Part 11

In the action of striking, the proper moment for the draughtsman to seize is either just before or just after the blow has been given. Here, again, if the arm were arrested midway, the attitude of the striker would appear cramped and absurd. Moreover, there would be nothing in the position of the arm to indicate whether the blow was a heavy or a light one.

Exactly the same remarks apply to the action of throwing. By accurately giving the thrower’s preparatory position, the power of the throw can be indicated; and the same may to a certain extent be done by taking him after the stone or ball has left his hand, but nothing satisfactory can come of attempting to draw him in an intermediate stage.

If we have to represent men rowing, the best way is to draw them leaning forward and with outstretched arms, the oars just catching the water.

The degree in which they are reaching forward is the key to the length of the stroke, and, therefore, in great measure, to the velocity of the boat. If they are rowing a race, or spurting, their arms and backs would be almost horizontal; if they are merely paddling, their bodies would be only gently inclined forward. We have no means in painting, drawing, or photography, of indicating the number of strokes per minute, any more than we have of timing the rapidity of a man’s steps when he is walking or running; but we can in both cases indicate clearly the _length_ of the stroke or step, and the length is generally a pretty good index of the rapidity.

Supposing that, with the idea of being original, an artist should choose to represent the moment when the stroke is half rowed through, when the bodies of the crew are comparatively upright, and the arms beginning to bend, can any one suppose that his drawing would have the same spirit as if he had taken the previous moment, when the men were all extended?

From these examples we may deduce the rule, that to represent action of any kind, the figure should be extended to the full limit of the position necessary to produce that action.

Having established this rule, we will now consider how far it is applicable to the action of animals.

We find but little amongst the works of the old Italian masters which can by any stretch of fancy be called a galloping horse.

But few of them attempted horse-painting at all, and those who did make the attempt were content to reproduce with more or less skill the heavy shapeless war-horse of Roman sculpture. These portly animals were represented either at rest or pawing the ground. Sometimes, as in Leonardo da Vinci’s “Fight for the Standard,” they are rearing, kicking, biting, and displaying every form of equine vice; but we very seldom come across a real galloping or even a trotting horse, until the end of the sixteenth century.

Rubens’ horses are often represented galloping, but it must be confessed that they are not getting over the ground very fast. The hind legs are invariably on the ground and the fore legs well bent; just straighten them a little, and you have the prototype of the modern rocking-horse.

This old-fashioned way of representing a horse galloping was blindly adopted by successive generations of artists through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I believe that Carl Vernet (the father of Horace) was the first to innovate. His studies of horses are admirable. Whether walking, trotting, or galloping, their action is always spirited and suggestive. His method has never been improved upon, and probably never will.

It is now about two years since a very remarkable series of instantaneous photographs, representing a horse at full gallop, were brought over to England from America. They were executed with great skill and care by an ingenious gentleman of San Francisco, and have been tested in London by means of an instrument called the praxinoscope, which brings them in succession and at regular intervals before the eye. Their effect seen in this way is marvellous. The grotesque, absurd figures start into life, and the result is a wonderful representation of a race-horse at full speed.

There is therefore no room for doubting the absolute correctness of every one of these diagrams, which I have had enlarged for this lecture. I need not describe in detail the manner in which the original negatives were taken. It will be sufficient to say that electricity was absolutely indispensable for the operation.

Twelve cameras were set up in a line with the track; they were placed twenty-seven inches apart, and each negative was taken instantaneously as soon as the galloping horse was opposite the camera. The word “instantaneously” does not at all represent the rapidity with which the negatives were taken. It was calculated that the time for each operation was under 1/2000th Part of a second. The interval between the production of the negatives was one twenty-fifth of a second, which, if multiplied by twelve, will give about half a second for the completion of the series. The original photographs are of course mere dark silhouettes, but it is very wonderful that any result at all should have been obtained in the 1/2000th part of a second. We are told that the “celebrated flyer Sally Gardner was ridden by the jockey Domm at a 1:40 gait in front of the apparatus.” The 1:40 gait translated into English means that Sally Gardner was going at the rate of a mile in one minute forty seconds, which certainly is a great pace even for a Derby winner.

Now, it has been known for a great many years that the usual sporting way of representing a racer at full gallop is not correct. Stonehenge, in his book on the horse, published more than twenty years ago, says:--

“To represent the gallop pictorially in a perfectly correct manner is almost impossible; at all events it has never yet been accomplished; the ordinary and received interpretation being altogether erroneous. When carefully watched, the horse in full gallop will be seen to extend himself very much, but not nearly to the length which is assigned to him by artists. To give the idea of high speed, the hind legs are thrust backward and the forelegs forward in a most unnatural position, which, if it could be assumed in reality, would inevitably lead to a fall and most probably to a broken back.”

Stonehenge goes on to observe that “many artists have tried to break through the time-honored recipe for drawing a galloping horse, but that the eye at once rebels. The new version may be scientifically correct, but the mind refuses its assent to the idea of great pace which is desired to be given.”

Amongst the “many artists” alluded to by Stonehenge I may mention my old acquaintance John Leech. Leech was far too keen an observer to be satisfied with the absolute truth of the ordinary method of representing a horse going across country, and accordingly he tried all kinds of positions for the legs, but always had to go back to some modification of the usually accepted one, viz., all four legs off the ground, and all more or less extended. He remarked to me thirty years ago how impracticable it was to represent the true action of a galloping horse satisfactorily.

I wonder what Stonehenge and Leech would have said, could they have seen these extraordinary photographs. Out of the series of twelve there are only two (Nos. 2 and 3) which give the least idea of galloping, and in these two all the legs are tucked under the horse in a bunch. Well may the editor of the _Field_ have written back to America to say that there was some mistake, as, barring two, which looked something like galloping, all the others represented the horse as more or less stationary. To me they looked more like the tricks of a highly-trained steed in a circus.

However grotesque the position of a horse’s legs may be, we must (per force) accept them as truthful, and to those sceptics who cannot reconcile their minds to this fact, I would observe that four-footed animals don’t fly; their legs not only touch the ground, but must at one particular 2000th part of a second be vertical, and I am quite sure that under these conditions the cleverest draughtsman would fail to make the horse appear galloping. Géricault, Horace Vernet, and all the best delineators of horses galloping, have represented them with all the feet in the air and the legs more or less extended.

It has now been proved, beyond the possibility of doubt, that this position is never assumed by the horse. Does it follow that the pictures of these artists are all wrong? By no means. Speaking scientifically, they _are_ wrong, but science and art, though often bracketed together, are very distinct, and ought to be independent of each other; so that if the old-fashioned way of representing a racer conveys to the mind a better idea of speed than any of these diagrams, we ought to continue to wallow in our ignorance. It is impossible to say what the art of the future may be. We may get valuable hints from these and future instantaneous photographs; we may learn to modify, to a considerable extent, the time-honored sporting way of depicting horseraces, but I can hardly believe that the struggle for the Derby of 1981 will be represented as above.[2]

The other paces of the horse, the walk and the trot, have also been photographed by the same gentleman. The results are curious, but there is nothing so outrageously absurd as the “1:40 gait” photographs.

In conclusion, I would caution you against being disquieted by any modern investigation of the true action of animals. In art, whatever appears right _is_ right, and this seems to me to constitute one of the differences between art and science. I have already said that in drawing men or animals in motion artists are limited to one momentary position, and that care should be taken that _that_ momentary position be characteristic of the general action. Thus in the greyhound pursuing the hare, the legs appear even more extended than in the racing horse, and we ought accordingly to represent them in this way, regardless of the literal truth.

What we call action, both in men and animals, is not the attitude at one particular moment, but the combination of various attitudes in rapid succession. To give a perfect representation of action lies, therefore, beyond the province of art. All we can do is to select, or sometimes even to invent, an attitude which, whether true or not true, shall accurately give the general impression of what we want to represent.

We have heard a good deal lately of a new school of painters calling themselves Impressionists. I need hardly say I have but little sympathy with their work. To neglect form, as they ostentatiously do, is to abandon voluntarily the highest quality of art; but I must confess that in drawing animated objects in motion, I am somewhat of an Impressionist myself.

Wherever from the rapidity of the movement any deliberate drawing of the form is out of the question, I hold it to be much safer to trust to general impressions than to be guided by the results of instantaneous photography.

LECTURE VII.

COLOR.

Lectures on color are generally semi-scientific discourses. The lecturer explains the theory of primaries and secondaries, and the optical effects produced by contrast, illustrating what he has got to say on the subject by means of colored diagrams. Those who are interested in the singular effect produced by what are called simultaneous and successive contrasts of color had better consult Chevreuil’s book on color, which has been translated into English, and is a very exhaustive work on the subject.

From a very slight knowledge of the book I should say that it was more likely to be of use to the designer and manufacturer than to the artist. The author deals almost entirely with flat surfaces of color, and the weakest part of the book is that where he tackles the complex problem of reducing to rule the coloring of pictures. Some of his theories appear to me very fanciful, and some are quite contrary to my own experience. Indeed, it is a question to me whether a scientific knowledge of optics in their relation to color can be of any use to an artist in his profession.

After this preamble you will not be surprised if I do not exhibit to-night any prisms or kaleidoscopic effects of color. Moreover, I don’t know enough of the subject to venture to lecture on it.

I shall give you the results of my experiences (_quantum valeant_) not only about colors, but about such prosaic matters as brushes, palettes, and mediums. It appears to me that many a student is kept back or discouraged because his palette is in a hopeless mess; his brushes are like old birch-brooms, and his canvas is slippery and greasy.

If you were learning to write, instead of learning to paint, you would not provide yourselves with stumpy worn-out pens, bad ink, and cartridge paper. You would get fairly good pens and ink and white foolscap, so as to give yourselves a chance.

I don’t wish you to be fastidious about the choice of your materials. This is as bad as being too careless; nor do I want to bind you to use the colors and brushes which I myself find most convenient for life studies.

All I desire is that you should not multiply your difficulties unnecessarily by using bad materials.

Before, however, entering on these details, I wish to make a few observations about the effect and contrast of colors.

In the first place, I would observe that, pictorially speaking, no color can, taken individually, be called either pretty or ugly. The dullest mud-color, if in its right place, is charming; and the most delicate mauve, if in the wrong place, hideous.

Dirt has been defined as matter in the wrong place. No one while digging among his flower-beds would call the rich mould “dirt,” but if he proceeds to wipe his spade with his pocket-handkerchief, he will certainly “dirty” it. In the same way when in a picture we speak of a color being ugly or dirty, all we mean is that it appears so with reference to its surroundings. Take the same color and put it in a more harmonious setting, and it will appear all right.

We are told by scientific writers on color, that the primaries (red, yellow, and blue) harmonize with their secondaries, viz., red with green, yellow with purple, and blue with orange. This is no doubt true in a general way, but it is by no means invariably true. Any color will, under certain conditions, harmonize with any other, provided they are of the proper shade, and the surrounding setting and background are suitable; whilst, on the other hand, we often see in pictures by bad colorists the most orthodox combination of reds and greens, which, instead of being harmonious, are painfully discordant.

The truth is that color cannot be subjected to theoretical rules. The only safe book for the student to consult is the Book of Nature. He will there find no limit to the harmonious combinations of the primary and secondary colors. Do the golden blossoms of the ragwort or the blue-bells of the wild hyacinth not harmonize with their respective green leaves? Are the orange orchards of the South, or the mingled blue, green, and gold of the peacock’s plumage, unpleasant to the eye? And yet these combinations of color violate the rules laid down by theorists.

Another obvious truth to be gleaned from Nature, and which may be made applicable to art, is that she varies her tints according to climate. In the plumage and coloring of exotic birds and insects we find the most gorgeous combinations of bright colors. In the parrot-house of the Zoölogical Gardens we see red and blue, orange and purple, blue and green plumages of the most brilliant hues. The coloring of these birds, although not as discordant as their voices, seems in our gray climate too crude and violent, but in their native tropical forests, with an intensely blue sky overhead, the crudity would disappear, and they would be as much in keeping with the surrounding scenery as eagles and hawks are on our mountains, black and white seafowl on our coasts, or sparrows in our streets.

The truth appears to be that in color there are various scales of intensity and strength. If the key-note, or, in other words, the most decided color in your picture, be strong and vivid, you will have to carry out the whole picture on the same scale. If it be of a delicate or neutral tint, you must treat the remainder of the picture accordingly.

Good specimens of old stained-glass windows, where the strongest reds, blues, greens, and yellows are seen in juxtaposition, are fine examples of a powerful rich harmony of color, and many pictures of the Dutch school are very good illustrations of harmony of a delicate gray kind.

This sort of low-toned harmony is much more easily obtained than the stronger and richer kind. The reason for this is that faults of color and errors of taste are much less conspicuous in a gray picture than in a brilliantly colored one. In the former all the costumes are of a whitey-brown, buff, or slate color, and an injudicious distribution of these Quaker-like tints would be hardly noticeable; but in a work where strong reds, yellows, blues, and blacks predominate, the substitution of one color for another would be fatal to the picture.

In landscape again, it is far easier to paint the gray land of mountain and mist than the brilliant sunshine of the South. Any one who honestly attempts to depict the blue Mediterranean sparkling in the sunshine will probably be severely criticised, whilst his neighbor who has painted the kind of Highland scenery we all know so well, will get praised for his painstaking truthfulness, although his picture may be in every respect inferior as a transcript of nature to the Southern one.

The axiom to be derived from this is, that whatever your subject may be, whether figures or landscape, it is comparatively easy to succeed as a colorist in a low or gray scale of color.

I do not mean to recommend any shirking of difficulties, and if your subject is of a nature which requires brilliant coloring, by all means endeavor to paint it up to the mark; but in decorative work, and in pictures which admit of a tender and soft coloring, you will do well to select grays, bluish greens, and broken tints generally.

Your shortcomings will be less conspicuous, and you will avoid the risk of becoming tawdry and vulgar.

Some men are born with a strong natural feeling for color, and a good many more fancy they have this gift without really possessing it. Some have an exceptionally dull sense for color, and although they may be quite able to distinguish red from green, yet they cannot be taught to discriminate between different shades of the same color.

To students belonging to any of these three classes I am afraid my lecture will be of no use.

The first--that is, the born colorists--will instinctively use harmonious tints, and their natural feeling will be a better guide to them than any lectures. The second class--namely, those who fondly believe themselves to be colorists--will, of course, not attend to any thing I may say; and those to whom nature has denied a sense of color are unteachable, just as it is hopeless to teach music to a man who has no ear.

The great majority, however, of students belong to none of these exceptional classes. They have an average sense of color, just as they have an average sense of form; and although I am quite aware that practice and experience will alone improve and develop their power of coloring, yet a few practical hints may facilitate and shorten their studies.

I assume that whatever method is adopted for painting flesh, the object ought to be to get it like nature. I don’t mean necessarily like the model, but like what nature would be under the conditions imposed by the subject, and it is very necessary continually to bear in mind what those conditions are. It will not do (if you have an open-air subject to paint) to copy your model faithfully as he appears in the studio, and then put in a sky and background from your out-of-door studies.

Although the whole picture might truly be said to be painted from nature, yet it would certainly not look right. The figures would have been painted under one condition of light, and the landscape under another.

You cannot be expected, except under peculiar circumstances, to paint direct from your model out-of-doors, but you may take careful notice of the difference between studio light and shade and open-air effect. I must do modern painters the justice to say that this difference is much more generally recognized than it was twenty years ago. Formerly a group of figures used to be painted with more or less care from models as they appeared in the studio, the aperture which admitted light being often not more than three or four feet wide. It was immaterial to the artist whether the scene of his subject was an apartment similarly lighted, or an open heath; and the consequence was that the picture, however cleverly it might be painted, had an unreal appearance whenever a landscape background was introduced. This discrepancy must have been felt, and hence no doubt we may account for the perfectly conventional landscape backgrounds we notice in many pictures by the masters of the last century. Instead of the old artifice of spoiling the landscape for the sake of the figures, it is much better and healthier art to paint the figures to suit the landscape. We cannot do this completely unless we paint the whole picture on the spot, and then we should not have the same command over the arrangement of the groups as we have in the studio; but we _can_ make an approximation toward this desirable end, and it is satisfactory to notice that many young artists, both French and English, are making efforts in this direction, and thus studying the ever-varying effects of color and light in the only way in which they ought to be studied. If you do not feel equal to the task of thus modifying your studio work, choose some subject where the scene is an interior, analogous to your own room, and then you may copy literally the color and light and shade of your models and draperies.

I am not going to give any recipe for painting flesh; some English artists and the great majority of foreigners paint it in at once as near nature as they can. Others model it first in what is technically called dead color, and finish with transparent or semi-transparent tints. If the result is good, it matters little how it has been obtained. Every artist has his own method, and he generally adheres to it, either because he is accustomed to it, or because it suits his style of composition and drawing. I shall therefore confine the remarks I have to make on color to the harmonious arrangement of backgrounds, draperies, and costumes.

First, as to backgrounds. It is a curious fact, which any one can verify, that if you have painted a head and you find the color too hot and red, the proper remedy is to paint the background of a cool green or some cold color. Naturally one would suppose that on the principle of contrasts the cool-colored background would make the head appear redder. Such, however, is certainly not the case. A vermilion curtain behind your rubicund gentleman would make him appear more objectionably rubicund, but a cool gray or green would have the contrary effect.

On the other hand, if you want warmth of color in your head, paint a red background to it. If you try to give warmth to it by setting it in a cold background you will make it look more ghastly than it did.

The only explanation I can offer for this apparent anomaly is that the eye gets filled or saturated with the color of the background until the head seems to partake of it. In the first example the eye gets filled with cool green, and thus the redness of the head becomes less apparent. In the second example, the optic nerves get accustomed to a hot color, and so the pallor of the head disappears.