No living artist, and probably none that ever lived, could have taken such liberties with his modus operandi without the most disastrous results; and I feel sure that no one present here to-night would think of painting a figure-picture in this haphazard fashion.
Supposing the subject of the picture to be the time-honored one of “King John Signing Magna Charta.”
Instead of (like Vernet) beginning by painting a mediæval inkstand, and then perhaps doing a bit of tapestry background, proceeding onward toward the figures, the proper process would be to get the figures done first, and finish with the accessory parts.
I will assume, therefore, that this has been done, that the composition of the groups has been thoroughly studied, that a colored sketch has been made, and that each individual figure has been carefully studied from nature. The picture, however, after all this work, would probably be far from finished.
The general effect would have to be revised; certain portions which had cost hours, and even days of labor, would have to be sacrificed; other important parts, such as heads and hands, to be altered. Finally, the general scheme of color, which was pleasing enough in the sketch, but had somehow deteriorated in the picture, would have to be attended to.
A conscientious artist has often great difficulty in knowing when his picture may be called finished.
Some men will carry their striving after perfection too far, and waste their time over really trivial details, or, like Penelope, be always undoing their previous day’s work. This is, no doubt, better than being too easily satisfied, but these vacillating artists should recollect that alterations are not always improvements.
On the whole, I think it may be safely said, that when the artist has fully carried out on the larger scale the intentions of his sketch, his work may be said to be done.
By the word “fully” I mean that each figure should be executed in such a way as to give force and pathos to his version of the subject. In the designing of hands, for instance, there are fifty ways (to return to our King John) of holding a pen. He should not hold it as if he were writing “Yours truly”; he should betray unwillingness mixed with fear both in his face and his hands.
The burly barons, again, should not appear to be inviting their monarch to kindly sign his name. Their hands ought to express a resolve that he should sign it, and in their muscular knotty fingers should be indicated a foreshadowing of the consequences if he refused.