Part 17

A group of young children on the sea-sands, at work with their wooden shovels, would by some be thought a stupid kind of subject, hardly worthy of being painted at all; but make the same children overtaken by the tide, with a steep cliff behind them, and probably you will have a great success, especially if you make your little figures expressing their fear or courage in a theatrical and unchildlike manner.

The first group would be a typical one--typical of the seaside and childhood; the second would not be absolutely impossible (like the bewigged and behelmeted youngsters above mentioned), but it would be somewhat exceptional, and therefore, in my opinion, not so suitable for painting as the first group.

In the same way with landscape, the spot you select for pitching your umbrella should not be mean and ugly, neither should it be overpoweringly grand and beautiful. Pictures representing the Falls of Niagara or the gorges of the Rocky Mountains are generally failures. I have in a former lecture praised the Belgian landscape-painters, and I think that a good deal of their merit lies in the happy choice of subjects. They are certainly not classical, like the old school of French landscape-painters, nor do they affect the dreariest commonplace, like some of the moderns. They neither paint precipices and snowy mountains, nor dull stretches of poplar-skirted high-road. Their pictures are to me most interesting, not only on account of their technical excellence, but from the good taste shown in the selection of the subjects.

Incidents which are out of harmony with the character of the persons engaged, form capital materials for caricature. The late John Leech showed the nicest discrimination in his selection of subjects. When he gave us pictures of character, nothing could be better than his sporting scenes, or his bits from the mining districts. When he wanted to raise a laugh at something paradoxical, he would give us a lot of mutes making merry after a respectable funeral, or a used-up swell eating periwinkles with a pin on the top of a ’bus. In both these cases it was the sharp contrast between the usual habits of the persons and their exceptional occupation at the time which made the fun, and very good fun it was too; but in an oil picture which takes some months to paint, the humor ought to be of a more delicate kind. I know of no better example of the kind of humor I mean than Wilkie’s “Blind Fiddler.”

Before closing my lecture I should wish to notice a certain kind of pictures which do not fit in well with any of the classes I have mentioned. The pictures I mean are those which are painted expressly to teach some lesson, or to inculcate some moral precept. The great originator of this kind of art was Hogarth. Before him nothing of the sort had ever been done, and since his death no artist has equalled him in this particular line. Much, however, as I admire Hogarth as a painter, I cannot coincide with all the praise that has been showered on him as a great moral teacher. He has often been compared to Molière, but the great Frenchman attacked the vices and follies of his day with a sharp rapier, whereas Hogarth wielded a heavy bludgeon. Indeed, I think it very doubtful whether our art can be converted into an active agent in the cause of morality. The touches of ridicule which a clever writer uses with so much effect are very apt to become ponderous when embedded in oil paint. Hogarth’s reputation may well be allowed to rest on his numerous technical excellences without hoisting him upon a pedestal as a great apostle of morality. In like manner the name of Cruickshank will be preserved as the clever draughtsman and caricaturist, and not as the champion of teetotalism.

In mitigation, however, of Hogarth’s sledge-hammer style of belaboring vice, we must bear in mind that the age in which he lived was a very gross and brutal one, and that his “Rake’s Progress,” his “Marriage à la Mode,” and similar works, which to us appear exaggerated or caricatured, were considered by his contemporaries to be very true to nature.

To return to the proper business this evening, which is not to criticise painters and their work, but to discuss subjects for painting, I cannot say I particularly delight in the class under notice.

Whoever takes up these subjects becomes (involuntarily perhaps) a kind of missionary agent for the cause he takes up, whether it be teetotalism, humanitarianism, or the redressing of the wrongs of our old friend, the “poor governess”; and as with some other agents, his zeal often outruns his discretion, and he is apt to thrust forward his moral too obtrusively. When this kind of picture is painted in pairs, after the fashion of Hogarth’s “Industrious and Idle Apprentice,” there is a sort of poster or advertisement flavor about the work, reminding one a little of “what I was, and what I am” in connection with Mrs. Allen’s hairwash, or of “before and after using anti-fat.”

No one can, of course, object to such antithetic pictures as “Summer and Winter,” “Peace and War,” “Youth and Age,” etc.; but where the practice of showing both sides of the medal becomes objectionable, is when the work is evidently intended to be didactic. I don’t know what effect these didactic pictures may have on others, but I always feel a kind of impatience at having the contrast between virtue and vice thrust before me in this infant-school fashion.

I do not wish in these lectures to enter upon the domain of high-art ethics; I have a very decided aversion to the union of painting with abstruse theories of all kinds, but a few words on morality in art may not be out of place.

It must be generally allowed that certain pictures have an immoral tendency: we may, therefore conclude by analogy that others have a moral tendency, but beyond this general truism it is difficult to get.

The art-loving portion of the public needs no Lord Chamberlain to ostracise immoral subjects, but on the other hand, it is rather intolerant of what are called “goody” pictures. Let us rather, instead of preaching homilies with our brush, endeavor to set an example of pictorial morality by adherence to truth, by abstaining from clap-trap tricks and meretricious execution; by ceasing to pilfer ideas and modes of painting from other artists, and by general honesty of purpose.

If we do this, we may rest assured that our work will have a healthier influence than it would have if more directly enlisted in the cause of morality.

LECTURE XI.

ON THE COMPOSITION OF DECORATIVE AND HISTORICAL PICTURES.

The art of composing figure-pictures may be divided into two categories, to each of which I intend devoting a lecture.

The first category will comprise all decorative or semi-decorative work, where grandeur and harmony of line is the great desideratum; the graphic rendering of the subject being of minor importance.

The second category would include almost all easel pictures which aspire to represent some historical event, or to illustrate some anecdote. In these pictures the graphic rendering of the subject is the first desideratum, and the pleasant harmony of line only the second.

We will deal this evening with the laws of composition for decorative work.

I ought perhaps to avoid using the word “laws”; art is not an exact science, and no strict law can be laid down about a matter of taste. Still there are certain principles which seem to be accepted by all masters of composition, and certain others which, although not generally accepted, occur to me as likely to be of use to you.

The golden rule for the arrangement of figures in a picture, is that the nature of the subject ought to dictate the lines of the composition. If you have to paint a subject of a quiet, majestic, and dignified class, a subject for all ages, where you wish to express perfect repose and stability, you cannot do better than go back to the pyramid. This pyramidical theory of composition has been much quizzed and laughed at, but that is because the old-fashioned dilettanti who advocated it wanted to apply it universally. Now it is clearly unsuitable for subjects of action, or for filling with figures low long panels; but for altar pieces, or for pictures which are destined for central places, it is at once the most natural and the most effective method. The quiet and serene dignity of many of the ancient Holy Families and other subjects of sacred art is due mainly to the pyramidical form of grouping.

Sometimes the form is that of a truncated pyramid, as in the Hemicycle at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, where the object of the painter was to represent an ideal Areopagus of Art.

In the compositions of Masaccio and Filippino Lippi we have good examples of a horizontal style of arrangement. The structure of these groups is suggestive of solid simple architectural forms, and has a kind of dignity of its own; but though suitable enough for frescoes of the fifteenth century, it is hardly picturesque or varied enough for modern oil-pictures.

Mural paintings, particularly when they represent grave or sacred subjects, should more or less partake of this horizontal and rectilinear form of composition.

A certain amount of deviation is necessary, and it is in fixing the limit of this deviation that the skill of the artist is shown.

Too little would make his composition formal and lifeless.

Too much would take away from the symmetry which befits such subjects.

The Stanze of Raffaelle are noble examples of skill and taste in composition.

Nothing can be finer than his “School of Athens,” his “Parnassus,” and his “Theology.”

Here we find variety of line combined with a dignified simplicity. It is the arrangement and composition of these grand frescoes which in my opinion justifies the position Raffaelle holds in the history of art, rather than the beauty of his Madonnas or the bold drawing of his somewhat over-rated cartoons.

Later artists of the Roman school overdid the picturesque element, and lost the stately simplicity which characterizes the second manner of Raffaelle.

In modern times, Ingres’ “Apotheosis of Homer” is a good example of what a mural painting should be. Severe in drawing and dignified in composition, it is yet by no means deficient in those more attractive qualities which are commonly expressed by the word “picturesque.”

Flandrin’s frieze at St. Vincent de Paul is another magnificent specimen of an exquisite sense of fitness. There is hardly a figure in the whole procession of apostles, saints, and martyrs, which could be improved. I know of no modern work which is so perfect of its kind.

It is, of course, preposterous to suppose that good composition can be taught in a couple of evenings; but if I succeed in impressing on you the importance of this rather neglected branch of study, I shall not have lectured in vain.

We will begin with the simplest problem, namely, how to fill up with figures an elongated rectangular space or frieze.

The most obvious method is to set up a row of figures of the same size and all in profile, as was done by the ancient Egyptians. Now this mode of treatment, though suitable enough for the Nile temples, would obviously be unfit for buildings of the nineteenth century.

The figures should preserve a certain regularity, a certain frieze-like arrangement, and yet the attitudes should be varied, and the work should not look as if it had been done by machinery.

The first improvement on the Egyptian method would be to break the monotony by here and there grouping two or even three figures together. As in these groups of two or three one figure must be behind the others, and therefore farther off from the spectator, it would be smaller, the head would be lower, and you would at once get a little variety in the line of heads. To vary your line of heads simply by arguing that some people are six feet high whilst others are only five, does not answer in decorative painting. You _may_ assume that the male figures are bigger than the female, but you must proceed as if your men were all of the same (or very nearly) of the same height, and your women ought also to vary very little in stature. Children you may introduce of any size, from the infant in arms to the youth or maiden of fifteen; but let them be unmistakably children, and not little men and women.

The individual action of the figures would of course depend very much on the destination of the work. If it were intended for the decoration of a church, the figures would of course represent patriarchs, apostles, or martyrs, and a severe and simple arrangement would be necessary. If, on the other hand, your frieze were to decorate a theatre or ball-room, the figures should have more action, and naturally the lines would be more broken. Whatever the subject, however,--whether maskers, musicians, or morris-dancers,--there should be a certain frieze-like symmetry in the composition. You should never forget that you are engaged on a decorative work, and not on an easel picture.

A rule which it is well to observe in all decorative work is to avoid cutting off any portion of the figures. This is quite unavoidable in many easel pictures. If you have a crowd of people to represent, you cannot isolate some of them so completely that no portion of the others should be visible.

An easel or gallery picture is bounded on every side by the frame, and the eye is not shocked at all by seeing portions of the figures cut off. Although every one knows that the figures do not extend behind the frame, yet it is easy to suppose that they do, and the eye allows itself to be cheated into this belief; but in decorative or mural painting there is no solid framework round the picture isolating it from the surrounding wall. There may be an ornamental border or possibly a light moulding, but this is not enough to permit the practice. Michael Angelo, in his decorations of the Sistine Chapel, often carried his figures and draperies right out of the panels allotted to them, and this boldness adds to the grand, free character of the work.

The problem of how to fill up the irregular-shaped wall spaces which continually occur both in Gothic and Palladian architecture is of course more complex.

These spaces have generally curved sides, and in many of them--as, for instance, the spandrels of arches--the curve is concave. Straight horizontal lines of heads which are generally so desirable for long rectilinear spaces here become very objectionable.

Bold convex outlines for the groups, and an arrangement for the heads which does not suggest either horizontal or vertical lines, ought to be the rule in these cases.

Nothing can be finer than M. Angelo’s treatment of the sybils and prophets in the Sistine Chapel. There is a majestic dignity about them which is due rather to their full convex outlines than to their colossal proportions.

On the other hand, in many of the compositions by the early Florentines we have long horizontal rows of heads which seem out of harmony with the arched space they fill. The circular nimbi take off somewhat from the meagre character of these lines, and there is considerable beauty about the individual figures, but viewed as decorative works they are very unsatisfactory.

It is, of course, impossible to devise rules for all conditions of decorative and historical painting, but a few general hints may be useful to you.

1st. Beware of concave lines for the outlines of your groups.

2d. Avoid sharp angles, and particulary right angles, unless you wish to draw special attention to them.

3d. Be very careful about the relative position of the heads, so that viewed as points of interest they do not form any regular geometrical pattern.

These three rules seem to me the most important ones to be observed in the composition of decorative figure-pictures, and we will examine them _seriatim_.

The first rule I have given is to avoid concave forms for the general outline of the groups. There is no rule without exceptions, and to this one there are a good many; still it will be found that, speaking generally, convex outlines give grandeur wherever they are introduced. This convexity in the form of the groups need not be dependent on the outlines of the figures themselves; it may be got by introducing drapery or other accessories. I know of no example showing the value of full convex outlines more strikingly than the Madonna di S. Sisto. In the pictures of the Umbrian school, on the contrary, we find extreme poverty of line. The figures themselves are not particularly attenuated, but they are not sufficiently connected together nor enveloped in those useful pieces of flowing drapery which give such grandeur and fulness to the works of Fra Bartholomeo, Sebastian del Piombo, and other painters of the Roman school.

I have in former lectures entered fully into the subject of convex lines being almost always associated with forward movement, and concave with retreat, and need not go over the same ground again.

I would, however, observe that the terms boldness and convexity are almost synonymous when applied to outline; thus when we speak of a mountain having a bold outline, we mean that though steep and precipitous it is bluff or convex in form. A mountain with a depression on the top, or surmounted by a sharp-pointed cone, would hardly ever be noted for its bold outline.

The second rule to which I wish to call your attention is the avoidance of right angles in the composition of your figures.

All angles, unless they be obtuse ones, are to be deprecated, but the most objectionable of all are the right angles. In a single figure, rectangular outlines are not so unpleasant, but I cannot agree with those who think that the big seated Egyptian figures with which we are all familiar, owe their grandeur to their rectangular contour. I have no doubt but that these gigantic figures in their native swamp, and illumined by an Egyptian moon, would look very imposing, but the solemn grandeur of their aspect would be due to their size and to their surroundings, and not to their harsh rectangular outline. If the “Moses” of Michael Angelo could be magnified to the size of these figures and transported to the banks of the Nile, I fully believe he would be far more impressive.

Simplicity and grandeur are often bracketed together as though the terms were almost synonymous; but they certainly are not so. The street and chapel architecture of the Georgian era was simple even to baldness, but no one can call it grand.

It is not, however, in single figures that right angles are so much to be avoided, as in complicated groups of several figures. Here they arrest and distract the eye, giving harshness to the composition, and destroying the look of spontaneous action and easy-flowing movement which figures always should have.

Rubens in his “Descent from the Cross” has avoided these disagreeable angles, but in many of his more careless compositions, where there is violent action, they are painfully conspicuous, in spite of his liberal use of flying draperies. Hence his cavalry skirmishes, though full of violence and contortion, are quite wanting in spontaneous “go.”

Right angles in a group of figures convey the idea of immovability. Hence, although generally undesirable, it is well sometimes to introduce them.

Thus a kneeling warrior firmly planted to resist onslaught might with propriety have both knees right angles.

In this case we wish to give the idea of fixture, and therefore rectangular forms are not only allowable but very useful. Again, in the case of a wounded man endeavoring to raise himself, the angle formed by his right arm might with propriety be a right angle, because we want to show that the man is wounded and cannot raise himself without difficulty.

If he were uninjured and in full possession of his strength, we ought to represent his springing up in some other way.

In the very frequent case of two arms crossing each other, they should not cross at right angles.

There is no reason here for expressing immovability at the point where the arms cross, and therefore the formality of right angles should be avoided.

We will now pass on to the third rule, namely, that relating to the heads of the figures.

Whatever the subject of the picture, the eye is always attracted to the heads. It is therefore of the highest importance that their relative positions should be carefully considered.

In the annexed diagram, it is of no use arguing that one of the heads is a full face, another three-quarters, a third a profile, and the fourth a back view of the head. The four heads are all points of interest. They are equidistant, and placed on a segment of the same circle, and, turn them whichever way you will, you cannot get rid of the unpleasantness of the arrangement, so long as you keep them in their present relative positions.

In the next figure we have four heads suggesting a quadrilateral of lozenge shape.[4] This is also very objectionable, and it is a case of frequent occurrence. In both these diagrams, by shifting the position of one of the heads, we should break up the symmetrical arrangement which so much offends the cultivated eye.

There is no objection, in a composition of many figures, to placing two or more heads on the same horizontal line. Indeed, in many cases it is most advantageous to do so; but what ought to be avoided is having heads on the same _vertical_ line. If you have a kneeling or sitting figure in front of an erect one, arrange your kneeling figure so that the one head shall not be perpendicularly below the other.

If you have two erect figures, arrange your kneeling figure so that the head shall not come on the same vertical line as either of the other heads, or half-way between the two.[5] I might urge a good deal more about the extreme importance of a picturesque and irregular arrangement of the heads; but I have probably said enough to call your attention to this very prominent feature in good designing, and will now give a few hints about other kindred matters.

Converging lines are to be avoided, unless there is something of interest to which you wish to direct attention at the point of convergence. This is by no means an exaggerated specimen of the evil; but the effect of these four arms all converging toward one point is unpleasant. If the personages were disputing over a manuscript, or trying to clutch a bag of gold lying on the table, then the manuscript or the gold would be the centre of interest in the picture; and converging lines would not only be excusable, but absolutely necessary. Where there is nothing of particular interest at the point where the lines meet, the eye feels disappointed at being misled.

Although converging lines are generally to be avoided, it often happens that a repetition of the same kind of curve gives force and unity of purpose to a group. Observe the convex curves formed by the backs of these suppliants. Their repetition gives unity of purpose. A perpendicular kneeling figure might individually be just as expressive, but as one of a group he would take away somewhat from the general character of unity in supplication.

One of the most difficult problems the designer of large mural pictures has to solve, is to introduce with good effect raised arms and hands, especially when they belong to the background figures. When possible, it is better to keep them out of sight altogether; but in some subjects you would by so doing inevitably lose expression and animation, and it becomes necessary to introduce here and there an upraised arm with extended hand. This is easy enough to do if you are reckless about the lines of your composition, but if you are fastidious, it is a very difficult problem.