Aestheticism in Art. William Hogarth
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theticism in Art
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Introduction
Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, known as Raphael, The Madonna and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist, known as La Belle Jardinière, 1507–1508. Oil on wood, 122 × 80 cm. Musée du Louvre, Paris.
If a preface was ever necessary, it may very likely be thought so for the following work; the title of which (in the proposals published some time since) have greatly amused and raised expectations of the curious, though not without a mixture of doubt, that its purpose could ever be satisfactorily fulfilled. For, despite the fact that beauty is seen and confessed by all, from the many fruitless attempts to account for the cause of its being so, enquiries on this subject have almost been sacrificed; and the subject generally thought to be a matter of too high and too delicate a nature to admit of any true or intelligible discussion. Something, therefore, introductory ought to be offered upon the presenting of a work with a face so entirely new, especially as it will naturally encounter, and perhaps even overthrow, several long-received, thorough and established opinions. Since controversies may arise, how far, and after what manner, does this subject have to go to be considered and treated fairly? It will also be proper to lie before the reader what may be understood from the works of both ancient and modern writers and painters.
It is no wonder that this subject was considered inexplicable for so long, as the nature of many parts of it cannot possibly come within the reach of mere men with pens; otherwise those ingenious gentlemen who have published treatises about it (and who wrote much more learnedly than can be expected from one who never took up the pen before) would not so soon have been bewildered in their accounts of it and obliged so suddenly to turn into the broad and more beaten path of moral beauty, in order to extricate themselves from the difficulties they seem to have met with in this. What’s more, they were forced for the same reasons to amuse their readers with amazing (but often misapplied) encomiums on deceased painters and their performances, wherein they continually discoursed effects instead of developing causes. After much flattery, in very pleasing language, one is fairly set down just from where they were picked up, honestly confessed to that in terms of grace, the main point in question, the men do not even pretend to know anything of the matter. And, indeed, how should they? A practical knowledge of the whole art of panting (sculpture alone not being sufficient) is required and, to some degree of eminence; it would be difficult for anyone to pursue the chain of this inquiry through all its parts offhand; however, it is my hope that all will be understood following this work.
Guido di Pietro, known as Fra Angelico, Christ Glorified in the Court of Heaven (predella of the altarpiece of San Domenico in Fiesole), c. 1423–1424. Tempera on panel, 31.7 × 73 cm. The National Gallery, London.
Naturally one might wonder why the best painters within these two centuries, who, according to their works, appear to have excelled in grace and beauty, should have been so silent in an affair of such seeming importance to the imitative arts and their own honour. To this, I say, that it is probable that they arrived at that excellence in their works by the mere dint of imitating with great exactness the beauties of nature, and by often copying and retaining strong ideas of graceful antique statues which might sufficiently serve their purposes as painters without troubling themselves with a further inquiry into the particular causes of the effects before them. Is it not a little strange that the great Leonardo da Vinci (amongst the many philosophical precepts which he hath at random laid down in his treatise on painting) did not give the lead hint of anything tending to a system of this kind, especially as he was a contemporary of Michelangelo, who is said to have discovered a certain principle in the trunk of an antique statue (which became well known from this circumstance by the name of Michelangelo’s Torso, or Back), a principle which gave his works a grandeur of gusto equal to the most highly acclaimed antiques. Relative to which tradition, Lomazzo, who wrote about painting at the same time, has this remarkable passage (vol. I, book I):
And because in this place there falleth out a certain precept of Michelangelo much for our purpose, I will not concede it, leaving the further interpretation and understanding thereof to the judicious reader. It is reported, then, that Michelangelo once upon a time gave this observation to painter Marcus di Siena his scholar: that he should always make a figure pyramidal, serpent-like and multiplied by one, two, and three. In which precept (in my opinion) the whole mystery of art consists. For the greatest grace and life that a picture can have is that it express motion, which the painters call the spirit of a picture. Now there is no form so fit to express this motion as that of the flame of fire, which, according to Aristotle and the other philosophers, is an element most active of all others because the form of the flame makes it most apt for motion. It has a conus or sharp point with which it seems to divide the air, so that it may ascend to its proper sphere. A picture having this form will be most beautiful.
Many writers since Lomazzo have, in the same words, recommended observing this rule as well without comprehending the meaning of it, for unless it were known systematically, the whole business of grace could not be understood. Charles Alphonse du Fresnoy, in his Art of Painting, says: “large flowing, gliding outlines which are in waves, give not only a grace to the part, but to the whole body; as we see in Antinous, and in many other antique figures: a fine figure and its parts ought always to have a serpent-like and flaming form. Naturally those sort of lines have I know not what of life and seeming motion in them, which very much resembles the activity of the flame and the serpent.” Now if he had understood what he had said, he could not, speaking of grace, have expressed himself in the following contradictory manner. “But to say the truth, this is a difficult undertaking, and a rare gift, which the artist rather receives from the hand of heaven than from his own industry and studies.”But Roger de Piles, in his Lives of Painters, is still more contradictory, when he says “that a painter can only have [grace] from nature, and does not know that he has it, nor in what degree, nor how exactly he communicates it to his works; and that grace and beauty are two different things. Beauty pleases by the rules, and grace gets by without them.”
All the English writers on this subject have echoed these passages; hence Je ne sais quoi has become a fashionable phrase as a reference to grace. Due to this, it is plain that this precept which Michelangelo delivered so long ago in an oracle-like manner has remained mysterious down to this time, for anything that has appeared to the contrary. The wonder that it should do so will, to some degree, lessen when we come to consider that it must have appeared all along as full of contradiction as the most obscure quibble ever delivered at Delphos, because winding lines are as often the cause of deformity as of grace the solution of which, in this place, would be an anticipation of what the reader will find at large in the body of the work. There are also strong prejudices in favour of straight lines, as constituting true beauty in the human form, where they never should appear. A middling connoisseur thinks no profile has beauty without a very straight nose, and if the forehead be continued straight with it, he thinks it is still more sublime. I have seen miserable scratches with the pen sell at a considerable rate for only having in them a side face or two. The common notion that a person should be straight as an arrow, and perfectly erect, is of this kind. If a dancing-master were to see his scholar in the easy and gracefully-turned attitude of the Antinous, he would cry shame on him, and tell him he looked as crooked as a ram’s horn, and bid him hold up his head as he himself did.
Giorgio Vasari, Portrait of Lorenzo the Magnificent, 1533. Oil on canvas, 90 × 72 cm. Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.
Guido di Pietro, known as Fra Angelico, Coronation of the Virgin, c. 1420. Tempera and gold on panel, 27 × 37.2 cm. The Cleveland Museum of Art, Cleveland.
Andrea Mantegna, Saint Sebastian, c. 1480. Tempera