CHAPTER XIII · INFLUENCES AND TENDENCIES
“C’EST L’AFFIRMATION GRANDIOSE DE L’EFFORT VERS LE BEAU QUE CERTAINS ARTISTES INDÉPENDANTS TRAITÈRENT À UN MOMENT DONNÉ EN DEHORS DE LA TRADITION ET DES FORMULES ACQUISES”
GEORGES LECOMTE
IT is the fashion nowadays amongst a certain class of art-critics to adopt the pessimistic note. They laud the past, deplore the present, and display sympathetic alarm for the future of art and artists. Should a modern manifestation of art be under discussion, some phase undeniably good and universally accepted by those best qualified to form an opinion, these critics recognise it with a guarded qualification and a prophecy of its speedy decadence in the immediate future; and these depreciatory remarks are extended to all those artists who have been attracted by the new movement and have ranged themselves under its banner. It has always been so. In the art literature of the past we read of Delacroix and the decadence, of Corot and the downfall, of Monet and the abyss. There are still living in France aged and honoured professors, members of the Institute and of the Salon juries, who believe that the teaching of Claude Monet has been a national calamity. They hold that art no longer exists, having been destroyed by these dreadful innovations. Is it not strange that the birth of new methods, rather than the death of old ones, should be heralded with melancholy head-shakings, with frequent and wrathful imprecations upon the impious intruders! Time rights all things. The new to-day is old to-morrow, the exotic becomes classic, and one more page is added to the history of the evolution of art.
Nothing is more amazing than to read in the daily and weekly press of the “pernicious influence” and decadence of modern French art, criticisms the more astonishing as the present age is one of universal travel and liberal ideas. French art is in no such parlous state, and never, at any period of its history, displayed stronger signs of vitality. Never was its activity greater, nor its influence, poetry, and gaiety better for the general good of the nation. Such wild accusations are unjustifiable, hypocritical, and themselves pernicious. French influence dominates the work of the most successful painters and sculptors throughout the world. The art of such men as La Thangue, Edward Stott, Alfred East, Peppercorn, Bertram Priestman, Arnesby Brown, Fred Footet, John Lavery, Macaulay Stevenson, Edwin Abbey, John S. Sargent, George Clausen, and the men of the Glasgow school, is unquestionably derived from Paris, a city we are asked to believe is decadent in art matters. Of these artists it may be said that the majority were educated in Paris. It is well to acknowledge candidly that, although in the days of Gainsborough, Turner, Constable, and the other members of that brilliant band, English art led the world, to-day we must look to “la ville lumière” for instruction and inspiration. The fact is proved by the enormous preponderance of students of all nationalities who flock to Paris for the completion of their art education. In other words, French art is the leading art of the day, and will remain so for many years to come.
Let any unbiased observer compare the two magnificent Salons of Painting and Sculpture held annually in Paris with the English Royal Academy, New Gallery, and British Artists’ Exhibitions. Note that France houses her artists in some of the most beautiful palaces in the world, then think of London. Observe the high average quality of the exhibits, their astounding technical excellence, the courage of the artists, and their bold experiments in untrodden paths, their extraordinary originality and diversity of temperament. They are not content with an ephemeral success, or the stereotyped reproduction of popular playthings. The contributors are cosmopolitan in nationality, for, provided the necessary passport of talent, Paris welcomes the stranger. Where in Great Britain can the foreigner, even if he possess acknowledged genius, be sure of meeting with a sympathetic reception and fair play from a Hanging Committee? He is fortunate if he escapes public ridicule. The Continental artist has learnt this lesson and troubles us no more, to the blight of our national education and the detriment of our taste. This blot upon our reputation for common sense has been to some extent redeemed of recent years by the International Society of Painters, Sculptors, and Gravers. Perhaps its intermittent exhibitions will rehabilitate our name abroad, and incidentally aid in revivifying our national taste.
Recall haphazard the names of a few artists who are at the present moment exhibiting in France. Aman-Jean, Barillot, Binet, Besnard, Billotte, Bracquemond, Cottet, Chèret, Carrière, Cassatt, Cazin, Dagnan-Bouveret, Daillon, Dameron, Didier-Pouget, Degas, d’Espagnat, Forain, Fantin-Latour, Geffroy, Gosselin, Gaston la Touche, Gagliardini, Guillaumin, Harpignies, Henner, Lhermitte, Le Sidaner, Meunier, Marais, Monet, Menard, Maufra, Montenard, Pointelin, Ribot, Rigolot, Raffaëlli, Rodin, Renoir, Roybet, Ziem. This list can be extended indefinitely by the addition of the names of artists of the rarest temperaments. The art of the whole of the rest of the world cannot surpass the productions of these men.
The state of the plastic arts in England is deplorable. If it be not soon remedied, we shall be compelled to go abroad for any statues needed. The little sculpture we have is frequently excellent, but its output is so insignificant that it cannot possibly be compared with the sculpture of France. The art cannot flourish in England whilst there are so few public commissions, or wealthy patrons. Financially the painter’s career is bad enough, but, as a remunerative profession, sculpture does not exist. Look around the galleries in London during the height of the season, and note the quite insignificant amount of sculpture exhibited. Many of the London galleries exclude it altogether, and in the provincial collections it is practically non-existent. If there is any it is systematically overlooked by visitors, and as for sales—! one never hears of such a thing. Then remember Paris with its immense annual production of excellent sculpture, and the admirable manner in which the State fosters this great art.
If we take monuments and statues in public places as the fittest expression of national gratitude, we are sadly lacking. Where in England can we find monuments in perpetuation of the memory of such mighty painters as Turner, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Constable, Romney, and a score besides. If we possess such monuments, they are certainly hidden away from the sight of both native and stranger, and the latter frequently remarks upon their absence. In France the birthplaces of these artists would have raised some remembrance, whilst the capital city in which they laboured would surely have had its statues and collegiate endowments to perpetuate their spirit. An example can be quoted from the little country town in which these lines are being written. Here in Les Andelys, in the most prominent position, are two statues. One of them is as fine a memorial as can be seen in any capital city of Europe. The men so honoured in imperishable bronze are not kings, generals, statesmen, or even local benefactors. They are merely artists, and one of them (the son of an Englishwoman) is but distantly allied to the countryside. Chaplin and Poussin, two artists of thoughtful, gentle lives, of obscure birth, without fortune or influence, yet possessors, in some degree, of the ennobling fire of genius. Of these men the simple townspeople are exceedingly proud, and in such pride we see the whole spirit of the nation. France delights to honour genius, and the intelligent foreigner, noting these things, will pay little heed to stories that decadence and pernicious influences are the outcome of such a feeling.