No. VII.
“Blowing Bubbles,” by C. E. Wilson.
This is an excellent example of drawing—and of treatment of textures and surfaces—for process reproduction. The few pen touches on the drapery have come out with great fidelity, the double lines marking the paving stones being the only part giving any trouble to the maker of the gelatine relief block. The skilful management of the parts in light shows again “the art of leaving out.”
I am touching now upon a difficult and delicate part of the subject, and must endeavour to make my meaning clear. The illustrations in Punch have, until lately, all been engraved on wood (the elder artists on the staff not taking kindly to the processes), and the style and manner of line we see in its pages is due in great measure to the influence of the wood engraver.[8]
This refers to fac-simile work, but the engraver, as we know, also interprets wash into clean lines, helps out the timid and often unsteady draughtsman, and in little matters puts his drawing right.
The wood engraver was apprenticed to his art, and after long and laborious teaching, mastered the mechanical difficulties. If he had the artistic sense he soon developed into a master-engraver and illustrator, and from crude and often weak and inartistic drawings produced illustrations full of tone, quality, and beauty. From very slight material handed to him by the publisher, the wood engraver would evolve (from his inner consciousness, so to speak) an elaborate and graceful series of illustrations, drawn on the wood block by artists in his own employ, who had special training, and knew exactly how to produce the effects required. The system often involved much care and research for details of costume, architecture, and the like, and, if not very high art, was at least well paid for, and appreciated by the public. I am speaking of the average illustrated book, say of twenty years ago, when it was not an uncommon thing to spend £500 or £600 on the engravings. Let us hope that the highest kind of wood engraving will always find a home in England.
Nobody knows—nobody ever will know—how much the engraver has done for the artist in years past. “For good or evil,”—it may be said; but I am thinking now only of the good, of occasions when the engraver has had to interpret the artist’s meaning, and sometimes, it must be confessed, to come to the rescue and perfect imperfect work.