(Go to Summary of review by Dr. John Brown of Modern Painters I and II, North British Review, February 1847, pp. 401-30.)
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He proceeds to define greatness in art:-
Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its technicalities, diffi-
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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. The language is, indeed,
more diffi
cult of acquirement in the one case than in the other, and
possesses
more power of delighting the sense, while it speaks to the
intellect,
but it is, nevertheless, nothing more than language, and all
those
excellences which are peculiar to the painter as such, are merely
what
rhythm, melody, precision and force are in the words of the
orator and
the poet, necessary to their greatness, but not the tests
of their greatness.
It is not by the mode of representing and say
ing, but by what is represented
and said, that the respective great-
ness either of the painter or the
writer is to be finally determined.
Speaking with strict propriety, therefore,
we should call a man a
great painter only as he excelled in precision
and force in the
language of lines, and a great versifier, as he excelled
in precision
or force in the language of words. A great poet would then
be a
term strictly, and in precisely the same sense applicable to both,
if
warranted by the character of the images or thoughts which each in
their
respective languages conveyed.
Take, for instance, one of the most perfect
poems or pictures (I
use the words as synonymous) which modern times
have seen:-the
Old Shepherd's chief-mourner." Here the exquisite execution
of
the glossy and crisp hair of the dog, the bright sharp touching of
the
green bough beside it, the clear painting of the wood of the
coffin and
the folds of the blanket, are language-language clear and
expressive
in the highest degree. But the close pressure of the
dog's breast against
the wood, the convulsive clinging of the paws,
which has dragged the
blanket off the trestle, the total powerlessness
of the head laid, close
and motionless, upon its folds, the fixed and
tearful fall of the eye
in its utter hopelessness, the rigidity of repose
which marks that there
has been no motion nor change in the trance
of agony since the last blow
was struck on the coffin-lid, the quiet
ness and gloom of the chamber,
the spectacles marking the place
where the Bible was last closed, indicating
how lonely has been the
life-how unwatched the departure of him who is
now laid solitary
in his sleep.;-these are all thoughts-thoughts by which
the picture
is separated at once from hundreds of equal merit, as far
as mere
painting goes, by which it ranks as a work of high art, and stamps
its
author, not -as the neat imitator of the texture of a skin, or the
fold
of a drapery, but as the Man of Mind.
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We have here the first of those exquisite descriptions of pictures which form not the least singular and delightful part of the book. He illustrates this as follows:-
Most pictures of the Dutch school, for instance, excepting always
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those
of Rubens, Vandyke, and Rembrandt, are ostentatious exhibi-
tions of
the artist's power of speech, the clear and vigorous elocu-
tion of useless
and senseless words: while the early efforts of Cimabue
and Giotto are
the burning messages of prophecy, delivered by the
stammering lips of
infants. It is not by ranking the former as more
than mechanics, or the
latter as less than artists, that the taste of the
multitude, always
awake to the lowest pleasures which art can bestow,
and blunt to the
highest, is to be formed or elevated. It must be
the part of the judicious
critic carefully to distinguish what is lan
guage, and what is thought,
and to rank and praise pictures chiefly
for the latter~ considering the
former as a totally inferior excellence,
and one which cannot be compared
with nor weighed against thought
in any way nor in any degree whatsoever.
The picture which has the
nobler and more numerous ideas, however awkwardly
expressed, is a
greater and a better picture than that which has the
less noble and
less numerous ideas, however beautifully expressed[.]
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Truth, as applied to art, signifies the faithful statement, either to the mind or senses, of any fact of nature, material or spiritual. We can only give a short extract from this chapter:-
We shall see, in the course of our investigation of ideas of truth
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that
ideas of imitation not only do not imply their presence, but
even are
inconsistent with it; and that pictures which imitate so as
to deceive,
are never true. But this is not the place for the proof
of this ; at
present we have only to insist on the last and greatest
distinction between
ideas of truth and of imitation-that the mind,
in receiving one of the
former, dwells upon its own conception of
the fact, or form, or feeling
stated, and is occupied only with the
qualities and character of that
fact or form, considering it as real
and existing, being all the while
totally regardless of the signs or
symbols by which the notion of it
has been conveyed. These signs
have no pretence, nor hypocrisy, nor legerdemain
about them;
there is nothing to be found out, or sifted or surprised
in them;
-they bear their message simply and clearly, and it is that
mess
age which the mind takes from them and dwells upon, regardless
of
the language in which it is delivered. But the mind, in re
ceiving an
idea of imitation, is wholly occupied in finding out that
what has been
suggested to it is not what it appears to be : it does
not dwell on the
suggestion, but on the perception that it is a false
suggestion: it derives
its pleasure, not from the contemplation of a
truth, but from the discovery
of a falsehood[.]
ANY material object which can give us pleasure in the simple Con-
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templation
of its outward qualities without any direct and definite
exertion of
the intellect, I call in some way, or in some degree,
beautiful. Why
we receive pleasure from some forms and colours,
and not from others,
is no more to be asked or answered than why
we like sugar and dislike
wormwood. The utmost subtlety of in
vestigation will only lead us to
ultimate instincts and principles of
human nature, for which no farther
reason can be given than the
simple will of the Deity that we should
be so created. We may, in
deed, perceive, as far as we are acquainted
with His nature, that we
have been so constructed as, when in a healthy
and cultivated state
of mind, to derive pleasure from whatever things
are illustrative of
that nature; but we do not receive pleasure from
them because they
are illustrative of it, nor from any perception that
they are illustrative
of it, but instinctively and necessarily, as we
derive sensual pleasure
from the scent of a rose. On these primary principles
of our nature,
education and accident operate to an unlimited extent;
they may be
cultivated or checked, directed or diverted, gifted by right
guidance
with the most acute and faultless sense, or subjected by neglect
to
every phase of error and disease. He who has followed up these
natural
laws of aversion and desire, rendering them more and more
authoritative
by constant obedience, so as to derive pleasure always
from that which
God originally intended should give him pleasure,
and who derives the
greatest possible sum of pleasure from any given
object, is a man of
taste.
This, then, is the real meaning of this disputed word. Perfect
taste
is the faculty of receiving the greatest possible pleasure from
those
material sources which are attractive to our moral nature in its
purity
and perfection. He who receives little pleasure from these
sources, wants
taste ; he who receives pleasure from any other
sources, has false or
bad taste[.]
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Speaking of the so-called grand style in landscape, he says:-
[T]here
is but one grand style, in
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the treatment of all subjects whatsoever,
and that style is based on the,
perfectknowledge, and consists in the
simple, unencumbered rendering, of
the specific characters of the given
object, be it man, beast, or flower.
Every change, caricature, or abandonment
of such specific character, is as
destructive of grandeur as it is of
truth, of beauty as of propriety. Every
alteration of the features of
nature has its origin either in powerless
indolence or blind audacity,
in the folly which forgets, or the,insolence
which desecrates, works
which it is the pride of angels to know, and their
privilege to love[.]
There is a singular sense in which the child may peculiarly be said to
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be
father of the man. In many arts and attainments, the first-and last
stages
of progress-the infancy and the consummation-have many features
in common;
while the intermediate stages are wholly unlike either, and
are farthest
from the right. Thus it is in the progress of a painter's
handling. We
see the perfect child,-the absolute beginner, using of
necessity a broken,
imperfect, inadequate line, which, as he advances, be
comes gradually
firm, severe, and decided. Yet before he becomes a
perfect artist, this
severity and decision will again be exchanged for a light
and careless
stroke, which in many points will far more resemble that of
his childhood
than of his middle age---differing from it only by the con
summate effect
wrought out by the apparently inadequate means. So it is
in many matters
of opinion. Our first and last coincide, though on
different grounds;
it is the middle stage which is farthest from the truth.
Childhood often
holds a truth with its feeble fingers, which the grasp
of manhood cannot
retain,-which it is the pride of utmost age to
recover.
Perhaps this
is in no instance more remarkable than in the opinion-we
form upon the
subject of detail in works of art. Infants in judgment,
we look for specific
character, and complete finish-we delight in the
faithful plumage of
the well known bird-in the finely drawn leafage of
the discriminated
flower. As we advance in judgment, we scorn such
detail altogether; welook
for impetuosity of execution, and breadth of
effect. But, perfected in
judgment, we return in a great measure to our
early feelings, and thank
Raffaelle for the shells upon his sacred beach,
and for the delicate
stamens of the herbage beside his inspired St.
Catherine[.]
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We cannot resist giving our readers the following description of the 'Slave Ship' - perhaps Turner's master-piece:-
But, I think, the noblest sea that Turner has ever painted, and,
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if so,
the noblest certainly ever painted by man, is that of the
Slave Ship,
the chief Academy picture of the Exhibition of 1840.
It is a sunset on
the Atlantic, after prolonged storm; but the
storm is partially lulled,
and the torn and streaming rain-clouds
are moving in scarlet lines to
lose themselves in the hollow of
the night. The whole surface of sea
included in the picture is
divided into two ridges of enormous swell,
not high, nor local,
but a low, broad heaving of the whole ocean, like
the lifting of
its bosom by deep drawn breath after the torture of the
storm.
Between these two ridges the fire of the sunset falls along the
trough
of the sea, dyeing it with an awful but glorious light, the
intense and
lurid splendour which burns like gold, and bathes like
blood. Along this
fiery path and valley, the tossing waves by which
the swell of the sea
is restlessly divided, lift themselves in dark,
indefinite, fantastic
forms, each casting a faint and ghastly shadow
behind it along the illumined
foam. They do not rise everywhere,
but three or four together in wild
groups, fitfully and furiously, as
the under strength of the swell compels
or permits them ; leaving
between them treacherous spaces of level and
whirling water, now
lighted with green and lamp-like fire, now flashing
back the gold
of the declining sun, now fearfully dyed from above with
the indis
tinguishable images of the burning clouds, which fall upon
them
in flakes of crimson and scarlet, and give to the reckless waves
the
added motion of their own fiery flying. Purple and blue, the lurid
shadows
of the hollow breakers are cast upon the mist of the
night, which gathers
cold and low, advancing like the shadow of
death upon the guilty' ship
as it labours amidst the lightning of
the sea, its thin masts written
upon the sky in lines of blood, girded
with condemnation in that fearful
hue which signs the sky with
horror, and mixes its flaming flood with
the sunlight,-and cast
far along the desolate heave of the sepulchral
waves, incarnadines
the multitudinous sea[.]
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We conclude this part by a very noble passage on the sky.
IT is a strange thing how little in general people know about the
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sky.
It is the part of creation in which nature has done more
for the sake
of pleasing man, more, for the sole and evident
purpose of talking to
him and teaching him, than in any other of
her works, and it is just
the part in which we least attend to
her. There are not many of her other
works in which some more
material or essential purpose than the mere
pleasing of man is not
answered by every part of their organization;
but every essential
purpose of the sky might, so far as we know, be answered,
if once
in three days, or thereabouts, a great, ugly black rain cloud
were
brought up over the blue, and everything well watered, and so
all
left blue again till next time, with perhaps a film of morning
and evening
mist for dew. And instead of this, there is not a
moment of any day of
our lives, when nature is not producing
scene after scene, picture after
picture, glory after glory, and working
still upon such exquisite and
constant principles of the most perfect
beauty, that it is quite certain
it is all done for us, and intended
for our perpetual pleasure. And
every man, wherever placed, how
ever far from other sources of interest
or of beauty, has this doing
for him constantly. The noblest scenes of
the earth can be seen
and known but by few; it is not intended that man
should live
always in the midst of them, he injures them by his presence,
he
ceases to feel them if he be always with them; but the sky is for
all;
bright as it is, it is not "too bright, nor good, for human
nature's
daily food," it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual
comfort
and exalting of the heart, for the soothing it and purifying
it from
its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious,
sometimes
awful, never the same for two moments together; almost
human in its passions,
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost
divine in its infinity, its
appeal to what is immortal in us, is as
distinct, as its ministry of
chastisement or of blessing to what is
mortal is essential. And yet we
never attend to it, we never make
it a subject of thought, but as it
has to do with our animal sensa
tions ; we look upon all by which it
speaks to us more clearly than
to brutes, upon all which bears witness
to the intention of the
Supreme, that we are to receive more from the
covering vault, than
the light and the dew which we share with the weed
and the
worm, only as a succession of meaningless and monotonous accident,
too
common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of watchful
ness, or a glance
of admiration. If in our moments of utter idleness
and insipidity, we
turn to the sky as a last resource, which of its
phenomena, do we speak
of? One says it has been wet, and another,
it has been windy, and another,
it has been warm. Who, among
the whole chattering crowd, can tell me
of the forms and the
precipicesof the chain of tall white mountains that
girded the
horizon at noon yesterday? Who saw the narrow sunbeam that
cameout
of the south, and smote upon their summits until they
melted and mouldered
away in a dust of blue rain? Who saw
the dance of the dead clouds when
the sunlight left them last
night and the west wind blew them before
it like withered
leaves? All has passed, unregretted as unseen; or if
the apathy be
ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what
is gross, or
what is extraordinary; and yet it is not in the broad and
fierce
manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of
the
hail, nor the drift of the whirlwind, that the highest characters
of
the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake, nor in
the
fire, but in the still, small voice. They are but the blunt and
the low
faculties of our nature, which can only be addressed through
lampblack
and lightning. It is in quiet and subdued passages of
unobtrusive majesty,
the deep, and the calm, and the perpetual,
that which must be sought
ere it is seen, and loved ere it is
understood, -things which the angels
work out for us daily, and
yet vary eternally, which are never wanting,
and never repeated,
which are to be found always, yet each found but
one once ; it is
through these that the lesson of devotion is chiefly
taught, and
the blessing of beauty given. These are what the artist of
highest
aim must study; it is these, by the combination of which his
ideal
is to be created; these, of which so little notice is ordinarily
taken
by common observers, that I fully believe, little as people in
general
are concerned with art, more of their ideas of sky are derived
from
pictures than from reality, and that if we could examine the
conception
formed in the minds of most educated persons when we
talk of clouds,
it would frequently be found composed of fragments
of blue and white
reminiscences of the old masters[.]
And
if you look intensely at
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the pure blue of a serene sky, you will see
that there is a variety
and fulness in its very repose. It is not flat
dead colour, but a
deep, quivering, transparent body of penetrable air,
in which you
trace or imagine short, falling spots of deceiving light,
and dim
shades, faint, veiled vestiges of dark vapour; and it is this
trem
bling transparency which our great modern master has especially
aimed
at and given. His blue is never laid on in smooth coats,
but in breaking,
mingling, melting hues, a quarter of an inch of
which, cut off from all
the rest of the picture, is still spacious,
still infinite and immeasurable
in depth. It is a painting of the
air, something into which you can
see, through the parts which are
near you, into those which are far off
; something which has no
surface, and through which we can plunge far
and farther, and
without stay or end, into the profundity of space;-whereas,
with
all the old landscape painters, except Claude, you may indeed go
a
long way before you come to the sky, but you will strike hard
against
it at last. A perfectly genuine and untouched sky of Claude
is indeed
most perfect, and beyond praise, in all qualities of air;
though even
with him, I often feel rather that there is a great
deal of pleasant
air between me and the firmament, than that the
firmament itself is only
air[.]
The following advice to young artists is much wanted in our days:-
From young artists, in landscape, nothing ought to be tolerated
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but simple
bona fide imitation of nature.-They have no business to
ape the execution
of masters, -to utter weak and disjointed repe
titions of other men's
words, and mimick the gestures of the
preacher, without understanding
his meaning or sharing in his
emotions. We do not want their crude ideas
of composition, their
unformed conceptions of the Beautiful, their unsystematized
experi
ments upon the Sublime. We scorn their velocity; for it is without
direction
: we reject their decision ; for it is without grounds : we
contemn their
composition; for it is without materials: we repro
bate their choice;
for it is without comparison. -Their duty is
neither to choose, nor compose,
nor imagine, nor experimentalize;
but to be humble and earnest in following
the steps of Nature, and
tracing the finger of God. Nothing is so bad
a symptom, in the
work of young artists, as too much dexterity of handling;
for it is
a sign that they are satisfied with their work, and have tried
to do
nothing more than they were able to do. Their work should be
full
of failures ; for these are the signs of efforts. They should keep
to
quiet colours-greys and browns ; and, making the early works
of Turner
their example, as his latest are to be their object of
emulation, should
go to Nature in all singleness of heart, and walk
with her laboriously
and trustingly, having no other thoughts but
how best to penetrate her
meaning, and remember her instruction[.]
Among our greater artists, the chief want, at the present day,
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is that
of solemnity and definite purpose. We have too much
picture-manufacturing,
too much making up of lay figures with a
certain quantity of foliage,
and a certain quantity of sky, and a
certain quantity of water,-a little
bit of all that is pretty, a little
sun, and a little shade,-a touch
of pink, and a touch of blue,-a
little sentiment, and a little sublimity
and a little humour, and a
little antiquarianism,-all very neatly associated
in a very charming
picture, but not working together for a definite end[.]
Let then every picture be painted with earnest intention of im
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pressing
on the spectator some elevated emotion, and exhibiting to
him some one
particular, but exalted, beauty. Let a real subject
be carefully selected,
in itself suggestive of, and replete with, this
feeling and beauty; let
an effect of light and colour be taken
which may harmonize with both;
and a sky, not invented, but
recollected, (in fact, all so-called invention
is in landscape nothing
more than appropriate recollection-good in proportion
as it is dis
tinct). Then let the details of the foreground be separately
studied,
especially those plants which appear peculiar to the place:
if any
one, however unimportant, occurs there, which occurs not elsewhere,
it
should occupy a prominent position; for the other details, the
highest
examples of the ideal forms' or characters which he requires
are to be
selected by the artist from his former studies, or fresh
studies made
expressly for the purpose, leaving as little as possible
-nothing, in
fact, beyond their connection and arrangement-to
mere imagination Finally,
when his picture is thus perfectly realized
in all its parts, let him
dash as much of it out as he likes; throw,
if he will, mist around it-darkness-or
dazzling and confused light
-whatever, in fact, impetuous feeling or
vigorous imagination may
dictate or desire; the forms, once so laboriously
realized, will come
out whenever they do occur with a startling and impressive
truth
which the uncertainty in which they are veiled will enhance rather
than
diminish and the imagination, strengthened by discipline and
fed with
truth will achieve the utmost of creation that is possible
to finite
mind[.]
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