Our language generally confounds, or rather those who use it, when they speak of the art, the two words copy and imitation, though essentially different in their operation, as well as their meaning. An eye geometrically just, with a hand implicitly obedient, is the requisite of the former, without all choice, without selection, amendment, or omission; whilst choice, directed by judgment and taste, constitutes the essence of imitation, and raises the humble copyist to the noble rank of an artist.
Those who have stopped short at the acquisition of the former faculty have made a means their end, have debased the designer to the servile though useful draughtsman of natural history: and those who have aspired to the second without gaining the first, have substituted air for substance, and attempted to raise a splendid fabric on a quicksand: the first have retarded the progress of the art; the second have perverted its nature: each has erred, to prove that the coalition of both is indispensable.
It has been said by a high authority within these walls, and indeed in the whole province of modern art, that as painting is the student's ultimate aim, the sooner you acquire the power of using the pencil, the better; but I am persuaded that we should pervert the meaning of the great artist we speak of, were we to conclude, that by this observation rather than precept, he meant to discourage the acquisition of correctness. The zealous votary of M. Agnolo could never mean this; he was too well acquainted with the process of that great man's studies, who placed the compass in the eye, not to find in the precision with which he had traced the elements, the foundation of his style. His breadth, he knew, was only the vehicle of his comprehension, and not vacuity; for breadth might easily be obtained, if emptiness can give it. All he meant to say was, that it mattered not whether you acquired correctness by the pencil, the crayon, or the pen, and that, as the sculptor models, the painter may paint his line; for though neither he who anxiously forms lines without the power of embodying them, nor he who floats loosely on masses of colour, can be said to design, this being merely the slave of a brush, that of a point, yet both tools may serve alternately or indiscriminately the purposes of the real designer. It is with the same intention of emancipating your practice from an exclusive and slavish attachment to any particular tool, that you are reminded by the same authority of the proverbial expression "Io tengo il disegno alle punta dei pennelli," "My design is at the point of my brush;"—though I am afraid the expression is dignified with the great name of Correggio through a lapse of memory, as it appears from Vasari that it was the petulant effusion of Girolamo da Trevigi, an obscure painter, in derision of the elaborate cartoon prepared by Pierino del Vaga for his fresco-painting in the great saloon of the Palace Doria at Genoa.
The same authority has repeatedly told us, that if we mean to be correct, we must scrutinize the principles on which the ancients reared their forms. What were those principles?
I shall not digress in search of them to that primitive epoch when the cestrum performed the functions of light and shade, and perhaps supplied linear painting with the faint hues of a stained drawing; nor yet to the second period, when practice had rendered the artist bolder, and the pencil assisted the cestrum; when Parrhasius, on the subtile examination of line and outline, established the canon of divine and heroic form; we shall find them acknowledged with equal submission in the brightest æra of Grecian execution, and the honour of exclusively possessing them contested by the most eminent names of that æra, Apelles and Protogenes. The name of Apelles, in ancient record, is the synonyme of unrivalled and unattainable excellence—he is the favourite mortal in whom, if we believe tradition, Nature exhibited for once a specimen of what her union with education and circumstances could produce; though the enumeration of his works by Pliny points out the modification which we ought to apply to the idea of that superiority. It consisted more in the union than in the extent of his powers; he knew better what he could do, what ought to be done, at what point he could arrive, and what lay beyond his reach, than any other artist. Grace of conception and refinement of taste were his elements, and went hand in hand with grace of execution and taste in finish. That he built both, not on the precarious and volatile blandishments of colour, or the delusive charms of light and shade, but on the solid foundation of form, acquired by precision and obedience of hand—not only the confessed inability of succeeding artists to finish his ultimate Venus, but his well-known contest of lines with Protogenes (the correctest finisher of his time), not a legendary tale, but a well attested fact, irrefragably proves. The panel on which they were drawn made part of the Imperial collection in the Palatium, existed in the time of Pliny, and was inspected by him; their evanescent subtilty, the only trait by which he mentions them, was not, as it appears, the effect of time, but of a delicacy, sweep, and freedom of hand nearly miraculous. What they were, drawn in different colours, and with the point of a brush, one upon the other, or rather within each other, it would be equally unavailing and useless for our purpose to enquire; but the corollaries we may deduce from the contest are obviously these: that all consists of elements; that the schools of Greece concurred in one elemental principle, fidelity of eye, and obedience of hand; that these form precision, precision proportion,[95]proportion symmetry, and symmetry Beauty: that it is the "little more or less," imperceptible to vulgar eyes, which constitutes Grace, and establishes the superiority of one artist over another: that the knowledge of the degrees of things, or Taste, presupposes a comparative knowledge of things themselves: that colour, grace, and taste are companions, not substitutes of form, expression, and character, and, when they usurp that title, degenerate into splendid faults.
This precision of hand and eye presupposed, we now come to its application and object, Imitation, which rests on Nature.
Imitation is properly divided into Iconic and Ideal. Iconic imitation is confined to an individuum or model, whose parts it delineates according to their character and essence, already distinguishing the native and inherent, from the accidental and adventitious parts. By the first it forms its standard, and either omits or subordinates the second to them, so as not to impede or to affect the harmony of a whole. This is properly the province of the Portrait and the strictly Historic painter, whose chief object and essential requisite is Truth. Portrait in general, content to be directed by the rules of Physiognomy, which shows the animal being it represents at rest, seldom calls for aid on Pathognomy, which exhibits that being agitated, or at least animated and in motion; but when it does—and, though in a gentler manner than History, it always ought to do it—it differs in nothing from that, but in extent and degree, and already proceeds on the firm permanent basis of Nature.
By Nature, I understand the general and permanent principles of visible objects, not disfigured by accident or distempered by disease, not modified by fashion or local habits. Nature is a collective idea, and though its essence exist in each individual of the species, can never in its perfection inhabit a single object: our ideas are the offspring of our senses; without a previous knowledge of many central forms, though we may copy, we can no more imitate, or, in other words, rise to the principle of action and penetrate the character of our model, than we can hope to create the form of a being we have not seen, without retrospect to one we have. Meanness of manner is the infallible consequence that results from the exclusive recourse to one model: why else are those who have most closely adhered to, and most devoutly studied the model, exactly the most incorrect, the most remote from the real human form? Can there be any thing more disgusting to an eye accustomed to harmony of frame, than the starveling forms of Albert Durer, unless it be the swampy excrescences of Rembrandt? the figures of the former, proportions without symmetry; those of the Dutch artist, uniform abstracts of lumpy or meagre deformity: and yet the German was a scientific man, had measured, had in his opinion reduced to principles, the human frame; whilst the Dutchman, form only excepted, possessed every power that constitutes genius in art, seldom excelled in invention and composition, and the creator of that magic combination of colour with chiaroscuro, never perhaps before, and surely never since attained. And did not the greatest master of colour but one, Tintoretto, if we believe his biographer Ridolfi, declare, that "to design from natural bodies, or what is the same, from the model, was the task of men experienced in art, inasmuch as those bodies were generally destitute of grace and a good form." We are informed by the Latin Editor of Albert Durer's book on the Symmetry of the Human Body, that during his stay at Venice he was requested by Andrea Mantegna, who had conceived a high opinion of his execution and certainty of hand, to pay him a visit at Mantoua, for the express purpose of giving him an idea of that form, of which he himself had had a glimpse from the contemplation of the Antique. Andrea was then ill, and expired before Albert could profit by his instructions:[96] this disappointment, says the author of the anecdote, Albert never ceased to lament during his life. How fit the Mantouan was to instruct the German, is not the question here; the fact proves that Albert felt a want which he found his model could not supply, and had too just an idea of the importance of the art to be proud of dexterity of finger or facility of execution, when exerted only to transcribe or perpetuate defects—though these defects, almost incredible to tell, soon after invaded Italy, gave a check to the imitation of M. Agnolo, supplanted his forms, and produced a temporary revolution of style in the Tuscan School, of which the frescoes of Andrea del Sarto and Franciabigio in S. Giovanni dei Scholchi, and the latter productions of Jacopo da Puntormo are indisputable proofs. But without recurring to other proofs, the method adopted by the Academy in the process of study, appears to be founded on the insufficiency of the model for attaining correctness. Why has it decreed that the student, before he be permitted to study life, should devote a certain period to the study of the Antique? If you fancy the motive lay in the comparative facility of drawing from a motionless object, you lend your own misconception to the Academy; for, though in general it be undoubtedly more easy to draw an immoveable object than one that, however imperceptibly, is in perpetual motion, and always varies its points of sight, it cannot be the case when applied to the Antique; for where is the great name among the moderns that ever could reach the line and the proportions of the ancients? M. Agnolo filled part of the Capella Sistina with imitations, and sometimes transcripts of the Torso,—will any one stand forth and say that he reached it? Compare the Restoration of Montorsoli, Giacomo della Porta and Bernini, or Baccio Bandinello's Laocoon, with the rest of the figures, or the original, and deplore the palpable inferiority. What was it that the Academy intended by making the Antique the basis of your studies? what? but to lead you to the sources of Form; to initiate you in the true elements of human essence; to enable you to judge at your transition from the marble to life what was substance and possession in the individual, and what excrescence and want, what homogeneous, what discordant, what deformity, what beauty. It intended, by making you acquainted with a variety of figures, to qualify you for classing them according to character and function, what exclusively belongs to some or one, and what is the common law of all; to make you sensible that the union of simplicity and variety produces harmony, and that monotony or confusion commences where either is neglected, or each intrudes upon the other; in short, to supply by its stores, as far as time and circumstances permitted, what the public granted to the artists of Greece; what Zeuxis demanded and obtained from the people of Croton; what Eupompus pointed out to Lysippus; what Raffaello, with better will than success, searched in his own mind; and what Andrea Mantegna, however unqualified to find himself, desired to impress on the mind of Albert Durer—a standard of Form.[97]
I shall not here recapitulate the reasons and the coincidence of fortunate circumstances which raised the Greeks to the legislation of form: the standard they erected, the canon they set, fell not from heaven; but as they fancied themselves of divine origin, and religion was the first mover of their art, it followed that they should endeavour to invest their authors with the most perfect forms, and finding that the privilege of man, they were led to a complete and reasoned study of his elements and constitution; this with their climate, which allowed that form to grow and to show itself to the greatest advantage, with their civil and political institutions, which established and encouraged exercises, manners, and opportunities, of all others best calculated to rear, accomplish, and produce that form, gave in successive periods birth to that style which beginning with the essence, proportion, proceeded to character, and rose to its height by uniting both with Beauty. Of all three classes specimens in sufficient numbers have survived the ravages of time, the most considerable of which, accumulated within these walls, form the ample stores of information which the Academy displays before its students; but—I say it with reluctance, though as teacher my office, as your reader my duty, demand it—displays not always with adequate success. Too often the precipitation with which admission from the Plaster to the Life-room is solicited; the total neglect of the Antique after they have once invaded the model, and the equally slovenly, authoritative, and uninformed manner of drawing from it, prove the superficial impression of the forms previously offered to their selection. The reason of all this lies perhaps in a too early admission to either room. They enter without elements, and proceed without success; they are set to arrange and polish before they are acquainted with the rough materials. To one or both of these causes it is probably owing, that some consider it still as an undecided question whether the student, when admitted to draw from the living model, should confine himself to drawing punctiliously what he sees before him, or exercise that judgment which his course in the Antique Academy has matured, and draw forms corresponding with each other. To me, after considering carefully what has been advanced on either side, it appears demonstrated, that the student is admitted to the life to avail himself of the knowledge he acquired from the previous study of classic forms. Here the office and the essential duties of the visitor, I speak with deference, begin, to confirm him where he is right, to check presumption, to lend him his own eyes, and, if it be necessary, to convince him by demonstration and example. But the human system cannot be comprehended by mere contemplation, or even the copy of the surface. The centre of its motion must be fixed, justly to mark the emanation of the rays. The uninterrupted undulation of outward forms, the waves of life, originate within, and, without being traced to that source, instruct less than confound. The real basis of sight is knowledge, and that knowledge is internal; for though, to speak with Milton, in Poetry gods and demigods, "vital in every part, all heart, all eye, all ear, as they please limb themselves, and colour, shape, and size assume as likes them best;" in Art their substance is built on the brittle strength of bones, they act by human elements, and to descend must rise: hence, though a deep and subtle knowledge of anatomy be less necessary to the painter than to the physician or surgeon; though the visible be his sphere and determine his limits, a precise and accurate acquaintance with the skeleton, the basis of the machine, is indispensable; he must make himself master of the muscles, tendons, and ligaments that knit the bones or cover and surround them, their antagonismus of action and reaction, their issues, their insertions, and the variety of shapes which they assume, when according to their relative foreshortenings, laxity, position, they indicate energy or slackness of action or of frame, its greater or less elasticity, furnish the characters of the passions, and by their irritability in louder or fainter tones become the echoes of every impression.