Part 19

I may here note that the color of neither of these pictures is in any way remarkable. Indeed, that of the “Princes” is positively bad, being very purple and inky; but their enduring popularity rests on a more solid foundation than mere color. It rests entirely on their truthful and poetic treatment. I call the treatment “poetic,” because a dull prose reading of both these subjects would have represented the murders as actually being committed, whereas by choosing the moment in the one case immediately _after_ the murder, and in the other just _before_, the artist avoids all the stabbing, hacking, and smothering business, and increases rather than diminishes our interest in the victims. Gerome’s “Death of Cæsar” is another example of novel treatment of a hackneyed subject. He also represents the deed as done. The conspirators have sneaked off. The benches of the senate-house are all but deserted, the only occupant being a very fat senator, who is fast asleep on one of the benches, somewhere near the centre of the amphitheatre. How much more empty the senate-house looks, with this portly old Roman snoring on his bench, than it would do if entirely deserted!

I do not wish to lecture on modern pictures, but I mention this “Death of Caesar” by Gerome as an instance of a happy departure from the usual treatment of the subject. Indeed, it appears to me that all assassinations, martyrdoms, executions, and such-like subjects, if painted at all, should be approached in some roundabout way.

The action of stabbing, cutting a head off, or sending a bullet through a man’s body, is instantaneous; and although an executioner, with his drawn sword and uplifted arm about to decapitate his victim, may be startling and sensational at first sight, yet after a time the feeling of horror or of pity gives place to a sort of impatience that he is so long before striking the blow.

One of the Orleans princes had a picture of a military execution, which he admired very much at first. By and by, however, he got tired of it, and ultimately sold it or gave it away, not because it was too much for his feelings, but because he was heartily sick of seeing the squad taking aim day after day and month after month, and never firing.

Although the best modern masters of dramatic composition have probably been guided by sentiment rather than by rule, still a few observations on the treatment of certain subjects may not be out of place in this lecture. Thus, if the subject be a departure of pilgrims or emigrants, the figures should be placed on that side of the canvas which is opposed to the direction in which they are going. If it be an arrival, they should be placed on the side opposed to the direction whence they came. In both these cases, the large portion of canvas without figures is not wasted; it assists materially in telling the story.

In the first case, it represents the journey to be undertaken, and in the second the journey just performed. If we had to paint a shipwrecked sailor who has just reached the shore, we ought to let very little of the shore be seen, but plenty of raging sea. Here the interest of the subject lies in the formidable dangers he has escaped, so we ought to devote the greater portion of our canvas to the breakers, and relegate our mariner and the bit of slippery rock to which he is clinging to a corner.

If, on the other hand, we wished to represent our shipwrecked man clinging to a spar in the open sea, with no land visible, we ought to place him right in the middle of the canvas, so as to give the impression of hopeless isolation; and if we wished to convey the idea that he might possibly be rescued, we would paint a sail on the horizon, and near the edge of the picture. I should place it near the edge, in order that it might appear to have just come in sight, and that hope of rescue was dawning. If we were to put the same vessel in the middle of the picture, and bearing down upon the drowning man, we might feel equally certain that he would be saved, but the effect would hardly be as dramatic.

Again, let us suppose that we have an elongated space to fill, and that the subject is a “fugitive escaping.” Where ought we to place him on the canvas? If we place him in the middle, he will look too much like a professional runner doing his ten miles within the hour, and we should feel inclined to pull out our watches and time him. Supposing him to be running from right to left, if we place him near the right side of the picture we shall not know whether his pursuers are not close at hand, and as our sympathies are always with the fugitive, whether he be a prisoner of war, a convict, or a fox, we should be glad to see him safe over to the other side of the picture.

If we place him near the left edge our wish is gratified. There is now the whole width of the picture intervening between him and any sign of pursuit, and we feel naturally, though perhaps illogically, that he has a better chance of escape.

The word “artful” has come to signify cunning, and is always taken in a bad sense, but I suppose that originally it meant literally “full of art,” full of that curious compound of observation, good-sense, and poetic feeling which is so noticeable in Raffaelle, Poussin, and all the great masters of composition.

In the examples I have given you there has always been some good reason for placing the figures on one side of the picture, but where no good reason exists, it ought not to be done.

It may not be out of place here to say something about the size of the figures in proportion to the canvas. This is a very important element in the composition of a picture, and many a good and careful work has been spoiled by the figures being either too large or too small for the canvas.

In these days, when the general destination of pictures is to decorate dining-rooms or to fill small galleries, space ought to be economized. We should avoid, as a rule, large areas of background; but, on the other hand, when the figures are too large for the canvas the effect is very unpleasant. An erect figure with the head bent down should have space enough above it to allow of the head being raised, otherwise the figure has an uncomfortable look, as if she could not lift up her head without rapping it against the frame.

Indeed all stooping, sitting, or kneeling figures should have space enough allowed them to stand up in. They should not, in short, look as if they had been put into those attitudes in order to pack them into the picture.

The mannerism of introducing figures too large for the canvas originated probably with the old German masters of the Albert Durer school. With them, however, it was not a mannerism but a habit contracted by wood-engraving.

In those early days the graving tools were very rude and coarse; moreover, the blocks were small, hence it became imperative to design the figures as large as possible; and the habit thus acquired spread to drawings and pictures.

When, on the other hand, the figures are too small, the picture generally looks stagey, as if the artist had taken his composition from some genteel comedy-scene at a theatre. Cases frequently occur where it is desirable to keep the figures small, as in a caravan march across the desert, or in a procession moving down a cathedral nave.

In the one case it is desirable to give an idea of the boundless waste of sand, and in the other the architecture of the cathedral is probably more interesting than the individual action of the priests composing the procession, and therefore the figures should be very small for the canvas.

As to the _actual_ dimensions of the figures in historical or “genre” subjects, there is only one size which I think objectionable, and that is rather smaller than life. Figures of four and a half or five feet high seldom look well. Half life-size, or rather more, is a very good proportion, and any size below this, down to the microscopic figures of Breughel or Meissonnier, is equally good.

In my former lectures on composition, I gave you several examples of the kind of mental analysis which ought to be brought to bear on every subject you wish to design. It will, I think, be unnecessary to go through all this again, as you are, I trust, more skilled in the art of composition than you were five years ago.

Nevertheless it may not be unprofitable to some of you, if I work out again one or two of my old subjects. One of the themes I selected was from Exodus:--

“When Moses was grown, he went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens, and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, and he looked this way, and that way, and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the Egyptian.”

The subject to be the first part of the quotation, that is, where Moses is watching the Egyptian smiting the Hebrew.

Very well. Now there are two distinct centres of interest in this subject. One is the brutal treatment of the Hebrew by his taskmaster, and the other is the indignation of Moses. Under any circumstances, it would be advisable to sacrifice one of those centres of interest to the other; but the context absolutely prohibits all idea of uniting the three figures together in one group. Moses was certainly not visible to the two men. We must, therefore, allow a considerable space between the figures, and the question now arises: Which is to be our foreground group?

Either mode of treatment seems to me equally good, but supposing I fancy making the Moses the principal figure in the picture, how am I to express what is passing in his mind? The other two figures will be in violent action, therefore it will be well to represent Moses in a quiet attitude, but with an expression of concentrated indignation about him.

I just hastily sketch an erect figure (any indication of a human figure will do) to represent Moses. I have some ideas floating in my mind about making him clutching at his dagger, and about the expression I will throw into his eyes, and so on; but, for the present, I leave all this alone, and occupy myself with the general arrangement of the picture.

I find that with my erect figure of Moses, it will be better to make the picture an upright one, and it will be necessary to make him in hiding, or partly concealed by some building, otherwise he would be in full view of the Egyptian, and I should not be in keeping with the word “spied” of the text. I, therefore, put in a line or two to represent a building behind which he might be hiding.

Now for the two men. I don’t at present elaborate the group at all.

I think the most natural reading is to suppose the Israelite on the ground, having fallen under his burden, and the Egyptian standing over him, and beating him; but for the present, I make a kind of scrawl which might mean any thing. I do not quite like the place I have put it in; I rub it out, and shift it. I am better pleased with the place now, but the group looks too large; I rub it out again, and make it smaller. Now I find the Moses is not quite in his right place, I shift _him_ about until I get him right; and here let me point out the great advantage of a rough indication at first. Had I drawn my principal figure carefully, with all the expression I meant to convey, I should have hesitated about rubbing him out, and my composition would eventually have suffered.

Designing a subject is like drawing a figure. In figure-drawing you do not begin (at least you ought not) with sketching the eyes, nose, and mouth. It is sheer waste of time to do so, as the chances are ten to one in favor of your having to shift the head or to alter its inclination. You make a simple oval with a line down the centre to indicate the inclination, and then you go on with the rest of the figure. If you have to change the head, you can do so in two or three strokes. The same method applies to the hands and feet. Students will often draw the fingers and toes, and when the master comes round he finds that the hands and feet are in their wrong places, and the work has to be done again. Never begin the detail of a figure until you feel sure that every thing is in its right place, and that the general proportions are correct. In the same way, in composition never begin to elaborate the figures until you feel sure that your groups are in their right places and of the proper size.

To return to our subject. I will suppose now that I have got my figures where I want them to be. I can go ahead now in all confidence. I can try various attitudes for my striking and prostrate figures. I can try different modes of giving to Moses the kind of expression I wish him to have. I stick to the ground plan of my design, and also to the general features of the arrangement, but I select my details as I go on.

Now let us suppose that I have elected to take the other view of the subject. In this case the picture would be reversed; that is, the struggling figures would be in the foreground, and the Moses behind. I proceed always in the same manner. I make a very rough indication of my two figures, an indication which need not define either arms, bodies, or legs, but which gives me an approximate idea of the size and general shape of the group. This being done, it remains to place the Moses. It is clear I must not put him very far off, or his action and expression would be lost. On the other hand, I must not place him very near, or the interest would be equally divided between him and the other figures.

I might perhaps, by merely introducing his head with a pair of angry eyes glaring at the Egyptian, do something which would be original and telling; and in this case, with the head only seen, he might be quite close to the struggling group. All these different versions of the subject should be carefully considered before I finally adopt any one of them; but when once I have made my choice, I ought to stick to it. There will be plenty of modifications to carry out in the individual action of the figures without again disturbing the general arrangement of the picture.

Another of my old illustrations of the reasoning an artist ought to bring to bear on his subject, was “The Return of a Crusader.” Now here the first question which suggests itself is: Where shall we place our returning warrior? On the road, catching a first glimpse of his home? on his threshold? or fairly inside his house and surrounded by his family?

Something may be said in favor of all three readings, but if we place him at a distance on the road he will be alone, or at best accompanied only by a retainer or two, and we shall lose the best and most pathetic element in the subject.

If we place him inside the house and surrounded by his family, we shall certainly avoid the objection to the first treatment, but I think that the best moment to choose is when he has just crossed his threshold, with the open door behind him.

Admitting that we place him here, our first and most obvious idea would be to make him the centre of a group, his wife clinging to his neck, his children to his legs, his old dog licking his hand, and the ancient retainer blubbering for joy in a corner. On second thoughts, however, it might strike us that this treatment would be a little theatrical; it would savor too much of the _tableau vivant_. Could not something more true to nature (and therefore better) be devised?

Let us remember that our crusader has not been away for merely a month or two on a foraging expedition; he has been away for years. The boy he left has become a young man; the infant a young girl, and she, of course does not remember him at all. Time and the sun of Palestine have also changed _him_ greatly; his ruddy British complexion has vanished, his hair is grizzled, his polished armor is rusty, and hardly holds together.

Then again his arrival is totally unexpected. He has not (as a more modern warrior would have done) telegraphed to his wife to expect him by the next train. All these causes tend to make it probable that on presenting himself on his own threshold, there would be a short period of uncertainty, of suspense, and of hope in the air, before he would be fully recognized. With the daylight at his back, his face would be in the shade, which would be an additional reason for his wife not rushing into his arms at once. Her face would, of course, be in the full light, and ought to express a yearning, eager hope. This expression would be difficult to depict, but all emotional expressions which are not downright sensational _are_ difficult.

It is very likely that in this, as in the other example I have given you, I might, when I came to the actual execution of the picture, adopt a different moment of time and a different treatment to the one which at present seems best to me.

My object in giving you these illustrations is not so much to recommend this or that particular mode of treatment, as to show you how you ought to examine a subject from every point of view before committing yourselves to one particular reading.

In the prize for design which is associated with my name, I purposely gave a whole day (or one third of the time allowed) for the competitors to examine the subject in all its aspects, so as not to commit themselves hurriedly to a treatment of which they might repent when it was too late. For finished pictures, taking three months to paint, one third of the time would be too large a proportion to spend in making up one’s mind about the general arrangement; but even in this case I think that more time might often be advantageously devoted to the design and less to the execution than is generally done.

I cannot refer to these sketches without expressing my great satisfaction at the progress made within a very few years. Some of you probably recollect the first competition, and will doubtless agree with me that not only are the prize sketches greatly superior to those of the first year or two, but the general average is also very much higher.

Now I don’t suppose that (taking the average) you are a much cleverer set of students than your predecessors of six years ago, and therefore the marked improvement of which I have been speaking is due entirely to your attention having been drawn to the very important, and I may add attractive, study of composition.

Although a great advocate for this study, I cannot say I approve of sketching clubs as usually constituted. Experienced painters may perhaps join them with impunity; their evening’s contribution is always a faint echo of something they have done fifty times before, but no good can come of any young artist cudgelling his brains to produce something original in two hours.

I don’t think a professor of music would approve of his pupils meeting once a fortnight to improvise something on a given subject.

The result would be a farrago of stolen melodies and borrowed passages which could not lead to any good. He who had the best memory and the cleverest execution would carry off the honors of the evening.

The original genius, if there happened to be one present, would be nowhere.

The same kind of thing would happen in a sketching club; the thoughtful and fastidious members would become discouraged, and perhaps give up composition altogether.

I think that friendly artistic gatherings are not only very enjoyable but very useful. A man who systematically keeps aloof from all his colleagues, generally deteriorates; but the object of these gatherings should be the interchange of ideas, and not the production of crude, hasty sketches.

An historical or figure painter ought, in addition to his knowledge of the human frame, to study the connection between mind and expression, and to steer a middle course between the facial monotony of Giotto, Orcagna, and the early masters, and the grotesque grimacing of the Mantegna school. The works of Lebrun and Lavater on facial expression are ridiculous and useless; indeed, nature is the only book we ought to consult if we wish truly to depict the effects of anger, fear, love, and all the other human passions. Instead, therefore, of extending my observations in this direction, I will return to the proper object of my lecture and give you a few more hints about the arrangement of a picture.

Many artists, in designing historical or what I call historical incident pictures, prefer oblique to parallel perspective. There are reasons for and against this practice, and I am far from condemning oblique perspective in every case; but I think that, speaking generally, the simpler method is preferable. Oblique perspective has the merit of being more picturesque and less formal; but, on the other hand, it is less easily understood, and although perfectly correct, often gives a figure-picture a lop-sided look.

In every picture, the horizon should be either above or below the centre of the canvas, and not bisect it into two equal portions. This is evident enough in landscape-painting, but the reasons for observing this rule in figure-pictures (particularly in those where the scene is the interior of a room, and no horizon is visible) are not so obvious.

Practically, however, it will almost always be found desirable to place the horizon considerably below the centre.

Similarly the point of sight (which in parallel perspective would, of course, coincide with the vanishing point) should not be in the centre of the picture, unless, indeed, the subject happens to be one of the severest kind.

It should be nearest to that side of the picture from which the light comes.

Suppose the figures in a picture to be lighted from the left of the spectator, and that the picture is hung in its proper light. You would not stand exactly opposite the centre of the canvas to get a good view. You would naturally place yourself a little on the side whence the light comes. Hence it is desirable that the point of sight should also be on that side.

Where the perspective is parallel, the eye is not at all shocked when the point of sight is fairly out of the picture.

Indeed, in pictures which represent a small area, the effect is more agreeable when the lines converge toward a point outside.

In the determination of all these points, as also in settling the height of your horizon, you must allow yourselves to be guided by the nature of your subject.

What is right in one case is wrong in another.

In a “Prometheus Bound” you might with great propriety place your horizon below the picture altogether. Here, quite at the bottom of the canvas, you see the peaks of high mountains; the real horizon would therefore be a long distance below.

It would not be impossible to suggest subjects where the horizon should be above the picture, but I have probably said enough to show that exceptional subjects must be exceptionally dealt with.

Beginners (when they have a subject of several figures to paint) will often find it of great assistance to make a small clay model of the whole design, and to clothe their little figures with rags of different shades, until they get an effect which they think will do. The figures would be mere rough clay sketches, just enough to give an idea of the proportions and attitudes. The rags should be wetted with clay water, and then the folds when dry will become quite stiff, so that the figures can be moved about without disturbing the arrangement of drapery.

This plan is particularly applicable whenever the scene of the picture is a confined room or cell, with a strong concentrated light.