In the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before you to-night I do not desire to give you any abstract definition of beauty at all. For we who are working in art cannot accept any theory of beauty in exchange for beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to isolate1 it in a formula appealing to the intellect, we, on the contrary, seek to materialise it in a form that gives joy to the soul through the senses. We want to create it, not to define it. The definition should follow the work: the work should not adapt itself to the definition.
Nothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young artist than any conception of ideal beauty: he is constantly led by it either into weak prettiness or lifeless abstraction: whereas to touch the ideal at all you must not strip it of vitality2. You must find it in life and re-create it in art.
While, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give you any philosophy of beauty—for, what I want to-night is to investigate how we can create art, not how we can talk of it—on the other hand, I do not wish to deal with anything like a history of English art.
To begin with, such an expression as English art is a meaningless expression. One might just as well talk of English mathematics. Art is the science of beauty, and Mathematics the science of truth: there is no national school of either. Indeed, a national school is a provincial3 school, merely. Nor is there any such thing as a school of art even. There are merely artists, that is all.
And as regards histories of art, they are quite valueless to you unless you are seeking the ostentatious oblivion of an art professorship. It is of no use to you to know the date of Perugino or the birthplace of Salvator Rosa: all that you should learn about art is to know a good picture when you see it, and a bad picture when you see it. As regards the date of the artist, all good work looks perfectly5 modern: a piece of Greek sculpture, a portrait of Velasquez—they are always modern, always of our time. And as regards the nationality of the artist, art is not national but universal. As regards arch?ology, then, avoid it altogether: arch?ology is merely the science of making excuses for bad art; it is the rock on which many a young artist founders6 and shipwrecks7; it is the abyss from which no artist, old or young, ever returns. Or, if he does return, he is so covered with the dust of ages and the mildew8 of time, that he is quite unrecognisable as an artist, and has to conceal9 himself for the rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as a mere4 illustrator of ancient history. How worthless arch?ology is in art you can estimate by the fact of its being so popular. Popularity is the crown of laurel which the world puts on bad art. Whatever is popular is wrong.
As I am not going to talk to you, then, about the philosophy of the beautiful, or the history of art, you will ask me what I am going to talk about. The subject of my lecture to-night is what makes an artist and what does the artist make; what are the relations of the artist to his surroundings, what is the education the artist should get, and what is the quality of a good work of art.
Now, as regards the relations of the artist to his surroundings, by which I mean the age and country in which he is born. All good art, as I said before, has nothing to do with any particular century; but this universality is the quality of the work of art; the conditions that produce that quality are different. And what, I think, you should do is to realise completely your age in order completely to abstract yourself from it; remembering that if you are an artist at all, you will be not the mouthpiece of a century, but the master of eternity10, that all art rests on a principle, and that mere temporal considerations are no principle at all; and that those who advise you to make your art representative of the nineteenth century are advising you to produce an art which your children, when you have them, will think old-fashioned. But you will tell me this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartistic people, and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century of ours.
Of course he does. I, of all men, am not going to deny that. But remember that there never has been an artistic11 age, or an artistic people, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always been, and will always be, an exquisite12 exception. There is no golden age of art; only artists who have produced what is more golden than gold.
What, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they an artistic people?
Well, the Greeks certainly not, but, perhaps, you mean the Athenians, the citizens of one out of a thousand cities.
Do you think that they were an artistic people? Take them even at the time of their highest artistic development, the latter part of the fifth century before Christ, when they had the greatest poets and the greatest artists of the antique world, when the Parthenon rose in loveliness at the bidding of a Phidias, and the philosopher spake of wisdom in the shadow of the painted portico13, and tragedy swept in the perfection of pageant14 and pathos15 across the marble of the stage. Were they an artistic people then? Not a bit of it. What is an artistic people but a people who love their artists and understand their art? The Athenians could do neither.
How did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the great era, not merely in Greek, but in all art—I mean of the introduction of the use of the living model.
And what would you say if all the English bishops16, backed by the English people, came down from Exeter Hall to the Royal Academy one day and took off Sir Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate on the charge of having allowed you to make use of the living model in your designs for sacred pictures?
Would you not cry out against the barbarism and the Puritanism of such an idea? Would you not explain to them that the worst way to honour God is to dishonour17 man who is made in His image, and is the work of His hands; and, that if one wants to paint Christ one must take the most Christlike person one can find, and if one wants to paint the Madonna, the purest girl one knows?
Would you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if necessary, and say that such a thing was without parallel in history?
Without parallel? Well, that is exactly what the Athenians did.
In the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British Museum, you will see a marble shield on the wall. On it there are two figures; one of a man whose face is half hidden, the other of a man with the godlike lineaments of Pericles. For having done this, for having introduced into a bas relief, taken from Greek sacred history, the image of the great statesman who was ruling Athens at the time, Phidias was flung into prison and there, in the common gaol18 of Athens, died, the supreme19 artist of the old world.
And do you think that this was an exceptional case? The sign of a Philistine20 age is the cry of immorality21 against art, and this cry was raised by the Athenian people against every great poet and thinker of their day—?schylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the same with Florence in the thirteenth century. Good handicrafts are due to guilds22, not to the people. The moment the guilds lost their power and the people rushed in, beauty and honesty of work died.
And so, never talk of an artistic people; there never has been such a thing.
But, perhaps, you will tell me that the external beauty of the world has almost entirely23 passed away from us, that the artist dwells no longer in the midst of the lovely surroundings which, in ages past, were the natural inheritance of every one, and that art is very difficult in this unlovely town of ours, where, as you go to your work in the morning, or return from it at eventide, you have to pass through street after street of the most foolish and stupid architecture that the world has ever seen; architecture, where every lovely Greek form is desecrated24 and defiled25, and every lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducing three-fourths of the London houses to being, merely, like square boxes of the vilest26 proportions, as gaunt as they are grimy, and as poor as they are pretentious—the hall door always of the wrong colour, and the windows of the wrong size, and where, even when wearied of the houses you turn to contemplate27 the street itself, you have nothing to look at but chimney-pot hats, men with sandwich boards, vermilion letter-boxes, and do that even at the risk of being run over by an emerald-green omnibus.
Is not art difficult, you will say to me, in such surroundings as these? Of course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you yourselves would not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing except what the world says is impossible.
Still, you do not care to be answered merely by a paradox28. What are the relations of the artist to the external world, and what is the result of the loss of beautiful surroundings to you, is one of the most important questions of modern art; and there is no point on which Mr. Ruskin so insists as that the decadence29 of art has come from the decadence of beautiful things; and that when the artist cannot feed his eye on beauty, beauty goes from his work.
I remember in one of his lectures, after describing the sordid30 aspect of a great English city, he draws for us a picture of what were the artistic surroundings long ago.
Think, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque31 imagery, whose beauty I can but feebly echo, think of what was the scene which presented itself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school of Pisa—Nino Pisano or any of his men: [206]
On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and with serpentine32; along the quays33 before their gates were riding troops of knights34, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest35 and shield; horse and man one labyrinth36 of quaint37 colour and gleaming light—the purple, and silver, and scarlet38 fringes flowing over the strong limbs and clashing mall, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset. Opening on each side from the river were gardens, courts, and cloisters39; long successions of white pillars among wreaths of vine; leaping of fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange: and still along the garden-paths, and under and through the crimson40 of the pomegranate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women that Italy ever saw—fairest, because purest and thoughtfullest; trained in all high knowledge, as in all courteous41 art—in dance, in song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest love—able alike to cheer, to enchant42, or save, the souls of men. Above all this scenery of perfect human life, rose dome43 and bell-tower, burning with white alabaster44 and gold: beyond dome and bell-tower the slopes of mighty45 hills hoary46 with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven Carrara mountains sent up their steadfast47 flames of marble summit into amber48 sky; the great sea itself, scorching49 with expanse of light, stretching from their feet to the Gorgonian isles50; and over all these, ever present, near or far—seen through the leaves of vine, or imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno’s stream, or set with its depth of blue close against the golden hair and burning cheek of lady and knight,—that untroubled and sacred sky, which was to all men, in those days of innocent faith, indeed the unquestioned abode51 of spirits, as the earth was of men; and which opened straight through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into the awfulness of the eternal world;—a heaven in which every cloud that passed was literally52 the chariot of an angel, and every ray of its Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of God.
What think you of that for a school of design?
And then look at the depressing, monotonous53 appearance of any modern city, the sombre dress of men and women, the meaningless and barren architecture, the colourless and dreadful surroundings. Without a beautiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all the arts will die.
Well, as regards the religious feeling of the close of the passage, I do not think I need speak about that. Religion springs from religious feeling, art from artistic feeling: you never get one from the other; unless you have the right root you will not get the right flower; and, if a man sees in a cloud the chariot of an angel, he will probably paint it very unlike a cloud.
But, as regards the general idea of the early part of that lovely bit of prose, is it really true that beautiful surroundings are necessary for the artist? I think not; I am sure not. Indeed, to me the most inartistic thing in this age of ours is not the indifference54 of the public to beautiful things, but the indifference of the artist to the things that are called ugly. For, to the real artist, nothing is beautiful or ugly in itself at all. With the facts of the object he has nothing to do, but with its appearance only, and appearance is a matter of light and shade, of masses, of position, and of value.
Appearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and it is with the effects of nature that you have to deal, not with the real condition of the object. What you, as painters, have to paint is not things as they are but things as they seem to be, not things as they are but things as they are not.
No object is so ugly that, under certain conditions of light and shade, or proximity55 to other things, it will not look beautiful; no object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly. I believe that in every twenty-four hours what is beautiful looks ugly, and what is ugly looks beautiful, once.
And, the commonplace character of so much of our English painting seems to me due to the fact that so many of our young artists look merely at what we may call ‘ready-made beauty,’ whereas you exist as artists not to copy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait and watch for it in nature.
What would you say of a dramatist who would take nobody but virtuous56 people as characters in his play? Would you not say he was missing half of life? Well, of the young artist who paints nothing but beautiful things, I say he misses one half of the world.
Do not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and see life under picturesque conditions. These conditions you can create for yourself in your studio, for they are merely conditions of light. In nature, you must wait for them, watch for them, choose them; and, if you wait and watch, come they will.
In Gower Street at night you may see a letter-box that is picturesque: on the Thames Embankment you may see picturesque policemen. Even Venice is not always beautiful, nor France.
To paint what you see is a good rule in art, but to see what is worth painting is better. See life under pictorial57 conditions. It is better to live in a city of changeable weather than in a city of lovely surroundings.
Now, having seen what makes the artist, and what the artist makes, who is the artist? There is a man living amongst us who unites in himself all the qualities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy for all time, who is, himself, a master of all time. That man is Mr. Whistler.
* * * * *
But, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you cannot paint black cloth you could not have painted silken doublet. Ugly dress is better for art—facts of vision, not of the object.
What is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beautifully coloured surface, merely, with no more spiritual message or meaning for you than an exquisite fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall of Damascus. It is, primarily, a purely58 decorative59 thing, a delight to look at.
All arch?ological pictures that make you say ‘How curious!’ all sentimental60 pictures that make you say, ‘How sad!’ all historical pictures that make you say ‘How interesting!’ all pictures that do not immediately give you such artistic joy as to make you say ‘How beautiful!’ are bad pictures.
* * * * *
We never know what an artist is going to do. Of course not. The artist is not a specialist. All such divisions as animal painters, landscape painters, painters of Scotch61 cattle in an English mist, painters of English cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters, bull-terrier painters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist he can paint everything.
The object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the chords which make music in our soul; and colour is indeed, of itself a mystical presence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel.
Am I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As long as there are any signs of technique at all, the picture is unfinished. What is finish? A picture is finished when all traces of work, and of the means employed to bring about the result, have disappeared.
In the case of handicraftsmen—the weaver62, the potter, the smith—on their work are the traces of their hand. But it is not so with the painter; it is not so with the artist.
Art should have no sentiment about it but its beauty, no technique except what you cannot observe. One should be able to say of a picture not that it is ‘well painted,’ but that it is ‘not painted.’
What is the difference between absolutely decorative art and a painting? Decorative art emphasises its material: imaginative art annihilates63 it. Tapestry shows its threads as part of its beauty: a picture annihilates its canvas: it shows nothing of it. Porcelain emphasises its glaze64: water-colours reject the paper.
A picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message but its joy. That is the first truth about art that you must never lose sight of. A picture is a purely decorative thing.
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1
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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mildew
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| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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annihilates
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| n.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的名词复数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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