(Go to Summary of Review by Elizabeth Eastlake, Modern Painters I, II, III, Academy Notes 1855, Quarterly Review, March 1856, pp. 384-433)
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In the first chapter after his Introduction, Vol. I., page 7, the first fundamental false principle will be found, viz.-
Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its technicalities, diffi-
Go to
the passage in Modern Painters I
culties,
and particular ends, is nothing but a noble and expressive
language,
invaluable as the vehicle of thought, but by itself, nothing.
He who
has learned what is commonly considered the whole art
of painting, that
is, the art of representing any natural object faith
fully, has as yet
only learned the language by which his thoughts
are to be expressed.
He has done just as much towards being
that which we ought to respect
as a great painter, as a man who
has learned how to express himself grammatically
and melodiously
has towards being a great poet[.]
Here we have an erroneous statement, namely, that 'the language of painting is invaluable as the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing'. (p.388)
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We have dwelt thus at length on this first chapter for the obvious reason that here lies that organic defect which renders the whole body of Mr Ruskin's criticism morbid and diseased. He who pronounces the painter's thought to be everything, and his language nothing, must of course next attempt to force upon art a moral and not a pictorial responsibility. We are at once stopped by this in the preface to the second edition, which is strictly consequent on the first chapter. Having assumed that the state of religion was better in Italy during the immobility of Byzantine art than in the time of Michael Angelo and Benvenuto Cellini... he thus proceeds:-
It appears to me that a rude symbol is oftener more efficient than
Go to
the passage in Modern Painters I
a
refined one in touching the heart, and that as pictures rise in rank as
works
of art they are regarded with less devotion and more curiosity.
But,
however this may be, and whatever influence we may be disposed
to admit
in the great works of sacred art, no doubt can, I think, be
reasonably
entertained as to the utter inutility of all that has been hitherto
accomplished
by the painters of landscape. No moral end has been
answered, no permanent
good effected, by any of their works. They may
have amused the intellect,
or exercised the ingenuity, but they never
have spoken to the heart.
Landscape art has never taught us one deep
or holy lesson; it has not
recorded that which is fleeting, nor penetrated
that which was hidden,
nor interpreted that which was obscure; it has
never made us feel the
wonder. nor the power, nor the glory, of the
universe; it has not prompted
to devotion, nor touched with awe; its
power to move and exalt the heart
has been fatally abused, and perished
in the abusing. That which ought
to have been a witness to the omnipo
tence of God, has become an exhibition
of the dexterity of man, and
that which should have lifted our thoughts
to the throne of the Deity,
has encumbered them with the inventions of
his creatures.
If we stand for a little time before any of the more celebrated
works
of landscape, listening to the comments of the passers by, we shall.
hear
numberless expressions relating to the skill of the artist, but
very few
relating to the perfection of nature. Hundreds will be voluble
in admi
ration, for one who will be silent in delight. Multitudes will
laud the
composition, and depart with the praise of Claude on their lips,-not
one
will feel as if it were nocomposition, and depart with the praise
of God
in his heart.
These are the signs of a debased, mistaken, and
false school of paint
ing. The skill of the artist, and the perfection
of his art, are never
proved until both are forgotten. The artist has
done nothing till he has
concealed himself,-the art is imperfect which
is visible,-the feelings are
but feebly touched, if they permit us to
reason on the methods of their
excitement. In the reading of a great
poem, in the hearing of a noble
oration, it is the subject of the writer,
and not his skill-his passion,
not his power,-on which our minds are
fixed. We see as he sees, but
we see not him. We become part of him,
feel with him, judge, behold
with him; but we think of him as little
as of ourselves. Do we think
of Æschylus while we wait on the silence
of Cassandra,' or of Shakspeare,
while we listen to the wailing of Lear
? Not so. The power of the
masters is shown by their self-annihilation.
It is commensurate with the
degree in which they themselves appear not
in their work. The harp
of the minstrel is untruly touched, if his own
glory is all that it records,
Every great writer may be at once known
by his guiding the mind far
from himself, to the beauty which is not
of his creation, and the know
ledge which is past his finding out.
And
must it ever be otherwise with painting, for otherwise it has ever
been.
Her subjects have been regarded as mere themes on which the
artist's
power is to be displayed; and that power, be it of imitation,
composition,
idealization, or of whatever other kind, is the chief object
of the spectator's
observation. It is man and his fancies, man,and his
trickeries, man and
his inventions,-poor, paltry, weak, self-sighted
man,-which the connoisseur
for ever seeks and worships. Among
potsherds and dunghills, among drunken
boors and withered beldames,
through every scene of debauchery and degradation,
we follow the erring
artist, not to receive one wholesome lesson, not
to be touched with
pity, nor moved with indignation, but to watch the
dexterity of the
pencil, and gloat over the glittering of the hue.
I
speak not only of the works of the FlemishSchool-I wage no war
with their
admirers; they may be left in peace to count the spiculæof
haystacks
and the hairs of donkeys-it is also of works of real mind that
I speak,-works
in which there are evidences of genius and workings of
power,-works which
have been held up as containing all of the beautiful
that art can reach
or man conceive. And I assert with sorrow, that all
hitherto done in
landscape, by those commonlyconceived its masters, has
never prompted
one holy thought in the minds of nations. It has begun
and ended in exhibiting
the dexterities of individuals, and conventionalities
of systems. Filling
the world with the honour of Claude and Salvator, it
has never once tended
to the honour of God[.]
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Whether sacred or historical, landscape or domestic, art was not given to man either to teach him religion or morality... As the minister of those ineffable pleasures which stand in sweet reconciliation midway between the senses and the soul; as the stirrer of those humanising emotions which harmonise equally with man's highest spiritual aspirations and his commonest daily impressions... as all this and infinitely more, art is indeed to be looked upon as a gift of inappreciable price... but beyond this she happily gives and teaches nothing... He, therefore, who would wrest art from her real field and purposes - he who with brilliantly-strung words and active sophistry of thought would misrepresent the real scheme of Providence, putting one thing for another, would... bring about just that false state of society and just that idolatry of shadows for which he now professes to pity us. (pp. 404-05)