Douris and the Painters of Greek Vases

by Edmond Pottier

Here, again, it is convenient to divide the work of Douris into two parts. At times, like all the manufacturers, he made use of old subjects with hardly any change; then, again, he sought new ideas and popularized unused themes. The latter, of course, will chiefly occupy our attention.

A general statement should first be made: the work of Douris, as we actually know it, shows a distinct preference for living subjects. Of his eighty paintings we can count seventeen dedicated to mythical subjects, twenty-two to military life, and forty-one to everyday scenes. The proportion in favour of contemporary life is more than three-fourths. Comparing these with works signed in the workshops of Euphronios (fifteen mythical subjects, two warrior subjects, and eight everyday scenes), from the workshop of Brygos (seventeen mythical, one warrior, and six everyday scenes), we observe that the proportion is reversed by the two most distinguished rivals of Douris. We may, therefore, note this characteristic in his work which he has in common with another great designer, Hieron (twenty-three mythical and thirty-one familiar scenes). These two artists thus prepared the way for the genre picture, which was to dominate the second half of the fifth century, and to make women and children the favourite subjects of painters.

Fig. 21. SEATED YOUTH HOLDING A HARE.

By Douris. Louvre Museum.

The most frequent themes are scenes from the palæstra ([Fig. 6]). Youths are wrestling, running, jumping, dumb-bells in hand, or throwing the discus; the teachers of gymnastics watch the sports, rod in hand, ready to punish the lazy or check any brutality. Sometimes a small column, or a basin intended for ablutions, a pick-axe, or a javelin thrown down, indicates where the scene takes place. Only this much would a Greek draughtsman permit himself as scenery. Man alone, action or living forms, are the subjects of his study; nor does he seek, as we do, to endow with sentiment the objects in his environment. Landscape, which moves us, leaves him quite indifferent. But what knowledge of the human form, what love of line and contour! His short, skilful brush moves freely on the clay, throwing out delicate outlines, simplifying the muscles and giving only the most essential, breaking or spreading out the long folds of the drapery, emphasizing the flexible spine, drawing sinewy hands and grave profiles with strong chins and heavy lips. He attacks the difficulties over which archaic art had not yet triumphed—foreshortening and three-quarter poses.

Kimon of Kleonai, a great painter of the sixth century, had proved how effective the latter could be. In the structure of the eye he attacks another difficult problem, trying to modify the everlasting and awkward convention of earlier times—a face in profile with an eye full face. He tries many forms—round, triangular, open on one side. One feels the solution, which henceforth shall be that of all draughtsmen, growing under his fingers. All this is suggested by the study of his beautiful paintings, in which Douris has not invented much, for the school which preceded him, that of Epiktetos, of Paidikos, of Chakrylion, offered similar studies, but he unfolds a constant desire for perfection of form.

In his work one may note the clever and economical device of drawing many persons by means of very few models. In his scenes of the palæstra, consisting of ten or twelve persons, he uses, in fact, only two models—a bearded man and a youth, who are seen under different aspects. Many of his contemporaries made use of the same device. It may be inferred that in these scenes the painter used living models more frequently than elsewhere; it is a companion or an apprentice who has posed and has been turned about on every side. In consequence, the composition is not so bold, but more commonplace than in the mythic paintings inspired by superior models.

Nowhere is this inability to group the figures in familiar scenes more apparent than in a kylix at the Louvre, in spite of an abundance of humorous detail and pretty silhouettes. What can be more graceful than the figure of The Youth and the Hare ([Fig. 21])? Seated on a stool and leaning on a stick, he looks with tenderness at the nimble little creature, which the Athenians liked to tame, and which prowled about their houses as cats do with us. At the same time it was a love token, and one frequently sees on ceramic paintings grave persons advance holding by the ears this frisky gift, which they offer to young boys. Plato’s Banquet informs us on this well-known custom of the Greeks. On the inner circle, framing like a medallion The Youth and the Hare, runs a band, repeating a design ten times in almost the same form—a bearded man rests on his stick, addressing friendly words to a boy seated before him. One holds a lyre; another a hare; others are wrapt, as if chilly, in their cloaks. Similar themes decorate the two reverse sides. In all one can count thirty-three persons, but there are in reality only two actors. It is as if a metope with two figures were constantly repeated, with some variety, upon all the free space of the vase. Each detail of the group is executed with zest and spirit, but composition does not exist.