Chapter IX: Part 9

It may be argued that Sir J. Reynolds addressed his advice to students and not to mature artists, but the habit of imitating others, when once acquired, is not easily got rid of. A certain degree of excellence may doubtless be attained by following this method, provided the masters imitated are excellent, but, after all, it is only a kind of reflected light, and not to be compared to the electric light of original genius. Besides, the student who follows Sir Joshua’s advice may begin by honestly attempting to paint his pictures in the _style_ of Raffaelle without downright imitation of the figures, but he soon learns to adopt Raffaelle’s attitudes, Raffaelle’s expression, and even Raffaelle’s mannerisms. He becomes, in short, a mere copyist. If this be deplorable in the case of the imitator of Raffaelle, how much more deplorable is it to adopt the modes of thought and expression of an inferior master! It may be thought by some that in these lectures I often speak disrespectfully of the old masters, but it is certainly not my intention so to do. I have the greatest respect for many of them, though not for all; but I respect nature and truth still more, and it appears to me that the true artist should go to the fountain-head for his ideas and inspiration, and not to second-hand sources.

It may be answered that it is all very well saying that an artist should go to nature and rely on his own powers of creation and invention, but supposing he is relying on a broken reed; suppose he cudgels his brain in vain for ideas, what is he to do? In this case I should advise him, instead of borrowing from the old masters, that he should turn his attention to portrait-painting, landscape, or some branch of the profession where the creative and imaginative faculties are not much required. He may have great imitative power with a dexterous execution; he may be a charming colorist, or, again, he may be a refined and accomplished draughtsman, and yet be totally unable to give dramatic vitality to a scene he has not himself witnessed.

It has always been the fashion to apply the term “high art” to heroic or Scriptural figure-subjects, but I think there is almost as much high art in a noble portrait of Titian or a fine landscape by Claude as in any historical painting whatever. I object to the term altogether; but if it means any thing, it ought to mean a dignified and poetic view of nature, in contradistinction to a trivial or prosaic view. It ought certainly never to be applied to a pasticcio of the old masters, however plausible such an imitation may be.

In my opinion there is high art in Turner’s early pictures, because in them we get the man’s own poetic interpretation of nature, but in those works where he attempts to rival Claude I can see nothing but the labor of a skilful imitator.

I have wandered away from the proper subject of this lecture, and have but little time left; but before concluding I should wish to explain that although I am continually urging the extreme importance of _originality_ in painting, I do not mean forced singularity or oddity. I mean by the word, the expression of the painter’s own sober ideas. A sane man should produce sane work. It may not be very powerful, it may in no way recall Michael Angelo, but it will have qualities of its own. How charming, simple, and unaffected are Flaxman’s designs until he got inoculated with the Sistine Chapel lymph! After this inoculation we notice (at least I do) a great change for the worse in his compositions. To graft successfully, the parent stem ought to be of the same nature as the scion or graft. Now Flaxman’s nature was gentle, and very appreciative of beauty and grace. With such a nature he ought to have abstained from attempting the grand and the terrible.

If Flaxman erred in grafting Michael Angelo’s manner on his own, what shall we say about Blake? Flaxman was at any rate a good draughtsman, but Blake’s ignorance of the first principles of drawing makes his Michael Angelesque imitations simply ludicrous. The successful attempts which have been made of late years to rehabilitate Blake, and to elevate him into a kind of British Michael Angelo, make me almost despair of high art in this country. I do not wish to speak contemptuously of Blake as a poet, but in his pictures (even supposing he had grand ideas) I cannot accept the will for the deed. The frog in the fable had grand ideas when he wished to rival the ox in size, and yet he only made himself ridiculous. Were I to express all I think about the Blake revival, I could hardly confine myself to parliamentary language. I will, therefore, in closing my lecture, simply protest to the best of my power against this strange infatuation.

LECTURE XII.

COMPOSITION OF INCIDENT PICTURES.

In my last lecture I treated the art of composition as applied to decorative or semi-decorative work--of work intended rather to cover a given wall-space with noble and picturesque forms than to give a dramatic version of any particular incident. My present lecture will be devoted to the composition and arrangement of figure-pictures, whether Biblical, historical, or anecdotic, whose object is to represent in the most forcible way any given incident.

We are far more particular now about the arrangement, or what the French call the _mise en scène_, of a picture, than the old masters ever were. We may not be able to paint like Titian or Correggio, but we attempt an approximation to truth which they never did; and not only is a modern historical painter more truthful about the costumes of his personages and the architecture of his backgrounds, but in the disposition and action of his figures he honestly endeavors to represent the scene as it actually may have occurred. When I say that the modern painter does this, I mean that in my opinion he _ought_ to do it. I am quite aware that many artists prefer to look at nature through the spectacles of the old masters, but it appears to me that all art should be in some measure representative of the age in which it exists. When we come upon a Romanesque, Umbrian, Venetian, Flemish, or eighteenth-century work of art, we can tell at a glance to what period it belongs, and I think that our own time, being one of original thought and research, should in some measure be similarly reflected in our painting.

I have no objection to Gothic architects repeating in modern buildings the narrow staircases, the dim lighting, and other inconvenient peculiarities of the style.

Were they to give us large plate-glass windows and noble flights of steps, they would cease to be Gothic architects; but I don’t think that, however much we painters may admire the old masters, we ought to adopt their modes of composition when we know them to be the result of ignorance, error, or carelessness.

The present graphic method of treating figure-pictures is of quite modern growth, and the innovation extends to all kinds of subjects. Compare any of Giulio Romano’s, Rubens’, or Lebrun’s battle-pieces with those of Raffet, Horace Vernet, or, better still, De Neuville. How unreal the old masters appear!

Recall to mind the Romans of David and his school, and compare them with the best modern representations of Roman manners and customs. In the one case we may admire the noble drawing and even the classical lines of the composition, but we are never transported back to the scene; whereas in certain modern pictures we feel on much more intimate terms with the personages. We fancy we are actually a spectator at the Colosseum or a participator in a _fête intime_.

The realism of modern art is due partly to a greater knowledge of, and a greater attention to, costume, architecture, furniture, and all the properties of the stage on which we place our personages, but it is also due to our making truth a primary object.

An incident may be treated truthfully in fifty different ways, but some of these versions of it will be dull, some obscure, and some vulgar, and it is for the artist to select a rendering which, though perfectly truthful, shall be neither dull, obscure, nor vulgar. As soon as he loses sight of truth he ceases to be a realistic painter. He may produce a beautiful picture, but it will partake more or less of what I call semi-decorative work. It is sometimes very difficult to fix a boundary-line between realistic and decorative painting. To which class, for instance, belong the cartoons of Raffaelle? Although designed for tapestry, and therefore for decorative purposes, there is too much truth and reality about them to allow of their being classed among purely decorative works; whilst, on the other hand, we can hardly admit that they are like the scenes they are meant to represent.

The heads are Italian rather than Jewish or Oriental, and sometimes (as, for instance, in the “Miraculous Draught of Fishes”) pictorial liberties are taken which are quite inadmissible in realistic work.

I may here observe that in this lecture I shall not use the word realistic in the bad sense in which it has generally come to be used.

The term is now generally employed to designate some ugly or offensive piece of reality which is prominently thrust upon our notice by the artist; as when Quintin Matseys gives us wrinkled and abnormally ugly old men, or when a modern French painter throws all his talent into depicting the thick viscosity of a pool of arterial blood. Reality is only in rare instances repellent, and I can see no good reason for confining the word to these exceptional cases.

In historical, or what may be called incident pictures, the main object of the artist ought to be to tell his story forcibly, clearly, and pathetically.

We have seen that in work partaking of a decorative character the principal object of the designer should be to group his figures in a noble and picturesque manner, to attend to his drawing, and if possible to add the charm of agreeable color to his work.

In realistic historical painting he has something else to occupy his thoughts. He must by no means neglect the lines of his groups, he must avoid disagreeable angles, equidistant heads, convergent lines where they are not wanted, and all the other rocks and shoals on which many a composition has been wrecked, but in addition to this he must tell his story truthfully and clearly.

Much more latitude in the matter of arrangement may be allowed him than would be conceded to the painter of decorative subjects.

He may (if he thinks fit) huddle up all his figures into a corner of the canvas, or he may place them all in the centre, leaving the sides unoccupied.

In short, he may take great liberties with the laws of composition, provided always these liberties tend to assist in giving reality to the scene.

The more picturesque or melodramatic the subject, the more he may depart from the usual rules of composition.

Paul Delaroche was, I think, the first of the numerous cohort of modern painters who have striven to combine truthful sentiment with pictorial fitness, and of all his works the “Assassination of the Duc de Guise” is perhaps the most striking.

The arrangement of this picture is as dramatic as it is truthful. On one side of the picture we have the murdered duke lying on his back, stone dead. The group of assassins are quite separated from their victim, and are giving themselves no further trouble about him; and yet the greatest ignoramus, who knew nothing whatever about the story, would have no hesitation in divining it, so graphically is the incident told.

Again, if we recall to mind another and a better known picture by the same master, I mean that known as “Les Enfants d’Edouard,” we find the same subtle taste displayed.

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.

Over the board on which your little figures are standing, you put an empty box or packing case, and you cut a hole in the side of the case, to represent the window. If you find the light on your group too concentrated, you can enlarge the hole, or cut a small aperture on the opposite side, so as to diffuse the light. In lamp or fire-lit subjects, this “maquette” method is most valuable. You admit no daylight into the box, but you place a small lamp or night-light wherever you wish the fire to be, and you have nothing to do but to copy the effect.

You must, of course, bore a small spy-hole at the point of sight.

In my early days in Paris, when _pictures_ were painted, and not single figures for the market, almost every young artist had his little puppet-show, into which he was continually peeping during the progress of his work. Some of the pictures thus painted were badly composed, some were clumsily executed, some were crude in color, but all had a truthful look about them as far as light and shade were concerned.

The real shadows, the reflected light, and the half-tones were all in their right places and of the right value.

When a man has been painting pictures for twenty or thirty years, he knows pretty well what his effect ought to be under certain conditions. He knows when he may venture to copy the effect of light on the model before him, and when he must depart from it, but the beginner has no experience to guide him, and I would strongly recommend him to try the little clay figures. The whole group of say ten figures could be modelled in two days. The legs of those which are to be clothed in flowing drapery need, of course, not be indicated at all, and the roughest approximation to nature in the attitudes is all that is necessary, provided effect _only_ is wanted. Of course, if you wish to study _drapery_ from your small figures, you will have to elaborate them with greater care, and probably have to make them larger than would be convenient for the other purpose.

Another advantage of pursuing this method is that it gives a little practice in modelling, and I think that every figure-painter ought to be able to give expression to his ideas in clay just as well as on canvas. There is no necessity for his learning to work out detail in the clay; he need never model nose, eyes, or mouth, and still less fingers and toes, but he ought to be able to give proportion and action to a small clay figure, just as easily as he would sketch with charcoal on a sheet of paper.

Before I have done with my little clay figures, I think it right to caution you against relying too implicitly on the effects of light and shade of your miniature figures. They are intended to serve as aids, but not as models to be servilely copied. When copied too closely, the shades are generally too black, and there is an absence of half-tones, which gives rather a harsh look to the picture.

An ingenious fellow-student of mine improved on the method by rigging up a light semi-transparent canvas box instead of the wooden one. He cut the usual opening to admit the light, and the canvas sides of the box let in just daylight enough to take away all unnatural blackness from the shadows. It may be asked: Why have a box at all? Why not model the little figures, clothe them, and put them on your studio table? In the first place, the light you require for your picture may be dissimilar to the light of your studio; and, secondly, one of the principal advantages of the box system is that the sides of the box represent the sides of the hall or room of the picture, so that you see at a glance how the shadows of the groups are cast, you see which portions of the figures stand out dark, and which light, against the background. In short, you get a much more complete idea of what you propose painting than you could possibly manage in any other way.

For out-of-door subjects, where the light ought to be generally diffused, this method is altogether inapplicable, but for any prison, catacomb, or cloister scene, it will be found extremely useful.

In a composition of several figures, you will, after arranging your groups, often find large portions of the ground or floor space unoccupied. Don’t be in a hurry to fill up these spaces with unmeaning accessories. They are sometimes most valuable, as giving rest to the eye, and ought often to be preserved. At any rate, they ought never to be filled up promiscuously with objects which do not assist in telling the story.

I remember when I was a student we had a stopgap always ready in the shape of a pot of some sort or other. If Joseph was being sold by his brethren, and there was an awkward corner in the foreground, we would put in a water-pot. The Egyptian merchants who bought him would be sure to carry large pots with them. If Æneas was escaping from Troy with his father on his back, there would certainly be a large amphora in the corner, supposed to be too heavy for him to carry. The captive Jews could not wail by the waters of Babylon without a whole set of pots occupying the nooks and corners of the composition.

Now, an Oriental water-jar or an Etruscan vase may be beautiful objects and nice things to paint, but this is no reason why they should be invariably used as stop-gaps. In a subject like Hagar in the desert, the empty water-bottle is an essential element in the story; or again, in Rebecca at the well, you may paint pots to your heart’s content, but in subjects where they are out of place it is best to refrain if you possibly can. All stop-gaps are very objectionable; and if I mention this particular kind, it is because it is the one usually resorted to. I do not by any means wish to imply that you are to leave a disagreeable vacant corner unoccupied, but whatever you put in it, whether it be some cast-off cloak, fruit, or flowers, dog or cat, or even the irrepressible jar, it ought not to look as if it had been purposely put there to fill up a hole. Doubtless it _would_ be put there with that intention, but the artifice ought not to be readily detected.

My main object to-night has been to impress upon you that in designing figure-subjects you are not to take the first commonplace ideas which may occur to you, but to reason your subject out, and select whatever treatment you think most telling.

By so doing, you are on the only true high-road to originality.

There is a kind of originality, or rather eccentricity, which may be easily enough attained by ignoring the natural laws of action, of light, and of color; but I am speaking of originality united with excellence. This, I am convinced, is seldom (if ever) attained by sitting idle and waiting for some happy thought to turn up. You must use your brains constantly, from the first charcoal sketch down to the finishing-touches on the Exhibition walls.

Before closing this course of lectures, I should wish to disclaim any desire of imposing my individual opinions upon any of you. Like every one who has thought a good deal about painting and painters, I have formed my own ideas, and have, I think, expressed them pretty freely; but it would be quite contrary to my theory of free thought in art that you should accept as proven all the opinions I have expressed. Art (as I have already observed) is not a science. I cannot take up the white chalk and prove to you by _x_ + _y_ that my views are right and all others wrong. What would become of our friends the critics, if this could be done?

But although all assertions on art must be mere expressions of individual opinion, it appears to me that the professor of such a many-sided art as painting is better employed in giving his honest convictions (whether they coincide or not with the prevalent opinion of the day) than in prudently confining himself to dry history or hazy æsthetics.

THE END.

* * * * *

_PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS._

=Method of Learning to Draw from Memory.= By MADAME E. CAVE. From 4th
Parisian Edition, 12mo, cloth 1 00

⁂ “This is the only method of drawing which really teaches
anything. Mme. Cave * * * renders invaluable service to all who
have marked out for themselves a career of Art.”--_Extract from a
long review in the “Revue des Deux Mondes,” written by_ DELACROIX.

“It is interesting and valuable.”--D. HUNTINGTON, _Pres. Nat.
Acad._

“Should be used by every teacher of drawing in America.”--_City
Item, Phila._

“We wish that Madame Cave had published this work half a century
ago, that we might have been instructed in this enviable
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=Method of Teaching Color.= By MADAME CAVE. 12mo, cloth 1 00

⁂ This work was referred by the French Minister of Public
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whose report, written by M. DELACROIX, was unanimously adopted,
indorsing and approving the work. The Minister thereupon, by a
special decree, authorized the use of it in the French normal
schools.

“I cannot too highly commend these volumes. They are a perfect
god-send to all students.”--ANNIE J. KIRK, _Chicago_.

=Methode Cave=, _pour apprendre a dessiner_ juste de mémoire d’aprés
les principes D’ALBERT DURER et de LEONARDO DA VINCI. Approved by
the Minister of Public Instruction, and by Messrs. Delacroix, H.
Verbet, etc. In eight series, folio, paper covers. Price $2 25
each. Shaded Models for more advanced students from 75 cents to $3
00 per plate.

N. B.--The Crayons, Paper, and other articles mentioned in the Cave
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=Linear Perspective.= By HENRY HODGE, of the Winchester School. 4to,
boards 75

“I find this work excellently suited to my needs.”--A. COLIN,
_Scientific Training School, New York_.

=Pottery: How it is Made, Its Shape and Decoration.= By GEORGE WARD
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kinds of Pottery, with vitrifiable and common oil color; with a
full bibliography of standard works upon the Ceramic Art, and 42
illustrations. 12mo, boards 1 25

“Attractive, practical and suggestive. * * * We commend it most
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=Perspective.= The Theory and Practice of Linear Perspective, applied
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Art-Students, etc. By V. PELLEGRIN, M.S.A., Professor at the
Military School of St. Cyr. 12mo, with chart 1 00

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“Comprehensive, and contains all that the student
requires.”--VIRGINIA GRANBERY, _Prof. of Drawing, Packer Institute,
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“The most practical work on the subject I have seen.”--M. MORSE,
_Prof. of Drawing, New York_.

“Thoroughly scientific and thoroughly practical.”--SUSAN V. CARTER,
_Prin. School of Design, Cooper Union, New York_.

=Conversations on Art Methods.= By THOMAS COUTURE. Translated from
the French, by S. E. STEWART. With an introduction by ROBERT SWAIN
GIFFORD. 1 25

“Mr. Couture was not only an artist, but the sharpest literary
critic of his day. It is safe to say that no volume of the size
contains so much of value for the artist-student as this handsome
little volume, so admirably translated by Mr. Stewart.”--_Chicago
Inter-Ocean._

“A most readable and entertaining work.”--_Commonwealth._

“Couture talks with charming freedom on all subjects--on the
critic, on woman, on the recent school of art, on the great old
masters, on the divine art. It is all delightful.”--_Hartford
Courant._

“The simple way in which the book is written gives a pleasure to
its perusal, which the translation has well succeeded in
preserving.”--_Art Interchange._

“The work is thoroughly fascinating, and will be warmly welcomed
and eagerly read by all.”--_Boston Transcript._

“The book itself is of rare value. The faithful, spirited
translation is in such good English that it might be taken for an
original work.”--_Newport Daily News._

“It is amusing to the general reader, and it is of great practical
value to the art student. M. Couture’s manner is conversational and
familiar, so that when, as he often must, he deals with the
technicalities of his subject, he is never dry or
obscure.”--_Worcester Spy._

“Very curious and suggestive are Couture’s ideas about the old
masters and the modern French painters. The great point in all his
book is to impress on artists that they should dare, above all
things, to be themselves.”--_New York Times._

“A volume so characteristic, so entirely stamped with the
individuality of the writer, that those who know him recognize his
peculiar expressions, his eccentricities of manner, and almost seem
to see his familiar gestures through its pages. * * * It should be
in the hands of every student, and many besides artists will find a
charm and a pleasure in reading it. It will take an important place
in art literature.”--_Catholic World._

“We heartily recommend the book to all who are seeking to cultivate
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connoisseurs.”--_Christian Union._

“Artists cannot fail to derive many valuable suggestions from this
work, even though they do not agree with some of the radical ideas
of the author, and to all who are interested in art it will prove
of much interest.”--_Boston Post._

“M. Couture has laid bare, in these ‘Conversations,’ the whole
theory and practice of painting. The philosophy of the delightful
art is made clear, and the application of obvious principles is so
precisely defined that the student can be at no loss to comprehend
the groundwork of his art.”--_New Orleans Picayune._

“This fascinating little book is thrice welcome. It is important to
the practical painter, valuable to the connoisseur and cultivated
art-critic, and interesting to the general reader. It is the work
of an artist with his pen as well as with his brush; the
composition forming a beautiful and artistic poem rendered in the
most rhythmical prose. We close this book with regret, it is a rare
treat, and we feel assured no one will read it once without turning
to it again and again.”--_Robinson’s Epitome of Literature._

WORKS ON ART.

=LEARNING TO DRAW=; OR, THE STORY OF A YOUNG DESIGNER. By VIOLLET LE
DUC. Translated by VIRGINIA CHAMPLIN. Octavo, with 130
illustrations. 2 00

A work full of practical suggestions, not only for the student of
art or of decorative designing, but for students and teachers in
other departments. The author’s theories of the art of teaching are
both original and practical.

=ART SUGGESTIONS FROM THE MASTERS.= Selected from the Works of
Artists and Writers on Art, with Reference to their Practical Value
for Art Students. Compiled by SUSAN N. CARTER, Principal of the
Woman’s Art School, Cooper Union. 1 25

=CONVERSATIONS ON ART METHODS.= By THOMAS COUTURE. Translated from
the French, by S. E. STEWART. With an Introduction by ROBERT SWAIN
GIFFORD. 1 25 /

CONTENTS: Elementary Drawing--Elementary Principles of Drawing from
Nature--The First Principles of Painting--The Occupation of a Young
Painter first Commencing his Art--Elements of
Composition--Introduction to High Art--On Drawing in its most
Beautiful Expression--The Portrait--Confession--The Times in which
we Live--The Critic--A Review of the Schools for more than Thirty
Years--The Golden Medium--Jean Goujon--Monsieur X--Eugene
Delacroix--Decamps--On Painting--Titian--The Sketch--On
Composition--Simplicity in Composition--Exaltation--Originality--A
few Words on Antique Art--On French Art--Prudhon--The Fathers of
their Country--My Master Gros--Is Art Superior to Nature?--Divine
Art--Adieu.