Chapter X: The Nineteenth Century 121 (1)

Individual expression, 121. Blake, 122. Chodowiecki,
123. A new era, Constable, Delacroix
and others, 124. Turner, 126. Wood-engraving
and lithography, 127. Menzel; Gavarni, Daumier,
129. Raffet, 130. Revival of etching,
130. Jacque, Millet, and others, 131. Etching
versus Engraving, 131. Haden, Whistler, 132.
Meryon, 133. Gaillard, 134. Exacting demands
on the graphic arts; Zorn, Klinger, 135. Conclusion,
136.

Books recommended for study of prints, 138.

ILLUSTRATIONS

TITLE-PAGE TO HERODOTUS. Anonymous _Title-page_

ST. MARGARET OF HUNGARY. Anonymous 30

PAGE FROM ARS MEMORANDI. Anonymous 30

PAGE FROM NUREMBERG CHRONICLE. Anonymous 30

VIRGIN AND CHILD WITH ST. JOHN. Anonymous 32

PAGE FROM HYPNEROTOMACHIA. Anonymous 32

PAGE FROM MORGANTE MAGGIORE. Anonymous 32

MADONNA OF EINSIEDELN. Anon. Master E. S. 40

DEATH OF THE VIRGIN. Martin Schongauer 42

SIBILLA SAMIA. Anonymous 44

CLIO, FROM THE SO-CALLED TAROCCHI. Anonymous 44

BATTLE OF NUDE MEN. Antonio Pollajuolo 46

CHRIST BETWEEN TWO SAINTS. Andrea Mantegna 46

ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST. Giulio Campagnola 46

DEATH OF DIDO. Marcantonio Raimondi 50

ADAM AND EVE. Marcantonio Raimondi 50

TITIAN. Agostino Carracci 52

MADONNA AND CHILD. Federigo Barocci 54

TORRE DI MALGHERA. Antonio Canale 56

DIOGENES. Ugo da Carpi 56

FOUR HORSEMEN, APOCALYPSE. Albrecht Dürer 60

ARMS WITH THE SKULL. Albrecht Dürer 62

REST IN EGYPT. Albrecht Dürer 62

ST. JEROME IN HIS STUDY. Albrecht Dürer 64

CARDINAL ALBRECHT. Albrecht Dürer 64

ADORATION OF THE MAGI. Lucas van Leyden 66

TOURNAMENT. Lucas Cranach 68

JOHANNES ZURENUS. Hendrik Goltzius 74

RUBENS. Paul Pontius 76

JAN BRUEGHEL. Anthony van Dyck 78

GELLIUS DE BOUMA. Cornel Visscher 78

ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. Rembrandt 80

THE THREE TREES. Rembrandt 80

JANUS LUTMA. Rembrandt 82

TOBIT BLIND. Rembrandt 82

THE SPINNER. Adriaen van Ostade 84

THE TRAVELERS. Jacob Ruysdael 84

THE DIAMOND. Nicolaes Berghem 86

TOUR DE NESLE. Jacques Callot 90

LE BOUVIER. Claude Lorrain 92

DUC DE GUISE. Claude Mellan 94

ANTOINE VITRÉ. Jean Morin 94

POMPONE DE BELLIÈVRE. Robert Nanteuil 96

PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE. Gérard Edelinck 96

BOSSUET. Pierre Imbert Drevet 98

CHAMPS ÉLYSÉES. Nicolas Henri Tardieu 100

INSTRUCTION PATERNELLE. Georg Wille 104

PLATE FROM THE CAPRICHOS. Francisco Goya 106

CATHARINE OF BRAGANZA. William Faithorne 110

THE HON. MISS BINGHAM. Francesco Bartolozzi 110

MRS. CARNAC. John Raphael Smith 112

FLOWER AND FRUIT PIECE. Richard Earlom 114

THOMAS JEFFERSON. David Edwin 116

CHIEF JUSTICE MARSHALL. Asher Brown Durand 118

STILL-LIFE WITH THE PEACOCK. William J. Linton 118

PLATE FROM THE BOOK OF JOB. William Blake 122

HOME OF A PAINTER. Daniel Chodowiecki 124

INVERARY PIER. J. M. W. Turner 126

ÆSACUS AND HESPERIE. J. M. W. Turner 126

CHRIST DISPUTING WITH DOCTORS. A. v. Menzel 128

CARTOON ON LOUIS PHILIPPE. Honoré Daumier 128

MIDNIGHT REVIEW. Auguste Raffet 130

WOMAN CHURNING. Jean François Millet 130

SUNSET IN IRELAND. Sir Seymour Haden 132

THE DOORWAY. VENICE. James McN. Whistler 132

LE PETIT PONT. Charles Meryon 132

DOM PROSPER GUÉRANGER. Ferdinand Gaillard 134

GIRL BATHING. Anders Zorn 134

EXPULSION FROM PARADISE. Max Klinger 134

PRINTS

THEIR TECHNIQUE AND HISTORY

I

HOW PRINTS ARE MADE

Prints are familiar to every one of us, and yet the subject of prints is strangely unfamiliar. If we look at a painting, a piece of sculpture, or at a monumental building, we know how these things came into being. Without any effort we can see in our mind’s eye the painter, with palette and brushes, applying the colors on his canvas, we can see the sculptor thumbing the clay model on the stand before him, with alternate gentleness and force, while the spectacle of stone-masons and bricklayers at work is a matter of daily occurrence. Likewise are we daily face to face with prints in our homes. They are familiar objects that have always been there; we are so used to them that we hardly see them. But have we ever conjured up, in our mind’s eye, the vision of an engraver, or etcher, or lithographer at work making the print which is so familiar to us? It is a world, indeed, this field on which the energies of thousands upon thousands of men have been expended, expressive of the thoughts of great masters, expressive, yes, eloquent, of the changing mental attitude, the changing customs and interests of successive periods. There is no field, I am tempted to say, in all the realm of art, more comprehensive, more broadening than this subject of prints. In order fully to appreciate the phases of its development, we must find out, first of all, what a print is, and how it is made.

The term “print,” as we use it here, applies to any design conveyed upon paper or any similar substance by means of pressure, usually in the printing-press. Prints are not all produced in one and the same manner;--if this statement should prove surprising, just open any magazine on an illustration page; then place beside it, for comparison, a new dollar bill. Notice the even tone of black in the magazine illustration and the intensity of the black, sharp-cut, metallic lines of the head on the bill. It is quite evident that these two examples have been produced by different means; the magazine illustration shows that the inked lines and dots which constitute the picture have been brought upon the paper with considerable pressure: the ink is embedded into the paper; whereas, if the bill is new, you will notice, upon close inspection, that the ink of every line and dot lies upon the surface of the paper. Pass your finger lightly over some of the heavier lines, and if your finger-tips are sensitive, you will distinctly feel these ridges of ink. Why this difference? Because human ingenuity has devised several ways of obtaining an impression. There are three such possibilities, which divide the graphic arts into three main groups, namely:--

RELIEF PROCESSES: Woodcut, wood-engraving;

INTAGLIO PROCESSES: Engraving, dry-point, mezzotinting, and the etching processes;

PLANOGRAPHIC PROCESSES: Lithography, and its derivatives.[1]

[1] In order to keep the subject as simple as may be, we will
leave aside that vast array of modern processes based
upon photography, and therefore known as photo-mechanical
processes (half-tone, photogravure, and the like) and
devote our attention to the _hand processes_ only.

Examples from two of these main divisions have just been under discussion, the magazine illustration being a relief print, the bill an engraving on steel, consequently intaglio. Let us now devote a few moments to their technical features, taking first the oldest of all the processes, woodcut.

If we take a block of wood, nicely planed, finish its face with sandpaper, and cover it with printer’s ink, an impression from that blackened surface would naturally be an unbroken, rectangular patch of black. Now we take a knife with a strong, short blade, a woodcutter’s knife, and with two slanting cuts we take out a thin long sliver from the middle of this blackened surface of wood. The result of an impression will now be a black surface with a white line where we have cut away the wood. Another two cuts parallel with the first will result in another white line, or rather we shall now have a _black_ line, with a white space on either side, the black line being the ridge of wood standing between the two pieces which we have cut away. Could anything be simpler than this working recipe?--wherever black is wanted, leave the wood standing; where you need white, cut away the wood. The same theory applies to wood-engraving, with some changes in material and implements. The wood-engraver uses cross-grain blocks of the hard boxwood, instead of planks of cherry or pear wood, and on this hard surface the graver replaces the knife. The graver--most useful of tools--is a long, thin, diamond-shaped bar of steel, ending in a blunt point with cutting edges; its wooden handle fitting the palm of the hand. The graver is pushed forward and ploughs with great precision across the block or plate, cutting lines of any degree of delicacy or boldness. Like the knife, it removes the wood, consequently leaving a white line or dot wherever it has passed. Hence the term “white-line engraving,” often used for wood-engraving.

When we turn to the second great division, to the intaglio processes, we find that the recipe of the woodcut has to be just reversed to fit this new proposition. Consult the diagram of the three possibilities of printing; the cross-section of the relief-block presents a series of flat-topped ridges with valleys between them. The tops of the ridges print, the valleys are the spaces which are to appear white in the impression. The second figure, a cross-section of an intaglio plate,--an engraving on copper we will say,--shows no hills and vales, but a flat surface with a number of V-shaped cuts filled with ink. When engraving on a copper plate, we cut with the graver into the metal every line of our design that is to appear black. Wherever we want a white space we are careful to leave untouched the polished surface of the plate. Having completed the cutting-in (engraving) of our design, the plate is covered all over with printing-ink, and this is rubbed thoroughly into every furrow which we have cut, so that they are all filled flush with the surface. The surface of the plate is wiped clean. An impression taken from the plate so prepared will show us a black line for every furrow we have cut. Small wonder that the lines on the dollar bill were perceptible ridges of ink, since all the ink in the furrows of the plate is now on the surface of the paper. The theory of the intaglio processes is plainly this: wherever you want black in your design, cut lines or dots into the plate; wherever white is needed, leave the smooth surface of the plate untouched. Based upon this formula, the different intaglio processes produce their blacks in different ways; in dry-point engraving, for instance, the design is scratched into the metal by means of a sharp needle-point, the etching-needle. In tearing through the copper the needle leaves a jagged ridge of copper standing on the sides of each line, this “burr” retains some ink after the plate has been wiped clean, and gives to the dry-point line its peculiar velvety, slightly blurred appearance. The mezzotinter begins his work by roughening the whole surface of the plate with the “rocker” into myriad indentations and tiny projecting teeth of copper. The plate in this condition prints a uniform, velvety black, the deepest tone obtainable. Now by scraping away the little teeth of copper more or less completely, the design is modeled at will in varying half-tones. The high lights are obtained by burnishing the copper quite smooth again. The etcher, instead of cutting the lines of his design into the copper, trusts to the corroding action of powerful acids. Covering his plate with an acid-proof etching-ground, he draws his subject with the etching-needle, using just sufficient pressure to cut through the thin film of ground and lay bare the copper. The plate is then put into an acid bath which eats away the metal wherever a line has been laid bare. The ground is then washed off with a suitable solvent, and the plate printed. There are a number of processes based on etching, like aquatint, crayon manner, stipple, soft-ground etching, and others, but a review, however brief, of all these kindred devices does not lie within the scope of these pages.

We have now reviewed the relief processes, both dependent entirely on hand work, and the intaglio processes, engraving, dry-point, mezzotint, likewise relying upon manual power to prepare the plate for printing. In the etching group of intaglio devices, a chemical factor is called upon to lessen and accelerate the work of the hand. The last group to be considered, planographic processes, is based entirely upon chemical and physical action. The drawing to be reproduced is made with fatty crayon or ink upon a slab of a special variety of limestone; the stone is then treated with acidulated water, and with gummed water. As a result, when the stone is moistened, all those parts which have been drawn upon reject the water, but have an affinity for printing-ink, while the portions not drawn upon have an affinity for water and reject printing-ink, as long as they are kept moist. Neither by ridges nor sunken furrows, just from one plane surface,--hence the term “planographic,”--merely by the enmity of water and fatty ink are these lithographic impressions obtained. Plates of metal are often substituted for stone (zincography, algraphy), but the process always remains the same.

It goes without saying that each of these three possibilities of printing necessitates presses of appropriate construction; thus, in the so-called _platten_ press, the pressure is exerted vertically upon the block by the flat metal plate which comes down upon it, on the same principle as in the letter-press familiar to us all. All intaglio plates are printed in _roller_ presses, in which the plate, laid on an iron bed, passes between two rollers, one above, one below, as in a clothes-wringer. The lithographic press, finally, has a traveling bed, which passes under a stationary flat piece of wood. During its passage under this wooden bar, the paper is firmly pressed down upon the stone, which would be crushed in the other types of presses.[2]

[2] Lithographs made on metal plates may be printed in an
intaglio press as well.

After this summary review of the technique of prints, let us consider, with what brevity we may, the great phases of development of the graphic arts.

II

THE ORIGIN OF WOODCUT

The term “invention” is often used in referring to the origin of printing and of engraving, as though these devices had come into being quite suddenly,--overnight, as it were. The belief is prevalent, indeed, that one man in Mayence originated, developed, perfected, established printing, and that another man in Florence originated printing from engraved plates about that same time (middle of the fifteenth century). If we look more closely into these subjects, it becomes evident that Dame Tradition has flashed the light of fame upon one link only, of a chain of achievements which stretches back into the unknown. She has clothed one man, call him Gutenberg, call him Finiguerra, with the sum of thought and attainment which had preceded them, that the _achievement_ might gain added impressiveness. The printing-press, and printing from movable type, had reached a state of high perfection at the time when Gutenberg printed his epoch-making Bibles, and research has substantiated the belief that a period of experiment and development _must_ have preceded and led up to such excellence, although these early days of printing still baffle the ingenuity of research. The genesis of printing from engraved plates is equally difficult to establish, though the claim of invention by any one man is as little admissible here as in the other instance. It is a matter of gradual development. Remember, it is the _printing_ from engraved plates which concerns us in our inquiry. Engraving as a means of decorating metal surfaces dates back to remote antiquity, but that is foreign to our present subject. Only when engraving is used as a means of _reproducing_ a design, does it enter within our sphere of interest. Similarly are we concerned to a certain extent with the wood-block method used in the days of Byzance, for stamping patterns upon cloth, because it is the parent of our woodcut. We have here, however, a device used for the decoration of textile fabrics, and we must reserve our interest for the time when _the design printed from the wood block_, upon paper or any other suitable carrier of an impression, becomes the essential consideration.

The origin of the processes of reproduction is invariably utilitarian. Every advance, every new technical attainment, can be traced to the demand for devices which would lessen labor and save time. The graphic arts do not share with painting a development based upon a desire for æsthetic expression. Their origin is imitative, thoroughly democratic, and every process continues in that lowly sphere, until the genius of some powerful artist lifts it into realms of art. For the very reason of this utilitarian tendency, and because of a gamut of expression restricted to line and tone for the interpretation of a world of color and form, the graphic arts, even more than other forms of artistic expression, need the steady hand of the gifted artist to sustain them on a high plane of excellence. Deprived of this guiding support, their decline to levels of mediocrity and commercialism is swift and inevitable.

If we glance at early periods of history, we are readily convinced that before the fifteenth century there existed no demand for pictorial work widespread or emphatic enough to call into life speedier substitutes for hand work. Surely no need of such substitutes was felt in the Græco-Roman world, where a well-developed system of scribes met the demands of their patrons. Nor were multiplying devices needed in the early days of Christianity. The new faith, to be sure, made its appeal to everybody, to the high-born and lowly alike, but it relied mainly on the word of the preacher for the transmission of its simple creed. During the dark ages of ferment, migration, and strife which followed, the monuments of antique culture, erudition, knowledge were engulfed. What demand could there have been for the multiplying arts in that period of dense ignorance, of ceaseless struggle for life itself, for the bare necessities of life, for merely endurable conditions? The Church, the only institution of stability in this sea of unrest, became the repository of whatever remained of tradition and erudition,--mysteries, these, to be jealously guarded and held as a privilege of the clergy.

Owing to the prevalent illiteracy among the people in these dark ages, the Church, in its mission of spiritual guidance, relied, as of old, on the preacher’s word. The power of his exhortations was seconded, however, by silently eloquent, impressive teachings surrounding the worshipers, namely, the scenes and figures of religious import, painted upon the walls of the church. That same endeavor to stimulate pious thoughts carried the miniature into liturgical books, into religious manuscripts generally. The writing-room of the monastery was all-sufficient to provide for the pious needs of clergy, rulers, and nobles. Here the patient copyist drew again and again the outlines of the large illuminated initials of his text, until he bethought himself of the labor he might save by imitating the cloth-printer, and cutting wooden relief-blocks of these outlines which he might stamp upon his parchment. An early device this, adopted in the twelfth or thirteenth century, but clearly foreshadowing the development which was soon to follow.

Meantime, in that iron age religious enthusiasm had fired the crusaders, the armor-clad Occident had met the Orient, bringing back some of the wisdom of the ancient East into the scholar’s study and the convent cell, and broadening man’s outlook upon the world.

We know how Gothic architecture grew up in the North, how in the Gothic church the ample wall space, which had been heretofore the realm of painting, was divided, reduced, suppressed. We know how the curtailed pictorial art sought new spheres of expression, how the panel picture took possession of the altars. Before long this picture, which could be shifted from one position to another, was used independently of altars, for the adornment of suitable wall spaces in the church, until finally it found its way from the church to the home, henceforth to be one of its indispensable adornments.

As painting made its way into the lay world, the impersonal, traditional, dogmatic character of sacred subjects faded away. Not that ecclesiastic art had lost its deeply religious sincerity, but the artist saw nature with new eyes; he realized the beautiful world around him, and lovingly painted the plants and flowers at the feet of the Virgin. He removed her throne from the formal diapered background of gold, and placed it in the midst of the actual living world. The figures became more personal and lifelike; worldly subjects, even portraits, or at least efforts in the direction of individual differentiation, came within the artist’s sphere, while as yet the sacred subject remained the one great theme of artistic expression.

The panel picture had come into the home as a means of decoration, but the wealthy only could gratify their desire for this costly form of artistic adornment. The burgher, the artisan, the economical household, could not think of owning such painted luxury, not any more than they could afford the costly miniatures painted on parchment. Then some bethought themselves that they might cut the outline of figures on blocks of wood, after the manner of the cloth-printers and of the initial blocks which we have found in use in monastic writing-rooms. These outlines could then be printed on parchment, or on that new and cheaper product, paper, as an inexpensive substitute for panel picture and miniature. In this manner the common people obtained their saints’ pictures or “Helgen” (_Heiligen_), more or less crude in design, clumsy in the execution of knife-work, colored with the gayest pigments which the _Briefmaler_ could find. With all their imperfections these early woodcuts were prized and evidently found a ready market, as souvenirs of pilgrimages, as fit embellishments of wayside shrines or altars of the chapels and churches of poor parishes, as scapulars, or pasted in books, as makeshifts for the unattainable miniatures, or else they were simply fastened on the wall, as a decoration. Tastes were simple, and with all their crudeness, these productions--of greatly varying size and of every degree of careful or careless execution--are not without charm even to the twentieth-century beholder.

The same artisans who cut and printed these saints’ pictures found lucrative employment in a field quite remote from religious matters. Playing-cards had been introduced into Europe from the Orient, probably in the latter part of the thirteenth century. They quickly won popular favor and were used by rich and poor with equal zest. Cards exquisitely painted or charmingly engraved attest the favor accorded the game by people of rank and wealth, but in making cards for the use of the people at large, cheapness of production far outweighed any æsthetic considerations which might have existed. Cards had to be sold cheaply, and they had to be produced in large quantities to satisfy the growing demand. How were these conditions to be met? One solution of the problem was stenciling, another stamping the outlines on paper by means of relief-blocks; both were resorted to by the artisans of the fifteenth century, and their trade spread beyond the confines of Germany, to the south of the Alps, causing Venetian craftsmen to clamor for legislative protection of their home production.

In all these early manifestations, we saw woodcut in the service of the common people; we saw it used instead of other means of production for reasons purely utilitarian. But a change is at hand, for has not the crusader sown a seed throughout the land; has not the human mind been awakened from its mediæval lethargy? The humanist arises, seeking enlightenment and the solution of life’s problems amid the meager surviving relics and records of the art and thought of antiquity. Feudal conditions are grudgingly modified, under pressure from a new element, which brings about a gradual shifting of the balance of power, intellectually as well as economically and politically: the rise of the Town. During our early, turbulent centuries with their grim

“simple plan,
That he shall take who has the power,
And he shall keep who can,”--

misery not only loved company, as the old proverb has it, but absolutely needed it. Groups of those, too weak singly to withstand the attacks of that vast, lawless element which lived by oppression and plunder, huddled themselves together, built themselves shelters, and intrenched themselves against the common foe. In the course of time, owing to an advantageous position or to intensity of commerce or industry, these one-time shelters grew into towns, rising in wealth, power, and independent spirit, girt about with strong walls and moats, each town a state within the state, protected by imperial grants and privileges, bound together by the common enmity of the feudal power, and within the walls by an ardent local patriotism. Strong in their guilds and associations, in touch with each other and with the world by the constant travel of merchants and craftsmen, the towns became not only centers of wealth, but also the bearers of progressive thought, of art, of mental enlightenment. Here the graphic arts might well originate and flourish, for here were their patrons, the burgher, the craftsman, the people.

The time was at hand when the call for the multiplying arts would become imperative--compelling. Man looked about, and beheld a world full of beauty and abuses; he felt himself a unit, an individual, not merely part of the mass of mankind, and he was going to think for himself; he demanded to know, to learn, to grasp the truths and probe the problems of his world. For the instruction of this untutored multitude, eager for light, there were two modes of expression, instantly intelligible: the simple spoken word, and that other--the illustrative, explanatory picture. This latter must now go forth also among the people, to help in the task of enlightenment; not the panel picture, to be sure, nor the miniature in the costly manuscript, for aside from their costliness they could never numerically satisfy so universal a demand. In response to the call--we are now in the fifteenth century--we see woodcut pictures pasted into manuscripts, to form edifying picture books, the pictures printed from wood blocks, a few lines of text added with the pen. Then both picture _and_ text are cut into the same wood block in imitation of the picture manuscripts. These early “block-books,” of Biblical or moralizing contents, were intended for the use of pupils in the monastic schools which were then the only educational institutions.

In the early days of woodcut, impressions were taken from the wood block by laying a sheet of paper on the inked surface of the block and rubbing the back of the paper with a stiff scrubbing brush, or with a flat piece of wood, so as to bring it in close contact with the inked ridges on the surface of the block. It is evident that neither the quality nor yet the speed of this form of printing could long satisfy even the most easy-going craftsman. A more perfect mode of printing was needed and gradually evolved, culminating in the printing-press. Similarly the cutting of letters of the text on the picture blocks--in the so-called block-books--must soon have proved itself impracticable, for the reign of these books is quite brief. One is tempted to let fancy play around the bald facts, and to watch the artisan, wearily cutting the same letters again and again into the wood block, until he bethinks himself,--a half-dozen others likewise: “Why cannot I saw off the lettering cut on another block, cut it up, word by word, or, better yet, letter by letter, then put the letters together in words and sentences as I need them, and use them with my newly cut picture? It would save a deal of trouble!” Thus the next step was movable type, used around, between, together with, the blocks bearing the illustrations. The rapid spread of type-printing simultaneous with these developments concerns us merely because the vast number of illustrated books published during that period greatly favored the development of woodcut illustration.

Throughout these developments, we always discern the same utilitarian element which I have pointed out. Far from originating in any striving for a higher, more ideal form of artistic expression, the devices for printing both pictures and text were simply means to save labor and expedite publication. The manuscript, the miniature, were the ideals to be approached, and they were high ideals, to be sure. Distinguished humanists like Pope Nicholas V, Poggio, Giannozzo Mannetti, and others, being themselves experts in calligraphy, demanded the best efforts of their scribes and miniaturists. It is a pleasure merely to look at their books. The material used is invariably parchment, the bindings in the Vatican and at Urbino, crimson velvet and silver. It could hardly be expected that these men, who spared neither pains nor expense to show their respect for the contents of a book, would view the advent of printing with anything like satisfaction. Their collective feelings are well summed up in the one remark of Federigo da Urbino, that he would be ashamed to own a printed book.

Not by these nor for their use had type-printing and picture-printing been called into life, but by the needs of the people, and at the people’s call the world was flooded with a multitude of works, informative or entertaining in character. Soon German printers set up presses in Italian cities, and ere long the publishing centers of the South, especially Venice, vied with Germany in importance of production.

Book illustration was considered from a very different point of view in Germany and in Italy. German illustration grew out of a demand for and pleasure in the explanatory picture. The demand for picture books and for books consisting chiefly of illustrations came from a public easily pleased, satisfied with crude outline cuts daubed over with colors. In Italy illustration came in answer to a desire for artistic illustrative ornamentation, on the part of a public of cultivated taste. For this reason the German illustrated book bears a character largely instructive, while the Italian illustration is essentially decorative. Very few of the early books in the German language are devoid of illustrations. The pictures constitute their decoration,--they are used as chapter headings,--long before the advent of purely ornamental embellishments. In Italy the printed book takes over from the manuscript the idea of decorative embellishment. Borders are stamped--with relief-blocks--upon the printed pages of early Venetian books, and colored by hand. This craving for color is as old as mankind; its demands are urged upon the graphic arts at all stages of their development. The demand for color caused the manuscript to be illuminated, and the pen-drawn outline of the early miniature to be filled in with pigment; we have seen its call answered in the crudely colored saint’s picture. The outline is explanatory, intellectual, the coloring adds a sensual pleasure, and this additional feature of bright color was soon demanded also of the printed book. The printer’s answering endeavors are seen in the red initials printed into pages of black text, in title-page designs, arms and ornaments, in borders and diagrams printed in two, sometimes three colors. Another effort in this direction of color is the _chiaroscuro_[3] woodcut, but that belongs to a later period. A few illustrations will convey a more definite idea of these early woodcuts. Here is a dignified, pleasing example of the “Helgen,” cut in outline, as usual, and colored by hand (the dark tones on the garments and elsewhere are due to this coloring). No shade-strokes are as yet introduced, merely an outline; the rest is left to the colorist. After that, inscriptions are cut into the block, or written in, and this combination of lettering and picture carries us to the block-books.

[3] Pronounce: keearoskooro.

Woodcut with hand coloring]

Ars Memorandi]

Nuremberg, 1493]

A typical page from the “Ars Memorandi” (probably cut in the Netherlands) shows the character of these school books. This is designed to help theological students in memorizing the Holy Writ. The pictures are good; the text, hard to read, was soon to be replaced by movable type.

A page, from the Nuremberg “Chronicle” of 1494, shows us the state of woodcut, technically as well as its use in books. Many examples might be shown, from different parts of Germany, from schools swayed by various currents of artistic thought. Common to them all, despite their crudity, is a growing familiarity with woodcut, a realization of its possibilities and of its limitations. Artistic talent of a high order--compared with earlier productions--reveals itself, resulting from a division of labor. The artisan of the playing-cards and early saints’ pictures could never have risen to these heights of creative independence. His simple figures were copied from manuscripts, or from some other handy model, but when it came to supplying the growing demands of book-illustration with material from fields without precedent in past productions, the publishers were constrained to entrust artists with these designs, and the woodcut maker was given the task--not easy, though mechanical--of cutting with precision the lines drawn by the artist.

Woodcut]

Venice, 1499]

This development is common to Germany and Italy alike; but throughout the early productions of the Southern country, we seem to hear an echo of the sublime harmonies achieved in painting. For instance, in this large “Helgen” of Italy: a simple outline woodcut, this Virgin and Child with St. John, but in its simplicity what dignity and strength. The accents introduced by slight decorative indications and the shade-lines in the hair add charm to the simple, charming composition, by contrast of tone. Excellent cutting, this, after a masterly design. But in a country which has just reached the zenith of artistic achievement, we may expect, likewise, such remarkable decorative designs as the title-page border for the Venetian “Herodotus” of 1494, which frames the title of this volume.

Florence, 1500]

It is the golden era of typography, this last decade of the fifteenth century. Brought to Italian towns by German printers, both type and illustration soon fall in line with the prevailing high standard of excellence. If further proof were needed, it would be found in this page from a Venetian publication, the “Hypnerotomachia Poliphili.” See how well the beautiful type of the text harmonizes with the illustration, how nicely the values of both are adjusted to form a harmonious page. Simple, unpretentious outline is used to convey the beauty of the artistic conception. These same characteristics will be met again in engraving as it is used by Italian masters. Woodcut as well as the other forms of reproductive art remain the servants, never become the friends of artists in Italy.

For brevity’s sake, we must pass by northern Italy and turn to Florence which was, next to Venice, the foremost southern publishing center. In this example, taken from Pulci’s “Morgante Maggiore,” published in 1500, we notice a keener appreciation of the possibilities of woodcut. Broad masses of white, with severe outline, scantily shaded, contrast with bold masses of black, whose intensity of effect is modified and blended by means of tenuous white lines, a manner likewise adopted in illustrations for the forceful sermons of Savonarola, whose teachings, widely read, necessitated a number of successive editions.

III

THE EARLY DAYS OF ENGRAVING

Having followed woodcut from its beginnings to the end of the fifteenth century, it behooves us now to devote our attention to the earliest intaglio process, namely, engraving.

Ever since the days of antiquity it had been the practice of metal-workers to cut decorative designs into the surface of the metal. Armorers and goldsmiths practiced this art of engraving in mediæval and Renaissance times. For our present purposes the absorbing question is this: How did the idea of printing from this decorated metal first suggest itself? We may get a clue by watching the engraver at work. With the graver he cuts a maze of lines into the metal; it is almost impossible to see the design owing to the glitter of each new-cut furrow. This troubles the engraver himself, and in order to see just what he has done, he smears the plate over with a mixture of lamp-black and oil, rubbing it well into the furrows. Then he wipes the plate clean, and now the design stands out plainly in black lines upon the shining metal surface. If he were now to take a piece of paper and press it against the plate, the black color in the furrows would adhere to the paper, and every line cut into the metal would be reproduced there. In such an accidental way, no doubt, the possibility of obtaining impressions from intaglio plates became known some time about or before the middle of the fifteenth century. But, of course, such an impression taken by hand pressure is bound to be very imperfect, and it may have been some time before some goldsmith thought it worth while to experiment with these printing possibilities. At first impressions may have seemed useful as guides for further work on the metal, or they may have served as memoranda of work done and delivered. As a matter of fact, goldsmiths did make use of this new-found mode of printing, and took impressions from their small decorative niello plates, before filling in the engraved lines with the final black enamel,--the “nigellum.”

If woodcut were dubbed the democrat among the graphic arts, certainly engraving must be called the aristocrat of the family. It originates in the goldsmith’s workshop, amidst a guild of skilled designers, who not unfrequently practice painting together with their craft. No wonder that in such hands engraving should shape itself along artistic lines from the start. In Germany engraving finds a ready welcome among other manifestations of an art essentially of the town, of the burgher, while the art of the Italian quattrocento celebrates its great triumphs in the erection or adornment of sumptuous edifices, under the fostering care of princes and prelates. The German naïvely depicts, with minute precision, the scenes and environments of his homely sphere; all subjects, whatever their time or country, are shifted into the familiar setting of his own time and his own surroundings. Hence we see the crucifixion taking place in a clearing amidst firs; we find German and Dutch burghers in the scenes of the Passion, or kneeling in adoration--as Magi--before the new-born Child.

The Italian artist is no less zealous in his search for nature’s truths, but at the same time he harks back to those remains of former artistic perfection which are just then being reclaimed from the soil, heirlooms from classical antiquity. Guided by both, he imparts a semblance of life to his ideal forms, that they may appear real, though belonging to a higher world. The cult of antiquity establishes a retrospective tendency in the choice of subjects represented. Traditional themes taken from the Bible, from legend and mythology, are used again and again with changes in the composition, in costume, lighting and color scheme, all in the constant endeavor to excel in perfection of form and composition, and in harmonious, beautiful coloring.

Master E. S.]

In Germany purses are more slender, customers are content to adorn their homes with woodcuts or engravings instead of paintings. Pictures are wanted, with figures carefully drawn, explicit pictures, finished, natural in appearance, with plenty of detail in figures and accessories, something appealing to their humor, to their piety, to their own sphere of interest. Hence the tendency to carry every scene into the familiar setting of actuality; hence the interest in the natural surroundings of the scene; hence the predominance of Biblical and religious subjects which appeal to the pious; and for others the scenes of daily life, tournaments, soldiers, not to forget plates and books of designs for the use of craftsmen. The production of picture-like prints in which hand coloring was not to be considered, necessarily brought about a speedy development of technique. Even in early work it seems as though the German engraver realized, more than his Italian contemporary, the possibilities of the engraved plate; the figures are quaint, reminiscent of the Gothic past, but they are well cut, in clear, sweeping outline. The shading is simple, but not timid or awkward, and pleasantly follows and accents the form. Few of these fifteenth-century engravers have left us as much as a name or the most meager data as to their lives. In many cases we have not even a date, a sign, or an initial placed somewhere on the print, as a means of identification. We are conscious, in these early examples, of the artistic spirit in which the engraver treats the saint’s picture and the playing-card, extensive fields, exploited already by primitive woodcut. A choice between eminent representatives among the anonymous engravers would lie between the so-called Master of the Playing-Cards, the Master of the Amsterdam Cabinet, and Master E. S. An illustration of the excellence achieved by the last named artist will be found in his presentation of the Madonna of Einsiedeln. Notice the development of the picture element, the sureness with which the graver is used, long strokes and delicate touches, varying with the needs of modeling and design. This mastery over the medium is yet more apparent in the engravings of Martin Schongauer, the leading figure in fifteenth-century engraving. In his work we still discern the peculiar characteristics of the period, long slim hands and feet, an emaciation which brings the head into prominence, a tendency--reminiscent of the Middle Ages--to treat each object independently, as a unit, as a symbol of its kind; but then what purity and sincerity emanate from his figures. In his “Death of the Virgin,” what a harmonious effect, what keenness of observation. He knows little of the rendering of nudity,--all Northern artists are hampered in that way,--but his bodies, though lacking in structural skill, are wonderfully well caught in pose and gesture. His observation and his resourceful imagination were fully recognized by both Dürer and Raphael, who both availed themselves of his achievements. The graver helps to round the forms, by following the direction of the curves. Long, steady, curving strokes, emphasized in the deep shadows, breaking up--in the lights--into dots which blend into the high lights of white paper. No hesitating, little criss-cross strokes here, but a dignified simplicity of line which enhances the dignity and simplicity of his compositions. Remember that in order to appreciate these essential qualities of line and of resulting effect, you must consult the original prints; half-tone illustrations cannot be expected to convey more than a general idea of the originals.

Martin Schongauer]

It would be unfair to attribute all this artistic development to German initiative alone. Italy has practically no share in it, at this period, but the close commercial relations existing between Germany and the Burgundian Netherlands must have facilitated an artistic intercourse most beneficial to the former country. The stupendous creations of the brothers Van Eyck, of Van der Weyden, Memling, Van der Goes, and others did induce workers in the artistic crafts to visit the Low Countries. Their contemplation must have been a source of stimulating inspiration to the German painters, and indirectly to German engraving. Direct influence there could not be, since we look in vain through the ranks of this flourishing school of Flemish painters for any manifestation in the graphic arts. Only the arts of opulence: painting, costly illuminated manuscripts with miniatures, or the woven tapestries of Arras and Brussels, brocades, and laces, were produced in the prosperous towns and at the brilliant ducal court of Burgundy.

* * * * *

Florence, 15th Century]

Northern Italy, 15th Century]

Antonio Pollajuolo]

Andrea Mantegna]

Early Italian engraving begins with the niello of the goldsmith, little silver plates for ornamental uses, with minute scenes and figures, usually well cut, as might certainly be expected in a guild so highly skilled. It is interesting to follow engraving as it broadens beyond the neat and primarily ornamental sphere of the craft, into the large field of art. Florence, the center of dignified, conservative art, the Florence of Botticelli has given us the two classical series of “Sibyls” and “Prophets.” The manner of execution, as we see in the example shown, is still that of the goldsmith, fond of ornament, of detail, shading with minute strokes, close together, which blend to form a tone. The other example is selected from a North Italian series of the same period. It forms part of what by some authorities is thought to be a set of “Tarocchi,” a game of cards peculiar to Italy. Less severe, more graceful than the Florentine example, it is another triumph of the goldsmith in the field of the graphic arts. From him engraving passes under the sway of the painter. If we compare Italian and German graver-work of those days, a plate of Mantegna, for instance, and a plate of Schongauer, we shall readily perceive that in engraving the German master _thinks_ in line. The Italian painter thinks, not in line, but in masses of light and shade, in terms of the antique marbles, which he has studied with such enthusiasm. His design goes on the copper as it would be jotted down on paper with the pen, without consideration of the graver, except that it seems a useful implement for multiplying his sketches, which are wanted in many studios and workshops. A simple, even outline, and for shading, parallel lines, straight and close together, generally in a uniform diagonal direction,--that is all. Fine early impressions from plates of this character have quite the charm of a drawing; deep shadow-tones are then visible, caused by a system of slight, tone-giving lines over the heavier shadings. When these have worn off, they leave only a system of hard, wiry-looking shade-strokes; unfortunately the good early impressions are very, very rare, so that we are accustomed to look upon the gray, worn impressions usually found as being the actual work of the artist, which is unfair. The absorbing interest of antique bas-reliefs is evident in the large “Battle of Nude Men,” by Antonio Pollajuolo, breathing the enthusiasm with which Italy told anew the artistic message of the distant past, yet lacking the poise and moderation which we admire in the grand classical sculptures. In his eagerness to proclaim the beauty and power of the human body in vigorous action, he far outstrips his powers of expression, yet his muscular exaggerations need not materially lessen our enjoyment of this powerful, expressive print. In Andrea Mantegna, we reach the central figure of this early period of Italian engraving. In him are combined the humanist’s devotion to classical art and the fiery energy of a man of action, filled with his art, rugged, stern, taking from nature and antiquity the forms of artistic expression. At his hands the world is invested with a grandeur seldom achieved, inspiring to his contemporaries, helpful and stimulating to young Dürer in his strivings toward greater breadth, simplicity, and unity of composition. In Mantegna’s “Christ between two Saints,” we find the same scant means of graver-work which he employed in all his austere compositions: a well-defined outline, even, without swelling, softening accents, simple shading, generally in a uniform diagonal direction; nowhere an attempt at texture, or differentiation of color. The subjects are all treated as though they were cut in high relief on slabs of stone, without variation of surface or suggestion of distance. Venetian influence mitigates the ruggedness of Mantegna’s gaunt, imposing “John the Baptist,” by means of the unusual, soft, stippling technique adopted by Giulio Campagnola, which gives the print more the appearance of a grainy wash drawing, in contrast with the usual pen-and-ink aspect of early Italian prints. Scores of other important examples might be adduced, but they can easily be found in any good history of engraving.

Giulio Campagnola]

IV

ITALY

The sixteenth century brings new developments to be noted, new factors to be considered. In Germany it rings in the culmination of artistic development under the leadership of Albrecht Dürer, whose towering personality lifts both engraving and woodcut to high levels of excellence. The cultivation of the technique of engraving has carried Germany far and away beyond the South, in a technical perfection duly appreciated in Italy; and when the demand for prints grows, when they become a marketable article, the Italian engraver copies German prints in order to gain the requisite technical knowledge. This Italian _engraver_, however, is not a painter-engraver as in Germany, an artist, namely, engraving his own designs. We know that the Italian artist continues intent on grander tasks and indifferent to the charms of the graver, hence a division of labor: the busy painter jots down the sketch or cartoon and the professional engraver undertakes the lengthy task of transferring, of interpreting the artist’s drawing by means of the graver. The subtle continuity of thought, from the first conception to the finished plate, which we prize in original engraving, is necessarily destroyed in such collaboration, but the engraver, working exclusively on the copper plate, is able infinitely to vary and develop the resources of the process by dint of practice. A noted instance of such collaboration is found in the “Death of Dido,” engraved after Raphael’s design by Marcantonio Raimondi. The lifework of Marcantonio is mainly devoted to the reproduction of sketches of the great Urbinate, whose genius inspires the engraver and lifts him to the highest rank in sixteenth-century Italy. His pliable graver, trained by much copying after Dürer and other Northern masters, delicately outlines the figures. The shade-strokes follow and accent in easy curves the rounding forms and the gradations of light and shade. There is variety in the line, no longer the uniform diagonal shading of the early period. It is, in a word, excellent engraving, which is seen likewise in his “Adam and Eve,” after a figure sketch of Raphael. The latter print shows also the pitfalls which await the thoughtless copyist. Raphael’s cartoon for this print shows the two lovely figures without any background whatever; Marcantonio, always at a loss without a definite model to copy, looked for a suitable background, and found it in a German print which he faithfully pieced in, peasant houses and all, as a setting for Adam and Eve!

Marcantonio Raimondi]

Marcantonio Raimondi]

About this time the publisher of prints appears, buying plates from engravers and publishing them, centralizing a commerce which--before this--had been carried on by the engraver himself or by the artist who employed him. This commercial factor lowers the standard of engraving, both by the choice of subjects demanded of the engraver, with a view mainly to a ready sale, and by the quality of work tolerated. The only excuse for some of the plates published must have been their cheapness. Under these conditions and, moreover, at a time when painting was rapidly declining, one cannot look to the graphic arts for masterpieces. Venice, it is true, is yet in her glory; encouraged by the interest of Titian, woodcut flourishes for a while at the hands of Boldrini and others. As to engraving, Venetian art demanded of it a technique strongly expressive of color; a new impetus was needed for a revival of the medium. This was supplied by engravers from the Netherlands, where the technique of engraving had been highly elaborated in this the latter part of the sixteenth century. A noted representative of this Italian revival is the painter-engraver Agostino Carracci. If we examine this portrait of Titian, engraved after the great master’s own painting, Carracci’s skill in engraving will be at once apparent. Long parallel strokes, close together, give a rich deep hue to cloak and cap. The brown fur trimming, with its loose, broad handling, contrasts effectively with the delicate work on beard and hair. The short, swelling stroke used in the light background, the clear, transparent cross-hatching on the cheek, all denote great advance in differentiating this variety of textures.

Agostino Carracci]

Federigo Barocci]