Part 33

Practice tends, of course, to reduce the conscious element in the process. In the case of a person accustomed to draw the outline of a human head, a cat or what not, the operation is very much one of hand-memory into which visual representations enter only faintly. The movements follow one another of themselves without the intervention of distinct visual images (whether that of the linear form or of the moving hand). There is an approach here to what happens when we put last year’s date to a letter, the hand following out an old habit.

Now the child has to acquire the co-ordinations here briefly described. He may have the visual image of the human face or the horse which he wishes to depict. This power of visualising shows itself in other ways and can be independently tested, as by asking a child to describe the object verbally. But he has as yet no inkling of how to reproduce his image. That his inability at the outset is due to a want of co-ordination is seen in the fact that at this stage he cannot draw even when a model is before his eyes.

The process of learning here is very like what takes place when a child learns to speak. The required movements have somehow to be performed and attached to the effects they are then found to produce. Just as a child first produces sounds, partly instinctively or spontaneously, partly by imitating the seen movements of another’s lips, etc., so he produces lines by play-like scribble and by imitating the visible movements of another person’s hand. The tendency to imitate is observable in the first loop-formations, and possibly also in the abrupt angular changes which give a zig-zag look to some of these early tracings.

In this early stage we see a marked want of control. The effort is spasmodic and short-lived: the little draughtsman presently runs off into nonsense scribble. The want of control is seen, too, in the tendency to prolong lines unduly, and to repeat or multiply them, the primitive play-movements being very much under the empire of inertia or habit, _i.e._, the tendency to repeat or go on with an action. The effect of limitating natural conditions in the motor apparatus is illustrated, not only in the slightly curved form of these first scribble lines, but in the general obliquity or inclination of the line; it being manifestly easier for the hand when brought in front of the body to describe a line running slightly upwards from left to right (or in the reverse direction) than one running horizontally. The want of control by means of a steady visual image is further seen in the absence of any attempt at a plan, at a mapping out of the available space, and at an observation of proportion.

It might be thought that, though a child at this inexperienced stage were unable to produce the correct form of a familiar object, he would at once detect the incorrectness of the one he sets down. No doubt, if he were in the attitude of cold critical observation, he would do so: in fact, as Mr. Cooke and others have shown, he sees the absurdities of his workmanship as soon as they are pointed out to him. But when drawing he is in another sort of mood, akin to that imaginative mood in which he traces forms in the plaster of the ceiling, or in the letters of his spelling-book. He means to draw a man or a horse, and consequently the formless jumble of lines becomes, to his fancy, a man or a horse. His first drawings are thus, in a sense, playthings, which, like the battered stump of a doll, his imaginative intention corrects, supplements, and perfects.

With repetition, and that amount of supervision and guidance which most children who take a pencil in hand manage to get from somebody, he begins to note the actual character of his line-effects, and to associate these with the movements which produce them. A straight horizontal line, a curved line returning upon itself, and so forth, come to be differentiated, and to be co-ordinated with their respective manual movements.

We may now pass to the second stage, the beginning of true linear representation, as illustrated in the first abstract schematic treatment of the human face and figure.

A question arises at the very outset here as to whether, and if so to what extent, children re-discover this method of representation for themselves. Here, as in the case of child-language, such as ‘bow-wow,’ ‘gee-gee,’ tradition and example undoubtedly play their part. A parent, or an older brother and sister, in setting the first models, is pretty certain to adopt a simple scheme, as that of the lunar face; and even where there is no instruction a child is quick at imitating other children’s manner of drawing. Yet this does not affect the contention that such manner of drawing is eminently childish, that is, the one a child finds his way to most readily, any more than the fact of the nurse’s calling the horse ‘gee-gee’ in talking to baby affects the contention that ‘gee-gee’ is eminently a baby-name.

The scanty abstract treatment, the circle enclosing two dots and the vertical and horizontal lines, points to the absence of any serious attempt to imitate a form closely and fully. It seems absurd to suppose that a child of three or four does not image a human face better than he delineates it; and even if this were doubtful it is certain that when he sets down a man without hair, ears, trunk, or arm, his execution is falling far short of his knowledge. How is this to be accounted for? My explanation is that the little artist is still much more of a symbolist than a naturalist, that he does not in the least care about a full and close likeness, but wants only a barely sufficient indication. This scantiness of treatment issuing from want of the more serious artistic intention is of course supported by technical limitations. The lunar face with the two propping lines answers to what the child can do easily and comfortably. Much more than his elder brethren our small limner is bound by the law of artistic economy, the need of producing his effects with the smallest expenditure of labour, and of making every touch tell.

Defects of executive resource and of manual skill appear plainly in other characteristics. The common inclination of the lines of the legs points to the unconscious selection of easiest directions of manual movement.[285] The unduly lengthened arm and leg, the multiplication of legs—as seen most strikingly in the case of the quadruped—illustrate the influence of motor or muscular inertia. There is, too, a noticeable want of measurement and management of the space to be covered, as when one eye is put in so large as to leave no room for a second, or when filling in details from above downwards the eyes are put in too near the occipital curve, and so all the features set too high up. The same want of measurement of space may contribute to the child’s habit of drawing the trunk so absurdly small in proportion to the head; for he begins with the head, and by making this large finds he has not left, within the limits of what he considers the right size of figure, space enough for the trunk.

Footnote 285:

This is supported, in the case of children who have begun to wield the pen, by the exercises of the copy-book.

Very noticeable is the influence of habit in this abstract treatment. By habit I here mean hand-memory, or the tendency to combine movements in the old ways, though this is commonly aided, as we shall see, by “association of ideas”. Thus a child falls into a stereotyped way of drawing the human face and figure; line follows line in the accustomed sequence; the only variation showing itself is in the insertion or omission of nose, ears, or arms; these uncertainties being due to fluctuations of energy and concentration. A child’s art is, in respect of its unyielding sameness, a striking example of a conservative conventionality. He gets used to his pencil-forms, and pronounces them right, to the greater and greater neglect of their relation to natural forms. Habit shows itself in other ways too. Notice, for example, how a child, after adding the trunk, will go on inserting the arms into the head as he used to do. Such a habit is an affair not only of the hand but of the eye. The arms have by repeated delineation come in the art-sphere to belong to the head.

Coming now to the more elaborate and sophisticated stage of five or thereabouts, in which the shape of eyes, mouth, and nose is shadowed forth, the difficult appendages as hands and feet attempted, and the profile aspect introduced, we notice first of all a step in the direction of naturalism. The child like the race gets tired of his bald primitive symbolism, and essays to bring more of concrete fulness and life into his forms. Only this first attempt does not lead to a continued progress, but stops short at what is rude and arbitrary enough, substituting merely a second rigid conventionalism for the first.

This transition indicates an advance in technical skill; hence we find a measure of free and bold invention, as in the management of the facial features, _e.g._, the scissors-shaped nose, and still more in the treatment of hands and feet, which is at once exaggerative, as in the big burr forms, and freely conventional, as in the leaf-pattern for the hand, and the wondrous loop-designs for the foot.

Yet though this freer treatment shows a certain technical advance it illustrates the effect of the limitations of the child’s executive power. Thus the new partially profile figures are very apt to lean, looking as if they were falling backwards. It is probable that the wide-spread tendency to make the profile face look towards the spectator’s left rather than his right is due to the circumstance that the eye can much better follow and control the pencil in this case than in the opposite one. In the latter the hand is apt to interfere with seeing the line of the face, especially if the pencil is held near its point.

Habit, too, continues to assert its dominion. The tendency noticeable now and again, even among English children, to treat the feet after the manner of the hands illustrates this. Habit is further illustrated in the tendency to a transference of forms appropriate to the man to the animal; or, when (owing to the interposition of the instructor) the drawing of animals is in advance of the other, in the reverse process; as when a cat is drawn with two legs, or a horse is given a man’s face, or the human form develops a horse’s ears, or a bird’s feet. With these may be compared the transference of a bird-like body and tail to a quadruped in Fig. 45 (_i_), p. 377. The accompanying two drawings by a child of six show how similar forms are apt to be used for the man and for the animal (Fig. 52).

But the really noticeable thing in this later sophisticated treatment is the bringing into view of what in the original is invisible, as the front view of the eye as well as both eyes into what otherwise looks a side view of the face, the two legs of the rider and so forth. Here, no doubt, we may still trace the influence of technical limitations and of habit. The influence of the former is seen in the completing of the contour of the head before or after drawing the hat: for the child would not know how to start with the lines which form the commencement of the visible part of the head. The influence of habit is also recognisable here. A child having learned first of all to draw the front view of the eye, the two eyes and the two legs side by side, tends partly as the result of organised hand-trick, partly in consequence of ‘association of ideas,’ to go on drawing in the same fashion in the new circumstances. A specially clear illustration of this effect of habit already alluded to is the introduction of the front view of the nose in the mixed scheme. These cases are exactly paralleled by the Egyptian drawing in which while one shoulder is pulled round the other is left in square front view (see above, p. 369, Fig. 39 (_b_)). Still, habit does not account for everything here. It does not, for example, explain why the child brings into view three sides of a house. The technical deficiencies of the small draughtsman, his want of serious artistic purpose, seem an insufficient explanation of these later sophistries. They appear to point plainly to certain peculiarities of the process of childish conception. We are compelled then to inquire a little more closely into the characteristics of children’s observation and of their mental representation of objects.

We are apt to think that children when they look at things at all scrutinise them closely, and afterwards imagine clearly what they have observed. But this assumption is hardly justified. No doubt they often surprise us by their attention to small unimportant details of objects, especially when these are new and odd-looking. But it is a long way from this to a careful methodic investigation of objects. Children’s observation is for the most part capriciously selective and one-sided. They apprehend one or two striking or especially interesting features and are blind to the rest. This is fully established in the case of ordinary children by the wondrous ignorance they display when questioned about common objects. It is hardly necessary to add that their spontaneous untrained observation is quite unequal to that careful analytical attention to form-elements in their relations which underlies all clear grasp of the direction of linear elements, the relative position of the several parts of a figure, and proportion.

This being so it maybe said that defects of observation are reflected in children’s drawing through all its phases. Thus the primitive bare schematism of the human face answers to an incomplete observation and consequently incomplete mode of imagination, just as it answers to a want of artistic purpose and to technical incapacity. How far defective observation assists at this first stage I do not feel sure. Further experimental inquiries are needed on this point. I lean to the view already expressed, that at this stage manual reproduction is far behind visual imagination.

When, however, we come on to the delineation of an object under its different aspects the defects of mental representation assume a much graver character. We must bear in mind that a child soon gets beyond the stage of recalling and imagining the particular look of an object, say the front view of his mother’s face, or of his house. He begins as soon as he understands and imitates others’ language to synthesise such pictorial images of particular visual presentations or appearances into the wholes which we call ideas of things. A child of four or five thinking of his father or his house probably recalls in a confused way disparate and incompatible visual aspects, the front view as on the whole the most impressive being predominant, though striking elements of the side view may rise into consciousness also. With this process of synthesising aspects into the concrete whole we call a thing there goes the further process of binding together representations of this and that thing into generic or typical ideas answering to man, horse, house, in general. A child of five or six, so far from being immersed in individual presentations and concrete objects, as is often supposed, has carried out a respectable measure of generalisation, and this largely by the help of language. Thus a ‘man’ reduced to visual terms has come to mean for him (according to his well-known verbal formula) something with a head, two eyes, etc., etc., which he does not need to represent in a mental picture because the verbal formula serves to connect the features in his memory.

Hence when he comes to draw he has not the artist’s clear mental vision of the actual look of things to guide him. He is led not by a lively and clear sensuous imagination, but by a mass of generalised knowledge embodied in words, _viz._, the logical form of a definition or description. This, I take it, is the main reason why with such supreme insouciance he throws into one design features of the full face and of the profile; for in setting down his linear scheme he is aiming not at drawing a picture, an imitative representation of something we could see, but rather at enumerating, in the new expressive medium which his pencil supplies, what he knows about the particular thing. Since he is thus bent on a linear description of what he knows he is not in the least troubled about the laws of visual appearance, but setting perspective at naught compels the spectator to see the other side, to look through one object at another, and so forth.

Since the process at this sophisticated stage is controlled by knowledge of things as wholes and not by representations of concrete appearances or views, we can understand why the visible result does not shock the draughtsman. The little descriptor does not need to compare the look of his drawing with that of the real object: it is right as a description anyhow. How strongly this idea of description controls his views of pictures has already been pointed out. Just as he objects to a correct profile drawing as an inadequate description, so he objects to a drawing of the hind part of a horse entering the stable, and asks, ‘Where is his head?’ We may say then that what a lively fancy did in the earlier play-stages childish logic does now, it blinds the artist to the actual look of what his pencil has created.

Use soon adds its magic force, and the impossible combination, the two eyes stuck on at the side of the profile nose, the two legs of the rider untroubled by the capacious trunk of the animal which he strides, the man wholly exposed to view inside the boat or carriage, gets stereotyped into the right mode of linear description.

All this shows that the child’s eye at a surprisingly early period loses its primal ‘innocence,’ grows ‘sophisticated’ in the sense that instead of seeing what is really presented it sees, or pretends to see, what knowledge and logic tell it is there. In other words his sense-perceptions have for artistic purposes become corrupted by a too large admixture of intelligence. This corruption is closely analogous to what we all experience when we lose the primal simplicity of the eye for colour, and impart into our ‘visual impressions,’ as we call them, elements of memory and inference, saying, for example, that a distant mountain side is ‘green’ just because we can make out that it is grass-covered and know that grass when looked at nearer is of a green colour.

I have dwelt on what from our grown-up standpoint we must call the defects of children’s drawing. Yet in bringing this study to a close it is only just to remark that there are other and better qualities well deserving of recognition. Crude, defective, self-contradictory even, as these early designs undoubtedly are, they are not wholly destitute of artistic qualities. The abstract treatment itself, in spite of its inadequacy, is after all in the direction of a true art, which in its essential nature is selective and suggestive rather than literally reproductive. We may discern, too, even in these rude schemes a nascent sense of values, of a selection of what is characteristic. Even the primitive trunkless form seems to illustrate this, for though, as we have seen in a previous essay, the trunk plays an important part in the development of the idea of self, it is for pictorial purposes less interesting and valuable than the head. However this be, it is clear that we see this impulse of selection at work later on in the addition of the buttons, the pipe, the stick, the parasol and so forth.

It is to be noted, too, that even in these untutored performances, where convention and tradition exercise so great a sway, there are faint indications of a freer individual initiative. Witness, for example, the varying modes of representing hair, hands, and feet. We may say then that even rough children in elementary schools who are never likely to develop artistic talent display a rudiment of art-feeling. It is only fair to them to testify that in spite of the limitations of their stiff wooden treatment they express a certain individuality of feeling and aim, that like true artists they convey a personal impression. These traits appear most plainly in the later representations of action, but they are not altogether absent from the earlier statuesque figures. Compare, for example, the look of alert vigour in Fig. 5 (_a_) (p. 339), of grinning impudence in Fig. 6 (_a_) (p. 341), of provoking ‘cheekiness’ in Fig. 20 (_b_) (p. 350), of a seedy ‘swagger’ in Fig. 32 (p. 362), of inebriate gaiety in Fig. 17 (p. 348), of absurd skittishness in Fig. 24 (_b_) (p. 354), of insane flurry in Fig. 26 (_a_) (p. 355), of Irish easy-goingness even when somebody has to be killed in Fig. 34 (p. 363), of wiry resoluteness in Fig. 29 (_a_) (p. 359), of sly villainy in Fig. 38 (p. 365), and of demure simplicity in Fig. 26 (_c_) (p. 356); and note the delicious variety of equine character in Fig. 45 (_f_) (p. 376) and following.

If a finer æsthetic feeling is developed the first rude descriptive drawing loses its attractions. A friend, a well-known psychologist, has observed in the case of his children that when they try to draw something pretty, _e.g._, a beautiful lady, they abandon their customary mode of description and become aware of the look of their designs and criticise them as bad. This seems to me a most significant observation. It is the feeling for what is beautiful which makes a child attend closely to the bare look of things, and the beginning of a finer observation of forms commonly takes its rise in this nascent sense of beauty. Indeed, may one not say that only when a germ of the æsthetic feeling for beauty arises, and a child falls in love with the mere look of certain things, can there appear the beginnings of genuinely artistic work, of a conscientious endeavour to render on paper the aspect which pleases the eye?

XI. EXTRACTS FROM A FATHER’S DIARY.

There has just come into my hands a curious document. It is a sort of diary kept by a father in which he chronicles certain of the early doings and sayings of his boy. It makes no pretence to being a regular and methodical register of progress, such as Mr. F. Galton has shown us how to carry out. It may be said by way of extenuation that the diary sets out in the year 1880, that is to say, two years before Professor Preyer published his model record of an infant’s progress. _En revanche_, it is manifestly the work of a psychologist given to speculation, and this of a somewhat bold type. In the present paper I propose to cull from this diary what seem to me some of the choicer observations and comments on these. If these do not always come up to the requirements of a rigidly scientific standard in respect of completeness, precision, and grave impartiality, they may none the less prove suggestive of serious scientific thought, while any extravagances of fancy and any levity of manner may well be set down to the play of a humorous sentiment, which betrays the father beneath the observer.