Part 2
How hateful our varnished doll-painters are to me I cannot express. By their theatrical positions, their false tints, and gaily-colored costumes, they have captured the eyes of women. But, manly Albrecht Dürer, whom these novices laugh at, your woodcut figures are more welcome to me.
And you yourselves, excellent men, to whom it was given to enjoy the highest beauty, and now come down to announce your bliss, you do prejudice to genius. It will soar and progress on no alien wings, even though they were the wings of the morning. Its own original powers are those which unfold in the dreams of childhood, which grow during the life of youth, until strong and supple like the mountain-lion he starts out after his prey. Nature does most in training these powers, for you pedagogues can never counterfeit the multifarious scene which she provides for a youth to draw from and enjoy in the measure of his present strength.
Welcome, to you, young man, who have been born with a keen eye for form and proportion, with the facility to practise in all forms. If then there awakes gradually in you the joy of life, and you come to feel the rapture which men know after work, fear and hope,--the spirited cries of the laborer in the vineyard when the bounty of the harvest swells his vats, the lively dance of the reaper when he has hung his idle sickle high on the beam,--when all the powerful nerves of desire and suffering live again more manfully in your brush, and you have striven and suffered enough and have enjoyed enough, and are filled with earthly beauty, and worthy to rest in the arms of the goddess, worthy to feel on her bosom what gave new birth to the deified Hercules--then receive him, heavenly beauty, thou mediator between gods and men, and let him, more than Prometheus, carry down the rapture of the gods to the earth.[2]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Erwin von Steinbach, one of the architects of the Strassburg Cathedral.
[2] “What I had thought and imagined with respect to that style of architecture, I wrote in a connected form. The first point on which I insisted was that it should be called German, and not Gothic; that it should be considered not foreign, but native. The second point was that it could not be compared with the architecture of the Greeks and Romans, because it sprang from quite another principle. If these, living under a more favorable sky, allowed their roof to rest upon columns, a wall, broken through, arose of its own accord. We, however, who must always protect ourselves against the weather, and everywhere surround ourselves with walls, have to revere the genius who discovered the means of endowing massive walls with variety, of apparently breaking them through, and of thus occupying the eye in a worthy and pleasing manner on a broad surface.... If I had been pleased to write down these views (the value of which I will not deny) clearly and distinctly, in an intelligible style, the paper _On German Architecture_ would then, when I published it, have produced more effect, and would sooner have drawn the attention of the native friends of art. But, misled by the example of Herder and Hamann, I obscured these very simple thoughts and observations by a dusty cloud of words and phrases, and, both for myself and others, darkened the light which had arisen within me. However, the paper was well received, and reprinted in Herder’s work on _German Manner and Art_.”--Goethe, _Autobiography_ (1812). The “dear abbé” to whom Goethe is replying in this essay is the Abbé Laugier, author of the _Essai sur l’Architecture_ (1753).
INTRODUCTION TO THE _PROPYLÆA_
(1798)
There is no more striking sign of the decay of art than when we find its separate provinces mixed up together.
The arts themselves, as well as their subordinate forms, are closely related to each other, and have a certain tendency to unite, and even lose themselves in each other; but herein lies the duty, the merit, the dignity of the true artist, that he knows how to separate that department in which he labors from the others, and, so far as may be, isolates it.
It has been noticed that all plastic art tends towards painting, all poetry to the drama; and this may furnish the text for some important observations hereafter.
The genuine, law-giving artist strives after artistic truth; the lawless, following a blind instinct, after an appearance of naturalness. The former leads to the highest pinnacle of art, the latter to its lowest step.
This is no less true of the separate arts than of art in general. The sculptor must think and feel differently from the painter, and must go to work differently to execute a work in relief from what he would do with a round and complete piece of statuary. When the work in low relief came to be brought out more and more, and by degrees parts and figures were brought out from the ground, at last buildings and landscapes admitted, and thus a work produced, half picture half puppet-show, true art was on the decline; and it is to be deplored that excellent artists have in more recent times taken this direction.
Whenever we enunciate hereafter such maxims as we esteem true, we shall feel a real desire, since these maxims are drawn from works of art, to have them practically tested by artists. How seldom does one man agree with another concerning a theoretic principle; the practical and immediately useful is far more quickly adopted. How often do we see artists at a loss in the choice of a subject, in the general composition, according to their rules of art, in the arrangement of details; the painter doubtful about the choice of his colors! Then is the time to make trial of a principle; then will it be easier to decide the question,--Do we by its aid come nearer to the great models, and all that we love and prize, or does it forsake us in the empirical confusion of an experiment not thoroughly thought out?
If such maxims should prove useful in forwarding the culture of artists, in guiding them among difficulties, they will also aid the understanding, true estimation, and criticism of ancient and modern works, and, _vice versa_, will again be discovered in the examination of these works. This is all the more necessary, since, in spite of the universally acknowledged excellence of the antique, individuals as well as whole nations have in modern times often misconceived those very things wherein the highest excellence of those works lies.
An exact scrutiny of these will be the best means of securing us against this evil. Let us now take, as an example, the usual course of proceeding of the amateur in plastic art, in order to make it evident how necessary a thorough criticism of ancient as well as modern works is, if we would profit by it.
No person of a fine natural perception, however uncultivated, can see even an imperfect, incorrect cast of a fine ancient work without being greatly impressed by it; for such a representation still gives the idea, the simplicity and greatness of the form, in a word, the general notion at least, such as a man of imperfect sight would see at a distance.
We may often observe how a strong inclination towards art is awakened through such an imperfect reproduction. But the effect is analogous to the object that caused it, and such beginners in art are rather impressed with a blind and indefinite feeling than with the true worth and significance of the object itself. It is such as these who are the authors of the theory that a too curious critical examination destroys our pleasure, and who decry and resist the investigation of details.
But when by degrees their experience and knowledge become wider, and a sharper cast in place of the imperfect one, or an original instead of a cast comes under their observation, their satisfaction increases with their insight, and continually advances when at last the originals themselves, the perfect originals, become known to them.
We are not deterred by the labyrinth of thorough examination, when the details are of equal perfection with the whole work. Nay, we learn that we are able to appreciate the perfect, just so far as we are in a condition to discern the defective: to distinguish the restored from the original parts, the copy from the model, to contemplate in the smallest fragments the scattered excellence of the whole, is a satisfaction that belongs only to the perfect connoisseur; and there is a wide difference between the contemplation of an imperfect whole with groping sense, and the seeing and seizing, with clear eye, of a perfect one.
He who devotes himself to any department of knowledge should aim at the highest. Insight and Practice follow widely different paths, for in the practical each one soon becomes aware that only a certain measure of power is meted to him. But a far greater number of men are capable of knowledge, of insight; we may even say that every man is so who can deny himself, subordinate himself to objects, and does not strive with a rigid and narrow individuality to bring in himself and his poor one-sidedness amid the highest works of nature and art.
To speak suitably, and with real advantage to one’s self and others, of works of art, can properly be done only in their presence. All depends on the sight of the object. On this it depends whether the word by which we hope to elucidate the work has produced the clearest impression or none at all. Hence it so often happens that the author who writes concerning works of art deals only in generalities, whereby indeed the mind and imagination are awakened; but of all his readers, he only will derive satisfaction who, book in hand, examines the work itself.
On this account, therefore, we may in our essays often excite rather than gratify the desire of our readers; for there is nothing more natural than that they should wish to have before their eyes any excellent work of which they read a minute criticism, to enjoy that whole which is in question, and to subject to their own judgments the opinions they hear concerning the parts.
But whilst it is the expectation of the authors to labor in behalf of those who are already acquainted with some works and will see others hereafter, we shall try to do what is possible for those who have neither the prospect nor the retrospect. We shall make mention of copies, point out where casts from the antique or ancient works themselves, especially when these are within easy reach, may be found, and thus forward, as far as in us lies, a true love and knowledge of art.
The history of art can be based only on the highest and most complete conception of art; only through an acquaintance with the most perfect that man has ever been enabled to produce can the chronological and psychological progress of mankind in art, as in other departments, be displayed. At first a limited activity occupied itself in a dry and dismal imitation of the insignificant as well as the significant, then a more delicate and agreeable feeling of Nature was developed. Afterwards, accompanied by knowledge, regularity, strength and earnestness, aided by favorable circumstances, art rose to the highest point, until at last it became possible for the fortunate genius who found himself surrounded by all these auxiliaries to produce the enchanting, the perfect.
Unfortunately, works of art, which give themselves forth with such facility, which make men feel themselves so agreeably, which inspire man with clearness and freedom, suggest to the artist who would emulate them the notion of facility in their production. The last achievement of Art and Genius being an appearance of ease and lightness, the imitator is tempted to make it easy for himself, and to labor at this appearance.
Thus, by degrees, art declines from its high estate, in the whole as well as in details. But if we would form to ourselves a true conception of art, we must descend to details of details, an occupation by no means always agreeable and alluring, but for which gradually our eye’s ready mastery of the whole will richly indemnify us.
If we work out certain general principles through the examination of ancient and mediæval works of art, we shall find them particularly needful in our judgment of contemporary productions; for in forming an estimate of living or lately deceased artists, personal considerations, regard or dislike for individuals, popular attraction or repulsion, are so easily mixed up, that we are still more in need of principles in order to express a judgment of our contemporaries. The examination can be undertaken in two ways. Arbitrary influence is diminished, and the case is brought into a higher court. An opportunity is afforded for proving the principles themselves as well as their application; and even where we cannot agree, the point in dispute is clearly and certainly ascertained.
We especially desire that living artists, about whose works we may perhaps have something to say, should make trial of our judgments in this way. For every one who deserves this name is in our time called upon to form, out of his own experience and reflection, if not a theory, at least a certain set of receipts, by the use of which he finds himself aided in various cases. But it must have been frequently remarked how apt a man is, by proceeding in this way, to advance as principles certain maxims which are commensurate with his talents, his inclinations, his convenience. He is subject to the common lot of mankind. How many in other departments follow the same course. But we do not add to our culture when we simply set in motion without trouble or difficulty what already existed in us. Every artist, like every man, is only an individual being, and will always abide by one side; and therefore a man should take in to himself as far as possible that which is theoretically and practically opposed to him. The lively should look about for strength and earnestness, the severe should keep in view the light and agreeable, the strong should look for loveliness, the delicate for strength, and each will thus best cultivate his peculiar nature, while he seems to be going most out of himself. Each art demands the whole man, the highest step of art all humanity.
The practice of the imitative arts is mechanical, and the cultivation of the artist begins naturally in his earliest years with the mechanical. The rest of his education is often slighted, whereas it should be far more carefully attended to than that of others who have the opportunity of learning from life itself. Society soon civilizes the unpolished; a life of business makes the most open circumspect. Literary labors, which by means of the press come before the great public, find resistance and correction on all sides. But the artist is for the most part confined to a narrow studio, and has few dealings save with those who pay for his works, with a public that is often guided only by a certain sickly feeling, with connoisseurs who worry him, with auctioneers who receive anything new with formulas of praise and estimation that would not be too high for the most perfect.
UPON THE LAOCOON
(1798)
A true work of art, like a true work of nature, never ceases to open boundlessly before the mind. We examine,--we are impressed with it,--it produces its effect; but it can never be all comprehended, still less can its essence, its value, be expressed in words. In the present remarks concerning the Laocoon, our object is by no means to say all that can be said on the subject; we shall make this admirable work rather the occasion than the subject of what we have to say. May it soon be placed once more in a situation where all lovers of art may be able to enjoy and speak of it, each in his own way.
We can hardly speak adequately of a high work of art without also speaking of art in general; since all art is comprehended in it, and each one is able, according to his powers, to develop the universal out of such a special case. We shall therefore begin with some remarks of a general nature.
All high works of art are expressions of humanity. Plastic art relates particularly to the human form; it is of this we are now speaking. Art has many steps, in all of which there have been admirable artists; but a perfect work of art embraces all the qualities that are elsewhere encountered only separately.
The highest works of art that we know exhibit to us--
_Living, highly organized natures._ We look, in the first place, for a knowledge of the human body, in its parts and proportions, inward and outward adaptation, its forms and motions generally.
_Character._ Knowledge of the varieties in form and action of their parts; peculiarities are discriminated, and separately set forth. Out of this results character, through which an important relation may be established among separate works; and, in like manner, when a work is put together, its parts may hold an analogous relation to each other. The subject may be--
_At rest, or in motion._ A work, or its parts, may either be self-centred, simply showing its character in a state of rest, or it may be exhibited in movement, activity, or fullness of passionate expression.
_Ideal._ To the attainment of this, the artist needs a deep, well-grounded, steadfast mind, which must be accompanied by a higher sense,in order to comprehend the subject in all its bearings, to find the moment of expression, to withdraw this from the narrowness of fact, and give to it, in an ideal world, proportion, limit, reality and dignity.
_Agreeableness._ The subject and its mode of exhibition are moreover connected with the sensible laws of art; viz., harmony, comprehensibility, symmetry, contrast, etc.; whereby it becomes visibly beautiful, or agreeable, as it is called.
_Beauty._ Farther, we find that it obeys the laws of spiritual beauty, which arises from just proportion, and to which he who is complete in the creation or production of the beautiful knows how to subject even the extremes.
Now that I have defined the conditions which we demand of a high work of art, much will be comprised in a few words when I say that the Laocoon group fulfils them all, nay, that out of it alone all of them could be developed.
It will be conceded by all that it exhibits acquaintance with the human form, and with what is characteristic in it, and at the same time expression and passion. In how high and ideal a way the subject is treated will presently be shown; and no one who recognizes the harmony with which the extremes of bodily and mental suffering are set forth can hesitate in calling the work beautiful.
On the other hand, many will think I am uttering a paradox when I maintain that the work is also _agreeable_. A word upon this point.
Every work of art must show on the face of it that it is such; and this can be done only through what we call sensuous beauty, or agreeableness. The ancients, far from entertaining the modern notion that a work of art must have the appearance of a work of nature, designated their works of art as such through an intentional arrangement of parts; by means of symmetry they rendered easy for the eye an insight into relations, and thus a complicated work was made comprehensible. Through symmetry and opposition slight deviations were made productive of the sharpest contrasts. The pains of the artist were most happily bestowed to place the masses in opposition to each other, and particularly in groups, to bring the extremities of the bodies against each other in a harmonious position; so that every work, when we disregard its import, and look only at its general outline from a distance, strikes the eye by its ornamental air. The antique vases furnish a hundred instances of this sort of agreeable composition, and perhaps it would be possible to exhibit a series of examples of symmetrically artistic and charming groupings, from the most quiet vase-sculptures up to the Laocoon. I shall therefore venture to repeat the assertion that the group of Laocoon, in addition to its other acknowledged merits, is at once a model of symmetry and variety, of repose and action, of contrast and gradation, which produce an impression partly sensible, partly spiritual, agreeably stimulate the imagination by the high pathos of the representation, and by their grace and beauty temper the storm of passion and suffering.
It is a great advantage for a work of art to be self-included and complete. An object at rest, exhibiting simple being, is thus complete by and in itself. A Jupiter, the thunderbolt resting in his lap; a Juno, reposing in her majesty and feminine dignity; a Minerva, inwardly intent--are all subjects that have no impulse outwards, that rest upon and in themselves; the first, the most lovely subjects of sculpture. But within the noble round of the mythic circle of art, where these separate self-existent natures stand and rest, there are smaller circles, within which the figures are conceived and wrought out with reference to other figures; for example, the nine Muses, with their leader, Apollo, are each conceived and executed separately, but they become far more interesting in their complete and diversified choir. When art attempts scenes of exalted passion, it can treat them also in the same manner; it may either present to us a circle of figures holding a passionate relation to each other, like the Niobe and her children, pursued by Apollo and Diana, or exhibit in the same piece the action and the motive; we have in mind such groups as the graceful boy extracting the thorn from his foot, the wrestler, two groups of fawns and nymphs in Dresden, and the noble and animated group of Laocoon.
Sculpture is justly entitled to the high rank it holds, because it can and must carry expression to its highest point of perfection, from the fact that it leaves man only the absolutely essential. Thus, in the present group, Laocoon is a bare name; the artists have stripped him of his priesthood, his Trojan nationality, of every poetical or mythological attribute; there remains nothing of all that fable had clothed him with; he is a father with his two sons, in danger of destruction from two fierce animals. In like manner, we see no messenger of the gods, but two plain, natural serpents, powerful enough to overcome three men, but, by no means, either in form or action, supernatural and avenging ministers of wrath. They glide in, as it is their nature to do, twine around, knot together, and one, being irritated, bites. If I had to describe this work without knowing the farther intent of it, I should say it were a Tragic Idyl. A father was sleeping, with his two sons beside him; two serpents twined about them, and now waking, they struggled to free themselves from the living net.
The expression of the moment is, in this work, of the highest importance. When it is intended that a work of art shall move before the eye, a passing moment must, of course, be chosen; but a moment ago not a single part of the whole was to be found in the position it now holds, and in another instant all will be changed again; so that it presents a fresh, living image to a million beholders.
In order to conceive rightly the intention of the Laocoon, let a man place himself before it at a proper distance, with his eyes shut; then let him open his eyes, and shut them again instantly. By this means he will see the whole marble in motion; he will fear lest he finds the whole group changed when he opens his eyes again. It might be said that, as it stands, it is a flash of lightning fixed, a wave petrified in the moment it rushes towards the shore. The same effect is produced by the contemplation of the group by torchlight.