Chapter XV: Part 15

“And let them follow the order of the parts,” &c. As the fairest pieces of antiquity will shew us. And take heed, that the folds do not only follow the order of the parts, but that they also mark the most considerable muscles; because that those figures, where the drapery and the naked part are seen both together, are much more graceful than the other.

[*†200.]

“Without sitting too straight upon them,” &c. Painters ought not to imitate the ancients in this circumstance. The ancient statuaries made their draperies of wet linen, on purpose to make them sit close and straight to the parts of their figures; for doing which they had great reason, and in following which the painters would be much in the wrong; and you shall see upon what grounds. Those great geniuses of antiquity, finding that it was impossible to imitate with marble the fineness of stuffs or garments which is not to be discerned but by the colours, the reflexes and more especially by the lights and shadows; finding it, I say, out of their power to dispose of those things, thought they could not do better, nor more prudentially, than to make use of such draperies, as hindered not from seeing, through their folds, the delicacy of the flesh, and the purity of the outlines; things which, truly speaking, they possessed in the last perfection, and which in all appearance were the subject of their chief study. But painters, on the contrary, who are to deceive the sight, quite otherwise than statuaries, are bound to imitate the different sorts of garments, such as they naturally seem; and such as colours, reflexes, lights, and shadows, (of all which they are masters,) can make them appear. Thus we see, that those who have made the nearest imitations of nature, have made use of such stuffs or garments which are familiar to our sight; and these they have imitated with so much art, that in beholding them we are pleased that they deceive us: such were Titian, Paul Veronese, Tintoret, Rubens, Van Dyck, and the rest of the good colourists, who have come nearest to the truth of nature. Instead of which, others, who have scrupulously tied themselves to the practice of the ancients, in their draperies, have made their works crude and dry; and by this means have found out the lamentable secret, how to make their figures harder than even the marble itself; as Andrea Mantegna, and Pietro Perugino have done; and Raphael also had much of that way in his first works, in which we behold many small foldings often repleated, which look like so many whipcords. It is true these repetitions are seen in the ancient statues, and they are very proper there: because they who made use of wet linen, and close draperies, to make their figures look more tender, reasonably foresaw, that the members would be too naked, if they left not more than two or three folds, such as those sorts of draperies afford them, and therefore have used those repetitions of many folds; yet in such a manner, that the figures are always soft and tender, and thereby seem opposite to the hardness of marble. Add to this, that in sculpture, it is almost impossible, that a figure, clothed with coarse draperies, can make a good effect on all the sides; and that in painting, the draperies, of what kind soever they be, are of great advantage, either to unite the colours and the groupes, or to give such a ground, as one would wish to unite, or to separate; or farther to produce such reflections as set off; or for filling void spaces; or, in short, for many other advantages, which help to deceive the sight, and which are no ways necessary to sculptors, since their work is always of relievo.

Three things may be inferred from what I have said, concerning the rule of draperies. First, that the ancient sculptors had reason to clothe their figures as we see them. Secondly, that painters ought to imitate them in the order of their folds, but not in their quality, nor in their number. Thirdly, that sculptors are obliged to follow them as much as they can, without desiring to imitate unprofitably, or improperly, the manner of the painters, by making many ample folds, which are insufferable hardnesses, and look more like a rock, than a natural garment.—See the 211th remark, about the middle of it.

[*†202.]

“And if the parts be too much distant from each other,” &c. It is with intent to hinder (as we have said in the rule of groupes) the visual rays from being too much divided; and that the eyes may not suffer, by looking on so many objects, which are separated. Guido was very exact in this observation. See in the text the end of the rule, which relates to draperies.

[*†204.]

“And as those limbs and members which are expressed by few and large muscles,” &c. Raphael, in the beginning of his painting, has somewhat too much multiplied the folds; because, being with reason charmed with the graces of the ancients, he imitated their beauties somewhat too regularly; but having afterwards found, that this quantity of folds glittered too much upon the limbs, and took off that repose and silence, which in painting are so friendly to the eyes, he made use of a contrary conduct, in the works which he painted afterwards; which was at that time when he began to understand the effect of lights, of groupes, and the oppositions of the lights and shadows; so that he wholly changed his manner, (this was about eight years before his death,) and though he always gave a grace to whatsoever he painted, yet he made appear in his latter works, a greatness, a majesty, and a harmony, quite other than what we see in his first manner: and this he did by lessening the number of his folds, making them more large, and more opposing them, and by making the masses of the lights and shadows greater, and more disentangled. Take the pains to examine these his different manners in the prints which we see of that great man.

[*†210.]

“As, supposing them to be magistrates, their draperies ought to be large,” &c. Yet make not your draperies so large, that they may be big enough to clothe four or five figures, as some there are who follow that method. And take heed, that the foldings be natural, and so disposed, that the eye may be directed to discover the folds, from the beginning of them to the end. By magistrates he means all great and grave persons, and such as are advanced in age.

[*†211.]

“If ladies or damsels, light and soft,” &c. By this name of ladies, maids, or damsels, he means all young persons, slender, finely shaped, airy, and delicate. Such as are Nymphs and Naiades, and Fountains. Angels are also comprehended under this head, whose drapery should be of pleasing colours, and resembling those which are seen in the heavens, and chiefly when they are suspended in the air. They are only such sorts of light habits as are subject to be ruffled by the winds, which can bear many folds; yet so, that they may be freed from any hardnesses. It is easy for every one to judge, that betwixt the draperies of magistrates, and those of young maids, there must be some mediocrity of folds, such as are most commonly seen and observed; as in the draperies of a Christ, of a Madonna, of a King, a Queen, or a Duchess, and of other persons of consideration and majesty; and those also who are of a middle age; with this distinction, that the habits must be made more or less rich, according to the dignity of the persons; and that cloth garments may be distinguished from those of silk, sattin from velvets, brocard from embroidery, and that, in one word, the eye may be deceived by the truth, and the difference of the stuffs. Take notice, if you please, that the light and tender draperies having been only given to the female sex, the ancient sculptors have avoided, as much as they could, to clothe the figures of men, because they thought (as we have formerly said) that, in sculpture garments could not be well imitated, and that great folds made a very bad effect. There are almost as many examples of this truth, as amongst the ancients there are statues of naked men. I will name only that of Laocoon, which, according to all probability, ought to have been clothed. And in effect, what likelihood can there be, that the son of a king, and the priest of Apollo, should appear naked in the actual ceremony of sacrifice? for the serpents passed from the Isle of Tenedos to the Trojan shore, and surprised Laocoon, and his sons, while they were sacrificing to Neptune on the sea-shore, as Virgil witnesses in the second of his Æneids. Notwithstanding which, the sculptors,[160] who were authors of this noble work, had well considered, that they could not give vestments suitable to the quality of the persons represented, without making as it were a heap of stones, whose mass would rather be like a rock, than those three admirable figures, which will ever be the admiration of all ages. And for this reason of two inconveniences, they judged that of draperies to be greater than that which was against the truth itself.

This observation well confirms what I have said in the 200th remark. It seems to me, that it deserves you should make some reflection on it; and to establish it the better in your mind, I will tell you, that Michael Angelo, following this maxim, has given the prophets which he painted in the chapel of the pope, such draperies, whose folds are large, and whose garments are coarse; instead of which, the Moses, which he has made in sculpture, is habited with a drapery much more close to the parts, and holding more of the ancients. Nevertheless, he is a prophet, as well as those in the chapel, a man of the same quality, and to whom Michael Angelo ought to have given the same draperies, if he had not been hindered by those very reasons, which have been given you.

[*†215.]

“The marks or ensigns of virtues,” &c. That is to say, of the sciences and arts. The Italians call a man a _virtuoso_, who loves the noble arts, and is a critic in them. And amongst our French painters, the word _vertueux_ is understood in the same signification.

[*†217.]

“But let not the work be too much enriched with gold or jewels,” &c. Clemens Alexandrinus relates,[161] “That Apelles having seen a Helena, which a young scholar of his had made, and adorned with a great quantity of golden ornaments and jewels, said to him, My good friend, though thou couldst not make her beautiful, at least thou hast made her rich.” Besides, that these glittering things in painting, as precious stones prodigally strewed over the habits, are destructive to each other, because they draw the sight to several places at the same time, and hinder round bodies from turning, and making their due effect; it is the very quantity which often makes us judge that they are false. And besides, it is to be presumed, that precious things are always rare. Corinna, that learned Theban lady, reproached Pindar, whom she had five times overcome in poetry, that he scattered through all his works the flowers of Parnassus too prodigally; saying to him, “That men sowed with the hand, and not with the sack;”[162] for which reason, a painter ought to adorn his vestments with great discretion. And precious stones look exceedingly well, when they are set in those places which we would make to come out of the picture; as for example, on a shoulder, or an arm, to tie some drapery, which of itself is of no strong colouring. They do also perfectly well with white, and other light colours, which are used in bringing the parts or bodies forward; because jewels make a show, and glitter through the opposition of the great lights in the deep brown, which meet together.

[*†220.]

“It is very expedient to make a model of those things which we have not in our sight, and whose nature is difficult to be retained in the memory,” &c. As, for example, the groupes of many figures, the postures difficult to be long kept, the figures in the air, in cielings, or much raised above the sight; and even of animals, which are not easily to be disposed.

By this rule we plainly see, how necessary it is for a painter to know how to model, and to have many models of soft wax. Paul Veronese had so good store of them, with so great a quantity of different sorts, that he would paint a whole historical composition on a perspective plan, how great and how diversified soever it were. Tintoret practised the same; and Michael Angelo (as Giovan. Bapt. Armenini relates) made use of it, for all the figures of his Day of Judgment. It is not that I would advise any one, who would make any very considerable work, to finish after these sorts of models; but they will be of vast use and advantage to see the masses of great lights, and great shadows, and the effect of the whole together. For what remains, you are to have a layman[163] almost as big as the life, for every figure in particular, besides the natural figure before you, on which you must also look, and call it for a witness, which must first confirm the thing to you, and afterwards to the spectators as it is in reality.

You may make use of these models with delight, if you set them on a perspective plan, which will be in the manner of a table made on purpose. You may either raise, or let it down, according to your convenience; and if you look on your figures, through a hole, so contrived, that it may be moved up and down, it will serve you for a point of sight, and a point of distance, when you have once fixed it.

The same hole will farther serve you, to set your figures in the cieling, and disposed upon a grate of iron-wire, or supported in the air by little strings raised at discretion, or by both ways together.

You may join to your figures what you see fitting, provided, that the whole be proportioned to them; and, in short, what you yourself may judge to be of no greater bigness than theirs. Thus, in whatsoever you do, there will be more of truth seen, your work itself will give you infinite delight, and you will avoid many doubts and difficulties, which often hinder you; and chiefly for what relates to lineal perspective, which you will there infallibly find, provided that you remember to proportion all things to the greatness of your figures, and especially the points of sight and of distance; but for what belongs to aërial perspective, that not being found, the judgment must supply it. Tintoret (as Ridolphi tells us in his Life) had made chambers of board and pasteboard, proportioned to his models, with doors and windows, through which he distributed on his figures artificial lights, as much as he thought reasonable, and often passed some part of the night, to consider and observe the effect of his compositions. His models were two feet high.

[*†221.]

“We are to consider the places where we lay the scene of the picture,” &c. This is what Monsieur de Chambray calls, to do things according to _decorum_. See what he says of it, in the interpretation of that word, in his book of the Perfection of Painting. It is not sufficient, that in the picture there be nothing found which is contrary to the place, where the action which is represented, passes; but we ought, besides, to mark out the place, and make it known to the spectator by some particular address, that his mind may not be put to the pains of discovering it; as whether it be Italy, or Spain, or Greece, or France; whether it be near the sea-shore, or the banks of some river; whether it be the Rhine, or the Loire; the Po, or the Tyber; and so of other things, if they are essential to the history. “Nealces, a man of wit, and an ingenious painter,” as Pliny tells us,[164] “being to paint a naval fight betwixt the Egyptians and the Persians, and being willing to make it known that the battle was given upon the Nile, whose waters are of the same colour with the sea, drew an ass drinking on the banks of the river, and a crocodile endeavouring to surprise him.”

[*†222.]

“Let a nobleness and grace,” &c. It is difficult enough to say what this grace of painting is; it is to be conceived and understood much more easily than to be explained by words. It proceeds from the illuminations of an excellent mind, (not to be acquired,) by which we give a certain turn to things, which makes them pleasing. A figure may be designed with all its proportions, and have all its parts regular; which, notwithstanding all this, shall not be pleasing, if all those parts are not put together in a certain manner, which attracts the eye to them, and holds it fixed upon them; for which reason, there is a difference to be made betwixt grace and beauty. And it seems that Ovid had a mind to distinguish them, when he said, speaking of Venus,

_Multaque cum formâ gratia mixta fuit._

A matchless grace was with her beauty mixed.

And Suetonius, speaking of Nero, says, he was rather beautiful than graceful: _Vultu pulchro, magis quam venusto_. How many fair women do we see, who please us much less than others, who have not such beautiful features? It is by this grace, that Raphael has made himself the most renowned of all the Italians, as Apelles by the same means carried it above all the Greeks.

[*†233.]

“This is that in which the greatest difficulty consists,” &c. For two reasons; first, because great study is to be made, as well upon the ancient beauties, and noble pictures, as upon nature itself; and secondly, because that part depends entirely on the genius, and seems to be purely the gift of heaven, which we have received at our birth: upon which account our author adds, “Undoubtedly we see but few, whom in this particular Jupiter has regarded with a gracious eye; so that it belongs only to those elevated souls, who partake somewhat of divinity, to work such mighty wonders.” Though they, who have not altogether received from heaven this precious gift, cannot acquire it without great labour; nevertheless, it is needful, in my opinion, that both the one and the other should perfectly learn the character of every passion.

All the actions of the sensitive appetite are in painting called passions, because the soul is agitated by them, and because the body suffers through them, and is sensibly altered. They are those divers agitations and different motions of the body in general, and of every one of its parts in particular, that our excellent painter ought to understand; on which he ought to make his study, and to form to himself a perfect idea of them. But it will be proper for us to know, in the first place, that the philosophers admit eleven, love, hatred, desire, shunning, joy, sadness, hope, despair, boldness, fear, and anger. The painters have multiplied them not only by their different degrees, but also by their different species; for they will make, for example, six persons in the same degree of fear, who shall express that passion all of them differently. And it is that diversity of species which distinguishes those painters who are able artists, from those whom we may call mannerists, and who repeat five or six times over in the same picture the same airs of a head. There are a vast number of other passions, which are as the branches of those which we have named; we might, for example, under the notion of love, comprehend grace, gentleness, civility, caresses, embraces, kisses, tranquillity, sweetness, &c.; and without examining whether all these things which painters comprize under the name of passions, can be reduced to those of the philosophers, I am of opinion, that every one may use them at his pleasure, and that he may study them after his own manner; the name makes nothing. One may even make passions of majesty, fierceness, dissatisfaction, care, avarice, slothfulness, envy, and many other things like these. These passions (as I have said) ought to be learnt from the life itself, or to be studied on the ancient statues, and excellent pictures; we ought to see, for example, all things which belong to sadness, or serve to express it; to design them carefully, and to imprint them in our memories, after such a manner, as we may distinctly understand seven or eight kinds of them more or less, and immediately after, draw them upon paper, without any other original than the image which we have conceived of them. We must be perfect masters of them, but above all, we must make sure of possessing them throughly. We are to know, that it is such or such a stroke, or such a shadow, stronger or weaker, which makes such or such a passion, in this or that degree. And thus if any one should ask you, what makes, in painting, the majesty of a king, the gravity of a hero, the love of a Christ, the grief of a Madonna, the hope of the good thief, the despair of the bad one, the grace and beauty of a Venus, and, in fine, the character of any passion whatsoever; you may answer positively, on the spot, and with assurance, that it is such a posture, or such lines in the parts of the face, formed of such or such a passion, or even the one and the other both together; for the parts of the body, separately, make known the passions of the soul, or else conjointly one with the other. But of all the parts, the head is that which gives the most of life, and the most of grace to the passion, and which alone contributes more to it than all the rest together. The others separately can only express some certain passions, but the head expresses all of them. Nevertheless, there are some which are more particular to it; as, for example, humility, which it expresses by the stooping or bending of the head; arrogance, when it is lifted, or, as we say, tossed up; languishment, when we hang it on one side, or lean it upon one shoulder; obstinacy, (or, as the French call it, _opiniâtretè_,) with a certain stubborn, unruly, barbarous humour, when it is held upright, stiff, and poised betwixt the shoulders. And of the rest, there are many marks, more easily conceived than they can be expressed; as bashfulness, admiration, indignation, and doubt. It is by the head that we make known more visibly our supplications, our threatenings, our mildness, our haughtiness, our love, our hatred, our joy, our sadness, our humility; in fine, it is enough to see the face, and to understand the mind at half a word. Blushing and paleness speak to us, as also the mixture of them both.

The parts of the face do all of them contribute to expose the thoughts of our hearts; but above the rest, the eyes, which are as it were the two windows through which the soul looks out and shows itself. The passions which they more particularly express, are pleasure, languishment, disdain, severity, sweetness, admiration, and anger. Joy and sadness may bear their parts, if they did not more especially proceed from the eyebrows and the mouth. And the two parts last named agree more particularly in the expression of those two passions; nevertheless, if you join the eyes as a third, you will have the product of a wonderful harmony for all the passions of the soul.

The nose has no passion which is particular to it; it only lends its assistance to the other before-named, by the stretching of the nostrils, which is as much marked in joy, as it is in sadness. And yet it seems, that scorn makes us wrinkle up the nose, and stretch the nostrils also, at the same time drawing up the upper lip to the place which is near the corners of the mouth. The ancients made the nose the seat of derision; _eum subdolæ irrisioni dicaverunt_, says Pliny; that is, they dedicated the nose to a cunning sort of mockery. We read in the 3d satire of Persius,

_Disce, sed ira cadat naso, rugosaque sanna._

Learn, but let your anger fall from your nose, and the sneering wrinkles be dismounted. And Philostratus in the picture of Pan, whom the Nymphs had bound, and scornfully insulted over, says of that god, “That, before this, he was accustomed to sleep with a peaceable nose, softening in his slumbers the wrinkles of it, and the anger which commonly mounted to that part; but now his nostrils were widened to the last degree of fury.” For my own part, I should rather believe, that the nose was the seat of wrath in beasts than in mankind; and that it was unbecoming of any god but only Pan, who had very much of the beast in him, to wrinkle up his nose in anger, like other animals. The moving of the lips ought to be but moderate, if it be in conversation, because we speak much more by the tongue than by the lips: and if you make the mouth very open, it is only when you are to express the violence of passion, and more properly of anger.

For what concerns the hands, they are the servants of the head, they are his weapons and his auxiliaries; without them the action is weak, languishing, and half dead. Their motions, which are almost infinite, make innumerable expressions. Is it not by them, that we desire, that we hope, that we promise, that we call towards us, and that we reject? Besides, they are the instruments of our threats, of our petitions, of the horror which we show for things, and of the praises which we give them. By them we fear, we ask questions, we approve, and we refuse, we show our joy and our sadness, our doubts and our lamentations, our concernments of pity, and our admirations. In short, it may be said, that they are the language of the dumb, that they contribute not a little to the speaking of the universal tongue common to all the world, which is that of painting.

Now, to tell you how these parts are to be disposed, so as to express the different passions, is impossible; no precise rules can be given of it, both because the task itself is infinite, and also because every one is left to the conduct of his own genius, and to the fruit of his former studies; only remember to be careful, that all the actions of your figures must be natural. “It seems to me,” says Quinctilian, speaking of the passions, “that this part, which is so noble, and so great, is not altogether inaccessible, and that an easy way may be found to it; it is to consider nature, and to copy her; for the spectators are satisfied, when in artificial things they can discern that nature, which they are accustomed to behold.” This passage of Quinctilian is perfectly explained by the words of an excellent master, which our author proposes to us for a rule. They are these which follow: “That the studied motions of the soul are never so natural, as those which we see in the transport of a true passion.” These motions will better be expressed, and be much more natural, if we enter into the same thoughts, become of the same piece, and imagine ourselves to be in the same circumstances with those whom we would represent. “For nature,” says Horace, in his Art of Poetry, “disposes the inside of mankind to all sorts of fortunes; sometimes she makes us contented, sometimes she drives us into choler, and sometimes she so oppresses us with grief, that she seems to tread us down, and plunge us into mortal anxieties; and on all these occasions, she drives outwards the motions of the heart by the tongue, which is her interpreter.” Now, instead of the tongue, let the painter say by the actions, which are her interpreters. “What means have we,” says Quinctilian, “to give a colour to a thing, if we have not the same colour? It is necessary that we ourselves should first be touched with a passion before we endeavour to move others with it. And how,” continues he, “can we be touched, since the passions are not in our power? This is the way, in my opinion; we must form to ourselves the visions and images of absent things, as if they were in reality before our eyes; and he who conceives these images with the greatest strength of imagination, shall possess that part of the passions with the most advantage, and the greatest ease.” But we must take care, (as I have already said,) that in these visions the motions may be natural; for there are some who imagine they have given abundance of light to their figures, when they have made them do violent and extravagant actions; which we may more reasonably call the convulsions, or contortions of the body, than the passions of the mind; and by this means they often put themselves to much pains, to find a strong passion, where no passion is required. Add to all that I have said concerning the passions, that we are to have a very serious regard to the quality of the persons who are to be expressed in passions. The joy of a king ought not to resemble that of a serving-man; and the fierceness of a private soldier must not be like that of an officer. In these differences consists all the fineness and delicacy of the passions. Paulo Lomazzo has written at large on every passion in particular, in his second book; but beware you dwell not too long upon it, and endeavour not to force your genius.

[*†247.]

“Some relicts of it took sanctuary under ground,” &c. All the ancient painting that was in Italy perished in the invasion of the Huns and Goths, excepting those works which were hidden under ground, or there painted; which, by reason they had not been much exposed to view, were preserved from the insolence of those barbarians.

[*†256.]

“The cromatic part, or colouring,” &c. The third and last part of painting, is called the cromatic, or colouring. Its object is colour; for which reason, lights and shadows are therein also comprehended, which are nothing else but white and brown, (or dark,) and by consequence have their place among the colours. Philostratus says, in his life of Apollonius, “That that may be truly called painting, which is made only with two colours, provided the lights and shadows be observed in it; for there we behold the true resemblance of things with their beauties; we also see the passions, though without other colours; so much of life may be also expressed in it, that we may perceive even the very blood; the colour of the hair, and of the beard, are likewise to be discerned; and we can distinguish, without confusion, the fair from the black, and the young from the old, the differences betwixt the white and the flaxen hair; we distinguish with ease betwixt the Moors and the Indians, not only by the Camus noses of the blacks, their woolly hair, and their high jaws, but also by that black colour which is natural to them.” We may add to what Philostratus has said, that with two colours only, (the light and the dark,) there is no sort of stuff, or habit, but may be imitated. We say then, that the colouring makes its observations on the masses or bodies of the colours, accompanied with lights and shadows, more or less evident by degrees of diminution, according to the accidents. First, of a luminous body; as, for example, the sun, or a torch. Secondly, of a diaphanous or transparent body, which is betwixt us and the object, as the air, either pure or thick, or a red glass, &c. Thirdly, of a solid body illuminated, as a statue of white marble, a green tree, a black horse, &c. Fourthly, from his part, who regards the body illuminated, as beholding it either near, or at a distance, directly in a right angle, or aside in an obtuse angle, from the top to the bottom, or from the bottom to the top. This part, in the knowledge which it has of the virtue of colours, and the friendship which they have with each other, and also their antipathies, comprehends the strength, the relievo, the briskness, and the delicacy which are observed in good pictures. The management of colours, and the labour, depend also on this last part.

[*†263.]

“Her sister,” &c. That is to say, the design or drawing, which is the second part of painting; which, consisting only of lines, stands altogether in need of the colouring to appear. It is for this reason, that our author calls this part her sister’s procurer, that is, the colouring shows us the design, and makes us fall in love with it.

[*†267.]

“The light produces all kinds of colours,” &c. Here are three theorems successively following, which our author proposes to us, that from thence we may draw some conclusions. You may likewise find others, which are in the nature of so many propositions, to which we ought to agree, that from thence we may draw the precepts contained in the following part of this treatise: they are all founded on the sense of seeing.

[*†280.]

“Which should be the most,” &c. See the remark of number 152.

[*†283.]

“That light bodies may have a sufficient mass, or breadth of shadow, to sustain them,” &c. That is properly to say, that after the great lights, there must be great shadows, which we call reposes; because, in reality, the sight would be tired, if it were attracted by a continuity of glittering objects. The lights may serve for a repose to the darks, and the darks to the lights. I have said in another place, that a groupe of figures ought to be considered as a choir of music, in which the basses support the trebles, and make them to be heard with greater pleasure. These reposes are made two several ways, one of which is natural, the other artificial. The natural is made by an extent of lights or of shadows, which naturally and necessarily follow solid bodies; or the masses of solid bodies aggrouped, when the light strikes upon them. And the artificial consists in the bodies of colours, which the painter gives to certain things, such as pleases him; and composes them in such a manner, that they do no injury to the objects which are near them. A drapery, for example, which is made yellow, or red, on some certain place, in another place may be brown and will be more suitable to it, to produce the effect required. We are to take occasion, as much as possibly we can, to make use of the first manner, and to find the repose of which we speak, by the light and by the shadow, which naturally accompany solid bodies. But since the subjects on which we work are not always favourable to dispose the bodies as we desire, a painter in such a case may take his advantage by the bodies of colours, and put into such places as ought to be darkened, draperies, or other things, which we may suppose to be naturally brown and sullied, which will produce the same effect, and give him the same reposes as the shadows would do, which could not be caused by the disposition of the objects.

Thus an understanding painter will make his advantages both of the one manner and the other. And if he makes a design to be graved, he is to remember, that the gravers dispose not their colours as the painters do; and that by consequence he must take occasion to find the reason of his design, in the natural shadows of the figures, which he has disposed to cause the effect. Rubens has given us a full information of this in those prints of his, which he caused to be engraved; and I believe that nothing was ever seen more beautiful in that kind; the whole knowledge of groupes, of the lights and shadows, and of those masses, which Titian calls a bunch of grapes, is there exposed so clearly to the sight, that the view of those prints, and the careful observation of them, might very much contribute to the forming of an able painter. The best and fairest of them are graven by Vosterman, Pontius, and Bolsvert, all of them admirable gravers, whose works Rubens himself took care to oversee; and which, without doubt, you will find to be excellent, if you examine them. But expect not there the elegance of design, nor the correctness of the outlines.

It is not but the gravers can, and ought to imitate the bodies of the colours by the degrees of the lights and shadows, as much as they shall judge that this imitation may produce a good effect. On the contrary, it is impossible, in my opinion, to give much strength to what they grave, after the works of the school of Venice, and of all those who have had the knowledge of colours, and of the contrast of the lights and shadows, without imitating in some sort the colour of the objects, according to the relation which they have to the degrees of white and black. We see certain prints of good gravers different in their kinds, where these things are observed, and which have a wonderful strength. And there appears in public, of late years, a gallery of archduke Leopold, which, though very ill graven, yet shows some part of the beauty of its originals, because the gravers who have executed it, though otherwise they were sufficiently ignorant, have observed, in almost the greatest parts of their prints, the bodies of colours, in the relation which they have to the degrees of the lights and shadows. I could wish the gravers would make some reflection upon this whole remark: it is of wonderful consequence to them; for when they have attained to the knowledge of these reposes, they will easily resolve those difficulties which many times perplex them; and then chiefly, when they are to engrave after a picture, where neither the lights and shadows, nor the bodies of the colours, are skilfully observed, though in its other parts the picture may be well performed.

[*†286.]

“As in a convex mirror the collected rays strike stronger,” &c. A convex mirror alters the objects which are in the middle, so that it seems to make them come out from the superfices. The painter must do in the same manner, in respect of the lights and shadows of his figures, to give them more relievo, and more strength.

[*†290.]

“While the goings off are more and more broken and faint, as they approach to the extremities,” &c. It is the duty of a painter, even in this also, to imitate the convex mirror, and to place nothing which glares either in colour or in light, at the borders of his picture: for which there are two reasons; the first is, that the eye at the first view directs itself to the midst of the object, which is presented to it, and by consequence must there necessarily find the principal object, in order to its satisfaction; and the other reason is, that the sides or borders being overcharged with a strong and glittering work, attract the eyes thither, which are in a kind of pain, not to behold a continuity of that work, which is on the sudden interrupted by the borders of the picture; instead of which, the borders being lightened, and eased of so much work, the eye continues fixed on the centre of the picture, and beholds it with greater pleasure. It is for the same reason, that, in a great composition of figures, those which, coming most forward, are cut off by the bottom of the picture, will always make an ill effect.

[*†329.]

“A bunch of grapes,” &c. It is sufficiently manifest, that Titian, by this judicious and familiar comparison, means, that a painter ought to collect the objects, and to dispose them in such a manner, as to compose one whole; the several contiguous parts of which may be enlightened, many shadowed, and others of broken colours to be in the turnings; as on a bunch of grapes, many grapes, which are the parts of it, are in the light, many in the shadow, and the rest faintly coloured to make them go farther back. Titian once told Tintoret, that in his greatest works, a bunch of grapes had been his principal rule, and his surest guide.

[*†330.]

“Pure, or unmixed white, either draws an object nearer, or carries it off to farther distance. It draws it nearer with black, and throws it backward without it,” &c. All agree, that white can subsist on the fore-ground of the picture, and there be used without mixture; the question therefore is to know, if it can equally subsist, and be placed in the same manner, upon that which is backward, the light being universal, and the figures supposed in a champaigne and open field.

Our author concludes affirmatively; and the reason on which he establishes his rule is this; that there being nothing which partakes more of the light than whiteness, and the light being capable of subsisting well in remoteness, or at a long distance, as we daily see in the rising and setting of the sun, it follows, that white may subsist in the same manner. In painting, the light and a white colour are but one and the same thing. Add to this, that we have no colour which more resembles the air than white, and by consequence no colour which is lighter; from whence it comes, that we commonly say, the air is heavy, when we see the heavens covered with black clouds, or when a thick fog takes from us that clearness, which makes the lightness or serenity of the air. Titian, Tintoret, Paul Veronese, and all those who best understood lights, have observed it in this manner, and no man can go against this precept, at least without renouncing any skill in landscape, which is an undoubted confirmation of this truth. And we see, that all the great masters of landscape have followed Titian in this, who has always employed brown and earthy colours upon the fore-part, and has reserved his greatest lights for remotenesses, and the back parts of his landscapes.

It may be objected against this opinion, that white cannot maintain itself in remotenesses, because it is ordinarily used to bring the objects nearer on the advanced part. It is true that so it is used, and that to very good purpose, to render the objects more sensible, by the opposition of the dark, which must accompany it, and which retains it, as it were, by force, whether the dark serves it for a ground, or whether it be combined to it. For example, if you would make a white horse on the fore-ground of your picture, it is of absolute necessity, that the ground must be of a mixed brown, and large enough, or that the furniture must be of very sensible colours; or lastly, that some figure must be set upon it, whose shadows and the colour may bring it forward.

But it seems, say you, that blue is the most flying or transient colour, because the heavens and mountains, which are at the greatest distance, are of that colour. It is very true that blue is one of the lightest and sweetest colours; but it is also true, that it possesses these qualities so much the more, because the white is mingled in it, as the example of the distances demonstrate to us. But if the light of your picture be not universal, and that you suppose your figures in a chamber, then recal to your memory that theorem which tells you, that the nearer a body is to the light, and the more directly it is opposed to us, so much the more it is enlightened, because the light grows languishing the farther it removes from its original.

You may also extinguish your white, if you suppose the air to be somewhat thicker, and if you foresee that this supposition will make a good effect in the economy of the whole work; but let not this proceed so far, as to make your figures so brown, that they may seem as it were in a filthy fog, or that they may appear to be part of the ground. See the following remark.

[*†332.]

“But as for pure black, there is nothing that brings the object nearer to the sight,” &c. Because black is the heaviest of all colours, the most earthy, and the most sensible. This is clearly understood by the qualities of white, which is opposed to it, and which is, as we have said, the lightest of all colours. There are few who are not of this opinion; and yet I have known some, who have told me, that the black being on the advanced part, makes nothing but holes. To this there is little else to be answered, but that black always makes a good effect, being set forward, provided it be placed there with prudence. You are therefore so to dispose the bodies of your pictures which you intend to be on the fore-ground, that those sorts of holes may not be perceived, and that the blacks may be there by masses, and insensibly confused. See the 47th rule.

That which gives the relievo to a bowl, (may some say to me,) is the quick light, or the white, which appears to be on the side which is nearest to us, and the black, by consequence, distances the object. We are here to beware, not to confound the turnings with the distances: the question is only in respect of bodies, which are separated by some distance of a backward position; and not of round bodies, which are of the same continuity: the brown, which is mingled in the turnings of the bowl, makes them go off rather in confounding them (as we may say) than in blackening them. And do you not see, that the reflects are an artifice of the painter, to make the turnings seem more light, and that by this means the greatest blackness remains towards the middle of the bowl, to sustain the white, and make it deceive us with more pleasure?

This rule of white and black is of so great consequence, that unless it be exactly practised, it is impossible for a picture to make any great effect, that the masses can be disentangled, and the different distances may be observed at the first glance of the eye, without trouble.

It may be inferred from this precept, that the masses of other colours will be so much the more sensible, and approach so much the nearer to the sight, the more brown they bear; provided this be amongst other colours which are of the same species. For example, a yellow brown shall draw nearer to the sight than another which is less yellow. I said, provided it be amongst other colours, which are of the same species; because there are simple colours, which naturally are strong and sensible, though they are clear, as vermilion; there are others also, which, notwithstanding that they are brown, yet cease not to be soft and faint, as the blue of ultramarine. The effect of a picture comes not only therefore from the lights and shadows, but also from the nature of the colours. I thought it was not from the purpose in this place to give you the qualities of those colours which are most in use, and which are called capital, because they serve to make the composition of all the rest, whose number is almost infinite.

Red ochre is one of the most heavy colours.

Yellow ochre is not so heavy, because it is clearer.

And the masticot is very light, because it is a very clear yellow, and very near to white.

Ultramarine, or azure, is very light, and a very sweet colour.

Vermilion is wholly opposite to ultramarine.

Lake is a middle colour betwixt ultramarine and vermilion, yet it is rather more sweet than harsh.

Brown-red is one of the most earthy and most sensible colours.

Pink is in its nature an indifferent colour, that is very susceptible of the other colours by the mixture: if you mix brown-red with it, you will make it a very earthy colour; but, on the contrary, if you join it with white or blue, you shall have one of the most faint and tender colours.

Terra verte (or green earth) is light; it is a mean betwixt yellow ochre and ultramarine.

Umbre is very sensible and earthy; there is nothing but pure black which can dispute with it.

Of all blacks, that is the most earthy, which is most remote from blue. According to the principle which we have established of white and black, you will make every one of these colours before-named more earthy and more heavy, the more black you mingle with them; and they will be lighter, the more white you join with them.

For what concerns broken or compound colours, we are to make a judgment of their strength by the force of those colours which compose them. All who have thoroughly understood the agreement of colours, have not employed them wholly pure and simple in their draperies, unless in some figure upon the fore-ground of the picture; but they have used broken and compound colours, of which they made a harmony for the eyes, by mixing those which have some kind of sympathy with each other, to make a whole, which has an union with the colours which are neighbouring to it. The painter who perfectly understands the force and power of his colours, will use them most suitably to his present purpose, and according to his own discretion.

[*†355.]

“But let this be done relatively,” &c. One body must make another body fly off in such a manner, that itself may be chased by those bodies which are advanced before it. “We are to take care, and use great attention,” says Quinctilian, “not only of one separate thing, but of many which follow each other, and by a certain relation which they have with each other, are as it were continued.” In the same manner, as if in a straight street, we cast our eyes from one end of it to the other, we discover at once those different things which are presented to the sight, so that we not only see the last, but whatsoever is relating to the last.

[*†361.]

“Let two contrary extremities never touch each other,” &c. The sense of seeing has this in common with all the rest of the senses, that it abhors the contrary extremities. And in the same manner as our hands, when they are very cold, feel a grievous pain when on the sudden we hold them near the fire; so the eyes, which find an extreme white next to an extreme black, or a fair cool azure next to a hot vermilion, cannot behold these extremities without pain, though they are always attracted by the glaring of two contraries.

This rule obliges us to know those colours which have a friendship with each other, and those which are incompatible; which we may easily discover in mixing together those colours of which we would make trial.