In life the “housing problem” for the artists is acute and vexed—they have to scramble for a place and, in the scramble, if some are unduly praised far more are unduly blamed. Death seems to be the only arbiter of justice for them. In the struggle for recognition none are more unscrupulous and narrow than the artists themselves; with the instinct of self-preservation strongly developed in them they, metaphorically, deal what they hope will be death-blows at all who stand in their way. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for an artist to be a just critic of his contemporaries. The truth of this assertion is easily tested: ask an artist his opinion of a mixed dozen of old masters—he will have words of praise for all of them and his comparisons will be just and true. Then ask him his opinion of a dozen of the leading artists of his own day—he will not have words of praise for more than two; and if by chance he should still be a student in the schools he will find himself only able to praise one of them; and the remarks he will make about the others will be in questionable taste! Even our most revered old masters gave way to this human weakness. For instance, Michelangelo treated Leonardo as though he held him in profound contempt; especially in a little matter connected with the casting of a bronze. In fact—each paid the other the compliment of jealousy.
The deplorable battle that had to be waged before Whistler’s genius could be accepted is also a good example. In the very forefront of the fight rode Whistler shamelessly wounding, for the sake of his own aggrandizement, his opponents, who were really his brother artists. Viewed at this distance of time it looks a dirty business, and several good artists are only now healing of their wounds. He is forgiven of course, firstly because he was a genius of a high order and secondly because of his wit and the irresistible style with which he handled his weapons; and thirdly because he was, of course, most venomously attacked on all sides himself. It was the power of Whistler’s caustic wit that caused the prestige of our leading art society to become so undermined that, until quite recently, many of our greatest living artists could not face the ignominy of exhibiting there; and to this day one still meets with the bashful student who has to deny himself any visits to its exhibitions!
Fenollosa says: “Art is the power of the imagination to transform materials—to transfigure them—and the history of Art should be the history of this power rather than the history of the materials through which it works.” In the limited size of this book neither the one nor the other history is attempted of European pen and pencil art. Had either been intended the English draughtsmen could not so preponderate in it. That they do so is due to the fact that the book is intended primarily for the English public, and is published in the hope that it may help somewhat to stimulate its appreciation of what its own artists have done and are doing, and what the great masters did in the past.
Drawings have this great advantage—that they convey their meaning instantly. They tell their story more swiftly than a telegraph-form, whereas ideas on a printed page have to be assimilated in the usual processional order. So whoever looks through this collection of drawings with intelligent interest must be rewarded with a share in the vision of many great men on a great variety of subjects. And whether he is conscious of the process or not he must retain some memory of each; perhaps—with luck and other qualities—a very clear memory. For it is a gain, a privilege and a delight to be able to assimilate in an instant the fine idea of a great artist. Surely, too, it must give to the reader a momentary feeling of freedom from the shackles of space and time. My point is that it would take the briefest writer many pages to present to the student of psychology the personality and character of, say, the Earl of Surrey, as they are conveyed to him by Holbein’s drawing—in one coup d’œil. And it would be indeed a long book that gave him as adequate a presentment (as do these drawings) of a hundred different persons, places and incidents by a hundred different writers. For in this book are drawings that will teach him to see like gods, like super-men, like birds, like swashbucklers, and even to see with the eyes of little old ladies. And Michelangelo, in return for a glance, will give him his great conception, and Mr. Bateman will crack ten jokes with him in as many seconds.
But it takes two to establish a work of art—the artist and the other man; and even then the other man can only take from it what he can put into it: Mr. Bateman’s jokes fall flat if the other man has no sense of humour. Michelangelo has no message for the man entirely unfamiliar with fine ideas. The artist can but launch his work of art on the world and hope that the other man will recognize it.
Such diversity of presentment as the collection of drawings in this book gives should do something to inculcate a more catholic appreciation of art than one finds in that unpleasant being—“the average man.” It is the critic’s business to educate the public to that catholicity of appreciation, but unfortunately he may delight in doing the opposite: too often Ruskin’s eloquent writings did but beautifully express his bigoted prejudices. His eloquence succeeded in foisting upon the public as masterpieces—meriting comparison with the works of Titian and Tintoretto—certain banal, third-rate Victorian water-colours. And he is committed to a description of Canaletto as a base painter—because Canaletto painted into a picture what Ruskin considered an unworthy artifice. The critical faculty is to a considerable extent intuitive and sub-conscious, and therefore to concentrate only along a special line of thought is the worst possible training for a critic. However, the English people, having ceased to rely so completely on John Ruskin to do their thinking for them, and growing suspicious of the carping of that most irascible critic have, among other things, discovered the splendid sincerity of Canaletto for themselves. Let us hope that they had the generosity, in embracing Canaletto, to do so without discarding someone else of equal value; but, as a rule, immobile minds cannot take in a new thought without first ejecting some other:—our grandfathers worshipped at Raphael’s shrine; our fathers at Turner’s and we—losing interest in both—have “discovered” Velasquez; the talk in the schools and coteries is of Leonardo and Uccello while Rubens, too, is forgotten or disapproved. Cannot Uccello be great without the depreciation of Raphael! Or must partisan hero-worship be carried on about art in the same spirit as the butcher-boys of rival firms wear light or dark blue ribbons on one special day in the spring!
Surely the real value of art in this world lies in its diversity and infinite variety. The artist’s principal function in the community is that he teaches it to see. This is the great man’s final achievement. So that men who come after him say: “Ah, it was Rembrandt who taught us how glorious a thing is light”; “it was Whistler who showed us the mystery of the evening and the beauty of the Thames”; “Turner who gave us sunsets and Velasquez who taught us the marvel of our physical vision and showed us the very air we breathe.” As each new artist reaches the height of his art our horizon should grow wider and the vision of the world more rich. The new generations are going to teach us the beauty of our back streets and gasometers. Good luck to them, for when they have done it our dullest walks will have a zest!