the main ideas of linear -perspective—with its minute geometrical inlays, its brackets and -mouldings, derived from classic forms, is entirely in the manner of the -Cosmati. But the composition illustrates, none the less, the differences -which separate him from the master of the Esau fresco. Giotto is at this -stage of his career not only less accomplished, but he has nothing of -that painter’s elegant classical grace. He has, instead, the greatest -and rarest gift of dramatic expressiveness. For though the poses, -especially of the bishop seated on the Pope’s left, lack grace, and the -faces show but little research for positive beauty or regularity of -feature, the actual scene, the dramatic situation, is given in an -entirely new and surprising way. Of what overwhelming importance for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> -the history of the world this situation was, perhaps Giotto himself -could scarcely realise. For this probably represents, not the -approbation of the order of minor brethren by Honorius III., which was a -foregone conclusion, but the permission to preach given by Innocent -III., a far more critical moment in the history of the movement. For -Innocent III., in whom the Papacy reached the zenith of its power, had -already begun the iniquitous Albigensian crusade, and was likely to be -suspicious of any unofficial religious teaching. It cannot have been -with unmixed pleasure that he saw before him this poverty-stricken group -of Francis and his eleven followers, whose appearance declared in the -plainest terms their belief in that primitive communistic Christianity -which, in the case of Petrus Waldus, had been branded by -excommunication. In fact, the man who now asked for the Papal blessing -on his mission was in most respects a Waldensian. Francis (the name -Francesco is itself significant) was probably by birth, certainly by -predilection<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> and temperament, half a Frenchman; his mother came from -Provence, and his father had business connections at Lyons; so that it -is not impossible that Francis was influenced by what he knew, through -them, of the Waldensian movement. In any case, his teaching was nearly -identical with that of Petrus Waldus; both taught religious -individualism and, by precept at all events, communism. It was, -therefore, not unnatural that Innocent should not respond at once to S. -Francis’ application. According to one legend, the Pope’s first advice -to him was to consort with swine, as befitted one of his miserable -appearance. But, whatever his spontaneous impulses may have been, he had -the good sense to accept the one man through whom the Church could again -become popular and democratic.</p> - -<p>Of all that this acceptance involved, no one who lived before the -Reformation could understand the full significance, but Giotto has here -expressed something of the dramatic contrasts involved in this meeting -of the greatest of saints and the most dominating of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> popes—something -of the importance of the moment when the great heretic was recognised by -the Church.</p> - -<p>In the fresco of S. Francis before the Sultan we have a means of -comparing Giotto at this period with the later Giotto of the Bardi -Chapel, in Florence where the same scene is treated with more intimate -psychological imagination; but here already the story is told with a -vividness and simplicity which none but Giotto could command. The weak -and sinuous curves of the discomfited sages, the ponderous and massive -contour of the indignant Sultan, show that Giotto’s command of the -direct symbolism of line is at least as great as Duccio’s in the Three -Maries, while his sense of the roundness and solid relief of the form -is, as Mr. Berenson<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> has ably pointed out, far greater. We find in -the Sultan, indeed, the type for which Giotto showed a constant -predilection—a well-formed, massive body, with high rounded shoulders -and short neck, but with small and shapely hands. As is natural in the -work of an artist who set himself so definitely to externalise the -tension of a critical moment, his hands are always eloquent; it is -impossible to find in his work a case where the gestures of the hands -are not explicit indications of a particular emotion. The architecture -in this fresco is a remarkable evidence of the classical tendencies -which he inherited from the Cosmati school. The Sultan’s throne has, it -is true, a quasi-Gothic gable, but the coffered soffit, and the whole of -the canopy opposite to it, with its winged genii, pilasters, and -garlands are derived from classic sources.</p> - -<p>We have already considered the Presepio as an example of Giotto’s power -of giving the actual setting of a scene without losing its heroic -quality. It is also an example of his power of visualising the -psychological situation; here, the sudden thrill which permeates an -assembly at a moment of unwonted exaltation. It depicts the first -representation of the Nativity instituted at Greccio by S. Francis; it -is the moment at which he takes the image of the Infant Christ in his -arms, when, to the ecstatic imaginations of the bystanders, it appeared -for an instant transformed into a living child of transcendent beauty. -The monks at the back are still singing the Lauds (one can almost tell -what note each is singing, so perfect is Giotto’s command<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> of facial -expression), but the immediate bystanders and the priest are lost in -wrapt contemplation of S. Francis and the Child.<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></p> - -<p>One of the most beautiful of the whole series is the fresco which -represents the nuns of S. Clare meeting the Saint’s body as it is borne -to burial. Throughout the series Giotto took Bonaventura’s life as his -text, and it is interesting to see how near akin the two renderings are, -both alike inspired by that new humanity of feeling which S. Francis’ -life had aroused. Having described the beauty of the Saint’s dead body, -“of which the limbs were so soft and delicate to the touch that they -seemed to have returned to the tenderness of a child’s, and appeared by -many manifest signs to be innocent as never having done wrong, so like a -child’s were they,” he adds,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>Therefore it is not to be marvelled at if seeing a body so white -and seeing therein those black nails and that wound in the side -which seemed to be a fresh red rose of spring, if those that saw it -felt therefor great wonder and joy. And in the morning when it was -day the companies and people of the city and all the country round -came together, and being instructed to translate that most holy -body from that place to the city of Assisi, moved with great -solemnity of hymns and songs and divine offices, and with a -multitude of torches and of candles lighted and with branches of -trees in their hands; and with such solemnity going towards the -city of Assisi and passing by the church of S. Damiano, in which -stayed Clara the noble virgin who is to-day a saint on earth and in -heaven, they rested there a little. She and her holy virgins were -comforted to see and kiss that most holy body of their father the -blessed Francis adorned with those holy stigmata and white and -shining as has been said.</p></div> - -<p>Bonaventura, we see, had already conceived the scene with such -consummate artistic skill that it was, as it were, ready made for -Giotto. He had only to translate that description into line and colour; -and in doing so he has lost nothing of its beauty. Giotto, like -Bonaventura, is apparently perfectly simple, perfectly direct and -literal, and yet the result is in both cases a work of the rarest -imaginative power. Nor is it easy to analyse its mysterious charm. -Giotto was a great painter in the strictest and most technical sense of -the word, but his technical perfection is not easily appreciated in -these damaged works, and one cannot explain the effect this produces by -any actual beauty of the surface quality of the painting; it depends -rather on our perception, through the general disposition and action of -the figures, of Giotto’s attitude to life, of the instinctive rightness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> -of feeling through which he was enabled to visualise the scene in its -simplest and most inevitable form.</p> - -<p>We come now to the three last frescoes of the series which show such -marked differences from the rest, though some of the peculiarities, the -minute hands and elegant features, appear in parts of some of the -preceding frescoes, notably in our last: we may imagine that an -assistant working under Giotto was, as the work progressed, given a -larger and larger share in the execution, and finally carried out the -three last frescoes alone. But this is pure hypothesis; all we can do at -present is to note the difference not only of types, but even to some -extent in the manner of conception, that they evince. One of them -recounts the story of a woman of Benevento devoted to S. Francis, who -died after forgetting one of her sins in her last confession. At the -intercession of the dead Saint she was allowed to come to life again, -finish her confession, and so defeat of his prey the black devil who had -already come for her soul. Here the whole spacing out of the composition -indicates a peculiar feeling, very different from Giotto’s. The artist -crowds his figures into narrow, closely-packed groups, and leaves vast -spaces of bare wall between. In this particular instance the result is -very impressive; it intensifies the supreme importance of the confession -and emphasises the loneliness and isolation of the soul that has already -once passed away. When we look at the individual figures the differences -are even more striking; the long thin figures, the repetition of -perpendicular lines, the want of variety in the poses of the heads, a -certain timidity in the movements, the long masks, too big in proportion -for the heads, the tiny elegant features, elongated necks, and minute -hands—all these characteristics contrast with Giotto’s tendency to -massive proportions and easy expansive movements. Not that these figures -have not great beauty; only it is of a recondite and exquisite kind. The -artist that created these types must have loved what was sought out and -precious; though living so long before Raphael, he must have been -something of a “pre-Raphaelite.”</p> - -<p>We have no clue to the identity of this pseudo-Giotto; he is quite -distinct from Giotto’s known pupils, and indeed may rather have been a -contemporary artist who came under Giotto’s influence than one trained -by him. Besides the frescoes at Assisi, we are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> fortunate enough to -possess one other picture by this interesting artist. It is a small -altar-piece dedicated to S. Cecilia, which hangs in the corridor of the -Uffizi, and has been attributed both to Cimabue and to Giotto. The long -Rosetti-like necks and heads, the poses, in which elegance is preferred -to expressiveness, and the concentration of the figures so as to leave -large empty spaces even in these small compositions, are sufficient -grounds for attributing it to Giotto’s fellow-worker at Assisi.<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p> - -<p>In the year 1298 Giotto entered into a contract with Cardinal -Stefaneschi to execute for him the mosaic of the “Navicella,” now in the -porch of S. Peter’s. We have in this the first ascertainable date of -Giotto’s life. It is one which, however, fits very well with the -internal evidences of his style, as it would give the greater part of -the last decade of the thirteenth century as the period of Giotto’s -activity in the Upper Church at Assisi. One other work on the evidence -of style we may attribute to the master’s pre-Roman period, and that is -the Madonna of the Academy at Florence. Here Giotto followed the lines -of Cimabue’s enthroned Madonnas, though with his own greatly increased -sense of solidity in the modelling and vivacity in the poses. It cannot, -however, be considered as a prepossessing work. It may be due to -restoration that the picture shows no signs of Giotto’s peculiar feeling -for tonality; but even the design is scarcely satisfactory, the relation -of the Madonna to the throne is such that her massive proportions leave -an impression of ungainliness rather than of grandeur. In the throne -itself he has made an experiment in the new Gothic architecture, but he -has hardly managed to harmonise it with the earlier classic forms of the -Cosmati, which still govern the main design. We shall see that in his -work at Rome he overcame all these difficulties.</p> - -<p>In Rome Giotto worked chiefly for Cardinal Stefaneschi. This is -significant of Giotto’s close relations with the Roman school, for it -was Bartolo, another member of the same family, who commissioned the -remarkable mosaics of Sta. Maria in Trastevere, executed in 1290,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> -mosaics which show how far the Roman school had already advanced towards -the new art, of which Giotto’s work was the consummation.</p> - -<p>The mosaic of the “Navicella,” which was the greatest undertaking of -Giotto’s activity in Rome, is unfortunately terribly restored. We can, -however, still recognise the astonishing dramatic force of the -conception and the unique power which Giotto possessed of giving a vivid -presentation of a particular event, accompanied by the most -circumstantial details, and at the same time suggesting to the -imagination a symbolical interpretation of universal and abstract -significance. Even the surprising intrusion of a <i>genre</i> motive in the -fisherman peacefully angling on the shore does not disturb our -recognition of this universal interpretation, which puts so clearly the -relation of the ship of the Church, drifting helplessly with its -distraught crew, to the despairing Peter, who has here the character of -an emissary and intermediary, and the impassive and unapproachable -figure of Christ himself.</p> - -<p>The daring originality which Giotto shows in placing the predominant -figure at the extreme edge of the composition, the feeling for -perspective which enabled him to give verisimilitude to the scene by -throwing back the ship into the middle distance, the new freedom and -variety in the movements of the Apostles in the boat, by which the -monotony of the eleven figures crowded into so limited a space is -evaded, are proofs of Giotto’s rare power of invention, a power which -enabled him to treat even the most difficult abstractions with the same -vivid sense of reality as the dramatic incidents of contemporary life. -It is not to be wondered at that this should be the work most frequently -mentioned by the Italian writers of the Renaissance. The storm-gods -blowing their Triton’s horns are a striking instance of how much Giotto -assimilated at this time from Pagan art.</p> - -<p>But of far greater beauty are the panels for the high altar of S. -Peter’s, also painted for Cardinal Stefaneschi, and now to be seen in -the sacristy, where the more obvious beauties of Melozzo da Forli’s -music-making angels too often lead to their being overlooked. And yet, -unnoticed in the dark corners of the room, they have escaped the -attentions of restorers and glow with all the rare translucency of -Giotto’s tempera.</p> - -<p>These are the first pictures we have examined by Giotto in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> we are -able to appreciate at all the beauty and subtlety of his tone contrasts, -for not only have the frescoes of the upper church at Assisi and the -“Madonna” of the Academy suffered severely from restoration, but it is -probable that in his youthful works he had not freed himself altogether -from the harsher tonality of earlier art. Here, however, Giotto shows -that power which is distinctive of the greatest masters of paint, of -developing a form within a strictly limited scale of tone, drawing out -of the slightest contrasts their fullest expressiveness for the -rendering of form; a method which, though adopted from an intuitive -feeling for pure beauty, gives a result which can only be described as -that of an enveloping atmosphere surrounding the forms.<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p> - -<p>The kneeling figure, presumably Cardinal Stefaneschi himself, in the -“Christ enthroned” is an admirable instance of this quality. With what -tender, scarcely perceptible gradations, with what a limited range from -dark to light is the figure expressed; and yet it is not flat, the form -is perfectly realised between the two sweeping curves whose simplicity -would seem, but for the masterly modelling, to prevent the possibility -of their containing a human figure. The portrait is as remarkable in -sentiment as in execution. The very conception of introducing a donor -into such a composition was new.<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> It was a sign of the new -individualism which marked the whole of the great period of Italian art, -and finally developed into extravagance. The donor having once found his -way into pictures of sacred ceremonial remained, but he not infrequently -found it difficult to comport himself becomingly amid celestial -surroundings; as he became more important, and heaven itself became less -so, he asserted himself with unseemly self-assurance, until at last his -matter-of-fact countenance, rendered with prosaic fidelity, stares out -at the spectator in contemptuous indifference to the main action of the -composition, the illusion of which it effectually destroys.</p> - -<p>But here, where the idea is new, it has no such jarring effect; it is -not yet a stereotyped formula, an excuse for self-advertisement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> or -social display, but the direct outcome of a poetical and pious thought; -and Giotto, with his unique rightness of feeling, has expressed, by the -hand clinging to the throne and the slightly bent head, just the -appropriate attitude of humble adoration, which he contrasts with the -almost nonchalant ease and confidence of the angels. Even in so purely -ceremonial a composition as this Giotto contrives to create a human -situation.</p> - -<p>In the planning of this picture Giotto has surpassed not only Duccio’s -and Cimabue’s versions of the Enthronement motive but his own earlier -work at Florence. The throne, similar in construction to that in the -Academy picture, no longer shows the inconsistencies of two conflicting -styles, but is of pure and exquisitely proportioned Gothic; the -difficult perspective of the arches at the side is rendered with -extraordinary skill though without mathematical accuracy. The relation -of the figure of Christ to the throne is here entirely satisfactory, -with the result that the great size of the figure no longer appears -unnatural, but as an easily accepted symbol of divinity. In the drawing -of the face of the Christ he has retained the hieratic solemnity given -by the rigid delineation of Byzantine art.</p> - -<p>But if the “Christ enthroned” is a triumph of well-calculated -proportions, the “Crucifixion of S. Peter” which formed one side of the -triptych, is even more remarkable for the beauty of its spacing and the -ingenuity of its arrangement.</p> - -<p>In designing such a panel with its narrow cusped arch and gold -background, the artist’s first consideration must be its effect as mere -pattern when seen on the altar at the end of a church. In his frescoes, -Giotto’s first preoccupation was with the drama to be presented; here it -was with the effect of sumptuous pattern.</p> - -<p>And the given data out of which the pattern was to be made were by no -means tractable. The subject of the Crucifixion of S. Peter was -naturally not a favourite one with artists, and scarcely any succeeded -in it entirely, even in the small dimensions of a predella piece, to -which it was generally relegated. For it is almost impossible to do away -with the unpleasant effect of a figure seen thus upside down. The -outstretched arms, which in the crucifixion of Christ give a -counterbalancing line to the long horizontal of the spectators, here -only increases the difficulty of the single upright. But Giotto,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> by a -brilliant inspiration,<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> found his solution in the other fact given by -his subject—namely, that the martyrdom took place between the goals of -the Circus of Nero. By making these huge pyramids adapted from two -well-known Roman monuments (the Septizonium and the pyramid of Cestius), -he has obtained from the gold background just that dignified effect of -spreading out above and contracting below which is so effective in -renderings of the crucifixion of Christ, an effect which he still -further emphasises by the two angels, whose spreading wings and floating -draperies increase the brocade-like richness of the symmetrical pattern.</p> - -<p>Nor, the pattern once assured, has Giotto failed of vivid dramatic -presentation. It is surprising to find crowded into so small a space so -many new poses all beautifully expressive of the individual shades of a -common feeling: the woman to the left of the cross leaning her head on -her hand as though sorrow had become a physical pain; the beautiful -figure of the youth, with long waving hair, who throws back both arms -with a despairing gesture; the woman lifting her robe to wipe her tears; -and, most exquisite of all, and most surprising, in its novelty and -truth to life, the figure of the girl to the left, drawn towards the -terrible scene by a motion of sympathy and yet shrinking back with -instinctive shyness and terror. In the child alone Giotto has, as was -usually the case, failed of a rhythmical and expressive pose. And what -an entirely new study of life is seen here in the variety of the types! -In one—the man whose profile cuts the sky to the left—he seems to have -been indebted to some Roman portrait-bust; another, on horseback to the -left, is clearly a Mongolian type, with slant eyes and pigtail, a -curious proof of the intercourse with the extreme East which the -Franciscan missionaries had already established. In the drawing of the -nude figure of S. Peter, in spite of the unfortunate proportion of the -head, the same direct study of nature has enabled Giotto to realise the -structure of the figure more adequately than any artist since Roman -times. One can well understand the astonishment and delight of Giotto’s -contemporaries at this unfolding of the new possibilities of art, which -could now interpret all the variety and richness of human life and could -so intensify its appeal to the emotions. One other peculiarity of this -picture is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> interesting and characteristic of Giotto’s attitude. In -painting the frame of his panel he did not merely add figures as -decorative and symbolic accessories, he brought them into relation with -the central action, for each of them gazes at S. Peter with a different -expression of pity and grief. Giotto had to be dramatic even in his -frames.<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p> - -<p>That Giotto remained in Rome till after the great Jubilee of 1300 is -shown by the fragment of his fresco of the Papal Benediction which still -remains on a pillar of S. John Lateran. There is every probability that -at this time he met Dante, who was collecting the materials for the -terrible portrait of Boniface VIII. which he drew in the “Inferno.”</p> - -<p>The next ascertainable date in Giotto’s life is that of the decoration -of the Arena chapel at Padua, begun in 1305. Here at last we are on -indisputable ground. The decoration of this chapel was conceived by -Giotto as a single whole, and was entirely carried out by him, though -doubtless with the help of assistants, and although it has suffered from -restoration it remains the completest monument to his genius. The -general effect of these ample silhouettes of golden yellow and red on a -ground of clear ultramarine is extraordinarily harmonious, and almost -gay. But essentially the design is made up of the sum of a number of -separate compositions. The time had not come for co-ordinating these -into a single scheme, as Michelangelo did in the ceiling of the Sistine. -In the composition of the separate scenes Giotto here shows for the -first time his full powers. Nearly every one of these is an entirely -original discovery of new possibilities in the relation of forms to one -another. The contours of the figures evoke to the utmost the ideal -comprehension of volume and mass. The space in which the figures move is -treated almost as in a bas-relief, of which they occupy a preponderant -part. As compared with the designs at Assisi the space is restricted, -and the figures amplified so that the plastic unity of the whole design -is more immediately apprehended. I doubt whether in any single building -one can see so many astonishing discoveries of formal relations as -Giotto has here made. Almost every composition gives one the shock of a -discovery at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_108fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_108fp_sml.jpg" width="266" height="249" alt="Image unvavailable: Giotto. Pietà Arena Chapel, Padua - -Plate VI." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Giotto. Pietà</td> -<td class="rt">Arena Chapel, Padua</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate VI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">once simple, inevitable, and instantly apprehended, and yet utterly -unforeseeable. In most compositions one can guess at some of the steps -by which the formal relations were established. Here one is at a loss to -conceive by what flight of imagination the synthesis has been attained. -We will consider a few in greater detail.</p> - -<p>Giotto was, I believe, the first artist to represent the Resurrection by -the <i>Noli me tangere</i>. The Byzantines almost invariably introduced the -Descent into Hades or the Three Maries at the Tomb. In any case it is -characteristic of Giotto to choose a subject where the human situation -is so intimate and the emotions expressed are so poignant. Here, as in -the “Navicella,” where he was free to invent a new composition, he -discards the bilateral arrangement, which was almost invariable in -Byzantine art, and concentrates all the interest in one corner of the -composition. The angels on the tomb are damaged and distorted, but in -the head and hands of the Magdalene we can realise Giotto’s greatly -increased power and delicacy of modelling as compared with the frescoes -at Assisi. It is impossible for art to convey more intensely than this -the beauty of such a movement of impetuous yearning. The action of the -Christ is as vividly realised; almost too obviously, indeed, does he -seem to be edging out of the composition in order to escape the -Magdalene’s outstretched hands. This is a striking instance of that -power which Giotto possessed more than any other Italian, more indeed -than any other artist except Rembrandt, the power of making perceptible -the flash of mutual recognition which passes between two souls at a -moment of sudden illumination.</p> - -<p>In the “Pietà” (Plate) a more epic conception is realised, for the -impression conveyed is of a universal and cosmic disaster: the air is -rent with the shrieks of desperate angels whose bodies are contorted in -a raging frenzy of compassion. And the effect is due in part to the -increased command, which the Paduan frescoes show, of simplicity and -logical directness of design. These massive boulder-like forms, these -draperies cut by only a few large sweeping folds, which suffice to give -the general movement of the figure with unerring precision, all show -this new tendency in Giotto’s art as compared with the more varied -detail, the more individual characterisation, of his early works. It is -by this consciously acquired and masterly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> simplicity that Giotto keeps -here, in spite of the unrestrained extravagance of passion, the -consoling dignity of style. If one compares it, for example, with the -works of Flemish painters, who explored the depths of human emotion with -a similar penetrating and sympathetic curiosity, one realises the -importance of what all the great Italians inherited from Græco-Roman -civilisation—the urbanity of a great style. And nowhere is it felt more -than here, where Giotto is dealing with emotions which classical art -scarcely touched.</p> - -<p>It is interesting that Giotto should first have attained to this perfect -understanding of style at Padua, where he was, as we know, in constant -intercourse with Dante. Dante must have often watched him, perhaps -helped him by suggestions, in decorating the chapel built with the -ill-gotten wealth of that Scrovegni whom he afterwards seated amid the -usurers on the burning sands of Hell.</p> - -<p>It is mainly by means of the composition and the general conception of -pose and movement that Giotto expresses the dramatic idea. And regarded -from that point of view, these frescoes are an astounding proof of -Giotto’s infallible intuitions. The characters he has created here are -as convincing, as ineffaceable, as any that have been created by poets. -The sad figure of Joachim is one never to be forgotten. In every -incident of his sojourn in the wilderness, after the rejection of his -offering in the temple, his appearance indicates exactly his mental -condition. When he first comes to the sheepfold, he gazes with such set -melancholy on the ground that the greeting of his dog and his shepherds -cannot arouse his attention; when he makes a sacrifice he crawls on -hands and knees in the suspense of expectation, watching for a sign from -heaven; even in his sleep we guess at his melancholy dreams; and in the -scene where he meets his wife at the Golden Gate on his return, Giotto -has touched a chord of feeling at least as profound as can be reached by -the most consummate master of the art of words.</p> - -<p>It is true that in speaking of these one is led inevitably to talk of -elements in the work which modern criticism is apt to regard as lying -outside the domain of pictorial art. It is customary to dismiss all that -concerns the dramatic presentation of the subject as literature or -illustration, which is to be sharply distinguished from the qualities of -design. But can this clear distinction be drawn in fact? The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> imaginings -of a playwright, a dramatic poet, and a dramatic painter have much in -common, but they are never at any point identical. Let us suppose a -story to be treated by all three: to each, as he dwells on the legend, -the imagination will present a succession of images, but those images, -even at their first formation, will be quite different in each case, -they will be conditioned and coloured by the art which the creator -practises, by his past observation of nature with a view to presentment -in that particular art. The painter, like Giotto, therefore, actually -imagines in terms of figures capable of pictorial presentment, he does -not merely translate a poetically dramatic vision into pictorial terms. -And to be able to do this implies a constant observation of natural -forms with a bias towards the discovery of pictorial beauty. To be able, -then, to conceive just the appropriate pose of a hand to express the -right idea of character and emotion in a picture, is surely as much a -matter of a painter’s vision as to appreciate the relative “values” of a -tree and cloud so as to convey the mood proper to a particular -landscape.</p> - -<p>Before leaving the Paduan frescoes, I must allude to those allegorical -figures of the virtues and vices in which Giotto has, as it were, -distilled the essence of his understanding of human nature. These -personified virtues and vices were the rhetorical commonplaces of the -day, but Giotto’s intuitive understanding of the expression of emotion -enabled him to give them a profound significance. He has in some -succeeded in giving not merely a person under the influence of a given -passion, but the abstract passion itself, not merely an angry woman, but -anger. To conceive thus a figure possessed absolutely by a single -passion implied, an excursion beyond the regions of experience; no -merely scientific observation of the effects of emotion would have -enabled him to conceive the figure of Anger. It required an imagination -that could range the remotest spaces thus to condense in visible form -the bestial madness of the passion, to depict what Blake would have -called the “diabolical abstract” of anger.</p> - -<p>We come now to the last great series of frescoes by Giotto which we -possess, those of the Bardi and Peruzzi chapels of Sta. Croce, his -maturest and most consummate works. From the very first Giotto had to -the full the power of seizing upon whatever in the forms of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> nature -expressed life and emotion, but the perfect understanding of the -conditions of a suave and gracious style was only slowly acquired. In -the Florentine frescoes it is the geniality, the persuasiveness of the -style which first strikes us. They have, indeed, an almost academic -perfection of design.</p> - -<p>The comparison of the “Death of S. Francis” here with the early fresco -of the subject at Assisi shows how far Giotto has moved from the literal -realism of his first works. At Assisi crowds of people push round the -bier, soldiers and citizens come in to see, there is all the shifting -variety of the actual event. Here the composition is sublimated and -refined, reduced to its purest elements. The scene is still vividly, -intensely real, but it is apprehended in a more pensive and meditative -vein. There is in the composition a feeling for space which imposes a -new mood of placidity and repose. This composition became the typical -formula for such subjects throughout the Renaissance, but it was never -again equalled. In spite of its apparent ease and simplicity, it is -really by the subtlest art that all these figures are grouped in such -readily apprehended masses without any sense of crowding and with such -variety of gesture in the figures. The fresco, which had remained for -more than a century under a coat of whitewash, was discovered in 1841 -and immediately disfigured by utter restoration. The artist,<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a> with a -vague idea that Giotto was a decorative artist, and that decoration -meant something ugly and unnatural, surrounded the figures with hard -inexpressive lines. We can, therefore, only guess, by our knowledge of -Giotto elsewhere, and by the general idea of pose, how perfect was the -characterisation of the actors in the scene, how each responded -according to his temperament to the general sorrow, some in humble -prostration, one with a more intimate and personal affection, and one, -to whom the vision of the ascending soul is apparent, wrapt in mystic -ecstasy.</p> - -<p>An interesting characteristic of these late frescoes is the revival -which they declare of Giotto’s early love for classical architecture. He -may well have recognised the pictorial value of the large <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span>untroubled -rectangular spaces which it allowed. In the “Salome” he has approached -even more nearly to purely classic forms than in his earliest frescoes -at Assisi. The building has an almost Palladian effect with its square -parapets surmounted by statues, some of which are clearly derived from -the antique. In the soldier who brings in the Baptist’s head he has -reverted to the costume of the Roman soldier, whereas, in the allegory -of Chastity, the soldiers wear mediæval winged helmets.</p> - -<p>The fact that there is a free copy of this fresco by the Lorenzetti at -Siena made in 1331 gives us the period before which this must have been -finished. Here again the mood is singularly placid, but the intensity -with which Giotto realised a particularly dramatic moment is shown by a -curious detail in which this differs from the usual rendering of the -scene. Most artists, wishing to express the essentials of the story, -make Salome continue her dance while the head is brought in. But Giotto -was too deep a psychologist to make such an error. At the tragic moment -she stops dancing and makes sad music on her lyre, to show that she, -too, is not wanting in proper sensibility.</p> - -<p>There is evidence in these frescoes of an artistic quality which we -could scarcely have believed possible, and yet, as it is most evident in -those parts which are least damaged, it is impossible not to believe -that Giotto possessed it; and that is the real feeling for chiaroscuro -which these paintings show. It is not merely that the light falls in one -direction, though even that was a conception which was scarcely grasped -before Masaccio, but that Giotto actually composes by light and shade, -subordinates figures or groups of figures by letting them recede into -gloom and brings others into prominent light. This is particularly well -seen in the “Ascension of S. John” where the shadow of the building is -made use of to unify the composition and give depth and relief to the -imagined space. It is also an example of that beautiful atmospheric -tonality of which I have already spoken. In the figure of S. John -himself, Giotto seems to have the freedom and ease which we associate -with art of a much later date. There is scarcely a hint of archaism in -this figure. The head, with its perfect fusion of tones, its atmospheric -envelopment, seems already nearly as modern as a head by Titian. Even -the colour scheme, the rich<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> earthy reds, the intense sweet blues of the -figures relieved against a broken green-grey, is a strange anticipation -of Cinquecento art. It seems as though Giotto in these works had himself -explored the whole of the promised land to which he led Italian -painting.</p> - -<p>It is true that we are conscious of a certain archaism here in the -relations of the figures and the architecture. A certain violence is -done to that demand for verisimilitude which, perhaps wrongly, we now -invariably make. But in the “Raising of Drusiana,” even this demand is -met. Here the figures all have their just proportions to one another, -and to the buildings, and to the town wall which stretches behind them. -The scene is imagined, not merely according to the conditions of the -dramatic idea, but according to the possibilities and limitations of -actual figures moving in a three dimensional space; even the perspective -of the ground is understood. Such an imaginative construction of three -dimensional space had its disadvantages as well as its advantages for -art, but in any case it is an astonishing indication of Giotto’s genius -that he thus foresaw the conditions which in the end would be accepted -universally in European art. There is scarcely anything here that -Raphael would have had to alter to adapt the composition to one of his -tapestry cartoons.</p> - -<p>Of the dramatic power of this I need add nothing to what has already -been said, but as this is the last of his works which we shall examine -it may afford an example of some of the characteristics of Giotto’s -draughtsmanship. For Giotto was one of the greatest masters of line that -the world has seen, and the fact that his knowledge of the forms of the -figure was comparatively elementary in no way interferes with his -greatness. It is not how many facts about an object an artist can -record, but how incisive and how harmonious with itself the record is, -that constitutes the essence of draughtsmanship.</p> - -<p>In considering the qualities of line, three main elements are to be -regarded: First, the decorative rhythm, our sense of sight being -constructed like our sense of sound, so that certain relations, probably -those which are capable of mathematical analysis, are pleasing, and -others discordant. Secondly, the significance of line as enabling us -imaginatively to reconstruct a real, not necessarily an actual, object -from it. The greatest excellence of this quality will be the -condensation of the greatest possible suggestion of real form into the -simplest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> most easily apprehended line; the absence of confusing -superfluity on the one hand, and mechanical, and therefore meaningless -simplicity, on the other. Finally, we may regard line as a gesture, -which impresses us as a direct revelation of the artist’s personality in -the same way that handwriting does.</p> - -<p>Now, with Giotto, beautiful as his line undoubtedly is, it is not the -first quality, the decorative rhythm, that most immediately impresses -us. That is not the object of such deliberate and conscious research as -with some artists. It is in its significance for the expression of form -with the utmost lucidity, the most logical interrelation of parts that -his line is so impressive. Here, for instance, in the figure of the -kneeling woman, the form is expressed with perfect clearness; we feel at -once the relation of the shoulders to one another, the relation of the -torso to the pelvis, the main position of the thighs, and all this is -conveyed by a curve of incredible simplicity capable of instant -apprehension. To record so much with such economy requires not only a -rare imaginative grasp of structure, but a manual dexterity which makes -the story of Giotto’s O perfectly credible should one care to believe -it.</p> - -<p>Giotto’s line, regarded as an habitual gesture, is chiefly striking for -its breadth and dignity. It has the directness, the absence of -preciosity, which belongs to a generous and manly nature. The large -sweeping curves of his loose and full draperies are in part the direct -outcome of this attitude.</p> - -<p>It is difficult to avoid the temptation to say of Giotto that he was the -greatest artist that ever lived, a phrase which has been used of too -many masters to retain its full emphasis. But at least he was the most -prodigious phenomenon in the known history of art. Starting with little -but the crude realism of Cimabue, tempered by the effete accomplishment -of the Byzantines,<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a> to have created an art capable of expressing the -whole range of human emotions; to have found, almost without a guide, -how to treat the raw material of life itself in a style so direct, so -pliant to the idea, and yet so essentially grandiose and heroic; to have -guessed intuitively almost all the principles of representation which it -required nearly two centuries of enthusiastic research<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> to establish -scientifically—to have accomplished all this is surely a more -astounding performance than any other one artist has ever achieved.</p> - -<p>But the fascination Giotto’s art exercises is due in part to his -position in the development of modern culture. Coming at the same time -as Dante, he shares with him the privilege of seeing life as a single, -self-consistent, and systematic whole. It was a moment of equilibrium -between the conflicting tendencies of human activity, a moment when such -men as Dante and Giotto could exercise to the full their critical and -analytical powers without destroying the unity of a cosmic theory based -on theology. Such a moment was in its nature transitory: the free use of -all the faculties which the awakening to a new self-consciousness had -aroused, was bound to bring about antitheses which became more and more -irreconcilable as time went on. Only one other artist in later times was -able again to rise, by means of the conception of natural law, to a -point whence life could be viewed as a whole. Even so, it was by a more -purely intellectual effort, and Leonardo da Vinci could not keep the -same genial but shrewd sympathy for common humanity which makes Giotto’s -work so eternally refreshing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_117fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_117fp_sml.jpg" width="269" height="328" alt="Image unvavailable: Castagno. Crucifixion Fresco in St. Apollonia, Florence - -Plate VII. - -" /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Castagno. Crucifixion</td> -<td class="rt">Fresco in St. Apollonia, Florence</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate VII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="THE_ART_OF_FLORENCE" id="THE_ART_OF_FLORENCE"></a>THE ART OF FLORENCE<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor1">[37]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE “artistic temperament”—as used in the press and the police court, -these words betray a general misunderstanding of the nature of art, and -of the artist whenever he becomes fully conscious of its purpose. The -idea of the artist as the plaything of whim and caprice, a -hypersensitive and incoherent emotionalist, is, no doubt, true of a -certain class of men, many of whom practise the arts; nothing could be -further from a true account of those artists whose work has had the -deepest influence on the tradition of art; nothing could be less true of -the great artists of the Florentine School.</p> - -<p>From the rise of modern art in the thirteenth century till now Florence -and France have been the decisive factors in the art of Europe. Without -them our art might have reflected innumerable pathetic or dramatic -moods, it might have illustrated various curious or moving situations, -it would not have attained to the conception of generalised truth of -form.</p> - -<p>To Florence of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and to France of -the seventeenth and succeeding centuries we owe the creation of -generalised or what, for want of a better word, we may call -“intellectual” art.</p> - -<p>In speaking of intellect it is necessary to discriminate between two -distinct modes of its operation. The intellect may seek to satisfy -curiosity by observation of the distinctions between one object and -another by means of analysis; but it may concern itself with the -discovery of fundamental relations between these objects, by the -construction of a synthetic system which satisfies the mind, both for -its truth to facts and its logical coherence. The artist may employ both -these modes. His curiosity about the phenomena of nature may lead him to -accurate observation and recognition of the variety and distinctness of -characters, but he also seeks to construe these distinct forms<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> into -such a coherent whole as will satisfy the æsthetic desire for unity. -Perhaps the processes employed by the artist may not be identical with -the intellectual processes of science, but it is evident that they -present a very close analogy to them.</p> - -<p>It is a curious fact that at the beginning of the fifteenth century in -Italy, art was deeply affected by both kinds of intellectual activity. -Curiosity about natural forms in all their variety and -complexity—<i>naturalism</i> in the modern sense—first manifested itself in -European art in Flanders, France, and North Italy about the second -decade of the fifteenth century. It appears that Italy actually led the -way in this movement, and that Lombardy was the point of origin. -Pisanello and Jacopo Bellini are the great exemplars in Italy of this -idea of exploring indefatigably and somewhat recklessly all those -detailed aspects of nature which their predecessors, occupied in the -grand Giottesque style, had scorned to notice.</p> - -<p>In Florence, too, this impulse was undoubtedly felt, but it is the great -distinction of the Florentine artists that, however much their curiosity -about particular forms may have been excited, their high intellectual -passion for abstract ideas impelled them more to the study of some -general principles underlying all appearance. They refused to admit the -given facts of nature except in so far as they could become amenable to -the generalising power of their art. Facts had to be digested into form -before they were allowed into the system.</p> - -<p>We can get an idea of what Florence of the fifteenth century meant for -the subsequent tradition of European art if we consider that if it had -not been for Florence the art of Italy might have been not altogether -unlike the art of Flanders and the Rhine—a little more rhythmical, a -little more gracious, perhaps, but fundamentally hardly more -significant.</p> - -<p>Although this typically Florentine attitude defined itself most clearly -under the stress of naturalism it was, of course, already characteristic -of earlier Florentine art. Giotto, indeed, had left the tradition of -formal completeness so firmly fixed in Florence that whatever new -material had to be introduced it could only be introduced into a clearly -recognised system of design.</p> - -<p>Of Giotto’s own work we rarely get a sight in England, the National -Gallery having missed the one great chance of getting him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> represented -some twenty years ago. But though Lady Jekyll’s single figure of Christ -can by its nature give no idea of his amazing and almost unequalled -power of discovering unexpected inevitabilities of formal relations, it -gives none the less something of Giotto’s peculiar beauty of drawing, -wherein the completest reality is attained without any attempted -verisimilitude. In Mr. Harris’s Bernardo Daddi we get nearer perhaps to -Giotto as a composer, and even in his Giovanni da Milano, in spite of -some Lombard grossness and sentimentality, the great tradition still -lives.</p> - -<p>Masaccio, represented here by Mr. Rickett’s single figure, is one of the -most mysterious personalities in art, and typically Florentine. His -mystery lies partly in our ignorance about him, partly in the difficulty -of grasping the rapidity of action, the precocity, of genius such as -his. Coming at the very beginning of the naturalistic movement he seized -with a strange complacency and ease upon the new material it offered, -but (and this is what astounds one) he instantly discovered how to -assimilate it perfectly to the formal requirements of design. So that -not only the discovery of the new material, but its digestion was with -him a simultaneous and almost instantaneous process. He was helped -perhaps by the fact that the new naturalism was as yet only a general -perception of new aspects of natural form. It was left for his younger -contemporaries to map out the new country methodically—to the group of -adventurous spirits—Brunelleschi, Donatello, Castagno, and Uccello—who -founded modern science, and gave to the understanding of classic art a -methodical basis. It is in this group that the fierce intellectual -passion of the Florentine genius manifests itself most clearly. -Perspective and anatomy were the two studies which promised to reveal to -them the secrets of natural form. The study of anatomy exemplifies -mainly the aspect of curiosity, though even in this the desire to find -the underlying principles of appearance is evident—on the other hand -perspective, to its first discoverers, appeared to promise far more than -an aid to verisimilitude, it may have seemed a visual revelation of the -structure of space and through that a key to the construction of -pictorial space.</p> - -<p>To our more penetrating study of æsthetic (for of all sciences, æsthetic -has been the greatest laggard) it is evident that neither<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> perspective -nor anatomy have any very immediate bearing upon art—both of them are -means of ascertaining facts, and the question of art begins where the -question of fact ends. But artists have always had to excite themselves -with some kind of subsidiary intoxicant, and perspective and anatomy, -while they were still in their infancy, acted admirably as stimulants. -That they have by now become, for most artists, the dreariest of -sedatives may make it difficult to conceive this. But at all events in -that first generation they excited their devotees to an ardent search -for abstract unity of design. And this excitement went on to the next -generation as exemplified by the works of the Umbro-Florentines—Piero -della Francesca and Signorelli—and in Florence itself of Pollajuolo.</p> - -<p>But the scientific spirit once aroused was destined not to remain for -long so stimulating and helpful an assistant to the creation of design. -It was bound in the end to start trains of thought too complex and too -absorbing to occupy a subordinate place. Already in the rank and file of -Florentine artists, the Ghirlandajos, Filippino Lippis, and their -kindred, mere curiosity—naïve literalism—had undermined the tradition, -so that towards the last quarter of the century hardly any artist knew -how to design intelligibly on the scale of a fresco, whereas the merest -duffer of the fourteenth century could be certain of the volumes and -quantities of his divisions.</p> - -<p>But it is with Leonardo da Vinci that the higher aspects of the -scientific spirit first came into conflict with art. Doubtless this -conflict is not fundamental nor final, but only an apparent result of -human limitations; but to one who, like Leonardo, first had a Pisgah -prospect of that immense territory, to the exploration of which four -centuries of the intensest human effort have been devoted without yet -getting in sight of its boundaries—to such a man it was almost -inevitable that the scientific content of art should assume an undue -significance. Up till Leonardo one can say that the process of digesting -the new found material into æsthetic form had kept pace with -observation, though already in Verrocchio there is a sign of yielding to -the crude phenomenon. But with Leonardo himself the organising faculty -begins to break down under the stress of new matter. Leonardo himself -shared to the full the Florentine passion for abstraction, but it was -inevitable that he should be dazzled and fascinated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> by the vast -prospects that opened before his intellectual gaze. It was inevitable -that where such vast masses of new particulars revealed themselves to -his curiosity their claim for investigation should be the most -insistent. Not but what Leonardo did recognise the necessity for his art -of some restriction and choice. His keen observation had revealed to him -the whole gamut of atmospheric colour which first became a material for -design under Monet and his followers. But having described a picture -which would exactly correspond to a French painting of 1870, he rejects -the whole of this new material as unsuitable for art. But even his -rejection was not really a recognition of the claims of form, but only, -alas! of another scientific trend with which his mind had become -possessed. It was his almost prophetic vision of the possibilities of -psychology which determined more than anything else the lines of his -work. In the end almost everything was subordinated to the idea of a -kind of psychological illustration of dramatic themes—an illustration -which was not to be arrived at by an instinctive reconstruction from -within, but by deliberate analytic observation. Now in so far as the -movements of the soul could be interpreted by movements of the body as a -whole, the new material might lend itself readily to plastic -construction, but the minuter and even more psychologically significant -movements of facial expression demanded a treatment which hardly worked -for æsthetic unity. It involved a new use of light and shade, which in -itself tended to break down the fundamental divisions of design, though -later on Caravaggio and Rembrandt managed, not very successfully, to -pull it round so as to become the material for the basic rhythm. And in -any case the analytic trend of Leonardo’s mind became too much -accentuated to allow of a successful synthesis. Michelangelo, to some -extent, and Raphael still more, did, of course, do much to re-establish -a system of design on an enlarged basis which would admit of some of -Leonardo’s new content, but one might hazard the speculation that -European art has hardly yet recovered from the shock which Leonardo’s -passion for psychological illustration delivered. Certainly literalism -and illustration have through all these centuries been pressing dangers -to art—dangers which it has been the harder to resist in that they -allow of an appeal to that vast public to whom the language of form is -meaningless.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<p>In Florentine art, then, one may see at happy moments of equilibrium the -supreme advantages of intellectual art and at other and less fortunate -moments the dangers which beset so difficult an endeavour. It was after -all a Florentine who made the best prophecy of the results of modern -æsthetic when he said: “Finally good painting is a music and a melody -which intellect only can appreciate and that with difficulty.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_123fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_123fp_sml.jpg" width="380" height="212" alt="Image unvavailable: Paolo Ucello. St. George and the Dragon Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate VIII. - -" /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Paolo Ucello. St. George and the Dragon</td> -<td class="rt">Collection Jacquemart-André</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate VIII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="THE_JACQUEMART-ANDRE_COLLECTION" id="THE_JACQUEMART-ANDRE_COLLECTION"></a>THE JACQUEMART-ANDRÉ COLLECTION<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor1">[38]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Jacquemart-André collection is not merely one of those accumulations -of the art of the past by which it has become the fashion for rich -people to impose themselves on the wonder of an ignorant public. It -shows that the lady who created it did so partly, at all events, because -of a quite personal and intimate love of beautiful things, a love which -did not have to seek for its justification and support in the opinion of -the world.</p> - -<p>The three pictures reproduced here are proof of the sincerity and -courage of Mdme. André’s artistic convictions. They offer scarcely any -foothold for the sentimental and associative understanding of pictures. -The “S. George” of Paolo Uccello (see Plate) might, it is true, be taken -as a “naïve,” “quaint,” or “primitive” rendering of an “old world” -legend—indeed, whilst I was admiring it I gathered from the comments of -those who lingered before it for a few seconds that this was the general -attitude—but to do so would be to misunderstand the picture completely. -Uccello, in fact, lends himself to misunderstanding, and Vasari, with -his eye to literary picturesqueness, has done his best to put us off the -scent. He made him an “original,” a harmless, ingenious, slightly -ridiculous crank, gifted, no doubt, but one whose gifts were wasted by -reason of his crankiness. And the legend created by Vasari has stuck. -Uccello has always seemed to be a little aside from the main road of -art, an agreeable, amusing diversion, one that we can enjoy with a -certain humorous and patronising detachment, as we enjoy the innocence -of some mediæval chronicler. Uccello, I admit, has lent himself to this -misunderstanding because from every other point of view but that of pure -design he comes up to the character Vasari has made current. No artist -was ever so helpless as he at the dramatic presentment of his theme. -Nothing can well be imagined less like a battle than his battle pieces, -nor if we think of the Deluge would our wildest fancies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> have ever -conceived anything remotely resembling the scene which he painted with -such literal precision, with such a mass of inconclusive and improbable -invention, in the Chiostro Verde of Sta. Maria Novella.</p> - -<p>The idea of verisimilitude is entirely foreign to him. And here comes in -the oddity and irony of his situation. He was the first or almost the -first great master of linear perspective. The study of perspective -became so engrossing to him that according to Vasari it wasted his -talent as an artist.</p> - -<p>Now perspective is the scientific statement of the nature of visual -appearance. To the modern artist it becomes an occasional assistance in -giving to his images an air of verisimilitude. Wherever a strict -adherence to the laws of perspective would give to his objects a strange -or unlikely look he frankly neglects it. But to Uccello perspective -seemed, perhaps wrongly, to have an altogether different value. To him -it appears to have been a method of recreating a visual world. That is -to say, he took certain data of appearance from observation, and by -handling them according to the laws of perspective he created a world, -which, owing to the simplicity of his data and the rigid application of -his laws, has far less resemblance to what we see than his -contemporaries and predecessors had contrived by rule of thumb. Had he -taken the whole of the data of observed form the application of the laws -of perspective would have become impossible, and he would have been -thrown back upon imitative realism and the literal acceptance of -appearance. Such was indeed what happened to the painters of Flanders -and the north, and such has become the usual method of modern realistic -art. But nothing was more abhorrent to the spirit of fifteenth-century -Florence than such an acceptance of the merely casual, and nothing is -more fundamentally opposed to the empirical realism of a Van Eyck or a -Frith than the scientific and abstract realism of Paolo Uccello.</p> - -<p>This passion, then, for an abstract and theoretical completeness of -rendering led Uccello to simplify the data of observed form to an -extraordinary extent, and his simplification anticipates in a curious -way that of the modern cubists, as one may see from the treatment of his -horses in the National Gallery battle-piece.</p> - -<p>It is one of the curiosities of the psychology of the artist that he is -generally trying very hard to do something which has nothing to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<p><a name="plateIX" id="plateIX"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_125fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_125fp_sml.jpg" width="374" height="452" alt="Image unvavailable: Baldovinetti. Virgin and Child Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate IX." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Baldovinetti. Virgin and Child</td> -<td class="rt"> Collection Jacquemart-André</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate IX.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">do with what he actually accomplishes; that the fundamental quality of -his work seems to come out unconsciously as a by-product of his -conscious activity. And so it was in Uccello’s case. If one had asked -him what his perspective was for, he would probably have said that when -once it was completely mastered it would enable the artist to create at -will any kind of visual whole, and that this would have the same -completeness, the same authenticity as an actual scene. As a matter of -fact such a conception is unrealisable; the problem is too complex for -solution in this way, and what happened to Uccello was that the -simplifications and abstractions imposed upon his observation of nature -by the desire to construct his whole scene perspectively, really set -free in him his power of a purely æsthetic organisation of form. And it -is this, in fact, that makes his pictures so remarkable. In the -Jacquemart-André picture, for instance, we see how the complex whole -which such a scene as the legend of S. George suggests is reduced to -terms of astounding simplicity; saint, horse, dragon, princess are all -seen in profile because the problems of representation had to be -approached from their simplest aspect. The landscape is reduced to a -system of rectilinear forms seen at right angles to the picture plane -for the same reason.</p> - -<p>And out of the play of these almost abstract forms mainly rectangular, -with a few elementary curves repeated again and again, Uccello has -constructed the most perfect, the most amazingly subtle harmony. In -Uccello’s hands painting becomes almost as abstract, almost as pure an -art as architecture. And as his feeling for the interplay of forms, the -rhythmic disposition of planes, was of the rarest and finest, the most -removed from anything trivial or merely decorative (in the vulgar -sense), he passes by means of this power of formal organisation into a -region of feeling entirely remote from that which is suggested if we -regard his work as mere illustration. Judged as illustration the “S. -George” is quaint, innocent and slightly childish; as design it must -rank among the great masterpieces.</p> - -<p>Two other pictures in the Jacquemart-André collection illustrate the -same spirit of uncompromising æsthetic adventure which distinguishes one -branch of the Florentine school of the fifteenth century, and lifts it -above almost all that was being attempted elsewhere in Italy even at -this period of creative exuberance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<p>Baldovinetti was at one time in close contact with Uccello, and of all -his works the “Madonna and Child” in the Jacquemart-André collection is -the most heroically uncompromising (<a href="#plateIX">Plate IX</a>). No doubt he accepted more -material directly from nature than Uccello did. He was beginning to -explore the principles of atmospheric perspective which were destined -ultimately to break up the unity of pictorial design, but everything -that he takes is used with the same spirit of obedience to the laws of -architectonic harmony. The spacing of this design, the relations of -volume of the upright mass of the Virgin’s figure to the spaces of sky -and landscape have the unmistakable interdependence of great design. -Only a great creative artist could have discovered so definite a -relationship. The great mass of the rocky hill in the landscape and the -horizontal lines of the Child’s figure play into the central idea with -splendid effect. Only in the somewhat rounded and insensitive modelling -of the Virgin’s face does the weakness of Baldovinetti’s genius betray -itself. The contours are everywhere magnificently plastic; only when he -tries to create the illusion of plastic relief by modelling, -Baldovinetti becomes literal and uninspired. In his profile portrait in -the National Gallery he relies fortunately almost entirely on the -plasticity of the contour—in his late “Trinità” at the Accademia in -Florence the increasing desire for imitative realism has already gone -far to destroy this quality.</p> - -<p>The third picture (see Plate) which I have taken as illustrating my -theme is not, it is true, Florentine, but its author, Signorelli, kept -so constantly in touch with the scientific realists of Florence that he -may be counted almost as one of them, nor indeed did any of them surpass -him in uncompromising fidelity to the necessities of pure design. -Certainly there is nothing of the flattering or seductive qualities of -the common run of Umbrian art in this robust and audacious composition, -in which everything is arranged as it were concentrically around the -imposing mass of the Virgin’s figure. The gestures interpreted -psychologically are not on the same imaginative plane as the design -itself. Signorelli was ill at ease in interpreting any states but those -of great tension, and here the gestures are meant to be playful and -intimate. As in the Uccello, the illustrative pretext is at variance -with the design which it serves; and as in the Uccello, the design -itself, the scaffolding of the architectonic structure, is really what -counts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_126fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_126fp_sml.jpg" width="410" height="493" alt="Image unvavailable: Signorelli. Holy Family Collection Jacquemart-André - -Plate X." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Signorelli. Holy Family</td> -<td class="rt">Collection Jacquemart-André</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate X.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="DURER_AND_HIS_CONTEMPORARIES" id="DURER_AND_HIS_CONTEMPORARIES"></a>DÜRER AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor1">[39]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>T is a habit of the human mind to make to itself symbols in order to -abbreviate its admiration for a class. So Dürer has come to stand for -German art somewhat as Raphael once stood for Italian. Such symbols -attract to themselves much of the adoration which more careful -worshippers would distribute over the Pantheon, and it becomes difficult -to appreciate them justly without incurring the charge of iconoclasm. -But this, in Dürer’s case, is the more difficult because, whatever one’s -final estimate of his art, his personality is at once so imposing and so -attractive, and has been so endeared to us by familiarity, that -something of this personal attachment has transferred itself to our -æsthetic judgment.</p> - -<p>The letters from Venice and the Diary of his journey in the Netherlands, -which form the matter of this volume, are indeed the singularly -fortunate means for this pleasant discourse with the man himself. They -reveal Dürer as one of the distinctively modern men of the Renaissance: -intensely, but not arrogantly, conscious of his own personality; -accepting with a pleasant ease the universal admiration of his genius—a -personal admiration, too, of an altogether modern kind; careful of his -fame as one who foresaw its immortality. They show him as having, though -in a far less degree, something of Leonardo da Vinci’s scientific -interest, certainly as having a quick, though naïve curiosity about the -world and a quite modern freedom from superstition. It is clear that his -dominating and yet kindly personality, no less than his physical beauty -and distinction, made him the centre of interest wherever he went. His -easy and humorous good-fellowship, of which the letters to Pirkheimer -are eloquent, won for him the admiring friendship of the best men of his -time. To all these characteristics we must add a deep and sincere -religious feeling, which led him to side with the leaders of the -Reformation, a feeling that comes out in his passionate sense of loss -when he thinks<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> that Luther is about to be put to death, and that -prompted him to write a stirring letter to Erasmus, in which he urged -him to continue the work of reform. For all that, there is no trace in -him of either Protestantism or Puritanism. He was perhaps -fortunate—certainly as an artist he was fortunate—in living at a time -when the line of cleavage between the Reformers and the Church was not -yet so marked as to compel a decisive choice. The symbolism of the -Church still had for him its old significance, as yet quickened and not -discredited by the reformer’s energy. But intense as Dürer’s devotion -was, his religious feeling found its way to effective artistic -expression only upon one side, namely, the brooding sense which -accompanied it, of the imminence and terror of death. How much more -definite is the inspiration in the drawing of “Death on a Horse” (in the -British Museum), in the “Knight, Death and the Devil,” and in the allied -“Melancholia,” than it is in his renderings of the Virgin or indeed of -any of the scenes of Christian legend! It is this feeling, too, which -gives to his description of his mother’s death its almost terrible -literary beauty and power. Nor in the estimate of Dürer’s character must -one leave out the touching affection and piety which the family history -written by him in 1524 reveals.</p> - -<p>So much that is attractive and endearing in the man cannot but react -upon our attitude to his work—has done so, perhaps, ever since his own -day; and it is difficult to get far enough away from Dürer the man to be -perfectly just to Dürer the artist. But if we make the attempt, it -becomes clear, I think, that Dürer cannot take rank in the highest class -of creative geniuses. His position is none the less of great importance -and interest for his relation on the one hand to the Gothic tradition of -his country, and on the other to the newly perceived splendours of the -Italian Renaissance.</p> - -<p>Much must depend on our estimate of his last work, the “Four Apostles,” -at Munich. In that he summed up all that the patient and enthusiastic -labour of a lifetime had taught him. If we regard that as a work of the -highest beauty, if we can conscientiously put it beside the figures of -the Sistine Chapel, beside the Saints of Mantegna, or Signorelli, or -Piero della Francesca, then indeed Dürer’s labour was crowned with -success; but if we find in it rather a careful exposition of certain -theoretical principles, if we find that the matter is not entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> -transfused with the style, if we find a conflict between a certain naïve -crudity of vision and a straining after the grand manner, then we have -to say that Dürer’s art was the outcome of a magnificent and heroic but -miscalculated endeavour.</p> - -<p>It is one of the ironies of history that the Romans, the only Philistine -people among Mediterranean races, should have been the great means of -transmitting to the modern world that culture which they themselves -despised, and that the Germans should have laboured so long and hard to -atone for the heroism of their ancestors in resisting that beneficent -loss of liberty. Nuremberg of the fifteenth century was certainly given -over to the practice of fine art with a pathetic enthusiasm, and it -remains as a sad but instructive proof of how little good-will and -industry avail by themselves in such matters. The worship of mere -professional skill and undirected craftsmanship is there seen pushed to -its last conclusions, and the tourist’s wonder is prompted by the sight -of stone carved into the shapes of twisted metal, and wood simulating -the intricacies of confectionery, his admiration is canvassed by every -possible perversion of technical dexterity. Not “What a thing is done!” -but, “How difficult it must have been to do it!” is the exclamation -demanded.</p> - -<p>Of all that perverted technical ingenuity which flaunts itself in the -wavering stonework of a Kraft or the crackling woodwork of a Storr, -Dürer was inevitably the heir. He grew up in an atmosphere where the -acrobatic feats of technique were looked on with admiration rather than -contempt. Something of this clung to him through life, and he is always -recognised as the prince of craftsmen, the consummate technician. In all -this side of Dürer’s art we recognise the last over-blown efflorescence -of the mediæval craftsmanship of Germany, of the apprentice system and -the “master” piece; but that Gothic tradition had still left in it much -that was sound and sincere. Drawing still retained something of the -blunt, almost brutal frankness of statement, together with the sense of -the characteristic which marked its earlier period. And it is perhaps -this inheritance of Gothic directness of statement, this Gothic realism, -that accounts for what is ultimately of most value in Dürer’s work. -There exists in the Kunsthistorisches Akademie at Vienna a painting of a -man, dated 1394, which shows how much of Dürer’s portraiture was -already<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> implicit in the Nuremberg school. In this remarkable work, -executed, if we may trust the date, nearly a century before Dürer, there -is almost everything that interests us in Dürer’s portraits. Indeed, it -has to an even greater extent that half-humorous statement of the -characteristic, that outrageous realism that makes the vivid appeal of -the Oswold Krell, and the absence of which in Dürer’s last years makes -the Holtschuer such a tiresome piece of brilliant delineation.</p> - -<p>Dürer was perhaps the greatest infant prodigy among painters, and the -drawing of himself at the age of twelve shows how early he had mastered -that simple and abrupt sincerity of Gothic draughtsmanship. One is -inclined to say that in none of his subsequent work did he ever surpass -this in all that really matters, in all that concerns the essential -vision and its adequate presentment. He increased his skill until it -became the wonder of the world and entangled him in its seductions; his -intellectual apprehension was indefinitely heightened, and his knowledge -of natural appearances became encyclopædic.</p> - -<p>What, then, lies at the root of Dürer’s art is this Gothic sense of the -characteristic, already menaced by the professional bravura of the late -Gothic craftsman. The superstructure is what Dürer’s industry and -intellectual acquisitiveness, acting in the peculiar conditions of his -day, brought forth. It is in short what distinguishes him as the pioneer -of the Renaissance in Germany. This new endeavour was in two directions, -one due mainly to the trend of native ideas, the other to Italian -influence. The former was concerned mainly with a new kind of realism. -In place of the older Gothic realism with its naïve and self-confident -statement of the salient characteristic of things seen, this new realism -strove at complete representation of appearance by means of perspective, -at a more searching and complete investigation of form, and a fuller -relief in light and shade.</p> - -<p>To some extent these aims were followed also by the Italians, and with -even greater scientific ardour: all the artists of Europe were indeed -striving to master the complete power of representation. But in Italy -this aim was never followed exclusively; it was constantly modified and -controlled by the idea of design, that is to say, of expression by means -of the pure disposition of contours and masses, and by the perfection -and ordering of linear rhythm. This notion of design as something other -than representation was indeed the common inheritance of European art -from the mediæval world, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span></p> - -<p><a name="plateXI" id="plateXI"></a></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_131fpa_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_131fpa_sml.jpg" width="228" height="153" alt="Image unvavailable: Rembrandt. Calumny of Apelles, after Mantegna British Museum - -" /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Rembrandt. Calumny of Apelles,<br /> after Mantegna </td> -<td class="rt">British<br />Museum</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_131fpb_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_131fpb_sml.jpg" width="244" height="128" alt="Image unvavailable: Mantegna. Calumny of Apelles British Museum" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Mantegna. Calumny of Apelles</td> -<td class="rt">British Museum</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_131fpc_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_131fpc_sml.jpg" width="252" height="86" alt="Image unvavailable: Dürer. Calumny of Apelles British Museum - -Plate XI." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Dürer. Calumny of Apelles</td> -<td class="rt">British Museum</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">in Italy the principles of design were more profoundly embedded in -tradition, its demands were more clearly felt, and each succeeding -generation was quite as deeply concerned with the perfection of design -as with the mastery of representation. In the full Renaissance, indeed, -this idea of design became the object of fully conscious and deliberate -study, and the decadence of Italian art came about, not through -indifference to the claims of artistic expression, but through a too -purely intellectual and conscious study of them. The northern and -especially the Teutonic artists, who had not inherited so strongly this -architectonic sense, made indeed heroic efforts to acquire it, sometimes -by the futile method of direct imitation of a particular style, -sometimes—and this is the case with Dürer—by a serious effort of -æsthetic intelligence. But on the whole the attempt must be judged to -have failed, and northern art has drifted gradually towards the merely -photographic vision.</p> - -<p>Dürer strove strenuously in both these directions. He unquestionably -added immensely to the knowledge of actual form and to the power of -representation, but his eagerness led him to regard quantity of form -rather than its quality. With him drawing became a means of making -manifest the greatest possible amount of form, the utmost roundness of -relief, and his studies in pure design failed to keep pace with this. In -the end he could not use to significant purpose the increased material -at his disposal, and from the point of view of pure design his work -actually falls short of that of his predecessor, Martin Schongauer, who -indeed was benefited by lacking Dürer’s power of representation.</p> - -<p>From this point of view it may be worth while to examine in some detail -Dürer’s relations to Italian art. The earliest definite example of his -study of Italian art is in 1494, when he was probably in Venice for the -first time. It is a copy in pen and ink of an engraving of the “Death of -Orpheus” by some follower of Mantegna. The engraving is not the work of -a great artist, and Dürer’s copy shows his superior skill in the -rendering of form; but even here he has failed to realise the beauty of -spatial arrangement in the original, and his desire to enrich the design -with many skilfully drawn and convincing details results in a distinct -weakening of the dramatic effect. Again, in the same year we have two -drawings from engravings, this time by Mantegna himself. It is easy to -understand that of all Italians, Mantegna should have been the most -sympathetic to Dürer, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> that he should have regretted more than any -other ill-fortune of his life,—more even than the similar fate that -prevented his meeting Schongauer,—Mantegna’s death just when he was -setting out to Mantua to learn from the great master. What Dürer saw in -Mantegna was his clear decision of line and his richly patterned effect. -In his pen-and-ink copies he tries to surpass the original in both these -ways, and indeed the effect is of greater complexity, with more fullness -and roundness of form. Where Mantegna is content with a firm statement -of the generalised contour of a limb, Dürer will give a curve for each -muscle. There is in Dürer’s copies a mass of brilliant detail; each part -is in a sense more convincingly real; but in doing this something of the -unity of rhythm and the easy relations of planes has been lost, and on -the whole the balance is against the copyist. It is curious that when in -time Rembrandt came to copy Mantegna he took the other way, and actually -heightened the dramatic effect by minute readjustments of planning, and -by a wilful simplification of the line.<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p> - -<p>Dürer evidently felt a profound reverence for Mantegna’s designs, for he -has altered them but little, and one might well imagine that even Dürer -could scarcely improve upon such originals. But it is even more -instructive to study his work upon the so-called Tarocchi engravings. -Here the originals were not executed by an artist of first-rate ability, -though the designs have much of Cossa’s splendid style. Dürer seems, -therefore, to have felt no particular constraint about altering them. -His alterations (see Plate) show us clearly what it was that he saw in -the originals and what he missed. In all these figures Dürer gives -increased verisimilitude: his feet are like actual feet, not the -schematic abstract of a foot that contents the Italian engraver; his -poses are more casual, less formal and symmetrical; and his draperies -are more ingeniously disposed; but none the less, from the point of view -of the expression of imaginative truth, there is not one of Dürer’s -figures which equals the original, not one in which some essential part -of the idea is not missed or at least less clearly stated. In general -the continuity of the contour is lost sight of and the rhythm frittered -away. In the Pope, for instance, Dürer loses all the grave sedateness of -the original by breaking the symmetry of the pose, its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_132fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_132fp_sml.jpg" width="383" height="261" alt="Image unvavailable: Tarocchi print. Celestial sphere" /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Tarocchi print. Celestial sphere</td><td> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;margin-right: 2em;"> </span> </td> -<td class="rt">Dürer: after same</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">squareness and immovable aplomb. And with this goes, in spite of the -increased verisimilitude, the sense of reality. In the “Knight and Page” -not only is the movement of the knight missed by correcting a distortion -in the original, but the balance of the composition is lost by -displacing the page. In the “Primum Mobile” (see Plate) the ecstatic -rush of the figure is lost by slight corrections of the pose and by -giving to the floating drapery too complicated a design. It would be -tedious to go through these copies in detail, but enough has been said -to show how hard it was for Dürer, absorbed by his new curiosity in -representation, to grasp those primary and elemental principles of -design which were inherent in the Italian tradition.</p> - -<p>About the same time we find Dürer studying both Pollajuolo and Lorenzo -di Credi. The copy of Pollajuolo is not a good example of Dürer’s art; -it certainly misses the tension and inner life of Pollajuolo’s nudes. -The Lorenzo di Credi, as might be expected, is in many ways more than -adequate to the original, though as compared even with Credi, Dürer has -not a clear sense of the correlation of linear elements in the design.</p> - -<p>The next stage in Dürer’s connection with Italian art is his intimacy -with Jacopo de’ Barbari, who was settled in Nuremberg. From 1500 to 1505 -this influence manifests itself clearly in Dürer’s work. Unfortunately -Barbari was too second-rate an artist to help him much in the principles -of design, though he doubtless stimulated him to pursue those scientific -investigations into the theory of human proportions which held out the -delusive hope of reducing art to a branch of mathematics.</p> - -<p>It was not, however, until his second visit to Venice that Dürer -realised the inferiority, at all events, of Barbari, and it was then -that, through his amiable relations with Giovanni Bellini, he came -nearer than at any other moment of his life to penetrating the mysteries -of Italian design. It is in the letters from Venice, written at this -time, that his connection with the Venetian artists is made clear, and a -study of those writings will be found to illuminate in a most -interesting way Dürer’s artistic consciousness, and help to answer the -question of how he regarded his own work when seen in comparison with -the Venetians, and in what manner the Venetians regarded this wonder -worker from the north.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="EL_GRECO" id="EL_GRECO"></a>EL GRECO<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor1">[41]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>R. HOLMES has risked a good deal in acquiring for the nation the new El -Greco. The foresight and understanding necessary to bring off such a -<i>coup</i> are not the qualities that we look for from a Director of the -National Gallery. Patriotic people may even be inclined to think that -the whole proceeding smacks too much of the manner in which Dr. Bode in -past ages built up the Kaiser Friedrich Museum, largely at the expense -of English collections. Even before the acquisition of the El Greco -there were signs that Mr. Holmes did not fully understand the importance -of “muddling through.” And now with the El Greco he has given the -British public an electric shock. People gather in crowds in front of -it, they argue and discuss and lose their tempers. This might be -intelligible enough if the price were known to be fabulous, but, so far -as I am aware, the price has not been made known, so that it is really -about the picture that people get excited. And what is more, they talk -about it as they might talk about some contemporary picture, a thing -with which they have a right to feel delighted or infuriated as the case -may be—it is not like most old pictures, a thing classified and -museumified, set altogether apart from life, an object for vague and -listless reverence, but an actual living thing, expressing something -with which one has got either to agree or disagree. Even if it should -not be the superb masterpiece which most of us think it is, almost any -sum would have been well spent on a picture capable of provoking such -fierce æsthetic interest in the crowd.</p> - -<p>That the artists are excited—never more so—is no wonder, for here is -an old master who is not merely modern, but actually appears a good many -steps ahead of us, turning back to show us the way. Immortality if you -like! But the public—what is it that makes them “sit up” so -surprisingly, one wonders. What makes this El Greco “count” with them as -surely no Old Master ever did within memory?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> First, I suspect, the -extraordinary completeness of its realisation. Even the most casual -spectator, passing among pictures which retire discreetly behind their -canvases, must be struck by the violent attack of these forms, by a -relief so outstanding that by comparison the actual scene, the gallery -and one’s neighbours are reduced to the key of a Whistlerian Nocturne. -Partly, for we must face the fact, the melodramatic apparatus; the -“horrid” rocks, the veiled moon, the ecstatic gestures. Not even the -cinema star can push expression further than this. Partly, no doubt, the -clarity and the balanced rhythm of the design, the assurance and grace -of the handling; for, however little people may be conscious of it, -formal qualities do affect their reaction to a picture, though they may -pass from them almost immediately to its other implications. And -certainly here, if anywhere, formal considerations must obtrude -themselves even on the most unobservant. The extraordinary emphasis and -amplitude of the rhythm, which thus gathers up into a few sweeping -diagonals the whole complex of the vision, is directly exciting and -stimulating. It affects one like an irresistible melody, and makes that -organisation of all the parts into a single whole, which is generally so -difficult for the uninitiated, an easy matter for once. El Greco, -indeed, puts the problem of form and content in a curious way. The -artist, whose concern is ultimately and, I believe, exclusively with -form, will no doubt be so carried away by the intensity and completeness -of the design, that he will never even notice the melodramatic and -sentimental content which shocks or delights the ordinary man. It is -none the less an interesting question, though it is rather one of -artists’ psychology than of æsthetics, to inquire in what way these two -things, the melodramatic expression of a high-pitched religiosity and a -peculiarly intense feeling for plastic unity and rhythmic amplitude, -were combined in El Greco’s work; even to ask whether there can have -been any causal connection between them in the workings of El Greco’s -spirit.</p> - -<p>Strange and extravagantly individual as El Greco seems, he was not -really an isolated figure, a miraculous and monstrous apparition thrust -into the even current of artistic movement. He really takes his place -alongside of Bernini as the greatest exponent of the Baroque idea in -figurative art. And the Baroque idea goes back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> Michelangelo. -Formally, its essence both in art and architecture was the utmost -possible enlargement of the unit of design. One can see this most easily -in architecture. To Bramante the façade of a palace was made up of a -series of storeys, each with its pilasters and windows related -proportionally to one another, but each a co-ordinate unit of design. To -the Baroque architect a façade was a single storey with pilasters going -the whole height, and only divided, as it were, by an afterthought into -subordinate groups corresponding to the separate storeys. When it came -to sculpture and painting the same tendency expressed itself by the -discovery of such movements as would make the parts of the body, the -head, trunk, limbs, merely so many subordinate divisions of a single -unit. Now to do this implied extremely emphatic and marked poses, though -not necessarily violent in the sense of displaying great muscular -strain. Such poses correspond as expression to marked and excessive -mental states, to conditions of ecstacy, or agony or intense -contemplation. But even more than to any actual poses resulting from -such states, they correspond to a certain accepted and partly -conventional language of gesture. They are what we may call rhetorical -poses, in that they are not so much the result of the emotions as of the -desire to express these emotions to the onlooker.</p> - -<p>When the figure is draped the Baroque idea becomes particularly evident. -The artists seek voluminous and massive garments which under the stress -of an emphatic pose take heavy folds passing in a single diagonal sweep -from top to bottom of the whole figure. In the figure of Christ in the -National Gallery picture El Greco has established such a diagonal, and -has so arranged the light and shade that he gets a statement of the same -general direction twice over, in the sleeve and in the drapery of the -thigh.</p> - -<p>Bernini was a consummate master of this method of amplifying the unit, -but having once set up the great wave of rhythm which held the figure in -a single sweep, he gratified his florid taste by allowing elaborate -embroidery in the subordinate divisions, feeling perfectly secure that -no amount of exuberance would destroy the firmly established scaffolding -of his design.</p> - -<p>Though the psychology of both these great rhetoricians is infinitely -remote from us, we tolerate more easily the gloomy and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_136fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_136fp_sml.jpg" width="297" height="338" alt="Image unvavailable: El Greco. Allegory Collection Zuloaga - -Plate XIII." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>El Greco. Allegory</td><td> </td> -<td class="rt">Collection Zuloaga</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XIII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">terrible extravagance of El Greco’s melodrama than the radiant -effusiveness and amiability of Bernini’s operas.</p> - -<p>But there is another cause which accounts for our profound difference of -feeling towards these two artists. Bernini undoubtedly had a great sense -of design, but he was also a prodigious artistic acrobat, capable of -feats of dizzying audacity, and unfortunately he loved popularity and -the success which came to him so inevitably. He was not fine enough in -grain to distinguish between his great imaginative gifts and the -superficial virtuosity which made the crowd, including his Popes, gape -with astonishment. Consequently he expressed great inventions in a -horribly impure technical language. El Greco, on the other hand, had the -good fortune to be almost entirely out of touch with the public—one -picture painted for the king was sufficient to put him out of court for -the rest of his life. And in any case he was a singularly pure artist, -he expressed his idea with perfect sincerity, with complete indifference -to what effect the right expression might have on the public. At no -point is there the slightest compromise with the world; the only issue -for him is between him and his idea. Nowhere is a violent form softened, -nowhere is the expressive quality of brushwork blurred in order to give -verisimilitude of texture; no harshness of accent is shirked, no crudity -of colour opposition avoided, wherever El Greco felt such things to be -necessary to the realisation of his idea. It is this magnificent courage -and purity, this total indifference to the expectations of the public, -that bring him so near to us to-day, when more than ever the artist -regards himself as working for ends unguessed at by the mass of his -contemporaries. It is this also which accounts for the fact that while -nearly every one shudders involuntarily at Bernini’s sentimental -sugariness, very few artists of to-day have ever realised for a moment -how unsympathetic to them is the literary content of an El Greco. They -simply fail to notice what his pictures are about in the illustrative -sense.</p> - -<p>But to return to the nature of Baroque art. The old question here turns -up. Did the dog wag his tail because he was pleased, or was he pleased -because his tail wagged? Did the Baroque artists choose ecstatic -subjects because they were excited about a certain kind of rhythm, or -did they elaborate the rhythm to express a feeling for extreme emotional -states? There is yet another fact which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> complicates the matter. Baroque -art corresponds well enough in time with the Catholic reaction and the -rise of Jesuitism, with a religious movement which tended to dwell -particularly on these extreme emotional states, and, in fact, the -Baroque artists worked in entire harmony with the religious leaders.</p> - -<p>This would look as though religion had inspired the artists with a -passion for certain themes, and the need to express these had created -Baroque art.</p> - -<p>I doubt if it was as simple as that. Some action and reaction between -the religious ideas of the time and the artists’ conception there may -have been, but I think the artists would have elaborated the Baroque -idea without this external pressure. For one thing, the idea goes back -behind Michelangelo to Signorelli, and in his case, at least, one can -see no trace of any preoccupation with those psychological states, but -rather a pure passion for a particular kind of rhythmic design. -Moreover, the general principle of the continued enlargement of the unit -of design was bound to occur the moment artists recovered from the -debauch of naturalism of the fifteenth century and became conscious -again of the demands of abstract design.</p> - -<p>In trying thus to place El Greco’s art in perspective, I do not in the -least disparage his astonishing individual force. That El Greco had to -an extreme degree the quality we call genius is obvious, but he was -neither so miraculous nor so isolated as we are often tempted to -suppose.</p> - -<p>The exuberance and abandonment of Baroque art were natural expressions -both of the Italian and Spanish natures, but they were foreign to the -intellectual severity of the French genius, and it was from France, and -in the person of Poussin, that the counterblast came. He, indeed, could -tolerate no such rapid simplification of design. He imposed on himself -endless scruples and compunctions, making artistic unity the reward of a -long process of selection and discovery. His art became difficult and -esoteric. People wonder sometimes at the diversity of modern art, but it -is impossible to conceive a sharper opposition than that between Poussin -and the Baroque. It is curious, therefore, that modern artists should be -able to look back with almost equal reverence to Poussin and to El -Greco. In part, this is due to Cézanne’s influence, for, from one point -of view, his art may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> regarded as a synthesis of these two apparently -adverse conceptions of design. For Cézanne consciously studied both, -taking from Poussin his discretion and the subtlety of his rhythm, and -from El Greco his great discovery of the permeation of every part of the -design with a uniform and continuous plastic theme. The likeness is -indeed sometimes startling. One of the greatest critics of our time, von -Tschudi—of Swiss origin, I hasten to add, and an enemy of the -Kaiser—was showing me El Greco’s “Laocoon,” which he had just bought -for Munich, when he whispered to me, as being too dangerous a doctrine -to be spoken aloud even in his private room, “Do you know why we admire -El Greco’s handling so much? Because it reminds us of Cézanne.”</p> - -<p>No wonder, then, that for the artist of to-day the new El Greco is of -capital importance. For it shows us the master at the height of his -powers, at last perfectly aware of his personal conception and daring to -give it the completest, most uncompromising expression. That the picture -is in a marvellous state of preservation and has been admirably cleaned -adds greatly to its value. Dirty yellow varnish no longer interposes -here its hallowing influence between the spectator and the artist’s -original creation. Since the eye can follow every stroke of the brush, -the mind can recover the artist’s gesture and almost the movements of -his mind. For never was work more perfectly transparent to the idea, -never was an artist’s intention more deliberately and precisely -recorded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THREE_PICTURES_IN_TEMPERA_BY_WILLIAM_BLAKE" id="THREE_PICTURES_IN_TEMPERA_BY_WILLIAM_BLAKE"></a>THREE PICTURES IN TEMPERA BY WILLIAM BLAKE<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor1">[42]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">B</span>LAKE’S finished pictures have never received the same attention nor -aroused the same admiration as his wash-drawings, his wood-cuts, or his -engravings. It is difficult to account for this comparative neglect, -since they not only show command of a technique which admits of the -completest realisation of the idea, but they seem actually to express -what was personal to Blake in a purer form than many of his other works, -with less admixture of those unfortunate caprices which the false -romantic taste of his day imposed too often even on so original and -independent a genius. The explanation may perhaps lie in the fact that -to most people Blake, for all his inimitable gifts, appears as a -divinely inspired amateur rather than as a finished master of his art, -and they are willing to tolerate what they regard as his imperfect -control of form in media which admit only of hints and suggestions of -the artist’s vision.</p> - -<p>There assuredly never was a more singular, more inexplicable phenomenon -than the intrusion, as though by direct intervention of Providence, of -this Assyrian spirit into the vapidly polite circles of -eighteenth-century London. The fact that, as far as the middle classes -of England were concerned, Puritanism had for a century and a half -blocked every inlet and outlet of poetical feeling and imaginative -conviction save one, may give us a clue to the causes of such a -phenomenon. It was the devotion of Puritan England to the Bible, to the -Old Testament especially, that fed such a spirit as Blake’s directly -from the sources of the most primeval, the vastest and most abstract -imagery which we possess. Brooding on the vague and tremendous images of -Hebrew and Chaldæan poetry, he arrived at such indifference to the -actual material world, at such an intimate perception of the elemental -forces which sway the spirit with immortal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> hopes and infinite terrors -when it is most withdrawn from its bodily conditions, that what was -given to his internal vision became incomparably more definite, more -precisely and more clearly articulated, than anything presented to his -senses. His forms are the visible counterparts to those words, like <i>the -deep, many waters</i>, <i>firmament</i>, <i>the foundations of the earth</i>, <i>pit</i> -and <i>host</i>, whose resonant overtones blur and enrich the sense of the -Old Testament. Blake’s art moves us, if at all, by a similar evocation -of vast elemental forces. He deals directly with these spiritual -sensations, bringing in from external nature the least possible content -which will enable him to create visible forms at all. But though he -pushed them to their furthest limits, even he could not transcend the -bounds which beset pictorial language; even he was forced to take -something of external nature with him into his visionary world, and his -wildest inventions are but recombinations and distorted memories of the -actual objects of sense.</p> - -<p>By the strangest irony, too, the forms which came to his hand as the -readiest means of expressing his stupendous conceptions were in -themselves the least expressive, the least grandiose, that ever art has -dealt with. It was with the worn-out rags of an effete classical -tradition long ago emptied of all meaning, and given over to turgid -rhetorical display, that Blake had to piece together the visible -garments of his majestic and profound ideas. The complete obsession of -his nature by these ideas in itself compelled him to this: he was -entirely without curiosity about such trivial and ephemeral things as -the earth contained. His was the most anti-Hellenic temperament; he had -no concern, either gay or serious, with phenomena; they were too -transparent to arrest his eye, and that patient and scientific quarrying -from the infinite possibilities of nature of just the appropriate forms -to convey his ideas was beyond the powers with which nature and the poor -traditions of his day supplied him. Tintoretto, who had in some respects -a similar temperament, who felt a similar need of conveying directly the -revelations of his internal vision, was more happily situated. He was, -by comparison, a trivial and vulgar seer, but the richness and -expressive power of the forms which lay to his hand in Titian’s and -Michelangelo’s art enabled him to attain a more unquestionable -achievement.</p> - -<p>But, allowing for circumstances, what Blake did was surely more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> -considerable and implied a greater sheer lift of imaginative effort. -That it was an attempt which remained almost without consequences, -isolated and incomplete—marred, too, by a certain incoherence and want -of reasonable co-ordination—must be allowed, and may perhaps explain -why Blake is not universally admitted among our greatest.</p> - -<p>The Byzantine style, he declares, was directly and divinely revealed to -him; and whether this were so, or whether he obtained it by the dim -indications of Ottley’s prints, or through illuminated manuscripts, the -marvellous fact remains that he did succeed in recovering for a moment -that pristine directness and grandeur of expression which puts him -beside the great Byzantine designers as the only fit interpreter of -Hebrew mythology. His “Flight into Egypt”<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a> will at once recall -Giotto’s treatment of the subject in the Arena chapel at Padua; but the -likeness is, in a sense, deceptive, for Giotto was working away from -Byzantinism as fast as Blake was working towards it, and the two pass -one another on the road. For there is here but little of Giotto’s tender -human feeling, less still of his robust rationalism; what they have in -common, what Blake rediscovered and Giotto inherited, is the sentiment -of supernatural dignity, the hieratic solemnity and superhuman -purposefulness of the gestures. Even more than in Giotto’s version, the -Virgin here sits on the ass as though enthroned in monumental state, her -limbs fixed in the rigid symmetry which oriental art has used to express -complete withdrawal from the world of sense. No less perfect in its -expressiveness of the strange and exalted mood is the movement, repeated -with such impressive monotony, in the figures of Joseph and the -archangel. It is absurd, we think, to deny to the man who discovered the -lines of these figures the power of draughtsmanship. Since Giotto’s day -scarcely any one has drawn thus—simplification has been possible only -as the last effort of consummate science refining away the superfluous; -but here the simplification of the forms is the result of an instinctive -passionate reaching out for the direct symbol of the idea.</p> - -<p>Blake’s art indeed is a test case for our theories of æsthetics. It -boldly makes the plea for art that it is a language for conveying -impassioned thought and feeling, which takes up the objects of sense<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_142fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_142fp_sml.jpg" width="378" height="258" alt="Image unvavailable: Blake. Bathsheba Tate Gallery - -Plate XIV." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Blake. Bathsheba</td><td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Tate Gallery</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XIV.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">as a means to this end, owing them no allegiance and accepting from them -only the service that they can render for this purpose. “Poetry,” says -Blake, “consists in bold, daring, and masterly conceptions; and shall -painting be confined to the sordid drudgery of facsimile representations -of merely mortal and perishing substances, and not be, as poetry and -music are, elevated into its own proper sphere of invention and -visionary conception?” The theory that art appeals solely by the -associated ideas of the natural objects it imitates is easily refuted -when we consider music and architecture; in those at least the appeal to -the spirit is made directly in a language which has no other use than -that of conveying its own proper ideas and feelings. But in pictorial -art the fallacy that nature is the mistress instead of the servant seems -almost ineradicable, and it is difficult to convince people that -increased scientific investigation of phenomena, increased knowledge of -how things present themselves to our sight, changes the mode, but does -not necessarily increase the power, of pictorial expression. The -Byzantine artists, with a knowledge of appearances infinitely less than -that of the average art student of to-day, could compass the expression -of imaginative truths which our most accomplished realists dare not -attempt. The essential power of pictorial as of all other arts lies in -its use of a fundamental and universal symbolism, and whoever has the -instinct for this can convey his ideas, though possessed of only the -most rudimentary knowledge of the actual forms of nature; while he who -has it not can by no accumulation of observed facts add anything to the -spiritual treasure of mankind. Of this language of symbolic form in -which the spirit communicates its most secret and indefinable impulses -Blake was an eloquent and persuasive master. He could use it, too, to -the most diverse ends; and though the sublimity which is based upon -dread came most readily to his mind, he could express, as we have seen -in the “Flight into Egypt,” the sublimity of divine introspection. In -the “David and Bathsheba” (see Plate) he touches a different note, and -he shows his true power of symbolic expression in this, that it is not -by the treatment of the figure itself, not by any ordinary sensual -enticements, that he gives the atmosphere of voluptuous abandonment. It -is rather in the extravagant tropical flowers, in the architecture which -itself blossoms with oriental exuberance, in the fiery orange of the -clouds seen behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> trees preternaturally virid, that the spirit is -bewildered with anticipations of extravagant bliss. The picture might be -described in Blake’s own terminology as the mental abstract of -voluptuousness.</p> - -<p>All art gives us an experience freed from the disturbing conditions of -actual life. Blake’s art, more concentrated than most, gives us an -experience which is removed more entirely from bodily and physiological -accompaniments, and our experience has the purity, the intensity, and -the abstraction of a dream.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CLAUDE" id="CLAUDE"></a>CLAUDE<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor1">[44]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N spite of all the attacks of critics, in spite of the development of -emphasis and high flavour in modern romantic landscape, which might well -have spoilt us for his cool simplicity, Claude still lives, not, indeed, -as one of the gods of the sale-room, but in the hearts of contemplative -and undemonstrative people. This is surely an interesting and -encouraging fact. It means that a very purely artistic and poetical -appeal still finds its response in the absence of all subsidiary -interests and attractions. The appeal is, indeed, a very limited one, -touching only certain highly self-conscious and sophisticated moods, but -it is, within its limits, so sincere and so poignant that Claude’s very -failings become, as it were, an essential part of its expression. These -failings are, indeed, so many and so obvious that it is not to be -wondered at if, now and again, they blind even a sensitive nature like -Ruskin’s to the fundamental beauty and grandeur of Claude’s revelation. -But we must be careful not to count as failings qualities which are -essential to the particular kind of beauty that Claude envisages, -though, to be quite frank, it is sometimes hard to make up one’s mind -whether a particular characteristic is a lucky defect or a calculated -negation. Take, for instance, the peculiar <i>gaucherie</i> of his -articulations. Claude knows less, perhaps, than any considerable -landscape painter—less than the most mediocre of modern -landscapists—how to lead from one object to another. His foregrounds -are covered with clumsily arranged leaves which have no organic growth, -and which, as often as not, lie on the ground instead of springing from -it. His trees frequently isolate themselves helplessly from their parent -soil. In particular, when he wants a <i>repoussoir</i> in the foreground at -either end of his composition he has recourse to a clumsily constructed -old bare trunk, which has little more meaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> than a stage property. -Even in his composition there are <i>naïvetés</i> which may or may not be -intentional: sometimes they have the happiest effect, at others they -seem not childlike but childish. Such, for instance, is his frequent -habit of dividing spaces equally, both vertically and horizontally, -either placing his horizontal line half-way up the picture, or a -principal building on the central vertical line. At times this seems the -last word of a highly subtilised simplicity, of an artifice which -conceals itself; at others one cannot be sure that it is not due to -incapacity. There is, in fact, a real excuse for Ruskin’s exaggerated -paradox that Claude’s drawings look like the work of a child of ten. -There is a whole world of beauty which one must not look for at all in -Claude. All that beauty of the sudden and unexpected revelation of an -unsuspected truth which the Gothic and Early Renaissance art provides is -absent from Claude. As the eye follows his line it is nowhere arrested -by a sense of surprise at its representative power, nor by that peculiar -thrill which comes from the communication of some vital creative force -in the artist. Compare, for instance, Claude’s drawing of mountains, -which he knew and studied constantly, with Rembrandt’s. Rembrandt had -probably never seen mountains, but he obtained a more intimate -understanding by the light of his inner vision than Claude could ever -attain to by familiarity and study. We need not go to Claude’s figures, -where he is notoriously feeble and superficially Raphaelesque, in order -to find how weak was his hold upon character, whatever the object he set -himself to interpret. In the British Museum there is a most careful and -elaborate study of the rocky shores of a stream. Claude has even -attempted here to render the contorted stratification of the river-bed, -but without any of that intimate imaginative grasp of the tension and -stress which underlie the appearance which Turner could give in a few -hurried scratches. No one, we may surmise, ever loved trees more deeply -than Claude, and we know that he prided himself on his careful -observation of the difference of their specific characters; and yet he -will articulate their branches in the most haphazard, perfunctory -manner. There is nothing in all Claude’s innumerable drawings which -reveals the inner life of the tree itself, its aspirations towards air -and light, its struggle with gravitation and wind, as one little drawing -by Leonardo da Vinci does.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span></p> - -<p>All these defects might pass more easily in a turbulent romanticist, -hurrying pell mell to get expressed some moving and dramatic scene, -careless of details so long as the main movement were ascertained, but -there is none of this fire in Claude. It is with slow ponderation and -deliberate care that he places before us his perfunctory and generalised -statements, finishing and polishing them with relentless assiduity, and -not infrequently giving us details that we do not desire and which add -nothing but platitude to the too prolix statement.</p> - -<p>All this and much more the admirer of Claude will be wise to concede to -the adversary, and if the latter ask wherein the beauty of a Claude lies -he may with more justice than in any other case fall back on the reply -of one of Du Maurier’s æsthetes, “in the picture.” For there is -assuredly a kind of beauty which is not only compatible with these -defects but perhaps in some degree depends on them. We know and -recognise it well enough in literature. To take a random instance. -Racine makes Titus say in “Bérénice”: “De mon aimable erreur je suis -désabusé.” This may be a dull, weak, and colourless mode of expression, -but if he had said with Shakespeare, “Now old desire doth in his -death-bed lie, and young affection gapes to be his heir,” we should feel -that it would destroy the particular kind of even and unaccented harmony -at which Racine aimed. Robert Bridges, in his essay on Keats, very aptly -describes for literature the kind of beauty which we find in -Shakespeare: “the power of concentrating all the far-reaching resources -of language on one point, so that a single and apparently effortless -expression rejoices the æsthetic imagination at the moment when it is -most expectant and exacting.” That, <i>ceteris paribus</i>, applies admirably -to certain kinds of design. It corresponds to the nervous touch of a -Pollajuolo or a Rembrandt. But Claude’s line is almost nerveless and -dull. Even when it is most rapid and free it never surprises us by any -intimate revelation of character, any summary indications of the central -truth. But it has a certain inexpressive beauty of its own. It is never -elegant, never florid, and, above all, never has any ostentation of -cleverness. The beauty of Claude’s work is not to be sought primarily in -his drawing: it is not a beauty of expressive parts but the beauty of a -whole. It corresponds in fact to the poetry of his century—to Milton or -Racine. It is in the cumulative effect of the perfect co-ordination of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> -parts none of which is by itself capable of absorbing our attention or -fascinating our imagination that the power of a picture by Claude lies. -It is the unity and not the content that affects us. There is, of -course, content, but the content is only adequate to its purpose and -never claims our attention on its own account. The objects he presents -to us have no claim on him but as parts of a scheme. They have no life -and purpose of their own, and for that very reason it is right that they -should be stated in vague and general terms. He wishes a tree to convey -to the eye only what the word “tree” might suggest at once to the inner -vision. We think first of the mass of waving shade held up against the -brilliance of the sky, and this, even with all his detailed elaboration, -is about where Claude, whether by good fortune or design, leaves us. It -is the same with his rocks, his water, his animals. They are all made -for the mental imagery of the contemplative wanderer, not of the acute -and ardent observer. But where Claude is supreme is in the marvellous -invention with which he combines and recombines these abstract symbols -so as to arouse in us more purely than nature herself can the mood of -pastoral delight. That Claude was deeply influenced by Virgil one would -naturally suppose from his antiquarian classicism, and a drawing in the -British Museum shows that he had the idea of illustrating the Æneid. In -any case his pictures translate into the language of painting much of -the sentiment of Virgil’s Eclogues, and that with a purity and grace -that rival his original. In his landscapes Melibœus always leaves his -goats to repose with Daphnis under the murmuring shade, waiting till his -herds come of themselves to drink at the ford, or in sadder moods of -passionless regret one hears the last murmurs of the lament for Gallus -as the well-pastured goats turn homewards beneath the evening star.</p> - -<p>Claude is the most ardent worshipper that ever was of the <i>genius loci</i>. -Of his landscapes one always feels that “some god is in this place.” -Never, it is true, one of the greater gods: no mysterious and fearful -Pan, no soul-stirring Bacchus or all-embracing Demeter; scarcely, though -he tried more than once deliberately to invoke them, Apollo and the -Muses, but some mild local deity, the inhabitant of a rustic shrine -whose presence only heightens the glamour of the scene.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_148fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_148fp_sml.jpg" width="375" height="252" alt="Image unvavailable: Claude. Landscape Prado, Madrid - -Plate XV." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Claude. Landscape</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Prado, Madrid</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XV.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p>It is the sincerity of this worship, and the purity and directness of -its expression, which makes the lover of landscape turn with such -constant affection to Claude, and the chief means by which he -communicates it is the unity and perfection of his general design; it is -not by form considered in itself, but by the planning of his tone -divisions, that he appeals, and here, at least, he is a past master. -This splendid architecture of the tone masses is, indeed, the really -great quality in his pictures; its perfection and solidity are what -enables them to bear the weight of so meticulous and, to our minds, -tiresome an elaboration of detail without loss of unity, and enables us -even to accept the enamelled hardness and tightness of his surface. But -many people of to-day, accustomed to our more elliptical and -quick-witted modes of expression, are so impatient of these qualities -that they can only appreciate Claude’s greatness through the medium of -his drawings, where the general skeleton of the design is seen without -its adornments, and in a medium which he used with perfect ease and -undeniable beauty. Thus to reject the pictures is, I think, an error, -because it was only when a design had been exposed to constant -correction and purification that Claude got out of it its utmost -expressiveness, and his improvisations steadily grow under his critical -revision to their full perfection. But in the drawings, at all events, -Claude’s great powers of design are readily seen, and the study of the -drawings has this advantage also, that through them we come to know of a -Claude whose existence we could never have suspected by examining only -his finished pictures.</p> - -<p>In speaking of the drawings it is well to recognise that they fall into -different classes with different purposes and aims. We need not, for -instance, here consider the records of finished compositions in the -“Liber Veritatis.” There remain designs for paintings in all stages of -completeness, from the first suggestive idea to the finished cartoon and -the drawings from nature. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to remark -that it would have been quite foreign to Claude’s conception of his art -to have painted a picture from nature. He, himself, clearly -distinguished sharply between his studies and his compositions. His -studies, therefore, were not incipient pictures, but exercises done for -his own pleasure or for the fertility they gave to his subsequent -invention, and they have the unchecked spontaneity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> and freedom of hand -that one would expect in such unreflecting work. These studies again -fall into two groups: first, studies of detail, generally of foliage or -of tree forms, and occasionally of rocks and flowers; and secondly, -studies of general effects. Of the studies of detail I have already said -something. They have the charm of an easy and distinguished calligraphy, -and of a refined selection of the decorative possibilities of the things -seen, but without any of that penetrating investigation of their vital -nature which gives its chief beauty to the best work of this kind.</p> - -<p>It is, indeed, in the second group of studies from nature that we come -from time to time upon motives that startle and surprise us. We find in -these a susceptibility to natural charms which, in its width of range -and freedom from the traditional limitations of the art of landscape, is -most remarkable. Here we find not only Claude the prim -seventeenth-century classic, but Claude the romanticist, anticipating -the chief ideas of Corot’s later development,<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a> and Claude the -impressionist, anticipating Whistler and the discovery of Chinese -landscape, as, for instance, in the marvellous <i>aperçu</i> of a mist -effect, in the British Museum.<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a> Or, again, in a view which is quite -different from any of these, but quite as remote from the Claude of the -oil-paintings, in the great view of the Tiber, a masterpiece of hurried, -almost unconscious planning of bold contrasts of transparent gloom and -dazzling light on water and plain.</p> - -<p>The impression one gets from looking through a collection of Claude’s -drawings like that at the British Museum is of a man without any keen -feeling for objects in themselves, but singularly open to impressions of -general effects in nature, watching always for the shifting patterns of -foliage and sky to arrange themselves in some beautifully significant -pattern and choosing it with fine and critical taste. But at the same -time he was a man with vigorous ideas of the laws of design and the -necessity of perfectly realised unity, and to this I suppose one must -ascribe the curious contrast between the narrow limits of his work in -oil as compared with the wide range, the freedom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_150fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_150fp_sml.jpg" width="372" height="280" alt="Image unvavailable: Claude. Water-colour British Museum - -Plate XVI." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Claude. Water-colour</td><td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">British Museum</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XVI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and the profound originality of his work as a draughtsman. Among all -these innumerable effects which his ready susceptibility led him to -record he found but a few which were capable of being reduced to that -logical and mathematical formula which he demanded before complete -realisation could be tolerated. In his drawings he composes sometimes -with strong diagonal lines, sometimes with free and unstable balance. In -his pictures he has recourse to a regular system of polarity, balancing -his masses carefully on either side of the centre, sometimes even -framing it in like a theatrical scene with two <i>repoussoirs</i> pushed in -on either side. One must suppose, then, that he approached the -composition of his pictures with a certain timidity, that he felt that -safety when working on a large scale could only be secured by a certain -recognised type of structure, so that out of all the various moods of -nature to which his sensitive spirit answered only one lent itself to -complete expression. One wishes at times that he had tried more. There -is in the British Museum a half-effaced drawing on blue paper, an idea -for treating the <i>Noli me tangere</i> which, had he worked it out, would -have added to his complete mastery of bucolic landscape a masterpiece of -what one may call tragic landscape. It is true that here, as elsewhere, -the figures are in themselves totally inadequate, but they suggested an -unusual and intense key to the landscape. On the outskirts of a dimly -suggested wood, the figures meet and hold converse; to the right the -mound of Calvary glimmers pale and ghost-like against the night sky, -while over the distant city the first pink flush of dawn begins. It is -an intensely poetical conception. Claude has here created a landscape in -harmony with deeper, more mystical aspirations than elsewhere, and, had -he given free rein to his sensibilities, we should look to him even more -than we do now as the greatest inventor of the motives of pure -landscape. As it is, the only ideas to which he gave complete though -constantly varied expression are those of pastoral repose.</p> - -<p>Claude’s view of landscape is false to nature in that it is entirely -anthropocentric. His trees exist for pleasant shade; his peasants to -give us the illusion of pastoral life, not to toil for a living. His -world is not to be lived in, only to be looked at in a mood of pleasing -melancholy or suave reverie. It is, therefore, as true to one aspect of -human desire as it is false to the facts of life. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> may be admitted -that this is not the finest kind of art—it is the art of a self-centred -and refined luxury which looks on nature as a garden to its own -pleasure-house—but few will deny its genial and moderating charm, and -few of us live so strenuously as never to feel a sense of nostalgia for -that Saturnian reign to which Virgil and Claude can waft us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="AUBREY_BEARDSLEYS_DRAWINGS" id="AUBREY_BEARDSLEYS_DRAWINGS"></a>AUBREY BEARDSLEY’S DRAWINGS<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor1">[47]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">M</span>ESSRS. CARFAX have on view the most complete collection of Beardsley’s -drawings that has hitherto been shown. The development of his precocious -and eccentric genius can here be studied in typical examples. We have -the drawings of his childhood—drawings inspired by Dicky Doyle and -Robida, but in which is already apparent his proclivity to the -expression of moral depravity. We pass at a leap from these crude and -artistically feeble works to the astonishing “Siegfried,” in which he is -already a complete and assured master of an entirely personal style.</p> - -<p>From this time onwards, for the remaining six years of his life, -Beardsley kept on producing with the fertility of those artists whom the -presage of an early death stimulates to a desperate activity. His style -was constantly changing in accidentals, but always the same in -essentials. He was a confirmed eclectic, borrowing from all ages and all -countries. And true eclectic and genuine artist as he was, he converted -all his borrowings to his own purposes. It mattered nothing what he fed -on; the strange and perverse economy of his nature converted the food -into a poison. His line is based upon that of Antonio Pollajuolo. Again -and again in his drawings of the nude we see how carefully he must have -copied that master of structural and nervous line. But he uses it for -something quite other than its original purpose; he converts it from a -line expressive of muscular tension and virile force into one expressive -of corruption and decay. Mantegna, too, was a favourite with Beardsley, -who seems to have had a kind of craving for the opposites to his own -predominant qualities; and from Mantegna, the most austere of Italians, -he derived again and again motives for his illustrations of depravity. -The eighteenth century, China, Japan, even the purest Greek art, were -all pressed into his service; the only thing he could do nothing with -was nature<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> itself. Here he was entirely at a loss, and whenever he -yielded to the pressure of contemporary fashions and attempted to record -impressions of things seen, as in the topical illustrations of plays -which he contributed to the <i>Pall Mall Magazine</i>, he failed to be even -mediocre. Everything that was to be in the least expressive had to come -entirely from within, from the nightmares of his own imagination.</p> - -<p>His amazing gift of hand is perhaps the quality which most obviously -attracts attention, the quality which endeared him most to publishers -and process-block makers. It was the one indisputable quality he -possessed, not to be denied by the most adverse critic, and yet in -itself it is no more than thousands of journeymen artists—engravers, -die-cutters, and such like—have always possessed. Nor, to be perfectly -frank, is the quality of his line of a very high order; its precision is -not unfrequently mechanical. Whistler called him the last of the -writing-masters, and there was a truth in this, if we may add that the -style of writing which he favoured was degenerate. His long, meandering -flourishes ending in sharp spikes and dots, however firm and precise the -line, are often mean in intention and poor in quality. What is deserving -of real admiration is the fertility of his invention, the skill with -which he finds the formula which corresponds, in his peculiar language, -with what he wants to describe. As an instance, one may take the garden -background to the “Platonic Lament” in the Salome series, where the rose -trellis and cut yew-tree behind are brilliant examples of this kind of -epitomised description. Still more important artistically, and closely -connected with this power of invention, is the real beauty of his -spacing, the admirable planning of masses of black and white. At times, -as in the “Dancer’s Reward,” he rises almost to the height of the great -Greek vase-painters in this respect, though, if we look even at this in -detail, the line has an intricacy, a <i>mesquinerie</i>, which is the very -opposite of the Greek ideal of draughtsmanship.</p> - -<p>No less remarkable is his success in the decorative planning of three -tones, of black, white, and grey, and he divides these with such subtle -skill that for once it is not a mere false analogy to talk of the colour -effect of designs in black and white; for he so disposes the three -tones, getting the grey by an evenly distributed network of fine black -lines, that each tone produces the sensation of something as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> distinct -from the others as do flat washes of different tints. The “Frontispiece -to Salome” is an excellent example of this.</p> - -<p>Beardsley had, then, in an extraordinary degree the decorative impulse, -the motive which made the mediæval scribe flourish his pen all over the -margins of his vellum page; and, spurred by this impulse, he had the -patience of an Indian craftsman, covering whole sheets with minute dots -and scarcely perceptible lines. This instinct in its purest form rarely -makes for the finest art; it is only when controlled by a larger, more -genial sentiment for architectural mass that it becomes ennobled, and -with Beardsley, in spite of the bold oppositions of his blacks and -whites, in spite of his occasional wilful simplification, this rarely -occurred. One might even argue that to some extent Beardsley’s moral -perversity actually prevented him, in spite of his extraordinary -specific talent for design, from ever becoming a great designer. It is -just that <i>mesquinerie</i> of line, that littleness and intricacy of the -mere decorator, that love of elegance rather than beauty, which on -purely artistic grounds one finds to be his great failing, that he -cherished as a means of expressing his diabolism. But if Beardsley was -corrupt, he was certainly sincere in his corruption. There is no -suggestion in his work, as in that of some modern artists, like Señor -Zuloaga, that corruption is an affectation taken up in order to astonish -the <i>bourgeoisie</i>. Beardsley is never funny or amusing or witty; his -attempts in this direction are contemptible; still less is he voluptuous -or seductive; he is very serious, very much in earnest. There is even a -touch of hieratic austerity and pomp in his style, as becomes the -arch-priest of a Satanic cultus. He has, indeed, all the stigmata of the -religious artist—the love of pure decoration, the patient elaboration -and enrichment of surface, the predilection for flat tones and precision -of contour, the want of the sense of mass and relief, the extravagant -richness of invention. It is as the Fra Angelico of Satanism that his -work will always have an interest for those who are curious about this -recurrent phase of complex civilisations. But if we are right in our -analysis of his work, the finest qualities of design can never be -appropriated to the expression of such morbid and perverted ideals; -nobility and geniality of design are attained only by those who, -whatever their actual temperament, cherish these qualities in their -imagination.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_FRENCH_POST-IMPRESSIONISTS" id="THE_FRENCH_POST-IMPRESSIONISTS"></a>THE FRENCH POST-IMPRESSIONISTS<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor1">[48]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HEN the first Post-Impressionist Exhibition was held in these Galleries -two years ago the English public became for the first time fully aware -of the existence of a new movement in art, a movement which was the more -disconcerting in that it was no mere variation upon accepted themes but -implied a reconsideration of the very purpose and aim as well as the -methods of pictorial and plastic art. It was not surprising, therefore, -that a public which had come to admire above everything in a picture the -skill with which the artist produced illusion should have resented an -art in which such skill was completely subordinated to the direct -expression of feeling. Accusations of clumsiness and incapacity were -freely made, even against so singularly accomplished an artist as -Cézanne. Such darts, however, fall wide of the mark, since it is not the -object of these artists to exhibit their skill or proclaim their -knowledge, but only to attempt to express by pictorial and plastic form -certain spiritual experiences; and in conveying these, ostentation of -skill is likely to be even more fatal than downright incapacity.</p> - -<p>Indeed, one may fairly admit that the accusation of want of skill and -knowledge, while ridiculous in the case of Cézanne is perfectly -justified as regards one artist represented (for the first time in -England) in the present Exhibition, namely, Rousseau. Rousseau was a -customhouse officer who painted without any training in the art. His -pretensions to paint made him the butt of a great deal of ironic wit, -but scarcely any one now would deny the authentic quality of his -inspiration or the certainty of his imaginative conviction. Here then is -one case where want of skill and knowledge do not completely obscure, -though they may mar, expression. And this is true of all perfectly naïve -and primitive art. But most of the art here seen is neither naïve nor -primitive. It is the work of highly civilised and modern men trying to -find a pictorial language appropriate to the sensibilities of the modern -outlook.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_156fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_156fp_sml.jpg" width="242" height="375" alt="Image unvavailable: Henri-Matisse. The Tea Party - -Plate XVII." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Henri-Matisse.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">The Tea Party</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XVII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_156afp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_156afp_sml.jpg" width="294" height="361" alt="Image unvavailable: Pablo Picasso. Still Life - -Miss Stein - -Plate XVIII." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Pablo Picasso.</td> -<td class="rt">Still Life</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td>Miss Stein</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XVIII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p>Another charge that is frequently made against these artists is that -they allow what is merely capricious, or even what is extravagant and -eccentric, in their work—that it is not serious, but an attempt to -impose on the good-natured tolerance of the public. This charge of -insincerity and extravagance is invariably made against any new -manifestation of creative art. It does not of course follow that it is -always wrong. The desire to impose by such means certainly occurs, and -is sometimes temporarily successful. But the feeling on the part of the -public may, and I think in this case does, arise from a simple -misunderstanding of what these artists set out to do. The difficulty -springs from a deep-rooted conviction, due to long-established custom, -that the aim of painting is the descriptive imitation of natural forms. -Now, these artists do not seek to give what can, after all, be but a -pale reflex of actual appearance, but to arouse the conviction of a new -and definite reality. They do not seek to imitate form, but to create -form; not to imitate life, but to find an equivalent for life. By that I -mean that they wish to make images which by the clearness of their -logical structure, and by their closely-knit unity of texture, shall -appeal to our disinterested and contemplative imagination with something -of the same vividness as the things of actual life appeal to our -practical activities. In fact, they aim not at illusion but at reality.</p> - -<p>The logical extreme of such a method would undoubtedly be the attempt to -give up all resemblance to natural form, and to create a purely abstract -language of form—a visual music; and the later works of Picasso show -this clearly enough. They may or may not be successful in their attempt. -It is too early to be dogmatic on the point, which can only be decided -when our sensibilities to such abstract forms have been more practised -than they are at present. But I would suggest that there is nothing -ridiculous in the attempt to do this. Such a picture as Picasso’s “Head -of a Man” would undoubtedly be ridiculous if, having set out to make a -direct imitation of the actual model, he had been incapable of getting a -better likeness. But Picasso did nothing of the sort. He has shown in -his “Portrait of Mlle. L. B.” that he could do so at least as well as -any one if he wished, but he is here attempting to do something quite -different.</p> - -<p>No such extreme abstraction marks the work of Matisse. The actual -objects which stimulated his creative invention are recognisable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> -enough. But here, too, it is an equivalence, not a likeness, of nature -that is sought. In opposition to Picasso, who is pre-eminently plastic, -Matisse aims at convincing us of the reality of his forms by the -continuity and flow of his rhythmic line, by the logic of his space -relations, and, above all, by an entirely new use of colour. In this, as -in his markedly rhythmic design, he approaches more than any other -European to the ideals of Chinese art. His work has to an extraordinary -degree that decorative unity of design which distinguishes all the -artists of this school.</p> - -<p>Between these two extremes we may find ranged almost all the remaining -artists. On the whole the influence of Picasso on the younger men is -more evident than that of Matisse. With the exception of Braque none of -them push their attempts at abstraction of form so far as Picasso, but -simplification along these lines is apparent in the work of Derain, -Herbin, Marchand, and L’Hote. Other artists, such as Doucet and Asselin, -are content with the ideas of simplification of form as existing in the -general tradition of the Post-Impressionist movement, and instead of -feeling for new methods of expression devote themselves to expressing -what is most poignant and moving in contemporary life. But however -various the directions in which different groups are exploring the -newly-found regions of expressive form they all alike derive in some -measure from the great originator of the whole idea, Cézanne. And since -one must always refer to him to understand the origin of these ideas, it -has been thought well to include a few examples of his work in the -present Exhibition, although this year it is mainly the moderns, and not -the old masters, that are represented. To some extent, also, the absence -of the earlier masters in the exhibition itself is made up for by the -retrospective exhibition of Monsieur Druet’s admirable photographs. Here -Cézanne, Gauguin, and Van Gogh can be studied at least in the main -phases of their development.</p> - -<p>Finally, I should like to call attention to a distinguishing -characteristic of the French artists seen here, namely, the markedly -Classic spirit of their work. This will be noted as distinguishing them -to some extent from the English, even more perhaps from the Russians, -and most of all from the great mass of modern painting in every country. -I do not mean by Classic, dull, pedantic, traditional,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_159fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_159fp_sml.jpg" width="248" height="380" alt="Image unvavailable: Georges Rouault. Profile Author’s Collection - -Plate XIX." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Georges Rouault. Profile </td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Author’s Collection</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XIX.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">reserved, or any of those similar things which the word is often made to -imply. Still less do I mean by calling them Classic that they paint -“Visits to Æsculapius” or “Nero at the Colosseum.” I mean that they do -not rely for their effect upon associated ideas, as I believe Romantic -and Realistic artists invariably do.</p> - -<p>All art depends upon cutting off the practical responses to sensations -of ordinary life, thereby setting free a pure and as it were disembodied -functioning of the spirit; but in so far as the artist relies on the -associated ideas of the objects which he represents, his work is not -completely free and pure, since romantic associations imply at least an -imagined practical activity. The disadvantage of such an art of -associated ideas is that its effect really depends on what we bring with -us: it adds no entirely new factor to our experience. Consequently, when -the first shock of wonder or delight is exhausted the work produces an -ever lessening reaction. Classic art, on the other hand, records a -positive and disinterestedly passionate state of mind. It communicates a -new and otherwise unattainable experience. Its effect, therefore, is -likely to increase with familiarity. Such a classic spirit is common to -the best French work of all periods from the twelfth century onwards, -and though no one could find direct reminiscences of a Nicholas Poussin -here, his spirit seems to revive in the work of artists like Derain. It -is natural enough that the intensity and singleness of aim with which -these artists yield themselves to certain experiences in the face of -nature may make their work appear odd to those who have not the habit of -contemplative vision, but it would be rash for us, who as a nation are -in the habit of treating our emotions, especially our æsthetic emotions, -with a certain levity, to accuse them of caprice or insincerity. It is -because of this classic concentration of feeling (which by no means -implies abandonment) that the French merit our serious attention. It is -this that makes their art so difficult on a first approach but gives it -its lasting hold on the imagination.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Note.</span>—At least one French artist of great merit was un-represented -at the Post-Impressionist Exhibitions—Georges Rouault, a fellow -pupil with Matisse of Gustave Moreau. He stands alone in the -movement as being a visionary, though, unlike most visionaries, his -expression is based on a profound knowledge of natural appearances. -The profile here reproduced (see Plate) will give an idea of his -strangely individual and powerful style. (1920.)</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="DRAWINGS_AT_THE_BURLINGTON_FINE_ARTS_CLUB" id="DRAWINGS_AT_THE_BURLINGTON_FINE_ARTS_CLUB"></a>DRAWINGS AT THE BURLINGTON FINE ARTS CLUB<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor1">[49]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE Burlington Fine Arts Club have arranged a most interesting -collection of drawings by dead masters. Abandoning the club’s usual -method of taking a particular period or country, the committee have this -time allowed their choice to range over many periods and countries, -excluding only living artists, and admitting one so recently dead as -Degas. This variety of material naturally stimulates one to hazard some -general speculations on the nature of drawing as an art. “H. T.,” who -writes the preface to the catalogue, already points the way in this -direction by some <i>obiter dicta</i>. He points out that the essence of -drawing is not the line, but its content. He says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>A single line may mean nothing beyond a line; add another alongside -and both disappear, and we are aware only of the contents, and a -form is expressed. The beauty of a line is in its result in the -form which it helps to bring into being.</p></div> - -<p>Here the author has undoubtedly pointed out the most essential quality -of good drawing. I should dispute, rather by way of excessive caution, -his first statement, “A single line may mean nothing beyond a line,” -since a line is always at its least the record of a gesture, indicating -a good deal about its maker’s personality, his tastes and even probably -the period when he lived; but I entirely agree that the main point is -always the effect of two lines to evoke the idea of a certain volume -having a certain form. When “H. T.” adds that “Draughtsmen know this, -but writers on art do not seem to,” he seems to be too sweeping. Even so -bad a writer on art as Pliny had picked up the idea from a Greek art -critic, for in describing the drawing of Parrhasios he says:<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>By the admission of artists he was supreme in contour. This is the -last subtlety of painting; for to paint the main body and centres -of objects is indeed something of an achievement, but one in which -many have been famous, but to paint the edges of bodies and express -the disappearing planes is rare in the history of art. For the -contour must go round itself and so end that it promises other -things behind and shows that which it hides.</p></div> - -<p>This is an admirable account, since it gives the clue to the distinction -between descriptive drawing and drawing in which the contour does not -arrest the form, but creates plastic relief of the whole enclosed -volume. Now, this plastic drawing can never be attained by a mere -<i>description</i> of the edges of objects. Such a description, however -exact, can at the utmost do no more than recall vividly the original -object; it cannot enable the spectator to realise its plastic volume -more clearly than the original object would. Now, when we look at a -really good drawing we do get a much more vivid sense of a plastic -volume than we get from actual objects.</p> - -<p>Unfortunately this is a very severe test to apply, and would, I think, -relegate to an inferior class the vast majority of drawings, even of -those in the present exhibition. The vast majority of drawings even by -the celebrated masters do appeal mainly by other more subsidiary -qualities, by the brightness of their descriptive power, and by the -elegance and facility of their execution. There is an undoubted pleasure -in the contemplation of mere skill, and there are few ways of -demonstrating sheer skill of hand more convincingly than the drawing of -a complex series of curves with perfect exactitude and great rapidity. -And when the curves thus brilliantly drawn describe vividly some object -in life towards which we have pleasing associations we get a complex -pleasure which is only too likely to be regarded as an æsthetic -experience when in fact it is nothing of the kind.</p> - -<p>The author of the preface has quite clearly seen that this element of -brilliance in the execution of the line does frequently come into play, -and he considers this calligraphic quality to be always a sign of a -lowered æsthetic purpose, citing Tiepolo quite rightly as a great master -of such qualities. And he quite rightly points out that with the -deliberate pursuit of calligraphy there is always a tendency to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> -substitute type forms for individual forms. On the other hand, all good -drawing also tends to create types, since a type results from the -synthetic unity of the design. The real question here would seem to be -the fulness or emptiness of the type created, and it would be fair to -say that the calligraphic draughtsman accepted most readily an empty -type. For instance, one would have to admit that Ingres created a type, -and repeated it as much as Tiepolo, only Ingres continually generated -his type of form upon actual material, whereas Tiepolo tended merely to -repeat his without enriching it with fresh material.</p> - -<p>The exhibition has been to some extent arranged around Ingres, and as -many of his drawings as possible have been collected. Ingres has long -been accepted in the schools as <i>par excellence</i> the great modern master -of drawing. His great saying, “<i>Le dessin c’est la probité de l’art</i>,” -has indeed become a watchword of the schools and an excuse for -indulgence in a great deal of gratuitous and misplaced moral feeling. It -has led to the display of all kinds of pedagogic folly. Art is a passion -or it is nothing. It is certainly a very bad moral gymnasium. It is -useless to try to make a kind of moral parallel bars out of the art of -drawing. You will certainly spoil the drawing, and it is doubtful if you -will get the morals. Drawing is a passion to the draughtsman just as -much as colour is to the colourist, and the draughtsman has no reason to -feel moral superiority because of the nature of his passion. He is -fortunate to have it, and there is an end of the matter. Ingres himself -had the passion for draughtsmanship very intensely, though perhaps one -would scarcely guess it from the specimens shown in this exhibition. -These unfortunately are, with few exceptions, taken from that large -class of drawings which he did as a young man in Rome. He was already -married, and was poor. He was engaged on some of his biggest and most -important compositions, on which he was determined to spare no pains or -labour; consequently he found himself forced to earn his living by doing -these brilliant and minutely accurate portraits of the aristocratic -tourists and their families, who happened to pass through Rome. These -drawings bear the unmistakable mark of their origins. They are -commissions, and they are done to satisfy the sitter. Anything like -serious research for form is out of the question; there is little here -but Ingres’s extreme facility and a certain negative good taste. -Probably the only drawing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_163fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_163fp_sml.jpg" width="337" height="379" alt="Image unvavailable: Ingres. Apotheosis of Napoleon Le Vicomte d’Arcy - -Plate XX." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Ingres. Apotheosis of Napoleon</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Le Vicomte d’Arcy</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XX.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">here which shows Ingres’s more serious powers is the tight, elaborate -and rather repellent study for the “Apotheosis of Napoleon,” which is a -splendid discovery of composition within a round (see Plate). But the -real fact is, I believe, that Ingres’s power as a draughtsman hardly -ever comes out fully in his drawings; one must turn to his paintings to -see how great and sincere a researcher he was. In his drawings he was -too much pre-occupied with the perfect description of facts; when he -came to the painting he began that endless process of readjustment and -balance of contours which make him so great and original a designer. If -one places his drawings and studies from the nude for, say, his “Venus -Anadyomene” beside the photograph of the picture one gets some idea of -the tireless and passionate research for the exact correspondence of the -contours on either side of the figure which Ingres undertook. He throws -over one by one all the brilliant notations of natural form in the -studies, and arrives bit by bit at an intensely abstract and simplified -statement of the general relations. But though the new statement is -emptied of its factual content, it has now become far more compact, far -more intense in its plasticity. Here and there among Ingres’s -innumerable drawings one may find a nude study in which already this -process of elimination and balance has taken place, but the examples are -rare, and if one would understand why Ingres is one of the great masters -of design, one must face the slightly repellent quality of his oil -paintings rather than allow oneself to be seduced by the elegance and -ease of his drawings.</p> - -<p>It would, I think, be possible to show that very few great designers -have attained to full expression in line. I suspect, indeed, that the -whole tradition of art in Europe, since about the end of the fifteenth -century, has been against such complete expression. If we compare the -great masterpieces of pure drawing such as the drawings of figures on -Persian pots of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and the few -remaining examples of drawings by the Italian primitives of the -fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, with the vast mass of European -drawings subsequent to that date, we see, I think, the contrast of aims -and purpose of the two groups. Somewhere about the time of Filippino -Lippi there was formulated an idea of drawing which has more or less -held the field ever since in art schools.</p> - -<p>As most drawing has centred in the human figure we may describe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> it in -relation to that, the more so that this view of drawing undoubtedly came -in with the study of anatomy. The general principle is that there are -certain cardinal facts about the figure, or points of cardinal -importance in the rendering of structure—the artist is trained to -observe these with special care, since they become the <i>points de -repère</i> for his drawing. And since they are thus specially observed they -are noted with a special accent. When once the artist has learned to -grasp the relations of these <i>points de repère</i> firmly he learns also to -pass from one to the other with great ease and rapidity, not to say with -a certain indifference as to what happens in the passage. By this method -the essentials of structure and movement of a figure are accurately -given and the whole statement can be made with that easy facility and -rapidity of line which gives a peculiar pleasure. Such drawing has the -merit of being at once structurally accurate and more or less -calligraphically pleasing. The most admired masters, such as Vandyke, -Watteau, even to some extent Rubens, all exhibit the characteristics of -such a conception. Now in the earlier kind of drawing there were no -recognised <i>points de repère</i>, no particular moments of emphasis; the -line was so drawn that at every point its relation to the opposed -contour was equally close, the tension so to speak was always across the -line and not along its direction. The essential thing was the position -of the line, not its quality, so that there was the less inclination to -aim at that easy rapidity which marks the later draughtsmanship. -Essentially, then, this earlier drawing was less descriptive and more -purely evocative of form. It may well be that the demands made upon the -artist by the closer study of nature brought in by the Renaissance -became an almost insuperable barrier to artists in the attempt to find -any such completely synthetic vision of form as lay to hand for their -predecessors. We see, for instance, in Albert Dürer’s “Beetle” an -example of purely descriptive and analytic drawing with no attempt at -inner coherence of form. On the other hand, of course, all the great -formalists made deliberate efforts to come through the complex of -phenomena to some abstract synthesis. Fra Bartolomeo and Raphael clearly -made such abstraction a matter of deliberate study,<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a> but as I have -pointed out in the case of Ingres, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_165fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_165fp_sml.jpg" width="287" height="341" alt="Image unvavailable: Corot. Pencil drawing J. P. Heseltine, Esq. - -Plate XXI." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Corot. Pencil drawing</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">J. P. Heseltine, Esq.</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">obsession of fact has generally forced the artist to such a long series -of experiments towards the final synthetic form that it is only in the -finished picture that it emerges fully.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, some modern masters have also found their way -through, more or less completely, and from this point of view few -drawings in the exhibition are as remarkable as the drawing of a seated -woman by Corot (see Plate). Here one supposes it may be a kind of -<i>naïveté</i> of vision rather than the exhaustive process of an Ingres, -that has led Corot to this vividly realised plasticity of form. I find -the essentials of good drawing more completely realised here than in -almost any other drawing in the exhibition, and yet how little of a -professional draughtsman Corot was. It is hard to speak here of Degas’s -works as drawings. With one exception they are pastels and essentially -paintings, but they are of great beauty and show him victorious over his -own formidable cleverness, his unrivalled but dangerous power of witty -notation.</p> - -<p>At the opposite pole to Corot’s drawing with its splendid revelation of -plastic significance we must put Menzel with his fussy preoccupation -with undigested fact. It is hard indeed to see quite how Menzel’s -drawings found their way into this good company, except perhaps as -drunken helots, for they are conspicuously devoid of any æsthetic -quality whatever. They are without any rhythmic unity, without any -glimmering of a sense of style, and style though it be as cheap as -Rowlandson’s is still victorious over sheer misinformed literalness. -Somewhere between Menzel and Corot we must place Charles Keane, and I -fear, in spite of the rather exaggerated claims made for him in the -preface, he is nearer to Menzel, though even so, how much better! The -early Millais drawing is of course an astounding attempt by a man of -prodigious gift and no sensibility to pretend that he had the latter. It -is a pity there are no Rossettis here to show the authentic inspiration -of which this is the echo.</p> - -<p>I come now to the Rembrandts, of which there are several good examples. -Rembrandt always intrigues one by the multiplicity and diversity of his -gifts and the struggle between his profound imaginative insight and his -excessive talents. The fact is, I believe that Rembrandt was never a -linealist, that he never had the conception of contour clearly present -to him. He was too intensely and too inveterately<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> a painter and a -chiaroscurist. The last thing he saw was a contour, and more than -anything else it eluded his vision. His vision was in fact so intensely -fixed on the interplay of planes, their modulation into one another, and -on the balance of directions, that with him the drawn line has a quite -peculiar and personal meaning. It is used first to indicate directions -of stress and movement, as, for instance, a straight line will be dashed -down to indicate, not the contour of a limb, but its direction, the line -along which stress of action takes place. He seems almost to dread the -contour, to prefer to make strokes either inside or outside of it, and -to trust to the imagination to discover its whereabouts, anything rather -than a final definite statement which would arrest the interplay of -planes. The line is also used to suggest very vaguely and tentatively -the division of planes; but almost always when he comes to use wash on -top of the line his washes go across the lines, so that here too one can -hardly say the line indicates the division so much as the approximate -position of a plane.</p> - -<p>In conclusion I would suggest that, the art of pure contour is -comparatively rare in modern art. For what I should cite as great and -convincing examples of that art I would ask the reader to turn to the -“Morgan Byzantine Enamels” (<i>Burlington Magazine</i>, vol. xxi. pp. 3, 65, -127, 219, 290), the “Manafi-i-Heiwan” (<i>Burlington Magazine</i>, vol. -xxiii. pp. 224, 261), and to Vignier, “Persian Pottery” (<i>Burlington -Magazine</i>, vol. xxv. p. 211), while other examples might be found among -Byzantine and Carolingian miniaturists.</p> - -<p>Now, this art depends upon a peculiarly synthetic vision and a peculiar -system of distortion, without which the outline would arrest the -movement of planes too definitely. There indeed is the whole crux of the -art of line drawing; the line generates a volume, but it also arrests -the planes too definitely: that is why in some great modern artists, as -we saw in the case of Rembrandt, there is a peculiar kind of dread of -the actual contour. It is felt by those who are sensitive to the -interplay and movement of planes that the line must in some way, by its -quality or its position, or by breaks or repetitions, avoid arresting -the imagination by too positive a statement. It was almost a peculiarity -of the early art that I have cited that it was able to express a form in -a quite complete, evenly drawn contour without this terrible negative -effect of the line. I say almost a peculiarity, because I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_164fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_164fp_sml.jpg" width="271" height="375" alt="Image unvavailable: Henri-Matisse. Pen drawing - -Plate XXII." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Henri-Matisse.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Pen drawing</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> -<p class="nind">a few quite modern artists, such as Matisse (see Plate) and perhaps -Modigliani, have recovered such a power, but in the great mass of post -Renaissance drawing the art of the pure contour in line has broken down, -and the essential qualities even of the great linealists are only to be -seen fully in their paintings; the drawn line itself has had to take on -other functions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="PAUL_CEZANNE" id="PAUL_CEZANNE"></a>PAUL CÉZANNE<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor1">[52]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span>N a society which is as indifferent to works of art as our modern -industrialism it seems paradoxical that artists of all kinds should loom -so large in the general consciousness of mankind—that they should be -remembered with reverence and boasted of as national assets when -statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers are forgotten. The great mass of modern -men could rub along happily enough without works of art or at least -without new ones, but society would be sensibly more bored if the artist -died out altogether. The fact is that every honest bourgeois, however -sedate and correct his life, keeps a hidden and scarce-admitted yearning -for that other life of complete individualism which hard necessity or -the desire for success has denied him. In contemplating the artist he -tastes vicariously these forbidden joys. He regards the artist as a -strange species, half idiot, half divine, but above all irresponsibly -and irredeemably himself. He seems equally strange in his outrageous -egoism and his superb devotion to an idea.</p> - -<p>Also in a world where the individual is squeezed and moulded and -polished by the pressure of his fellow-men the artist remains -irreclaimably individual—in a world where every one else is being -perpetually educated the artist remains ineducable—where others are -shaped he grows. Cézanne realised the type of the artist in its purest -most unmitigated form, and M. Vollard has had the wit to write a book -about Cézanne and not about Cézanne’s pictures. The time may come when -we shall require a complete study of Cézanne’s work, a measured judgment -of his achievement and position—it would probably be rash to attempt it -as yet. Meanwhile we have M. Vollard’s portrait, at once documented and -captivating. Should the book ever become as well known as it deserves -there would be, one guesses,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_166fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_166fp_sml.jpg" width="369" height="458" alt="Image unvavailable: Cézanne. Portrait of the Artist Collection Pellerin - -Plate XXIII. -" /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td>Cézanne. Portrait of the Artist </td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Collection Pellerin</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXIII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">ten people fascinated by Cézanne for one who would walk down the street -to see his pictures.</p> - -<p>The art historian may sometimes regret that Vasari did not give us more -of the æsthetics of his time; but Vasari knew his business, knew, -perhaps, that the æsthetics of an age are quickly superseded but that -the human document remains of perennial interest to mankind. M. Vollard -has played Vasari to Cézanne and done so with the same directness and -simplicity, the same narrative ease, the same insatiable delight in the -oddities and idiosyncrasies of his subject. And what a model he had to -paint! Every word and every gesture he records stick out with the rugged -relief of a character in which everything is due to the compulsion of -inner forces, in which nothing has been planed down or smoothed away by -external pressure—not that external pressure was absent but that the -inner compulsion—the inevitable bent of Cézanne’s temperament, was -irresistible. In one very important detail Cézanne was spared by -life—he always had enough to live on. The thought of a Cézanne having -to earn his living is altogether too tragic. But if life spared him in -this respect his temperament spared him nothing—for this rough -Provençal countryman had so exasperated a sensibility that the smallest -detail of daily life, the barking of a dog, the noise of a lift in a -neighbouring house, the dread of being touched even by his own son might -produce at any moment a nervous explosion. At such times his first -relief was in cursing and swearing, but if this failed the chances were -that his anger vented itself on his pictures—he would cut one to pieces -with his palette knife, or failing that roll it up and throw it into the -stove. M. Vollard describes with delightful humour the tortures he -endured in the innumerable sittings which he gave Cézanne for his -portrait—with what care he avoided any subject of conversation which -might lead to misunderstanding. But with all his adroitness there were -one or two crises in which the portrait was threatened with the dreaded -knife—fortunately Cézanne always found some other work on which to vent -his indignation, and the portrait survived, though after a hundred and -fifteen sittings, in which Cézanne exacted the immobility of an apple, -the portrait was left incomplete. “I am not displeased with the shirt -front,” was Cézanne’s characteristic appreciation.</p> - -<p>Two phrases continually recur in Cézanne’s conversation which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> show his -curious idiosyncrasies. One the often-quoted one of his dread that any -one might “<i>lui jeter le grappin dessus</i>” and the other “<i>moi qui suis -faible dans la vie</i>.” They express his constant attitude of distrust of -his kind—for him all women were “<i>des veaux et des calculatrices</i>”—his -dread of any possible invasion of his personality, and his sense of -impotence in face of the forces of life.</p> - -<p>None the less, though he pathetically exaggerated his weakness he never -seems to have had the least doubt about his supreme greatness as an -artist; what troubled and irritated him was his incapacity to express -his “sensation” in such terms as would make its meaning evident to the -world. It was for this reason that he struggled so obstinately and -hopelessly to get into the “Salon de M. Bougereau.” His attitude to -conventional art was a strange mixture of admiration at its skill and of -an overwhelming horror of its emptiness—of its so “horrible -resemblance.”</p> - -<p>The fact is that Cézanne had accepted uncritically all the conventions -in the pathetic belief that it was the only way of safety for one “so -feeble in life.” So he continued to believe in the Catholic Church not -from any religious conviction but because “Rome was so strong”—so, too, -he believed in the power and importance of the “Salon de Bougereau” -which he hated as much as he feared. So, too, with what seems a -paradoxical humility he let it be known, when his fame had already been -established among the intelligent, that he would be glad to have the -Legion of Honour. But here, too, he was destined to fail. The weighty -influence and distinguished position of his friends could avail nothing -against the undisguised horror with which any official heard the dreaded -name of Cézanne. And it appeared that Cézanne was the only artist in -France for whom this distinction was inaccessible, even through -“influence.” Nothing is stranger in his life than the contrast between -the idea the public formed of Cézanne and the reality. He was one of -those men destined to give rise to a legend which completely obscured -the reality. He was spoken of as the most violent of -revolutionaries—Communard and Anarchist were the favourite -epithets—and all the time he was a timid little country gentleman of -immaculate respectability who subscribed whole-heartedly to any -reactionary opinion which could establish his “soundness.” He was a -timid man who really believed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_168fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_168fp_sml.jpg" width="376" height="241" alt="Image unvavailable: Cézanne. Gardanne - -Plate XXIV." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Cézanne.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Gardanne</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXIV.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">in only one thing, “his little sensation”; who laboured incessantly to -express this peculiar quality and who had not the faintest notion of -doing anything that could shock the feelings of any mortal man or woman. -No wonder then that when he looked up from his work and surveyed the -world with his troubled and imperfect intellectual vision he was amazed -and perturbed at the violent antagonism which he had all unconsciously -provoked. No wonder that he became a shy, distrustful misanthrope, -almost incapable of any association with his kind.</p> - -<p>I have suggested that Cézanne was the perfect realisation of the type of -the artist—I doubt whether in the whole of Vasari’s great picture -gallery there is a more complete type of “original.” But in order to -accept this we must banish from our mind the conventional idea of the -artist as a man of flamboyant habits and calculated pose. Nothing is -less possible to the real artist than pose—he is less capable of it -than the ordinary man of business because more than any one else his -external activities are determined from within by needs and instincts -which he himself barely recognises.</p> - -<p>On the other hand the imitation artist is a past master of pose, he -poses as the sport of natural inclinations whilst he is really -deliberately exploiting his caprices; and as he has a natural instinct -for the limelight this variety of the “Cabotin” generally manages to sit -for the portrait of the artist. Cézanne, then, though his external life -was that of the most irreproachable of country gentlemen, though he went -to mass every Sunday and never willingly left the intimacy of family -life, was none the less the purest and most unadulterated of artists, -the most narrowly confined to his single activity, the most purely -disinterested and the most frankly egoistic of men.</p> - -<p>Cézanne had no intellectual independence. I doubt if he had the faintest -conception of intellectual truth, but this is not to deny that he had a -powerful mind. On the contrary he had a profound intelligence of -whatever came within his narrow outlook on life, and above all he had -the gift of expression, so that however fantastic, absurd, or naïve his -opinions may have been, they were always expressed in such racy and -picturesque language that they become interesting as revelations of a -very human and genuine personality.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span></p> - -<p>One of the tragi-comedies of Cézanne’s life was the story of his early -friendship with Zola, followed in middle life by a gradual estrangement, -and at last a total separation. It is perhaps the only blot in M. -Vollard’s book that he has taken too absolutely Cézanne’s point of view, -and has hardly done justice to Zola’s goodness of heart. The cause of -friction, apart from Cézanne’s habitual testiness and ill-humour, was -that Zola’s feeling for art, which had led him in his youth to a heroic -championship of the younger men, faded away in middle life. His own -practice of literature led him further and further away from any concern -with pure art, and he failed to recognise that his own early prophecy of -Cézanne’s greatness had come true, simply because he himself had become -a popular author, and Cézanne had failed of any kind of success. -Unfortunately Zola, who had evidently lost all real æsthetic feeling, -continued to talk about art, and worse than that he had made the hero of -“L’Œuvre” a more or less recognisable portrait of his old friend. -Cézanne could not tolerate Zola’s gradual acquiescence in worldly ideals -and ways of life, and when the Dreyfusard question came up not only did -his natural reactionary bias make him a vehement anti-Dreyfusard but he -had no comprehension whatever of the heroism of Zola’s actions; he found -him merely ridiculous, and believed him to be engaged in an -ill-conceived scheme of self-advertisement. But for all his contempt of -Zola his affection remained deeper than he knew, and when he heard the -news of Zola’s death Cézanne shut himself alone up in his studio, and -was heard sobbing and groaning throughout the day.</p> - -<p>Cézanne’s is not the only portrait in M. Vollard’s entertaining -book—there are sketches of many characters, among them the few strange -and sympathetic men who appreciated and encouraged Cézanne in his early -days. Of Cabaner the musician M. Vollard has collected some charming -notes. Cabaner was a “philosopher,” and singularly indifferent to the -chances of life. During the siege of Paris he met Coppée, and noticing -the shells which were falling he became curious. “Where do all these -bullets come from?” Coppée: “It would seem that it is the besiegers who -send them.” Cabaner, after a silence: “Is it always the Prussians?” -Coppée, impatiently: “Who on earth could it be?” Cabaner: “I don’t know -... other nations!” But the book is so full of good stories that I must -resist the temptation to quote.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_170fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_170fp_sml.jpg" width="315" height="388" alt="Image unvavailable: Cézanne. The Artist’s Wife - -Plate XXV." /></a> -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Cézanne.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">The Artist’s Wife</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXV.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p>Fortunately M. Vollard has collected also a large number of Cézanne’s -<i>obiter dicta</i> on art. These have all Cézanne’s pregnant wisdom and racy -style. They often contain a whole system of æsthetics in a single -phrase, as, for instance: “What’s wanted is to do Poussin over again -from Nature.”</p> - -<p>They show, moreover, the natural bias of Cézanne’s feelings and their -gradual modification as his understanding became more profound. What -comes out clearly, and it must never be forgotten in considering his -art, is that his point of departure was from Romanticism. Delacroix was -his god and Ingres, in his early days, his devil—a devil he learned -increasingly to respect, but never one imagines really to love, “<i>ce -Dominique est très fort mais il m’emm</i>——.” That Cézanne became a -supreme master of formal design every one would nowadays admit, but -there is some excuse for those contemporaries who complained of his want -of drawing. He was not a master of line in the sense in which Ingres -was. “The contour escapes me,” as he said. That is to say he arrived at -the contour by a study of the interior planes; he was always plastic -before he was linear. In his early works, such, for instance, as the -“Scène de plein air” (see Plate), he is evidently inspired by Delacroix; -he is almost a romanticist himself in such work, and his design is built -upon the contrasts of large and rather loosely drawn silhouettes of dark -and light. In fact it is the method of Tintoretto, Rubens, and -Delacroix.</p> - -<p>In the “Bathers resting,” painted in 1877, there is already a great -change. It is rather by the exact placing of plastic units than by -continuous flowing silhouettes that the design holds. Giorgione, -perhaps, is behind this, but no longer Tintoretto, and, above all, -Poussin has intervened.</p> - -<p>In later works, such as the portrait of “Mme. Cézanne in a greenhouse,” -the plasticity has become all-important, there is no longer any -suggestion of a romantic <i>decor</i>; all is reduced to the purest terms of -structural design.</p> - -<p>These notes on Cézanne’s development are prompted by the illustrations -in M. Vollard’s book. These are numerous and excellent, and afford a -better opportunity for a general study of Cézanne’s <i>œuvre</i> than any -other book. In fact, when the time comes for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> complete appreciation -of Cézanne M. Vollard’s book will be the most important document -existing. It should, however, have a far wider appeal than that. I hope -that after the war M. Vollard will bring out a small cheap -edition<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a>—it should become a classic biography. To say, as I would, -that M. Vollard’s book is a monument worthy of Cézanne himself is to -give it the highest praise.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_174fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_174fp_sml.jpg" width="377" height="276" alt="Image unvavailable: Cézanne. Le ruisseau - -Plate XXVI." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Cézanne.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Le ruisseau</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXVI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<h2><a name="RENOIR" id="RENOIR"></a>RENOIR</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span>HAT a lover of the commonplace Renoir was! It is a rare quality among -artists. A theoretically pure artist exists no more than a Euclidean -point, but if such a being could exist, every possible actual sight -would be equally suitable as a point of departure for his artistic -vision. Everything would stir in him the impulse to creation. He would -have no predilections, no tastes for this or that kind of thing. In -practice every artist is set going by some particular kind of scene in -nature, and for the most part artists have to search out some unusual or -unexplored aspect of things. Gauguin, for instance, had to go as far as -Tahiti. When Renoir heard of this, he said, in a phrase which revealed -his own character: “Pourquoi? On peint si bien a Batignolles.” But there -are plenty of artists who paint more or less well at Batignolles or -Bloomsbury and yet are not lovers of the commonplace. Like Walter -Sickert, for instance, they find their Tahiti in Mornington Crescent. -Though they paint in commonplace surroundings, they generally contrive -to catch them at an unexpected angle. Something odd or exotic in their -taste for life seems to be normal to artists. The few artists or writers -who have shared the tastes of the average man have, as a rule, been like -Dickens—to take an obvious case—very imperfect and very impure -artists, however great their genius. Among great artists one thinks at -once of Rubens as the most remarkable example of a man of common tastes, -a lover of all that was rich, exuberant and even florid. Titian, too, -comes nearly up to the same standard, except that in youth his whole -trend of feeling was distorted by the overpowering influence of -Giorgione, whose tastes were recondite and strange. Renoir, in the -frankness of his colour harmonies, in his feeling for design and even in -the quality of his pigment, constantly reminds us of these two. Now it -is easier to see how an artist of the sixteenth or seventeenth century -could develop commonplace tastes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> than one of our own times. For with -the nineteenth century came in a gradual process of differentiation of -the artist from the average man. The modern artist finds himself so -little understood by the crowd, in his aims and methods, that he tends -to become distinct in his whole attitude to life.</p> - -<p>What, then, is so peculiar about Renoir is that he has this perfectly -ordinary taste in things and yet remains so intensely, so purely, an -artist. The fact is perhaps that he was so much an artist that he never -had to go round the corner to get his inspiration; the immediate, -obvious, front view of everything was more than sufficient to start the -creative impulse. He enjoyed instinctively, almost animally, all the -common good things of life, and yet he always kept just enough -detachment to feel his delight æsthetically—he kept, as it were, just -out of reach of appetite.</p> - -<p>More than any other great modern artist Renoir trusted implicitly to his -own sensibility; he imposed no barrier between his own delight in -certain things and the delight which he communicates. He liked -passionately the obviously good things of life, the young human animal, -sunshine, sky, trees, water, fruit; the things that every one likes; -only he liked them at just the right distance with just enough -detachment to replace appetite by emotion. He could rely on this -detachment so thoroughly that he could dare, what hardly any other -genuine modern has dared to say how much he liked even a pretty sight. -But what gives his art so immediate, so universal an appeal is that his -detachment went no further than was just necessary. His sensibility is -kept at the exact point where it is transmuted into emotion. And the -emotion, though it has of course the generalised æsthetic feeling, keeps -something of the fulness and immediacy of the simpler attitude. Not that -Renoir was either naïve or stupid. When he chose he showed that he was -capable of logical construction and vigorous design. But for his own -pleasure he would, as he himself said, have been satisfied to make -little isolated records of his delight in the detail of a flower or a -lock of hair. With the exception of “Les Parapluies” at the National -Gallery we have rarely seen his more deliberate compositions in England. -But in all his work alike Renoir remains the man who could trust -recklessly his instinctive reaction to life.</p> - -<p>Let me confess that these characteristics—this way of keeping,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_176fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_176fp_sml.jpg" width="375" height="303" alt="Image unvavailable: Renoir. Judgement of Paris. Collection Halvossen - -Plate XXVII." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Renoir. Judgement of Paris.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Collection Halvossen</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXVII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">as it were, just out of reach of appetite—makes Renoir to me, -personally, a peculiarly difficult artist. My taste for exotic artists -such as Cosima Tura and his kin amounts at times to a vice. -Consequently, I am sometimes in danger of not doing Renoir justice, -because at the first approach to one of his pictures I miss the purely -accessory delight of an unexpected attitude. The first approach to one -of his pictures may indeed remind one of pictures that would be the -delight of the servants’ hall, so unaffectedly simple is his acceptance -of the charm of rosy-cheeked girls, of pretty posies and dappled -sunlight. And yet one knows well enough that Renoir was as “artful” as -one could wish. Though he had not the biting wit of a Degas, he had a -peculiar love of mischievous humour; he was anything but a harmless or -innocent character. All his simplicity is on the surface only. The -longer one looks, the deeper does Renoir retire behind veil after veil -of subtlety. And yet, compared with some modern artists, he was, after -all, easy and instinctively simple. Even his plastic unity was arrived -at by what seems a more natural method than, say, Cézanne’s. Whereas -Cézanne undertook his indefatigable research for the perspective of the -receding planes, Renoir seems to have accepted a very simple general -plastic formula. Whatever Cézanne may have meant by his celebrated -saying about cones and cylinders, Renoir seems to have thought the -sphere and cylinder sufficient for his purpose. The figure presents -itself to his eye as an arrangement of more or less hemispherical bosses -and cylinders, and he appears generally to arrange the light so that the -most prominent part of each boss receives the highest light. From this -the planes recede by insensible gradations towards the contour, which -generally remains the vaguest, least ascertained part of the modelling. -Whatever lies immediately behind the contour tends to become drawn into -its sphere of influence, to form an undefined recession enveloping and -receiving the receding planes. As the eye passes away from the contour, -new but less marked bosses form themselves and fill the background with -repetitions of the general theme. The picture tends thus to take the -form of a bas-relief in which the recessions are not into the profound -distances of pictorial space, but only back, as it were, to the block -out of which the bossed reliefs emerge, though, of course, by means of -atmospheric colour the eye may interpret these recessions as distance. -This is clearly in marked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> contrast to Cézanne’s method of suggesting -endless recessions of planes with the most complicated interwoven -texture.</p> - -<p>Renoir’s drawing takes on the same fundamental simplicity. An Ingres -arrived at the simplified statement necessary for great design by a -process of gradual elimination of all the superfluous sinuosities which -his hand had recorded in the first drawing from nature. Renoir seems -never to have allowed his eye to accept more than the larger elements of -mass and direction. His full, rounded curves embrace the form in its -most general aspect. With advancing years and continually growing -science he was able, at last, to state this essential synthesis with -amazing breadth and ease. He continually increased the amplitude of his -forms until, in his latest nudes, the whole design is filled with a few -perfectly related bosses. Like Titian’s, Renoir’s power of design -increased visibly up to the very end of his life. True, he was capable -at all periods of conceiving large and finely co-ordinated compositions, -such as “Les Parapluies” and the “Charpentier family”; but at the end -even the smallest studies have structural completeness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_POSSIBLE_DOMESTIC_ARCHITECTURE" id="A_POSSIBLE_DOMESTIC_ARCHITECTURE"></a>A POSSIBLE DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE<a name="FNanchor_54_54" id="FNanchor_54_54"></a><a href="#Footnote_54_54" class="fnanchor1">[54]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span>OUSES are either builders’ houses or architects’ houses. Not that -speculative builders do not employ architects, but they generally employ -architects who efface themselves behind the deadly conventionality and -bewildering fantasy of their façades. Architects’ houses are generally -built to the order of a gentleman who wishes his house to have some -distinctive character, to stand out from the common herd of houses, -either by its greater splendour or its greater discretion. The builder’s -house, like the dresses of the lower middle class, is generally an -imitation of the gentleman’s, only of a fashion that has just gone out -of date and imitated badly in cheaper materials. No one defends it. It -is made so because you must make a house somehow, and bought because it -is the usual and therefore inevitable thing. No one enjoys it, no one -admires it, it is accepted as part of the use and wont of ordinary life. -The gentleman’s and architect’s house is different. Here time and -thought, and perhaps great ingenuity and taste are employed in giving to -the house an individual character. Unfortunately this individual -character is generally terribly conscious of its social aspect, of how -the house will look, not to those who live in it so much as to those who -come to visit. We have no doubt outlived the more vulgar forms of this -social consciousness, those which led to the gross display of merely -expensive massiveness and profusion. Few modern houses would satisfy Mr. -Podsnap. But its subtler forms are still apparent. They generally make -themselves felt in the desire to be romantic. As it requires much too -much imagination to find romance in the present, one looks for it in the -past, and so a dive is made into some period of history, and its -monuments studied and copied, and finally “adapted” to the more -elaborate exigencies of modern life. But, alas, these divers into the -past seem never to have been able to find the pearl of romance, for, -ever since the craze began in the eighteenth century, they have been -diving now here, now there, now into Romanesque, now into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> Gothic, now -into Jacobean, now into Queen Anne. They have brought up innumerable -architectural “features” which have been duly copied by modern -machinery, and carefully glued on to the houses, and still the owners -and the architects, to do them justice, feel restless, and are in search -of some new old style to try. The search has flagged of late, people -know it is useless, and here and there architects have set to work -merely to build so well and with such a fine sense of the material -employed that the result should satisfy the desire for comeliness -without the use of any style. I am thinking of some of Mr. Blow’s -earlier works where a peculiar charm resulted from the unstinting care -with which every piece of material had been chosen and the whole fitted -together almost as though the stones had been precious stones instead of -flints or bricks.</p> - -<p>But on the whole the problem appears to be still unsolved, and the -architects go on using styles of various kinds with greater or less -degrees of correctness. This they no longer do with the old zest and -hope of discovery, but rather with a languid indifference and with -evident marks of discouragement.</p> - -<p>Now style is an admirable thing, it is the result of ease and coherence -of feeling, but unfortunately a borrowed style is an even stronger proof -of muddled and befogged emotions than the total absence of style. The -desire for a style at all costs, even a borrowed style, is part of that -exaggerated social consciousness which in other respects manifests -itself as snobbery. What if people were just to let their houses be the -direct outcome of their actual needs, and of their actual way of life, -and allow other people to think what they like. What if they behaved in -the matter of houses as all people wish to behave in society without any -undue or fussy self-consciousness. Wouldn’t such houses have really a -great deal more character, and therefore interest for others, than those -which are deliberately made to look like something or other. Instead of -looking like something, they would then be something.</p> - -<p>The house which I planned and built for myself was the result of certain -particular needs and habits. I had originally no idea of building a -house: I had so often heard the proverb that “Fools build houses for -wise men to live in,” that I had come to believe it, but I required a -house of a certain size for my family within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> easy reach of London. I -looked at a great many houses and found that those which had a -sufficient number of rooms were all gentlemen’s establishments, with -lodge, stabling, and green-houses. Now it was characteristic of my purse -that I could not afford to keep up a gentleman’s establishment and of my -tastes that I could not endure to. I was a town dweller, and I wanted a -town house and a little garden in the country. As I could not find what -I wanted, the idea came into my head that I must build it or go without. -The means at my disposal were definitely limited; the question was -therefore whether I could build a house of the required size with that -sum. I made a plan containing the number of rooms of the sizes I -required, and got an estimate. It was largely in excess of the sum I -possessed for the purpose. I feared I must give up my scheme when I met -a friend who had experimented in building cheap cottages on his estate, -and learned from him that the secret of economy was concentration of -plan. I also discovered in discussing my first estimate that roofs were -cheaper than walls. I thereupon started on a quite different plan, in -which I arranged the rooms to form as nearly as possible a solid block, -and placed a number of the rooms in a hipped or Mansard roof. It will be -seen that, so far, the planning of the house was merely the discovery of -a possible equation between my needs and the sum at my disposal.</p> - -<p>But in trying to establish this equation I had found it necessary to -make the rooms rather smaller than I should have liked, and having a -great liking for large and particularly high interiors—I hate -Elizabethan rooms with their low ceilings in spite of their prettiness, -and I love the interiors of the baroque palaces of Italy—I determined -to have one room of generous dimensions and particularly of great -height. This large room surrounded by small rooms was naturally made -into a general living-place, with arrangements by means of a lift to -enable it to be used as a dining hall if there were more in the house -than could be accommodated in the small breakfast room.</p> - -<p>The estimate for this new concentrated plan, in spite of the large -dimensions of the living place, came to little more than half the -estimate for the former plan, and made my project feasible, provided -that I could calculate all details and did not run into extras.</p> - -<p>So far then there has been no question of architecture; it has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> been -merely solving the problem of personal needs and habits, and of cost, -and if architecture there is to be, it should, I think, come directly -out of the solution of these problems. The size and disposition of the -plan having thus been fixed, the elevations are given in outline, and -the only question is how the rectangle of each elevation is to be -treated. Doors and windows are the elements of the design, and here -again something will already be determined by needs or tastes. There is -need of a certain amount of light, and my own taste is to have as much -as possible, so that the windows had to be large rectangles. But when -all these things are determined by need there is still a wide margin of -choice—the size of the panes in the windows, the depth of recess of the -windows within the wall, the flatness or relief of each element. All -these and many more are still matters of choice, and it is through the -artist’s sense of proportion and his feeling for the plastic relief of -the whole surface that a work of mere utility may become a work of art. -In the case of the main elevation of my house I found that when all the -windows, including the long windows of the high living-place, were duly -arranged, there was a want of unity owing to the nearly equal balance -between the horizontal and vertical members. I therefore underlined the -slight projection of the central part (a projection enforced by by-laws) -by varying the material, replacing at this point the plaster of the -walls by two bands of red brick. In this way the vertical effect of the -central part was made to dominate the whole façade. The artistic or -architectural part of this house was confined, then, merely to the -careful choice of proportions within certain fixed limits defined by -needs, and neither time, money, nor thought were expended on giving the -house the appearance of any particular style.</p> - -<p>I have gone thus at length into the history of my own house merely as an -example of the way in which, I think, a genuine architecture, and in the -end, no doubt, an architectural style, might arise. It requires a -certain courage or indifference to public opinion on the part of the -owner. My own house is neighboured by houses of the most gentlemanly -picturesqueness, houses from which tiny gables with window slits jut out -at any unexpected angle, and naturally it is regarded as a monstrous -eyesore by their inhabitants. Indeed, when I first came here it was -supposed that the ugliness of my house was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> so apparent that I myself -could not be blind to it, and should not resent its being criticised in -my presence. They were quite right, I did not resent it; I was only very -much amused.</p> - -<p>To arrive at such a genuine domestic architecture as I conceive, -requires, then, this social indifference to surrounding snobbishness on -the part of the owner, and it requires a nice sense of proportion and a -feeling for values of plastic relief on the part of the artist who -designs the house, but it does not require genius or even any -extraordinary talent to make a genuine and honest piece of domestic -architecture which will continue to look distinguished when the last -“style” but one having just become <i>démodé</i> already stinks in the -nostrils of all cultured people.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="JEAN_MARCHAND" id="JEAN_MARCHAND"></a>JEAN MARCHAND<a name="FNanchor_55_55" id="FNanchor_55_55"></a><a href="#Footnote_55_55" class="fnanchor1">[55]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HERE are some thirty pictures by M. Jean Marchand now on view at the -Carfax Gallery in Bury Street. This gives one an occasion for reviewing -the work of this comparatively young artist. M. Marchand belongs, of -course, to the revolutionary movement of this century in that he derives -the general principles of his art from Cézanne, but he is the most -traditional of revolutionaries. Not by the wildest stretch of the -imagination could one conceive of M. Marchand deliberately or -consciously doing anything to astonish the public. It is quite true that -no genuine artist ever did, but some artists have found an added -piquancy in the thought that inventions that occurred to them would in -point of fact have this adventitious charm. But with M. Marchand such -possibilities seem more remote than with most of his compeers. An -extreme simplicity and directness of outlook and a touching sincerity in -all he does are the most prominent characteristics of his work. Not that -he makes one suppose him to be too naïve to play tricks with his art; on -the contrary, one sees that he is highly self-conscious and -intellectual, but that he knows the utter futility of any deliberate -emphasis on the artist’s part. He knows that any effect of permanent -value must flow directly from the matter in hand; that it is useless to -make anything appear more interesting or impressive than it is; that, -whatever his vision is, it must be accepted literally, and without any -attempt to add to its importance or effectiveness.</p> - -<p>In short, M. Marchand is a classic artist—one might almost in these -days say a French artist, and count it as synonymous, but that one -remembers that the French, too, have had their orgies of romantic -emphasis, and have always ready to hand a convention of coldly -exaggerated rhetoric. Moreover, if one thinks of a nearly allied -painter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_184fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_184fp_sml.jpg" width="222" height="262" alt="Image unvavailable: Marchand. Still Life Author’s Collection - -Plate XXVIII. -" /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Marchand. Still Life</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 1em;padding-left: 1em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Author’s Collection</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXVIII.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">such as Derain, whose work is so terribly <i>interesting</i>, one sees that -to a quite peculiar degree M. Marchand exemplifies the sentimental -honesty of the French. I leave the question open whether this is a moral -trait, or is not rather the result of a clearer perception than we often -attain to of the extreme futility of lying where art is concerned.</p> - -<p>Certainly one can imagine the temptations for a man of M. Marchand’s -great technical ability to choose some slightly wilful or fantastic -formula of vision and to exploit it for what it might bring out; for M. -Marchand was handicapped in any competition for notoriety by the very -normality and sanity of his vision. Compared to the descriptions of -sketches in “Jane Eyre,” his pictures would be judged to be entirely -lacking in imagination. He never tries to invent what he has not -actually seen. Almost any of the ordinary things of life suffice for his -theme—a loaf of bread or a hat left on the table, a rather vulgar -French château restored by Viollet-le-Duc with a prim garden and -decorous lake, a pot of aspidistra in a suburban window. These and the -like are the subjects of his pictures, and he paints the objects -themselves in all their vulgar everydayness. They do not become excuses -for abstract designs; they retain in his pictures all their bleak -commonplaceness.</p> - -<p>Any one unfamiliar with his pictures who read such an account of his -work might think M. Marchand was a dull literalist, whose mere -accomplishment it is to render the similitude of objects. But such a -conclusion would be entirely wrong. However frankly M. Marchand accepts -the forms of objects, however little his normal vision distorts or -idealises them, however consciously and deliberately he chooses the -arrangement, he does build up by sheer method and artistic science a -unity which has a singularly impressive quality. I heard some one say, -in front of a still life which represented a white tablecloth, a glass -tumbler, an earthenware water-bottle and a loaf of bread, that it was -like Buddha. With such a description as I give of the picture the -appreciation sounds precious and absurd; before the picture it seems -perfectly just. For M. Marchand has attained the reward of his -inflexible honesty; his construction is so solid and unfaltering, he -builds up his designs with such massive and direct handling, that -without the slightest suggestion of emphasis, without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> any underlining, -the effect comes through; the material becomes expressive; he becomes a -creator, and not a mere adapter of form.</p> - -<p>For the understanding of his personality it is interesting to consider -his Cubist period, since Marchand’s reaction to Cubism is typical of his -nature. Cubism, like S. Paul, has been all things to all men—at least -to almost all artists of the present generation. To some it has been a -doctrine and a revelation; to some it has been a convenient form of -artistic journalism; to some it has been a quick road to notoriety, to -some an aid to melodramatic effect. To M. Marchand it was just a useful -method and a gymnastic. He used it for just what it could give him as an -exercise in the organisation of form. It was to him like a system of -notation to a mathematician, a means of handling quantities which -without it would have been too elusive and too infinite to grasp. By -means of Cubism the infinity of a sphere could be reduced to half a -dozen planes, each of which he could learn to relate to all the other -planes in the picture; and the singular ease and directness of his -plastic construction seem to be due to his early practice of Cubist -methods. Having once learned by this process of willed and deliberate -analysis how to handle complex forms, he has been able to throw away the -scaffolding and to construct palpably related and completely unified -designs with something approaching the full complexity of natural forms, -though the lucid statement and the ease of handling which it actuates -testify to the effect of his apprenticeship in Cubism. Such a use of a -theory—as a method, not as a doctrine—seems to me typical of M. -Marchand’s balanced judgment, of his alert readiness to use any and -every means that could conduce to his slow and methodical development, -and hold out hopes of a continued growth.</p> - -<p>M. Marchand, so assured, so settled an artist, is still young. In the -landscapes which he did in the South of France just before the war he -explored a peculiarly persuasive and harmonious scheme of colour, based -on warm ochres, earth reds, and dull blues. These pictures have the -envelopment and the sonorous harmony of some early Italian masters in -spite of the frank oppositions and the vigorous scaffolding of modern -design. In the later work done in the last year he shows a new sense of -colour, a new sharpness and almost an audacity, if one can imagine so -well-balanced a nature capable of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> audacity. He uses dull neutral -colours, the dirty white of a cloudy sky, harsh dull greens and blacks, -the obvious and unattractive colours that so frequently occur in nature; -but he uses them in such combinations, and with such accents of tone and -such subtly prepared accordances and oppositions, that these obvious -dull colours strike one as fascinating discoveries. This is the height -of artistic science, so to accept the obvious and commonplace that it -gives one the pleasant shock of paradox. It seems hardly rash to -foretell for him a solid and continually growing fame.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="RETROSPECT" id="RETROSPECT"></a>RETROSPECT<a name="FNanchor_56_56" id="FNanchor_56_56"></a><a href="#Footnote_56_56" class="fnanchor1">[56]</a></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span>HE work of re-reading and selecting from the mass of my writings as an -art critic has inevitably brought me up against the question of its -consistency and coherence. Although I do not think that I have -republished here anything with which I entirely disagree, I cannot but -recognise that in many of these essays the emphasis lies in a different -place from where I should now put it. Fortunately I have never prided -myself upon my unchanging constancy of attitude, but unless I flatter -myself I think I can trace a certain trend of thought underlying very -different expressions of opinion. Now since that trend seems to me to be -symptomatic of modern æsthetic, and since it may perhaps explain much -that seems paradoxical in the actual situation of art, it may be -interesting to discuss its nature even at the cost of being -autobiographical.</p> - -<p>In my work as a critic of art I have never been a pure Impressionist, a -mere recording instrument of certain sensations. I have always had some -kind of æsthetic. A certain scientific curiosity and a desire for -comprehension have impelled me at every stage to make generalisations, -to attempt some kind of logical co-ordination of my impressions. But, on -the other hand, I have never worked out for myself a complete system -such as the metaphysicians deduce from <i>a priori</i> principles. I have -never believed that I knew what was the ultimate nature of art. My -æsthetic has been a purely practical one, a tentative expedient, an -attempt to reduce to some kind of order my æsthetic impressions up to -date. It has been held merely until such time as fresh experiences might -confirm or modify it. Moreover, I have always looked on my system with a -certain suspicion. I have recognised that if it ever formed too solid a -crust it might stop the inlets of fresh experience, and I can count -various occasions when my principles would have led me to condemn, and -when my sensibility has played the part of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> Balaam with the effect of -making temporary chaos of my system. That has, of course, always -rearranged itself to take in the new experience, but with each such -cataclysm it has suffered a loss of prestige. So that even in its latest -form I do not put forward my system as more than a provisional induction -from my own æsthetic experiences.</p> - -<p>I have certainly tried to make my judgment as objective as possible, but -the critic must work with the only instrument he possesses—namely, his -own sensibility with all its personal equations. All that he can -consciously endeavour is to perfect that tool to its utmost by studying -the traditional verdicts of men of æsthetic sensibility in the past, and -by constant comparison of his own reactions with those of his -contemporaries who are specially gifted in this way. When he has done -all that he can in this direction—and I would allow him a slight bias -in favour of agreement with tradition—he is bound to accept the verdict -of his own feelings as honestly as he can. Even plain honesty in this -matter is more difficult to attain than would be admitted by those who -have never tried it. In so delicate a matter as the artistic judgment -one is liable to many accidental disturbing influences, one can scarcely -avoid temporary hypnotisms and hallucinations. One can only watch for -and try to discount these, taking every opportunity to catch one’s -sensibility unawares before it can take cover behind prejudices and -theories.</p> - -<p>When the critic holds the result of his reaction to a work of art -clearly in view he has next to translate it into words. Here, too, -distortion is inevitable, and it is here that I have probably failed -most of accuracy, for language in the hands of one who lacks the mastery -of a poet has its own tricks, its perversities and habits. There are -things which it shies at and goes round, there are places where it runs -away and, leaving the reality which it professes to carry tumbled out at -the tail of the cart, arrives in a great pother, but without the goods.</p> - -<p>But in spite of all these limitations and the errors they entail it -seems to me that the attempt to attain objective judgments has not -altogether failed, and that I seem to myself to have been always groping -my way towards some kind of a reasoned and practical æsthetic. Many -minds have been engaged alongside of mine in the same pursuit. I think -we may claim that partly as a result of our common efforts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> a rather -more intelligent attitude exists in the educated public of to-day than -obtained in the last century.</p> - -<p>Art in England is sometimes insular, sometimes provincial. The -pre-Raphaelite movement was mainly an indigenous product. The dying -echoes of this remarkable explosion reverberated through the years of my -nonage, but when I first began to study art seriously the vital movement -was a provincial one. After the usual twenty years of delay, provincial -England had become aware of the Impressionist movement in France, and -the younger painters of promise were working under the influence of -Monet. Some of them even formulated theories of naturalism in its most -literal and extreme form. But at the same time Whistler, whose -Impressionism was of a very different stamp, had put forward the purely -decorative idea of art, and had tried in his “Ten o’clock,” perhaps too -cavalierly, to sweep away the web of ethical questions, distorted by -æsthetic prejudices, which Ruskin’s exuberant and ill-regulated mind had -spun for the British public.</p> - -<p>The Naturalists made no attempt to explain why the exact and literal -imitation of nature should satisfy the human spirit, and the -“Decorators” failed to distinguish between agreeable sensations and -imaginative significance.</p> - -<p>After a brief period during which I was interested in the new -possibilities opened up by the more scientific evaluation of colour -which the Impressionists practised, I came to feel more and more the -absence in their work of structural design. It was an innate desire for -this aspect of art which drove me to the study of the Old Masters and, -in particular, those of the Italian Renaissance, in the hope of -discovering from them the secret of that architectonic idea which I -missed so badly in the work of my contemporaries. I think now that a -certain amount of “cussedness” led me to exaggerate what was none the -less a genuine personal reaction. Finding myself out of touch with my -generation I took a certain pleasure in emphasising my isolation. I -always recognised fully that the only vital art of the day was that of -the Impressionists whose theories I disbelieved, and I was always able -to admit the greatness of Degas and Renoir. But many of my judgments of -modern art were too much affected by my attitude. I do not think I ever -praised Mr. Wilson Steer or Mr. Walter Sickert as much as they deserved, -and I looked with too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_190fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_190fp_sml.jpg" width="514" height="359" alt="Image unvavailable: Seurat. La Baignade - -Plate XXIX." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Seurat.</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">La Baignade</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXIX.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">great indulgence on some would-be imitators of the Old Masters. But my -most serious lapse was the failure to discover the genius of Seurat (see -Plate), whose supreme merits as a designer I had every reason to -acclaim. I cannot even tell now whether I ever saw his work in the -exhibitions of the early nineties, but if I did his qualities were -hidden from me by the now transparent veil of pointillism—a -pseudo-scientific system of atmospheric colour notation in which I took -no interest.</p> - -<p>I think I can claim that my study of the Old Masters was never much -tainted by archæological curiosity. I tried to study them in the same -spirit as I might study contemporary artists, and I always regretted -that there was no modern art capable of satisfying my predilections. I -say there was no modern art because none such was known to me, but all -the time there was one who had already worked out the problem which -seemed to me insoluble of how to use the modern vision with the -constructive design of the older masters. By some extraordinary ill luck -I managed to miss seeing Cézanne’s work till some considerable time -after his death. I had heard of him vaguely from time to time as a kind -of hidden oracle of ultra-impressionism, and, in consequence, I expected -to find myself entirely unreceptive to his art. To my intense surprise I -found myself deeply moved. I have discovered the article in which I -recorded this encounter, and though the praise I gave would sound -grudging and feeble to-day—for I was still obsessed by ideas about the -content of a work of art—I am glad to see that I was so ready to scrap -a long-cherished hypothesis in face of a new experience.</p> - -<p>In the next few years I became increasingly interested in the art of -Cézanne and of those like Gauguin and van Goch who at that time -represented the first effects of his profound influence on modern art, -and I gradually recognised that what I had hoped for as a possible event -of some future century had already occurred, that art had begun to -recover once more the language of design and to explore its so long -neglected possibilities. Thus it happened that when at the end of 1911, -by a curious series of chances, I was in a position to organise an -exhibition at the Grafton Galleries, I seized the opportunity to bring -before the English public a selection of works conforming to the new -direction. For purposes of convenience it was necessary to give these -artists a name, and I chose, as being the vaguest and most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> -non-committal, the name of Post-Impressionist. This merely stated their -position in time relatively to the Impressionist movement. In conformity -with my own previous prejudices against Impressionism, I think I -underlined too much their divorce from the parent stock. I see now more -clearly their affiliation with it, but I was none the less right in -recognising their essential difference, a difference which the -subsequent development of Cubism has rendered more evident. Of late the -thesis of their fundamental opposition has been again enforced in the -writings of M. Lhote.</p> - -<p>If I may judge by the discussions in the press to which this exhibition -gave rise, the general public failed to see that my position with regard -to this movement was capable of a logical explanation, as the result of -a consistent sensibility. I tried in vain to explain what appeared to me -so clear, that the modern movement was essentially a return to the ideas -of formal design which had been almost lost sight of in the fervid -pursuit of naturalistic representation. I found that the cultured public -which had welcomed my expositions of the works of the Italian -Renaissance now regarded me as either incredibly flippant or, for the -more charitable explanation was usually adopted, slightly insane. In -fact, I found among the cultured who had hitherto been my most eager -listeners the most inveterate and exasperated enemies of the new -movement. The accusation of anarchism was constantly made. From an -æsthetic point of view this was, of course, the exact opposite of the -truth, and I was for long puzzled to find the explanation of so -paradoxical an opinion and so violent an enmity. I now see that my crime -had been to strike at the vested emotional interests. These people felt -instinctively that their special culture was one of their social assets. -That to be able to speak glibly of Tang and Ming, of Amico di Sandro and -Baldovinetti, gave them a social standing and a distinctive cachet. This -showed me that we had all along been labouring under a mutual -misunderstanding, <i>i.e.</i> that we had admired the Italian primitives for -quite different reasons. It was felt that one could only appreciate -Amico di Sandro when one had acquired a certain considerable mass of -erudition and given a great deal of time and attention, but to admire a -Matisse required only a certain sensibility. One could feel fairly sure -that one’s maid could not rival one in the former case, but might by a -mere haphazard gift of Providence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_192fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_192fp_sml.jpg" width="237" height="225" alt="Image unvavailable: Derain. Still Life Author’s Collection - -Plate XXX." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Derain. Still Life </td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 2em;padding-left: 2em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Author’s Collection</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXX.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">surpass one in the second. So that the accusation of revolutionary -anarchism was due to a social rather than an æsthetic prejudice. In any -case the cultured public was determined to look upon Cézanne as an -incompetent bungler, and upon the whole movement as madly revolutionary. -Nothing I could say would induce people to look calmly enough at these -pictures to see how closely they followed tradition, or how great a -familiarity with the Italian primitives was displayed in their work. Now -that Matisse has become a safe investment for persons of taste, and that -Picasso and Derain have delighted the miscellaneous audience of the -London Music Halls with their designs for the Russian Ballet, it will be -difficult for people to believe in the vehemence of the indignation -which greeted the first sight of their works in England.</p> - -<p>In contrast to its effect on the cultured public the Post-Impressionist -exhibition aroused a keen interest among a few of the younger English -artists and their friends. With them I began to discuss the problems of -æsthetic that the contemplation of these works forced upon us.</p> - -<p>But before explaining the effects of these discussions upon my æsthetic -theory I must return to consider the generalisations which I had made -from my æsthetic experiences up to this point.</p> - -<p>In my youth all speculations on æsthetic had revolved with wearisome -persistence around the question of the nature of beauty. Like our -predecessors we sought for the criteria of the beautiful, whether in art -or nature. And always this search led to a tangle of contradictions or -else to metaphysical ideas so vague as to be inapplicable to concrete -cases.</p> - -<p>It was Tolstoy’s genius that delivered us from this <i>impasse</i>, and I -think that one may date from the appearance of “What is Art?” the -beginning of fruitful speculation in æsthetic. It was not indeed -Tolstoy’s preposterous valuation of works of art that counted for us, -but his luminous criticism of past æsthetic systems, above all, his -suggestions that art had no special or necessary concern with what is -beautiful in nature, that the fact that Greek sculpture had run -prematurely to decay through an extreme and non-æsthetic admiration of -beauty in the human figure afforded no reason why we should for ever -remain victims of their error.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<p>It became clear that we had confused two distinct uses of the word -beautiful, that when we used beauty to describe a favourable æsthetic -judgment on a work of art we meant something quite different from our -praise of a woman, a sunset or a horse as beautiful. Tolstoy saw that -the essence of art was that it was a means of communication between -human beings. He conceived it to be <i>par excellence</i> the language of -emotion. It was at this point that his moral bias led him to the strange -conclusion that the value of a work of art corresponded to the moral -value of the emotion expressed. Fortunately he showed by an application -of his theory to actual works of art to what absurdities it led. What -remained of immense importance was the idea that a work of art was not -the record of beauty already existent elsewhere, but the expression of -an emotion felt by the artist and conveyed to the spectator.</p> - -<p>The next question was, Of what kind of emotions is art the expression? -Is love poetry the expression of the emotion of love, tragedy the -expression of pity and fear, and so forth? Clearly the expression in art -has some similarity to the expression of these emotions in actual life, -but it is never identical. It is evident that the artist feels these -emotions in a special manner, that he is not entirely under their -influence, but sufficiently withdrawn to contemplate and comprehend -them. My “Essay in Æsthetic” here reprinted, elaborates this point of -view, and in a course of unpublished lectures I endeavoured to divide -works of visual art according to the emotional point of view, adopting -the classification already existing in poetry into Epic, Dramatic, -Lyric, and Comedic.</p> - -<p>I conceived the form of the work of art to be its most essential -quality, but I believed this form to be the direct outcome of an -apprehension of some emotion of actual life by the artist, although, no -doubt, that apprehension was of a special and peculiar kind and implied -a certain detachment. I also conceived that the spectator in -contemplating the form must inevitably travel in an opposite direction -along the same road which the artist had taken, and himself feel the -original emotion. I conceived the form and the emotion which it conveyed -as being inextricably bound together in the æsthetic whole.</p> - -<p>About the time I had arrived at these conclusions the discussion of -æsthetic stimulated by the appearance of Post-Impressionism began. It -became evident through these discussions that some artists who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> were -peculiarly sensitive to the formal relations of works of art, and who -were deeply moved by them, had almost no sense of the emotions which I -had supposed them to convey. Since it was impossible in these cases to -doubt the genuineness of the æsthetic reaction it became evident that I -had not pushed the analysis of works of art far enough, had not -disentangled the purely æsthetic elements from certain accompanying -accessories.</p> - -<p>It was, I think, the observation of these cases of reaction to pure form -that led Mr. Clive Bell in his book, “Art,” to put forward the -hypothesis that however much the emotions of life might appear to play a -part in the work of art, the artist was really not concerned with them, -but only with the expression of a special and unique kind of emotion, -the æsthetic emotion. A work of art had the peculiar property of -conveying the æsthetic emotion, and it did this in virtue of having -“significant form.” He also declared that representation of nature was -entirely irrelevant to this and that a picture might be completely -non-representative.</p> - -<p>This last view seemed to me always to go too far since any, even the -slightest, suggestion of the third dimension in a picture must be due to -some element of representation. What I think has resulted from Mr. Clive -Bell’s book, and the discussions which it has aroused on this point is -that the artist is free to choose any degree of representational -accuracy which suits the expression of his feeling. That no single fact, -or set of facts, about nature can be held to be obligatory for artistic -form. Also one might add as an empirical observation that the greatest -art seems to concern itself most with the universal aspects of natural -form, to be the least pre-occupied with particulars. The greatest -artists appear to be most sensitive to those qualities of natural -objects which are the least obvious in ordinary life precisely because, -being common to all visible objects, they do not serve as marks of -distinction and recognition.</p> - -<p>With regard to the expression of emotion in works of art I think that -Mr. Bell’s sharp challenge to the usually accepted view of art as -expressing the emotions of life has been of great value. It has led to -an attempt to isolate the purely æsthetic feeling from the whole complex -of feelings which may and generally do accompany the æsthetic feeling -when we regard a work of art.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>Let us take as an example of what I mean Raphael’s “Transfiguration,” -which a hundred years ago was perhaps the most admired picture in the -world, and twenty years ago was one of the most neglected. It is at once -apparent that this picture makes a very complex appeal to the mind and -feelings. To those who are familiar with the Gospel story of Christ it -brings together in a single composition two different events which -occurred simultaneously at different places, the Transfiguration of -Christ and the unsuccessful attempt of the Disciples during His absence -to heal the lunatic boy. This at once arouses a number of complex ideas -about which the intellect and feelings may occupy themselves. Goethe’s -remark on the picture is instructive from this point of view. “It is -remarkable,” he says, “that any one has ever ventured to query the -essential unity of such a composition. How can the upper part be -separated from the lower? The two form one whole. Below the suffering -and the needy, above the powerful and helpful—mutually dependent, -mutually illustrative.”</p> - -<p>It will be seen at once what an immense complex of feelings -interpenetrating and mutually affecting one another such a work sets up -in the mind of a Christian spectator, and all this merely by the content -of the picture, its subject, the dramatic story it tells.</p> - -<p>Now if our Christian spectator has also a knowledge of human nature he -will be struck by the fact that these figures, especially in the lower -group, are all extremely incongruous with any idea he is likely to have -formed of the people who surrounded Christ in the Gospel narrative. And -according to his prepossessions he is likely to be shocked or pleased to -find instead of the poor and unsophisticated peasants and fisherfolk who -followed Christ, a number of noble, dignified, and academic gentlemen in -impossible garments and purely theatrical poses. Again the -representation merely as representation, will set up a number of -feelings and perhaps of critical thoughts dependent upon innumerable -associated ideas in the spectator’s mind.</p> - -<p>Now all these reactions to the picture are open to any one who has -enough understanding of natural form to recognise it when represented -adequately. There is no need for him to have any particular sensibility -to form as such.</p> - -<p>Let us now take for our spectator a person highly endowed with the -special sensibility to form, who feels the intervals and relations of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/i_196fp_lg.jpg"> -<img src="images/i_196fp_sml.jpg" width="261" height="377" alt="Image unvavailable: Raphael. The Transfiguration Vatican - -Plate XXXI." /></a> - -<br /> -<table class="caption" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="l">Raphael. The Transfiguration</td> -<td><span style="padding-right: 1em;padding-left: 1em;"> </span></td> -<td class="rt">Vatican</td></tr> -<tr><td class="l">Plate XXXI.</td></tr> -</table> -</div> - -<p class="nind">forms as a musical person feels the intervals and relations of tones, -and let us suppose him either completely ignorant of, or indifferent to, -the Gospel story. Such a spectator will be likely to be immensely -excited by the extraordinary power of co-ordination of many complex -masses in a single inevitable whole, by the delicate equilibrium of many -directions of line. He will at once feel that the apparent division into -two parts is only apparent, that they are co-ordinated by a quite -peculiar power of grasping the possible correlations. He will almost -certainly be immensely excited and moved, but his emotion will have -nothing to do with the emotions which we have discussed since in the -former case, ex-hypothesi, our spectator has no clue to them.</p> - -<p>It is evident then that we have the possibility of infinitely diverse -reactions to a work of art. We may imagine, for instance, that our pagan -spectator, though entirely unaffected by the story, is yet conscious -that the figures represent men, and that their gestures are indicative -of certain states of mind and, in consequence, we may suppose that -according to an internal bias his emotion is either heightened or -hindered by the recognition of their rhetorical insincerity. Or we may -suppose him to be so absorbed in purely formal relations as to be -indifferent even to this aspect of the design as representation. We may -suppose him to be moved by the pure contemplation of the spatial -relations of plastic volumes. It is when we have got to this point that -we seem to have isolated this extremely elusive æsthetic quality which -is the one constant quality of all works of art, and which seems to be -independent of all the prepossessions and associations which the -spectator brings with him from his past life.</p> - -<p>A person so entirely pre-occupied with the purely formal meaning of a -work of art, so entirely blind to all the overtones and associations of -a picture like the Transfiguration is extremely rare. Nearly every one, -even if highly sensitive to purely plastic and spatial appearances, will -inevitably entertain some of those thoughts and feelings which are -conveyed by implication and by reference back to life. The difficulty is -that we frequently give wrong explanations of our feelings. I suspect, -for instance, that Goethe was deeply moved by the marvellous discovery -of design, whereby the upper and lower parts cohere in a single whole, -but the explanation he gave of this feeling took the form of a moral and -philosophical reflection.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<p>It is evident also that owing to our difficulty in recognising the -nature of our own feelings we are liable to have our æsthetic reaction -interfered with by our reaction to the dramatic overtones and -implications. I have chosen this picture of the Transfiguration -precisely because its history is a striking example of this fact. In -Goethe’s time rhetorical gesture was no bar to the appreciation of -æsthetic unity. Later on in the nineteenth century, when the study of -the Primitives had revealed to us the charm of dramatic sincerity and -naturalness, these gesticulating figures appeared so false and -unsympathetic that even people of æsthetic sensibility were unable to -disregard them, and their dislike of the picture as illustration -actually obliterated or prevented the purely æsthetic approval which -they would probably otherwise have experienced. It seems to me that this -attempt to isolate the elusive element of the pure æsthetic reaction -from the compounds in which it occurs has been the most important -advance of modern times in practical æsthetic.</p> - -<p>The question which this simile suggests is full of problems; are these -chemical compounds in the normal æsthetically gifted spectator, or are -they merely mixtures due to our confused recognition of what goes on in -the complex of our emotions? The picture I have chosen is also valuable, -just at the present time, from this point of view. Since it presents in -vivid opposition for most of us a very strong positive (pleasurable) -reaction on the purely æsthetic side, and a violently negative (painful) -reaction in the realm of dramatic association.</p> - -<p>But one could easily point to pictures where the two sets of emotions -seem to run so parallel that the idea that they reinforce one another is -inevitably aroused. We might take, for instance, Giotto’s “Pietà.” In my -description of that (p. 110), it will be seen that the two currents of -feeling ran so together in my own mind that I regarded them as being -completely fused. My emotion about the dramatic idea seemed to heighten -my emotion about the plastic design. But at present I should be inclined -to say that this fusion of two sets of emotion was only apparent and was -due to my imperfect analysis of my own mental state.</p> - -<p>Probably at this point we must hand over the question to the -experimental psychologist. It is for him to discover whether this fusion -is possible, whether, for example, such a thing as a song really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> -exists, that is to say, a song in which neither the meaning of the words -nor the meaning of the music predominates; in which music and words do -not merely set up separate currents of feeling, which may agree in a -general parallelism, but really fuse and become indivisible. I expect -that the answer will be in the negative.</p> - -<p>If on the other hand such a complete fusion of different kinds of -emotion does take place, this would tend to substantiate the ordinary -opinion that the æsthetic emotion has greater value in highly -complicated compounds than in the pure state.</p> - -<p>Supposing, then, that we are able to isolate in a work of art this -purely æsthetic quality to which Mr. Clive Bell gives the name of -“significant form.” Of what nature is it? And what is the value of this -elusive and—taking the whole mass of mankind—rather uncommon æsthetic -emotion which it causes? I put these questions without much hope of -answering them, since it is of the greatest importance to recognise -clearly what are the questions which remain to be solved.</p> - -<p>I think we are all agreed that we mean by significant form something -other than agreeable arrangements of form, harmonious patterns, and the -like. We feel that a work which possesses it is the outcome of an -endeavour to express an idea rather than to create a pleasing object. -Personally, at least, I always feel that it implies the effort on the -part of the artist to bend to our emotional understanding by means of -his passionate conviction some intractable material which is alien to -our spirit.</p> - -<p>I seem unable at present to get beyond this vague adumbration of the -nature of significant form. Flaubert’s “expression of the idea” seems to -me to correspond exactly to what I mean, but, alas! he never explained, -and probably could not, what he meant by the “idea.”</p> - -<p>As to the value of the æsthetic emotion—it is clearly infinitely -removed from those ethical values to which Tolstoy would have confined -it. It seems to be as remote from actual life and its practical -utilities as the most useless mathematical theorem. One can only say -that those who experience it feel it to have a peculiar quality of -“reality” which makes it a matter of infinite importance in their lives. -Any attempt I might make to explain this would probably land me in the -depths of mysticism. On the edge of that gulf I stop.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="INDEX" id="INDEX"></a>INDEX</h2> - -<p class="c"><a href="#A">A</a>, -<a href="#B">B</a>, -<a href="#C">C</a>, -<a href="#D">D</a>, -<a href="#E">E</a>, -<a href="#F">F</a>, -<a href="#G">G</a>, -<a href="#H">H</a>, -<a href="#I">I</a>, -<a href="#J">J</a>, -<a href="#K">K</a>, -<a href="#L">L</a>, -<a href="#M">M</a>, -<a href="#N">N</a>, -<a href="#O">O</a>, -<a href="#P">P</a>, -<a href="#R">R</a>, -<a href="#S">S</a>, -<a href="#T">T</a>, -<a href="#U">U</a>, -<a href="#V">V</a>, -<a href="#W">W</a>, - -<a href="#Y">Y</a>, -<a href="#Z">Z</a></p> - -<p class="nind"> -<span class="smcap"><a name="A" id="A"></a>Albigensian</span> crusade, <a href="#page_099">99</a><br /> - -American and Chinese art, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -Architecture, domestic, <a href="#page_183">183</a><br /> - -——, styles in, <a href="#page_180">180</a><br /> - -Art and Christianity, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -—— and the Franciscan movement, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_088">88</a><br /> - -—— and Poetry, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -——, associated ideas in, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -——, classic, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -——, emotion and form in, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -——, public indifference to, <a href="#page_168">168</a><br /> - -——, Realistic, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -——, Romantic, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -Artist and the community, <a href="#page_168">168</a><br /> - -——, pure, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Asselin, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Associated ideas in art, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -Assisi, upper church at, <a href="#page_103">103</a><br /> - -——, great church at, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Assyrian art, <a href="#page_080">80</a><br /> - -“Athenæum,” <a href="#page_052">52</a><br /> - -Author and Cézanne, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -—— and Gauguin, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -—— and Impressionists, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -—— and the public, <a href="#page_192">192</a><br /> - -—— and Old Masters, <a href="#page_190">190</a>, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -—— and Seurat, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -—— and van Goch, <a href="#page_191">191</a><br /> - -—— and Mr. Walter Sickert, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -—— and Mr. Wilson Steer, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Author’s æsthetic, <a href="#page_188">188</a>, <a href="#page_189">189</a><br /> - -—— house, <a href="#page_180">180</a><br /> - -Aztecs and Incas, <a href="#page_070">70</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="B" id="B"></a><span class="smcap">Babelon</span>, M., <a href="#page_077">77</a><br /> - -Babylon and Nineveh bas-reliefs, <a href="#page_078">78</a><br /> - -Baldovinetti, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— and Ucello, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -Baldovinetti’s <i>Madonna and Child</i>, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— portrait in Nat. Gall., <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— <i>Trinity</i>; Accademia, Florence, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -Balfour, Mr., <a href="#page_060">60</a><br /> - -Baroque architect, <a href="#page_136">136</a><br /> - -—— art and Catholic reaction, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— art and Poussin, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— idea and El Greco, <a href="#page_135">135-139</a><br /> - -—— idea and Michelangelo, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— idea and Signorelli, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— in Spanish and Italian art, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -Bartolommeo, Fra, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -Bastien-Lepage, <a href="#page_017">17</a><br /> - -Beardsley and Antonio Pollajuolo, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -—— and Mantegna, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -—— and Nature, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -Beardsley’s art, influences on, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -Beauty, nature of, <a href="#page_193">193</a>, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -Beethoven, <a href="#page_019">19</a><br /> - -Bell, Mr. Clive, book on art, <a href="#page_195">195</a>, <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -Bellini, Giovanni, and Dürer, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Berenson, Mr., <a href="#page_100">100</a><br /> - -Bernini and El Greco, <a href="#page_135">135</a>, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_137">137</a><br /> - -Besnard, M., <a href="#page_096">96</a>, <a href="#page_097">97</a><br /> - -Blake and the Byzantine style, <a href="#page_142">142</a><br /> - -—— and Giotto, <a href="#page_111">111</a>, <a href="#page_142">142</a><br /> - -—— and the Old Testament, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -—— and Michelangelo, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -—— and Tintoretto, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -—— on poetry, <a href="#page_143">143</a><br /> - -Blake’s temperament, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -Bleek, Miss, <a href="#page_064">64</a><br /> - -Blow, Mr., <a href="#page_180">180</a><br /> - -Bobrinsky, Prince, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_080">80</a><br /> - -Bode, Dr., <a href="#page_134">134</a><br /> - -Bourgeois attitude to art, <a href="#page_168">168</a><br /> - -Bramante, <a href="#page_136">136</a><br /> - -Braque, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Bridges, Robert, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -British public, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Browning, <a href="#page_042">42</a><br /> - -Brunelleschi, <a href="#page_004">4</a><br /> - -Bumble, <a href="#page_042">42</a><br /> - -Bushman and Assyrian art, <a href="#page_058">58</a><br /> - -—— and Palæolithic art, <a href="#page_061">61-63</a><br /> - -Byzantine style and Blake, <a href="#page_142">142</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="C" id="C"></a><span class="smcap">Cabaner</span>, <a href="#page_172">172</a><br /> - -Caravaggio, <a href="#page_005">5</a><br /> - -Cézanne, <a href="#page_042">42</a>, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -—— and Delacroix, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— and El Greco, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -—— and Ingres, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— and Marchand, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -—— and Poussin, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— and Renoir, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -—— and Rubens’ method, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— and Tintoretto’s method, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— and Zola, <a href="#page_172">172</a><br /> - -——, criticism of, <a href="#page_156">156</a><br /> - -—— misunderstood by his contemporaries, <a href="#page_169">169</a><br /> - -——, Poussin and El Greco, <a href="#page_138">138</a>, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -—— the perfect type of artist, <a href="#page_168">168</a>, <a href="#page_171">171</a><br /> - -Cézanne’s character, <a href="#page_169">169</a>, <a href="#page_170">170</a>, <a href="#page_171">171</a><br /> - -Chateaubriand, <a href="#page_006">6</a><br /> - -<i>Charpentier family</i>, by Renoir, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Chelsea Book Club, <a href="#page_065">65</a><br /> - -Chinese and American art, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -—— and Negro cultures, <a href="#page_067">67</a><br /> - -—— art and Matisse, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -—— landscape, Claude and, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -—— painting, <a href="#page_021">21</a><br /> - -Chosroes relief, <a href="#page_078">78</a>, <a href="#page_079">79</a><br /> - -Christianity and art, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Cimabue and Giotto, <a href="#page_103">103</a>, <a href="#page_106">106</a>, <a href="#page_107">107<i>n</i></a><br /> - -Cinematograph, <a href="#page_013">13</a><br /> - -Cinquecento art and Giotto, <a href="#page_114">114</a><br /> - -Classic art, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -Claude and Chinese landscape, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -—— and Corot, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -—— and Turner, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -Claude and Whistler, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -——, Ruskin on, <a href="#page_145">145</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— and Leonardo da Vinci, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— and Rembrandt, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— “Liber Veritatis,” <a href="#page_149">149</a><br /> - -——, influence of Virgil on, <a href="#page_148">148</a>, <a href="#page_152">152</a><br /> - -Claude’s articulations, <a href="#page_145">145</a><br /> - -—— figures, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— romanticism, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -Coco style, <a href="#page_029">29</a><br /> - -Colour, Giotto’s, <a href="#page_114">114</a><br /> - -Conceptual art, <a href="#page_062">62</a>, <a href="#page_063">63</a><br /> - -Contour in painting, <a href="#page_160">160</a>, <a href="#page_161">161</a><br /> - -Copée, <a href="#page_172">172</a><br /> - -Corot and Claude, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -—— as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Corot’s drawing of a seated woman, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Cosima Tura, <a href="#page_176">176</a><br /> - -Cosmati, <a href="#page_099">99</a>, <a href="#page_100">100</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a><br /> - -Cossa, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Credi, Lorenzo di, and Dürer, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Critic’s function, <a href="#page_189">189</a><br /> - -Cubism, <a href="#page_192">192</a><br /> - -—— and Marchand, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -—— and Ucello, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="D" id="D"></a><span class="smcap">Daddi</span>, Bernardo, and Giotto, <a href="#page_108">108<i>n</i></a><br /> - -Dante, <a href="#page_002">2</a>, <a href="#page_097">97</a>, <a href="#page_098">98</a>, <a href="#page_108">108</a>, <a href="#page_110">110</a>, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -David, <a href="#page_005">5</a><br /> - -“Decorators,” <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Degas, <a href="#page_020">20</a>, <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -—— as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Delacroix and Cézanne, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -Derain, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_159">159</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -—— and Marchand, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Dickens, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Dickey Doyle, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -Doucet, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Drama, Italian, beginning of, <a href="#page_101">101<i>n</i></a><br /> - -Drawing of contours, great examples, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -—— of the figure, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -—— of Italian Primitives, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -—— of Renoir and Ingres compared, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -——, Persian, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -Druet’s, M., photographs, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Duccio and Giotto, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -Dürer and the Gothic tradition, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -—— and Leonardo da Vinci, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -—— and Lorenzo di Credi, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -—— and Giovanni Bellini, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Dürer and Jacopo de’Barbari, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -—— and Mantegna, <a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -—— and Pollajuolo, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -—— and Raphael, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -—— and Schongauer, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Dürer’s “Beetle,” <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -—— letters and diary, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="E" id="E"></a><span class="smcap">El</span> Greco and Baroque idea, <a href="#page_135">135-139</a><br /> - -—— and Bernini, <a href="#page_135">135</a>, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_137">137</a><br /> - -—— and British public, <a href="#page_134">134</a><br /> - -—— and Cézanne, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -——, Poussin and Cézanne, <a href="#page_138">138</a>, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -Emotion and form in art, <a href="#page_194">194</a>, <a href="#page_197">197</a><br /> - -England and French Impressionism, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -English Art considered, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="F" id="F"></a><span class="smcap">Fatimite</span> textiles, <a href="#page_079">79</a><br /> - -Figure drawing, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -Filippino Lippi, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -Flaubert, <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -Flemish and Florentine art, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -—— painting and Giotto, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -Florentine art, a characteristic of, <a href="#page_125">125</a><br /> - -—— and Flemish art, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -Forli, Melozzo da, <a href="#page_104">104</a><br /> - -Form in art, <a href="#page_107">107</a><br /> - -Francesca, Piero della, <a href="#page_004">4</a><br /> - -Franciscan movement and art, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_088">88</a><br /> - -Francis, St., <a href="#page_002">2</a>, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_088">88</a>, <a href="#page_112">112</a><br /> - -French art classic, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_159">159</a>, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -French, English and Russian art compared, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="G" id="G"></a><span class="smcap">Gamp</span>, Mrs., <a href="#page_097">97</a><br /> - -Gauguin, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Germans, the, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -Ghiberti’s commentary, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Giorgione, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Giotto and Barnardo Daddi, <a href="#page_108">108<i>n</i></a><br /> - -—— and Blake, in, <a href="#page_142">142</a><br /> - -—— and Cimabue, <a href="#page_103">103</a>, <a href="#page_106">106</a>, <a href="#page_107">107<i>n</i></a><br /> - -—— and Cinquecento art, <a href="#page_114">114</a><br /> - -—— and classical architecture, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -—— and Duccio, <a href="#page_106">106</a><br /> - -—— and European art, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -—— and Flemish painting, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -—— and Leonardo da Vinci, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -—— and Lorenzetti, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -—— and Masaccio, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -—— and pre-Raphaelitism, <a href="#page_103">103</a><br /> - -Giotto and Raphael, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -—— and Rembrandt, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -—— as draughtsman, <a href="#page_115">115</a>, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -Giotto’s colour, <a href="#page_114">114</a><br /> - -—— figure of Joachim, <a href="#page_111">111</a><br /> - -—— invention of Tempera, <a href="#page_105">105</a><br /> - -—— <i>Pietà</i>, <a href="#page_110">110</a>, <a href="#page_198">198</a><br /> - -—— place as an artist, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -Goethe, <a href="#page_197">197</a>, <a href="#page_198">198</a><br /> - -Gothic tradition and Dürer, <a href="#page_129">129</a>, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -Græco-Roman art, <a href="#page_076">76</a>, <a href="#page_077">77</a>, <a href="#page_078">78</a><br /> - -Grunwedel, Dr., <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Guatemala and Yucatan, <a href="#page_071">71</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="H" id="H"></a><span class="smcap">Head</span>, Henry, F.R.S., <a href="#page_062">62</a><br /> - -Herbin, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Hermitage, <a href="#page_079">79</a><br /> - -Holmes, Mr. C. J., <a href="#page_134">134</a><br /> - -Homer, <a href="#page_097">97</a><br /> - -House, author’s, <a href="#page_180">180</a><br /> - -Houses, architects’, <a href="#page_179">179</a><br /> - -——, builders’, <a href="#page_179">179</a><br /> - -——, dwelling, <a href="#page_180">180</a><br /> - -Huxley, <a href="#page_008">8</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="J" id="J"></a><span class="smcap">Jacquemart</span>-André collection, <a href="#page_123">123-126</a><br /> - -“Jane Eyre,” <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -<i>Jeremiah</i> of Michelangelo, <a href="#page_023">23</a><br /> - -Johnson, Dr., <a href="#page_065">65</a><br /> - -Joyce, Mr., <a href="#page_069">69</a>, <a href="#page_073">73</a>, <a href="#page_075">75</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="K" id="K"></a><span class="smcap">Kaiser</span> Friedrich Museum, <a href="#page_047">47</a>, <a href="#page_134">134</a><br /> - -——, the, <a href="#page_047">47</a><br /> - -Karlsruhe Museum, <a href="#page_078">78</a><br /> - -Keats, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -Keene, Charles, as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Kingsborough, Lord, <a href="#page_071">71</a><br /> - -Kraft’s stonework, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -Krell, Oswald, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -Kunsthistorisches Akademie, Vienna, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="I" id="I"></a><span class="smcap">Incas</span> and Aztecs, <a href="#page_070">70</a><br /> - -Ingres, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -—— and Cézanne, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -—— as a designer, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -—— as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_162">162</a><br /> - -——, effect of poverty on his art, <a href="#page_162">162</a><br /> - -Ingres’ drawing, <i>The Apotheosis of Napoleon</i>, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -—— painting and drawing compared, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><a name="L" id="L"></a>Lecoq</span>, Dr., <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Leeche’s drawings, <a href="#page_028">28</a><br /> - -Lehmann, Dr., <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -Leonardo da Vinci, <a href="#page_004">4</a>, <a href="#page_024">24</a><br /> - -—— and Claude, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— and Dürer, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -—— and Giotto, <a href="#page_116">116</a><br /> - -L’Hote, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -——, M., writings of, <a href="#page_192">192</a><br /> - -“Liber Veritatis” of Claude, <a href="#page_149">149</a><br /> - -Limoges enamels, <a href="#page_077">77</a><br /> - -Lincoln Cathedral, <a href="#page_078">78</a><br /> - -Line, the function of, in drawing, <a href="#page_160">160</a><br /> - -——, qualities of, <a href="#page_115">115</a><br /> - -——, rarity of great design expressed in, <a href="#page_163">163</a><br /> - -Loewy, Prof., <a href="#page_056">56</a>, <a href="#page_057">57</a><br /> - -Lorenzetti and Giotto, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="M" id="M"></a><span class="smcap">Malatesta</span>, Sigismondo, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Mantegna and Beardsley, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -—— and Dürer, <a href="#page_131">131</a>, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -—— and Rembrandt, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Marchand, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -——, a classic artist, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -—— and Cézanne, <a href="#page_184">184</a><br /> - -—— and Cubism, <a href="#page_186">186</a><br /> - -—— and Derain, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Masaccio and Giotto, <a href="#page_113">113</a><br /> - -Matisse, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -—— and Chinese art, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -—— as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_167">167</a><br /> - -Maya art, <a href="#page_071">71</a>, <a href="#page_072">72</a>, <a href="#page_073">73</a><br /> - -Melozzo da Forli, <a href="#page_105">105</a><br /> - -Meredith, <a href="#page_028">28</a><br /> - -Mesopotamian art, <a href="#page_079">79</a><br /> - -Michelangelo, <a href="#page_019">19</a>, <a href="#page_023">23</a>, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_109">109</a><br /> - -—— and Baroque idea, <a href="#page_136">136</a>, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— and Blake, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -Middle Ages, <a href="#page_029">29</a><br /> - -Millais’ drawing, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Milton, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -Minzel as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Modigliani as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_167">167</a><br /> - -Monet, <a href="#page_017">17</a>, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Money, Mr., <a href="#page_048">48</a><br /> - -Music, <a href="#page_015">15</a><br /> - -——, psychology of, <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="N" id="N"></a><span class="smcap">National</span> Gallery, <a href="#page_134">134</a><br /> - -Nature, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_025">25</a><br /> - -Naturalists, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Navicella mosaic, <a href="#page_104">104</a><br /> - -Negro and European sculpture, <a href="#page_066">66</a><br /> - -Neolithic art, <a href="#page_063">63</a><br /> - -Nuremberg school, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="O" id="O"></a><span class="smcap">Old</span> Testament and Blake, <a href="#page_140">140</a>, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -Ottley’s prints, <a href="#page_142">142</a><br /> - -Oxford movement, <a href="#page_006">6</a><br /> - -<br /> -<i><a name="P" id="P"></a>Pall Mall Gazette</i>, <a href="#page_154">154</a><br /> - -<i>Parapluies, Les</i>, by Renoir, <a href="#page_176">176</a><br /> - -Patine, <a href="#page_038">38</a>, <a href="#page_039">39</a><br /> - -Pelliot, M., <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Perspective, <a href="#page_124">124</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a><br /> - -Picasso, <a href="#page_157">157</a>, <a href="#page_158">158</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -<i>Pietà</i>, by Giotto, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -Pindar, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -Pliny on painting, <a href="#page_160">160</a>, <a href="#page_161">161</a><br /> - -Podsnap, Mr., <a href="#page_179">179</a><br /> - -Poetry and art, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -——, Blake on, <a href="#page_143">143</a><br /> - -Pollajuolo, Antonio and Beardsley, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -——, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -—— and Dürer, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Pompeii, <a href="#page_030">30</a>, <a href="#page_079">79</a><br /> - -Post-Impressionism, <a href="#page_194">194</a><br /> - -Post-Impressionists at the Grafton Gallery, <a href="#page_191">191</a>, <a href="#page_193">193</a><br /> - -——, criticism of, <a href="#page_156">156</a>, <a href="#page_157">157</a><br /> - -Poussin, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -—— and Baroque art, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— and Cézanne, <a href="#page_173">173</a><br /> - -——, El Greco, and Cézanne, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -Pre-Raphaelite movement, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Primitives, study of, in England, <a href="#page_198">198</a><br /> - -<i>Primum Mobile</i> in Tarocchi prints, <a href="#page_133">133</a><br /> - -Psychologists and art, <a href="#page_054">54</a><br /> - -Public indifference to art, <a href="#page_168">168</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="R" id="R"></a><span class="smcap">Racine</span>, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -Raphael, <a href="#page_019">19</a>, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -—— and Dürer, <a href="#page_127">127</a><br /> - -Raphael’s “Transfiguration,” <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_198">198</a><br /> - -Realistic art, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -Rembrandt, <a href="#page_005">5</a>, <a href="#page_020">20</a>, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -—— and Claude, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -—— and Giotto, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -—— and Mantegna, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -—— as a draughtsman, <a href="#page_165">165</a>, <a href="#page_166">166</a><br /> - -Rembrandt’s characteristics, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Renaissance, <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Renoir and Cézanne, <a href="#page_177">177</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a>, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -—— and Titian, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Renoir compared to Giorgione and Titian, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Renoir’s “Charpentier Family,” <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -—— “Les Parapluies,” <a href="#page_176">176</a>, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Robida, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -Rodin, <a href="#page_038">38</a><br /> - -Romans, the, <a href="#page_129">129</a><br /> - -Romantic art, <a href="#page_159">159</a><br /> - -Romanticism, Claude’s, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -Ross, Dr. Denman, <a href="#page_021">21</a><br /> - -Rossetti’s relationship to Millais, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Rousseau, <a href="#page_156">156</a><br /> - -Rowlandson’s style in drawing, <a href="#page_165">165</a><br /> - -Rubens, <a href="#page_164">164</a>, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Ruskin, <a href="#page_014">14</a>, <a href="#page_038">38</a><br /> - -—— on Claude, <a href="#page_145">145</a>, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="S" id="S"></a>S. <span class="smcap">Bonaventura</span>, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_101">101</a>, <a href="#page_102">102</a><br /> - -S. Francis, <a href="#page_002">2</a>, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_088">88</a>, <a href="#page_112">112</a><br /> - -<i>S. Peter’s Crucifixion</i>, by Giotto, <a href="#page_107">107</a><br /> - -Sassanid art, <a href="#page_076">76</a>, <a href="#page_077">77</a>, <a href="#page_078">78</a>, <a href="#page_079">79</a>, <a href="#page_080">80</a><br /> - -Schongauer and Dürer, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Scrovegni, <a href="#page_110">110</a><br /> - -Sculpture, Greek, <a href="#page_057">57</a><br /> - -Shakespeare, <a href="#page_147">147</a><br /> - -Shaw, Mr. Bernard, <a href="#page_041">41</a><br /> - -Shelley, <a href="#page_042">42</a><br /> - -Sickert, Mr. Walter, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Sicily, <a href="#page_077">77</a><br /> - -Siegfried, <a href="#page_153">153</a><br /> - -Sigismondo Malatesta, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -“Significant Form,” <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -Signorelli and Baroque idea, <a href="#page_138">138</a><br /> - -—— and Florence, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— and Ucello, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— and Umbrian art, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -Signorelli’s <i>Holy Family</i>, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -Smith, Robertson, <a href="#page_009">9</a><br /> - -Song, psychology of, <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -Spectator of a picture, psychology of, <a href="#page_196">196</a>, <a href="#page_197">197</a><br /> - -Spencer, Herbert, <a href="#page_008">8</a>, <a href="#page_009">9</a><br /> - -Stefaneschi, Cardinal, <a href="#page_103">103</a>, <a href="#page_104">104</a>, <a href="#page_105">105</a>, <a href="#page_108">108<i>n</i></a><br /> - -Stein, Dr., <a href="#page_076">76</a><br /> - -Storr’s woodwork, <a href="#page_129">129</a>, <a href="#page_130">130</a><br /> - -Subject picture, <a href="#page_053">53</a><br /> - -Sung, <a href="#page_032">32</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="T" id="T"></a><span class="smcap">Tahiti</span>, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -Tarrocchi engravings, <a href="#page_132">132</a><br /> - -Tempera, Giotto’s invention, <a href="#page_105">105</a><br /> - -Tennyson, <a href="#page_024">24</a>, <a href="#page_026">26</a><br /> - -Tiepolo, <a href="#page_161">161</a>, <a href="#page_162">162</a><br /> - -Tintoretto and Blake, <a href="#page_141">141</a><br /> - -Titian, <a href="#page_019">19</a>, <a href="#page_175">175</a><br /> - -—— and Renoir compared, <a href="#page_178">178</a><br /> - -Tolstoy, <a href="#page_016">16</a>, <a href="#page_018">18</a>, <a href="#page_019">19</a><br /> - -Tolstoy’s “What is Art?” <a href="#page_193">193</a>, <a href="#page_199">199</a><br /> - -Todi, Jacopone di, <a href="#page_087">87</a><br /> - -<i>Tondo</i> of Michelangelo, <a href="#page_023">23</a><br /> - -Tongue, Miss, <a href="#page_057">57</a>, <a href="#page_059">59</a><br /> - -Tura, Cosima, <a href="#page_177">177</a><br /> - -Turner and Claude, <a href="#page_146">146</a><br /> - -Tussaud, Mme., <a href="#page_005">5</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="U" id="U"></a><span class="smcap">Ucello</span>, <a href="#page_004">4</a><br /> - -—— and Baldovinetti, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -—— and Cubism, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -Ucello and Van Eyck, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -—— and perspective, <a href="#page_124">124</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a><br /> - -—— and Signorelli, <a href="#page_126">126</a><br /> - -Ucello’s “St. George,” <a href="#page_123">123</a>, <a href="#page_125">125</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="V" id="V"></a><span class="smcap">Vandyke</span>, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -Van Eyck and Ucello, <a href="#page_124">124</a><br /> - -—— Gogh, <a href="#page_158">158</a><br /> - -Varnish, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -Vasari, <a href="#page_087">87</a>, <a href="#page_169">169</a><br /> - -—— and Ucello, <a href="#page_123">123</a><br /> - -Victorians and art, <a href="#page_065">65</a><br /> - -Viollet-le-Duc, <a href="#page_185">185</a><br /> - -Virgil’s influence on Claude, <a href="#page_148">148</a>, <a href="#page_152">152</a><br /> - -Von Tschudi, <a href="#page_139">139</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="W" id="W"></a><span class="smcap">Waldus</span>, Petrus, <a href="#page_099">99</a>, <a href="#page_100">100</a><br /> - -Watteau, <a href="#page_164">164</a><br /> - -Wells, H. G., <a href="#page_036">36</a><br /> - -“What is Art?” by Tolstoy, <a href="#page_018">18</a><br /> - -Whistler, <a href="#page_007">7</a><br /> - -—— and Beardsley, <a href="#page_154">154</a><br /> - -—— and Claude, <a href="#page_150">150</a><br /> - -—— and Ruskin, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Whistler’s Impressionism, <a href="#page_190">190</a><br /> - -Whittier, <a href="#page_026">26</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="Y" id="Y"></a><span class="smcap">Young</span>, Brigham, <a href="#page_074">74</a><br /> - -Yucatan and Guatemala, <a href="#page_071">71</a><br /> - -<br /> -<a name="Z" id="Z"></a><span class="smcap">Zola</span>, <a href="#page_005">5</a><br /> - -—— and Cézanne, <a href="#page_172">172</a><br /> - -Zuloaga, Señor, <a href="#page_155">155</a><br /> -</p> - -<p class="c">THE END<br /><br /> - -<small>PRINTED IN ENGLAND BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND -BECCLES.</small></p> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> From notes of a lecture given to the Fabian Society, 1917.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> New Quarterly, 1909.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Rodin is reported to have said, “A woman, a mountain, a -horse—they are all the same thing; they are made on the same -principles.” That is to say, their forms, when viewed with the -disinterested vision of the imaginative life, have similar emotional -elements.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> I do not forget that at the death of Tennyson the writer in -the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> averred that “level beams of the setting moon -streamed in upon the face of the dying bard”; but then, after all, in -its way the <i>Daily Telegraph</i> is a work of art.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Athenæum, 1919.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Athenæum, 1919.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Reprinted with considerable alterations from “The Great -State.” (Harper. 1912.)</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Athenæum, 1919.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1910.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> “The Rendering of Nature in Early Greek Art.” By Emmanuel -Loewy. Translated by J. Fothergill. Duckworth. 1907.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> “Bushman Drawings,” copied by M. Helen Tongue, with a -preface by Henry Balfour. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1909. £3 3<i>s.</i> net.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> This absence of decorative feeling may be due to the -irregular and vague outlines of the picture space. It is when the -picture must be fitted within determined limits that decoration begins. -I have noticed that children’s drawings are never decorative when they -have the whole surface of a sheet of paper to draw on, but they will -design a frieze with well-marked rhythm when they have only a narrow -strip.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> This is certainly the case with the Australian Bushmen.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Athenæum, 1920.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1918.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Thomas A. Joyce, (1) “South American Archæology,” London -(Macmillan), 1912; (2) “Mexican Archæology,” London (Lee Warner), 1914; -(3) “Central American Archæology,” London and New York (Putnam), 1916.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> <i>The Burlington Magazine</i>, vol. xvii., p. 22 (April, -1910).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1910.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> G. Migeon, <i>Gazette des Beaux-Arts</i>, June, 1905, and -“Manuel d’Art Musulman,” p. 226.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> I cannot help calling attention, though without any -attempt at explaining it, to the striking similarity to these Sassanid -and early Mohammedan water jugs shown by an example of Sung pottery lent -by Mr. Eumorfopoulos to the recent exhibition at the Burlington Fine -Arts Club, Case A, No. 43. Here a very similar form of spout is modelled -into a phœnix’s head.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> The following, from the Monthly Review, 1901, is perhaps -more than any other article here reprinted, at variance with the more -recent expressions of my æsthetic ideas. It will be seen that great -emphasis is laid on Giotto’s expression of the dramatic idea in his -pictures. I still think this is perfectly true so far as it goes, nor do -I doubt that an artist like Giotto did envisage such an expression. -Where I should be inclined to disagree is that there underlies this -article a tacit assumption not only that the dramatic idea may have -inspired the artist to the creation of his form, but that the value of -the form for us is bound up without recognition of the dramatic idea. It -now seems to me possible by a more searching analysis of our experience -in front of a work of art to disentangle our reaction to pure form from -our reaction to its implied associated ideas.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> <i>Cf.</i> H. Thode: “Franz von Assisi.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Dr. J. P. Richter: “Lectures on the National Gallery.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> One picture, however, ascribed by Vasari to Cimabue, -namely, the Madonna of the National Gallery, does not bear the -characteristics of this group. Dr. Richter’s argument for giving the -Rucellai painting to Duccio depends largely on the likeness of this to -the Maesta, but there is no reason to cling so closely to Vasari’s -attributions. If we except the National Gallery Madonna, which shows the -characteristics of the Siennese school, these pictures, including the -Rucellai Madonna, will be found to cohere by many common peculiarities -not shared by Duccio. Among these we may notice the following: The eye -has the upper eyelid strongly marked; it has a peculiar languishing -expression, due in part to the large elliptical iris (Duccio’s eyes have -a small, bright, round iris with a keen expression); the nose is -distinctly articulated into three segments; the mouth is generally -slewed round from the perpendicular; the hands are curiously curved, and -in all the Madonnas clutch the supports of the throne; the hair bows -seen upon the halos have a constant and quite peculiar shape; the -drapery is designed in rectilinear triangular folds, very different from -Duccio’s more sinuous and flowing line. The folds of the drapery where -they come to the contour of the figure have no effect upon the form of -the outline, an error which Duccio never makes. Finally, the thrones in -all these pictures have a constant form; they are made of turned wood -with a high footstool, and are seen from the side; Duccio’s is of stone -and seen from the front. That the Rucellai Madonna has a morbidezza -which is wanting in the earlier works can hardly be considered a -sufficient distinction to set against the formal characteristics. It is -clearly a later work, painted probably about the year 1300, and Cimabue, -like all the other artists of the time, was striving constantly in the -direction of greater fusion of tones.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> I should speak now both with greater confidence and much -greater enthusiasm of Cimabue. The attempt of certain scholars to -dispose of him as a myth has broken down. The late Mr. H. P. Horne found -that the documents cited by Dr. Richter to prove that Duccio executed -the Rucellai Madonna referred to another picture. I had also failed in -my estimate to consider fully the superb crucifix by Cimabue in the -Museum of Sta. Croce, a work of supreme artistic merit. In general my -defence of Cimabue, though right enough as far as it goes, appears to me -too timid and my estimate of his artistic quality far too low (1920).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> The important position here assigned to the Roman school -has been confirmed by the subsequent discovery of Cavallini’s frescoes -in Sta. Cecilia at Rome (1920).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> “Drunken with the love of compassion of Christ, the -blessed Francis would at times do such-like things as this; for the -passing sweet melody of the spirit within him, seething over outwardly, -did often find utterance in the French tongue, and the strain of the -divine whisper that his ear had caught would break forth into a French -song of joyous exulting.” Then pretending with two sticks to play a -viol, “and making befitting gestures, (he) would sing in French of our -Lord Jesus Christ.”—“The Mirror of Perfection,” edited by P. Sabatier, -transl. by S. Evans.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> “Florentine Painters of the Renaissance and Central -Italian Painters of the Renaissance,” by B. Berenson.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> This was the first “representation” of the kind in Italy, -and is of interest as being the beginning of the Italian Drama, and also -of that infinite series of allegorical pageants, sometimes sacred, -sometimes secular, which for three centuries played such a prominent -part in city life and affected Italian art very intimately.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> The Master of the Cecilia altar-piece has been the object -of much research since this article was written, and a considerable -number of important works are now ascribed to him with some confidence. -He has been tentatively identified with Buffalonaceo by Dr. Siren. See -<i>Burl. Mag.</i>, December, 1919; January, October, 1920.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> This quality is to be distinguished from that conscious -naturalistic study of atmospheric envelopment which engrossed the -attention of some artists of the cinquecento; it is a decorative quality -which may occur at any period in the development of painting if only an -artist arises gifted with a sufficiently delicate sensitiveness to the -surface-quality of his work.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> I cannot recall any example in pre-Giottesque art.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> Derived, no doubt, but greatly modified, from Cimabue’s -treatment of the subject at Assisi.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> The attribution of the Stefaneschi altar-piece to Giotto -is much disputed and some authorities give it to Bernardo Daddi. I still -incline to the idea that it is the work of Giotto and the starting point -of Bernardo Daddi’s style (1920).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> His name was Bianchi. ‘Faut il se plaindre,’ says M. -Maurice Denis in his Théories, ‘qu’un Bianchi, plutôt que les laisser -périr, ait ajouté un peu de la froidure de Flandrin aux fresques de -Giotto à Santa Croce.’</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> This passage now seems to me to underestimate the work of -Giotto’s predecessors with which we are now much better acquainted -(1920).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Burlington Fine Arts Club Exhibition of Florentine -Paintings, 1919.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1914.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> Introduction to Dürer’s Letters and Diary. Merrymount -Press, Boston (1909).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> See Plate, where I have also added Dürer’s version of the -subject. This is of course a new design and not a copy of Mantegna’s -drawing, though I suspect it is based on a vague memory of it. In any -case it shows admirably the distinguishing points of Dürer’s methods of -conception, his love of complexity, and his accumulation of decorative -detail.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> Athenæum, 1920.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1904.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> Now in the possession of W. Graham Robertson, Esq.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1907.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> As, for instance, in a wonderful drawing, “On the Banks of -the Tiber,” in Mr. Heseltine’s collection.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> It is not impossible that Claude got the hint for such a -treatment as this from the impressionist efforts of Græco-Roman -painters. That he studied such works we know from a copy of one by him -in the British Museum.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> Athenæum, 1904.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> Preface to Catalogue of second Post-Impressionist -Exhibition, Grafton Galleries, 1912.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1912.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> I have had to paraphrase this passage, but add the -original. Whether my paraphrase is correct in detail or not, I think -there can be little doubt about the general meaning. -</p><p> -Plin., <i>Nat. Hist.</i>, xxxv. 67: “Parrhasius ... confessione artificum in -liniis extremis palmam adeptus. Hæc est picturæ summa sublimitas; -corpora enim pingere et media rerum est quidem magni operis, sed in quo -multi gloriam tulerint. Extrema corporum facere et desinentis picturæ -modum includere rarum in successu artis invenitur. Ambire enim debet se -extremitas ipsa, et sic desinere ut promittat alia post se ostendatque -etiam quae occultat.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> See No. 62, where, so far as possible, all the forms are -reduced to a common measure by interpreting them all in terms of an -elongated ovoid.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> Burlington Magazine, 1917: “Paul Cézanne,” by Ambroise -Vollard (Paris, 1915).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> This has been done. “Paul Cézanne,” by Ambroise Vollard -(Paris).</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_54_54" id="Footnote_54_54"></a><a href="#FNanchor_54_54"><span class="label">[54]</span></a> Vogue, 1918.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_55_55" id="Footnote_55_55"></a><a href="#FNanchor_55_55"><span class="label">[55]</span></a> Athenæum, 1919.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_56_56" id="Footnote_56_56"></a><a href="#FNanchor_56_56"><span class="label">[56]</span></a> 1920.</p></div> - -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Vision and Design, by Roger Fry - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VISION AND DESIGN *** - -***** This file should be named 54154-h.htm or 54154-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/5/54154/ - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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