CHAPTER VII.
AUTHOR, ILLUSTRATOR, AND PUBLISHER.
ET us now consider shortly the Author, the Illustrator, and the Publisher, and their influence on the appearance and production of a book. If it be impossible in these days (and, in spite of the efforts of Mr. William Morris and others, it seems to be impossible) to produce a genuine book in all its details, it seems worth considering in what way the author can stamp it with his own individuality; also to what extent he is justified in making use of modern appliances.
How far, then, may the author be said to be responsible for the state of things just quoted? Theoretically, he is the man of taste and culture par excellence; he is, or should be, in most cases, the arbiter, the dictator to his publisher, the chooser of style. The book is his, and it is his business to decide in what form his ideas should become concrete; the publisher aiding his judgment with experience, governing the finance, and carrying out details. How comes it then that, with the present facilities for reproducing anything that the hand can put upon paper, the latter-day nineteenth-century author is so much in the hands of others as to the appearance of his book? It is because the so-called educated man has not been taught to use his hands as the missal-writers and authors of mediæval times taught themselves to use theirs. The modern author, who is, say, fifty years old, was born in an age of “advanced civilisation,” when the only method of expression for the young was one—“pothooks and hangers.” The child of ten years old, whose eye was mentally forming pictures, taking in unconsciously the facts of perspective and the like, had a pencil tied with string to his two first fingers until he had mastered the ups and downs, crosses and dashes, of modern handwriting, which has been accepted by the great, as well as the little, ones of the earth, as the best medium of communication between intelligent beings; and so, regardless of style, character, or picturesqueness, he scribbles away! So much for our generally straggling style of penmanship.
There is no doubt that the author of the future will have to come more into personal contact with the artist than he has been in the habit of doing, and that the distinction I referred to in the first chapter, between illustrations which are to be (1) records of facts, and (2) works of art, will have to be more clearly drawn.
Amongst the needs in the community of book producers is one that I only touch upon because it affects the illustrator:—That there should be an expert in every publishing house to determine (1) whether a drawing is suitable for publication; and (2) by what means it should be reproduced. The resources of an establishment will not always admit of such an arrangement; but the editors and publishers who are informed on these matters can easily be distinguished by the quality of their publications. By the substitution of process blocks for wood engravings in books, publishers are deprived to a great extent of the fostering care of the master wood engraver, to which they have been accustomed.
Amongst the influences affecting the illustrator, none, I venture to say, are more prejudicial than the acceptance by editors and publishers of inartistic drawings.
It would be difficult, I think, to point to a period when so much bad work was produced as at present. The causes have already been pointed out, the beautiful processes for the reproduction of drawings are scarcely understood by the majority of artists, publishers, authors, or critics. It is the misuse of the processes in these hurrying days, which is dragging our national reputation in the mire and perplexing the student.
The modern publisher, it may be said without offence, understands the manufacture and the commerce of a book better than the art in it. And how should it be otherwise? The best books that were ever produced, from an artistic point of view, were inspired and designed by students of art and letters, men removed from the commercial scramble of life, and to whom an advertisement was a thing unknown! The ordinary art education of a publisher, and the multitude of affairs requiring his attention, unfit him generally, for the task of deciding whether an illustration is good or bad, or how far—when he cheapens the production of his book by using photographic illustrations (“snap-shots” from nature)—he is justified in calling them “art.” The deterioration in the character of book illustration in England is a serious matter, and public attention may well be drawn to it.
Here we look for the active co-operation of the author. The far-reaching spread of education—especially technical art education—is tending to bring together, as they were never brought before in this century, the author and the illustrator. The author of a book will give more attention to the appearance of his pages, to the decorative character of type and ornament, whilst the average artist will be better educated from a literary point of view; and, to use a French word for which there is no equivalent, will be more en rapport with both author and publisher.
For the illustrator by profession there seems no artistic leisure; no time to do anything properly in this connection.
“It is a poor career, Blackburn,” said a well-known newspaper illustrator to me lately (an artist of distinction and success in his profession who has practised it for twenty years), “you seldom give satisfaction—not even to yourself.”
“It is an ideal career,” says another, a younger man, who is content with the more slap-dash methods in vogue to-day—and with the income he receives for them.
Referring again to the question in the Athenæum, “Why is not drawing for the press taught in our Government schools of art?” I think the principal reasons why the art of illustration by the processes is not generally taught in art schools are—
(1) drawing for reproduction requires more personal teaching than is possible in art classes in public schools; (2) the art masters throughout the country, with very few exceptions, do not understand the new processes—which is not to be wondered at.
It is not the fault of the masters in our schools of art that students are taught in most cases as if they were to become painters, when the only possible career for the majority is that of illustration, or design. The masters are, for the most part, well and worthily occupied in giving a good groundwork of knowledge to every student, as to drawing for the press. There is no question that the best preparation for this work is the best general art teaching that can be obtained. The student must have drawn from the antique and from life; he must have learned composition and design; have studied from nature the relative values of light and shade, aërial perspective and the like; in short, have followed the routine study for a painter whose first aim should be to be a master of monochrome.
In the more technical parts, which the young illustrator by process will require to know, he needs personal help. He will have a multitude of questions to ask “somebody” as to the reasons for what he is doing; for what style of process work he is by touch and temperament best fitted, and so on. All this has to be considered if we are to keep a good standard of art teaching for illustration.
The fact that a pen-and-ink drawing which looks well scarcely ever reproduces well, must always be remembered. Many drawings for process, commended in art schools for good draughtsmanship or design, will not reproduce as expected, for want of exact knowledge of the requirements of process; whereas a drawing by a trained hand will often look better in the reproduction. These remarks refer especially to ornament and design, to architectural drawings and the like.
The topical illustrator and sketcher in weekly prints has, of course, more licence, and it matters less what becomes of his lines in their rapid transit through the press. Still the illustrator, of whatever rank or style, has a right to complain if his drawing is reproduced on a scale not intended by him, or by a process for which it is not fitted, or if printed badly, and with bad materials.
But the sketchy style of illustration seems to be a little overdone at present, and—being tolerable only when allied to great ability—remains consequently in the hands of a few. There is plenty of talent in this country which is wasted for want of control. It plays about us like summer lightning when we want the precision and accuracy of the telegraph.
The art of colour printing (whether it be by the intaglio processes, or by chromo-lithography, or on relief blocks) has arrived at such proficiency and has become such an important industry that it should be mentioned here. By its means, a beautiful child-face, by Millais, is scattered over the world by hundreds of thousands; and the reputation of a young artist, like Kate Greenaway, made and established. The latter owes much of her prestige and success to the colour-printer. Admitting the grace, taste, and invention of Kate Greenaway as an illustrator, there is little doubt that, without the wood engraver and the example and sympathetic aid of such artists as H. S. Marks, R.A., Walter Crane, and the late Randolph Caldecott, she would never have received the praise bestowed upon her by M. Ernest Chesneau, or Mr. Ruskin. These things show how intimately the arts of reproduction affect reputations, and how important it is that more sympathy and communication should exist between all producers. In the mass of illustrated publications issuing from the press the expert can discern clearly where this sympathy and knowledge exist, and where ability, on the part of the artist, has been allied to practical knowledge of the requirements of illustration.
The business of many will be to contribute, in some form, to the making of pictures and designs to be multiplied in the press; and, in order to learn the technique and obtain employment, some of the most promising pupils have to fall into the ways of the producers of cheap illustrations, Christmas cards, and the like. On the other hand, a knowledge of the mechanical processes for reproducing drawings (as it is being pressed forward in technical schools) is leading to disastrous consequences, as may be seen on every railway bookstall in the kingdom.
In the “book of the future” we hope to see less of the “lath and plaster” style of illustration, produced from careless wash drawings by the cheap processes; fewer of the blots upon the page, which the modern reader seems to take as a matter of course. In books, as in periodicals, the illustrator by process will have to divest himself, as far as possible, of that tendency to scratchiness and exaggeration that injures so many process illustrations. In short, he must be more careful, and give more thought to the meaning of his lines and washes, and to the adequate expression of textures.
There is a great deal yet to learn, for neither artists nor writers have mastered the subject. Few of our best illustrators have the time or the inclination to take to the new methods, and, as regards criticism, it is hardly to be expected that a reviewer who has a pile of illustrated books to pronounce upon, should know the reason of the failures that he sees before him. Thus the public is often misled by those who should be its guides as to the value and importance of the new systems of illustration.[24]
In conclusion, let us remember that everyone who cultivates a taste for artistic beauty in books, be he author, artist, or artificer, may do something towards relieving the monotony and confusion in style, which pervades the outward aspect of so many books. It is a far cry from the work of the missal writer in a monastery to the pages of a modern book, but the taste and feeling which was shown in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in the production of books, exists in the nineteenth, under difficult conditions.
In the “book of the future” the author will help personally, more than he has ever done, as I have already suggested. The subject is not half-ventilated yet, nor can I touch upon it further, but the day is not far distant when the power of the hand of the author will be tested to the utmost, and lines of all kinds will appear in the text. There is really no limit to what may be done with modern appliances, if only the idea is seized with intelligence.
Two questions, however, remain unanswered—(1) Whether, as a matter of language and history, we are communicating information to each other much better than the ancients did in cuneiform inscriptions, on stones and monuments. (2) Whether, as a matter of illustrative art, we are making the best use of modern appliances.
Let us, then, cultivate more systematically the art of drawing for the press, and treat it as a worthy profession. Let it not be said again, as it was to me lately by one who has devoted half a lifetime to these things, “The processes of reproduction are to hand, but where are our artists?” Let it not be said that the chariot-wheels of the press move too fast for us—that chemistry and the sun’s rays have been utilised too soon—that, in short, the processes of reproduction have been perfected before their time! I think not, and that an art—the art of pictorial expression—which has existed for ages and is now best understood by the Japanese, may be cultivated amongst us to a more practical end.
“TAKE CARE.” (W. B. BAIRD.)
(Royal Academy, 1891.)
[24] There seems but one rule of criticism in this connection. If a book illustration comes out coarsely and (as is often the case) a mere smudge, the process is blamed, when the drawing or photograph may have been quite unsuitable for the process employed.