Part 5

Nature, the best source we can go to for instruction, is '_always at hand_!'--'but Nature herself is not to be too closely copied. There are excellencies in the art of painting beyond what is commonly called the imitation of Nature. A mere copyer of Nature can never produce any thing great; for the works of Nature are full of disproportion.' It is the _beau ideal_ of the mind alone that reaches this great end. It is _comparing_ our observations _on_ Nature, that enables us to acquire this ideal perfection. It is to skill in _selection_, and the separating her beauties from her defects, that qualifies us to reach this grand acquisition, which cannot be reduced to practical principles; but, by being enabled to discover those defects, we learn the art of supplying her wants. 'Correcting Nature by herself--her imperfect state by her more perfect,'--'and Nature denies her instructions to none who desire to become her pupils.'

Young people, and even men and women, who make respectable, and often very excellent _copies_ from the works of others, frequently show me their 'sketches from Nature;'--Oh, if Nature could see them--for, to say they are in general perfectly frightful, is to use the gentlest expression. I invariably trace, in these productions, their _individuality_ is the cause of their unsuccess; and the incapacity to _even see Nature generally_, which must be necessary before they can paint her so.

Thus to abstract as it were her beauties, and to form _one general idea_ of them, in that abstract, is to enlarge the sphere of our understandings, and invest our works with that intellectual grandeur which _alone_ lifts them above the efforts of common minds, by the nobleness of conception, and a higher degree of excellence: while the student may be assured that his reputation will become permanent and universal, from this system of contemplating Nature in the abstract, and ennoble all he undertakes. His picture will have a mental effect over all that is mechanical.

Dr. Johnson has most ably explained the hypothesis, so much urged by his friend, of the necessity of _generalizing_ our ideas of Nature, when he says, 'It is not to examine the individual, but the species; to remark general properties and large appearances: he does not number the streaks of the tulip, nor describe the different shades of the forest; he is to exhibit in his portraits of nature such permanent and striking features, as recall the original to _every_ mind; and must neglect the minuter discriminations, which are alike obvious to vigilance and carelessness.'

The idleness of laborious _finish_, opposed to the overwhelming majesty of _breadth_, cannot be better explained.

ON RULES.

RULES are not principles: Polite learning is only a more specious ignorance: it may do something to make a connoisseur, but will never make a practical painter; while a little knowledge of _principles_ will go farther to make a connoisseur!

A foreign _philosopher_ says, 'A thinking man is a depraved animal.' Both rules and principles are the healthy results of thought, notwithstanding.--Condensation and simplification--shorter methods, and conclusive deductions, are among the results obtained from them.

'There are rules for the conduct of the artist, which are fixed and invariable. The arts would lie open for ever to caprice and casualty, if those who are to judge of their excellencies had no settled principles by which they are to regulate their decisions, and their merits or defects were to be determined by unguided fancy;' which, in the end, would deprive art of its existence.

Reynolds says, 'Whatever is done well is done by some certain rule, otherwise it could not be repeated.'

Rules, pursued beyond their _intention_, become the fetters of the mind: among architects for instance--whose very profession should be a matter of light and shade--I have never known, nor heard of one in my life, who ever obtained even the veriest mediocrity in painting, however otherwise talented. This can only be attributable to their adherence to the rigidity of their rules in their details, beyond their _general_ intention.

Much should oftentimes be conceded to the suggestions of strong inclination in an ingenious and intelligent mind, whose impulses are irresistible, and which any peculiar method would only clog and fetter, by thwarting its particular turn--which, after all succeeds best its own way; and arrives at the same end by its own impulses. Rules apply more properly to such as are not invested with these powers: or, with the same incentives, have not the strength.

ON COPYING.

A SYSTEM of copying, or rather borrowing from the works of others, some _point_, 'from which the imagination may rise and take flight,' is a manner commonly pursued by our best painters. This method is that of really making it our own, by judicious efforts, without the risk of the imputation of plagiarism, which I shall endeavour to make appear.

By the contemplation of what is good in others, 'a sense of the higher excellencies of art will by degrees dawn on the imagination; at every review that sense will become more and more assured, and the artist will then find no difficulty in fixing in his own mind the principles by which the impression is produced; which he will feel and practice, though they are perhaps too delicate and refined to be conveyed to the mind by any other means.'

Sir Joshua, speaking of the great examples of Art, says, 'These are the materials on which Genius is to work, and without which the strongest intellect may be fruitlessly or deviously employed. By studying these authentic models, that idea of excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of past ages, may be at once acquired; and the tardy and obstructed progress of our predecessors may teach us a shorter and easier way. The student perceives at one glance the principles which many artists have spent their whole lives in ascertaining; and, satisfied with their effect, is spared the painful investigation by which they came to be known and fixed.'

The greatest painters are continually making such memoranda as may be called copying, either from the works of antiquity, or those of their cotemporaries.

Beginning with nothing, we _must_ borrow until we can pay the debt.

'The sagacious imitator does not content himself with merely remarking what distinguishes the different manner or genius of each master; he enters into the contrivance in the composition, how the masses of lights are disposed, the means by which the effect is produced, how artfully some parts are lost in the ground, others boldly relieved, and how all these are mutually altered and interchanged, according to the reason and scheme of the work. He admires not the harmony of colouring alone, but examines by what artifice one colour is a foil to its neighbour; he looks close into the tints, examines of what colours they are composed, till he has formed clear and distinct ideas, and has learnt to see in what harmony and good colouring consists. What is learned in this manner from the works of others becomes really our own, sinks deep, and is never forgotten.

'If the excellence of a picture consists in its general effect, it would be proper to make slight sketches of the machinery and general management of the work. Those sketches should be kept always by you for the regulation of your style. Instead of copying the touches of those great masters, copy only their conceptions. Instead of treading in their footsteps, endeavour only to keep the same road. Labour to invent on their general principles and way of thinking. Possess yourself with their spirit: and work yourself into a belief that your picture is to be seen and criticised by them, when completed. Even an attempt of this kind will rouse your powers.' Again--'But as mere enthusiasm will carry you but a little way, what I propose is, that you should enter into a kind of competition, by painting a similar subject, and making a companion to any picture that you consider as a model; place them together and compare them carefully, and you will detect the deficiencies in your own more sensibly than by any other means of instruction. The true principles of painting will mingle with your thoughts, which will be certain and definitive, and sink deep into the mind. This method of comparing your own efforts with those of some great master, is indeed a severe and mortifying task; to go voluntarily to a tribunal where he knows his vanity must be humbled, and all self-approbation must vanish, requires not only great resolution, but great humility! but it is attended with this alleviating circumstance, which abundantly compensates for the mortification of present disappointment, every discovery he makes, every acquisition to knowledge he attains, seems to proceed from his _own_ sagacity, and thus he acquires confidence in himself, sufficient to keep up the resolution of perseverance. And we prefer those instructions which we have given to ourselves, from our affection to the instructor.'

The perception of errors shortens the road to truth. 'Cease to follow any master when he ceases to excel.' Avoid that narrowness and poverty of conception which attends a bigoted admiration of a single master! We will suppose 'those perfections which lie scattered among various masters, are now united in one general idea, which is henceforth to regulate his taste and enlarge his imagination, extending his capacity to more general instructions, he must now consider the _art_ itself as his master. At all times, and in all places, he should be employed in laying up materials for the exercise of his art, to be combined and varied as occasion may require; seeking only to know and combine excellence, wherever it is to be found, into one idea of perfection; and employing the most subtle disquisition to discriminate perfections that are incompatible with each other. The habitual dignity which long converse with the _greatest minds_ has imparted to him, will display itself in all his attempts, and he will stand among his instructors, not as an imitator, but a rival. The more extensive your acquaintance is with the works of those who have excelled, the more extensive will be your powers of invention; and, what will appear still more like a paradox, the more original will be your conceptions.'

Again:--'By the devotion with which many study a particular master, they acquire a habit of thinking the same way; therefore, let his faults always be your best instructors.'

The firm, correct and determined pencil of many of the Dutch masters, cannot be too strongly recommended for imitation. I speak of the mechanism of painting: the expression, force and energy they gave to their works, from the decision of touch and handling, which enabled them to give that look of nature and freshness of reality to their studies, that forms so great an excellence in their performances. The study of Ostade, Teniers, and many others of that school, cannot fail to enrich our own works with variety of invention, and 'those who have not looked out for themselves in this manner from time to time, have not only ceased to advance and improve, but have invariably gone backward, from being left without resources;' and having gathered nothing, have nothing to work upon--from an inability to infuse into their own works what they have neglected to learn from the contemplation of the works of others. It places you under the guidance of your own judgment and discretion by comparison with the best efforts of others; it enables you 'to criticise, compare, and rank their works in your own estimation, as they approach to, or recede from, the standard of perfection which you have formed in your own mind--but which those masters themselves have taught you to make, and which you will cease to make with correctness when you cease to study them. It is their excellencies which have taught you their defects, and you will, henceforth, be your own teacher.' Be cautious against the 'imaginary powers of native genius, and sufficiency in yourself, which seldom fails to produce either a vain confidence or a sluggish despair, both equally fatal to all proficiency.

'Study, therefore, the great masters for ever: study nature attentively, but always with those masters in your company; consider them as models which you are to imitate, and, at the same time, as _rivals_ with whom you are to contend;' and you will insensibly come to feel and reason like them, and find taste imperceptibly formed in _your own mind_.

By the industry of the hand you will acquire good manner, but it is to the industry of the mind you will be indebted for any solid reputation.

'He who does not know others, knows himself very imperfectly.'

_Wrongly directed_ industry is a dangerous delusion. Too much copying will, on the other hand, greatly tend to impair our mental exertions, render them servile and mechanical, and confine, at the most, our aspirings to a very limited sphere, while it is utterly at variance in establishing any claim of our own to originality or distinction. Studying the _genius_ of a fine work of art, its _general_ forms, its combinations, its chiaroscuro, its colour and effect; and with all these on our minds, going home and making a companion to it, is a noble and lofty aim, frequently attended with entire success. This excellent practice, diligently persevered in, at length brings our sympathies into a corresponding train of ideas with those we would emulate; and if we cannot reach them in their various excellencies, so we succeed in lighting our torch at those glorious beams of old, our advances are at least entitled to that respect they universally meet with. An abject imitation is of all things that I should avoid. But that _reading of_, and conversing with a picture, that almost places us under a delusion, during the time we are under its influence; that associating our feelings and ideas--that blending of our aspirations with the master mind that thought and wrought so well, is the surest hemisphere in which we can hope to think and paint like them. The student's perceptions become annealed by the influence of the charm that invests him: he aspires to a higher latitude of excellence: he beholds before him the ripest fruit on the topmost palm, and he knows the principles and the laws by which he _can_ reach it, and _does_ reach it, by the agency of, and the gradual developement of the simple rules he commenced with.

It often happens, and it is my opinion, that a careless scribbler, who dashes at everything, stands quite as good a chance of becoming original, as the most careful copyist ever will; after the very first attempts, too much precision stands sadly in the way of boldness, freedom and dexterity. After being enabled to draw with some degree of accuracy, _mannerism_ will invariably be the result of the extreme care so universally recommended by most writers on the subject; and hence that excess of it we daily observe; for it requires but a very common-place observer, on entering an exhibition, to point to a picture and name the painter at the same moment: presuming he had ever seen a work by the same artist before.

Reynolds says of copying, 'I consider general copying as a delusive kind of industry; the student falls into the dangerous habit of imitating, without selecting, and of labouring without any determinate object; as it requires no effort of the mind, he sleeps over his work, and those powers of invention and composition which ought particularly to be called out, and put in action, lie torpid and lose their energy for want of exercise. How incapable those are of producing anything of their own who have spent much of their time in making finished copies, is well known to all who are conversant with our art.'

ON THE LIGHT AND SHADE OF COLOUR: AND REFLEXES.

COLOUR is called in aid of Light and Shade, to dress and ornament it; but not to distort and disfigure it.

Extending either the light or shadow by means of _colour_, is perhaps one of the best ways of combining both.

Breadth of light and shade may involve _many_ colours in its arrangement, so they are divided into imposing masses; variety of colour is often necessary to explain the localities of a work; and, that they may not appear confused, light colours should be sociable with light colours; and dark ones with others of equal density: their repetitions invading each other throughout the chain.

Great _intimacy_ of union, in the colour of the lights, will likewise produce breadth; so as to make a large and connected mass appear, at a little distance, as one graduated light.

Colours may stand either for colours or shadows; so that they be of sufficient density, and sufficiently opposed to light ones.

But, if you do not depend on the colour of the picture for effect of light and shade, _much less_ intensity of colours will be sufficient.

The _strongest_ colours are sometimes most successfully employed in uniting the light with the shade.

In the conduct of light, I conceive the objects which receive its influence, should, of all things, as much as possible, partake of the colour of that light, as seeming more like an extension of it, and looking more natural:--thus, in a church, all the parts receiving the light from a painted glass window, would partake of its varieties of colour. The rising and setting of the sun turns all to gold, by the same alchymy, while it acts as an uniting link in carrying the colour through the picture: these, in their turn, throw their radiating reflects in a thousand other directions, keeping up and sustaining the communicative principle of the whole--imparted by the primitive cause and its agency.

The colouring of a picture should always be in _harmony_ with its light and shade.

The lights will require to be overcharged with colour, if the shadows are too heavy and loaded; on their transparency depends the beauty of both.

The shadows must be _darker_ than the shadowed sides of the objects which project them; for the reason explained in the article on Light and Shade.

The masses of light should be of warm colours, yellow or red, supported by blue or grey in the shadows; a very small proportion of which will generally be found sufficient.

The _real_ colour of an object is only seen in the light. All shadows should partake, more or less, of the colour of the light. That shadow will appear the darkest that is surrounded by the brightest light.

The nearer a colour is to the eye, the purer it will appear; arraying itself as it retires, with the colour of the air interposed between it; consequently, the purest colours should only occur in foregrounds,--where the shadows, for the same reason, would likewise be darkest.

The colour of a light will be stopped at the part where any reflex reaches it. We see mountains covered with snow, at sunset, from the effulgence of its rays, make the horizon appear all on fire.

Distant mountains appear more deeply blue, according to the extent of the azure of the air interposed between them and the eye. All masses in the distance partake, more or less, of this quality.

'The vapours mixing with the air, in the lower region near the earth, render it thick, and apt to reflect the sun's rays on all sides, while the air above remains dark; and because light (white) and darkness (black) mixed together, compose the azure that becomes the colour of the sky--which is lighter or darker, in proportion as the air is more or less mixed with damp vapours.'

Shadows produced by the redness of the setting sun, will be blue; from the reflexes of that part of the air not illumined by its rays.

If the sun is overcast, the lights will be general; so will the shadows. If the sunbeams burst out, and strike the objects in a landscape, the shadows will then be dark in _proportion_ to the lights. The brilliant edges of the clouds all assist the general illumination; and all objects in the light, will participate of _their_ colour from reflexion. On the contrary, those parts not included in the range of rays, remain the colour of the _air_.

The air partakes less of the azure of the sky as it approaches the horizon, being more remote from the sun than that part of it above our heads, which receives a larger portion of its rays. The horizon will be light, while, in ascending to the meridian, it becomes, from this cause, deeper and bluer. So the nature of all colours diminish in proportion as density of air is interposed between them and the eye.

Reflected colours, thrown from, and upon, equal angles, will be the strongest: the most distinct, being produced by the shortest ray.

No reflected colour will have the brilliance of a direct one. For, if a reflected light from a blue object be thrown on a yellow one, the result would be green:--green being composed of blue and yellow. This circumstance refers to most mixtures.

It only happens to those colours which are on a _level_ with the eye, that their gradation is in proportion to their distance. As to those of elevation, they are influenced by the quality of the air they are seen through.

Colours, whose nearest approach is to black, as they retire into distance, partake most of the azure of the air:--and those colours most dissimilar to black, preserve their proper colour as they recede. The golden lights on distant mountains or fields will best explain this. 'The green, therefore, of the fields will change sooner into blue, than yellow or white, which will preserve their natural colour at a greater distance than that, or even red.'

'It may happen that a colour does not alter, though placed at different distances, when the thickness of the air and the distance are in the same inverse proportion.'

_Masses_ of shadow carry the strongest part of their colour to the greatest distance; as when trees appear thick together, accumulating the shadow on each other, they become darker by multiplying those shadows.

'The darker a mountain is in itself,' says Leonardo, 'the bluer it will appear at a great distance. The highest part will be the darkest, being more woody; because woods cover a great many shrubs and other plants, which never receive the light. Near the tops of those mountains, where the air is thinner and purer, the darkness of the woods will make it appear of a deeper azure than at the bottom, where the air is thicker.'

'In general, all objects that are darker or lighter than the air are discoloured by distance, which changes their quality, so that the lighter appears darker, and the darker lighter.'

Colours are more or less _entirely_ lost at a great distance from the eye, according to the purity or density of the air through which they are revealed, or as they are more or less elevated from the earth, merging as they retire into a general grey, occasioned by the quantity of the intervening air. In countries where the air is thin, colours are discernible at great distances, but still tinged with the colour of that air.

The _darkest_ colours, in distance, will be most of all impregnated with the colour of the air. So will the _strongest_ real or accidental shadows.

Colours and outline are best defined on objects placed _out_ of the strong light of the sun, and its reflexes. In sunshine, both are operated on by refraction, which occasions that chaotic indistinctness so painful for the eye to dwell on long together.

Every body, on which light falls, reflects a part of it back again. Any thing red, held before a looking-glass, gives back a portion of its own colour with great vividness; as a glass would throw the sun's ray on a wall.

The real colour of polished surfaces are lost in the colour of the light that falls on them. This likewise applies to all metals.

All smooth or shining surfaces repel the light they receive, throwing their reflexes on any thing opposed to them.