How to Show Pictures to Children/Chapter 3
III
HOW THE PICTURE IS MADE
If you are giving a child a cake, it adds nothing to his enjoyment to tell him that it came from an expensive caterer, that it contains certain ingredients and was made by certain rules, or that it will contribute to his nourishment. If it is good, he eats it and wants more, and your object is accomplished. The careful mother, however, must be sure that the cake comes from a trustworthy source, and is composed of wholesome materials, and if she is of the domestic sort, she knows pretty nearly how it was made. So in the matter of pictures: one need not worry the child by didactic explanations in regard to the artist or his art, converting his pleasure into a “lesson.” Yet all that teacher and mother can learn about the making of the picture will enable them the better to choose those pictures which will foster the child’s love of art. The critical knowledge, which increases so much our own aesthetic enjoyment, may little by little be imparted to the child as occasion offers. The more unconsciously he absorbs such instruction, the better. The art of teaching at its highest point is an art of concealing art.
How, then, is a work of art produced? By a mere haphazard process? Assuredly not. In the first place, the mere mechanical achievement of reproducing a drawing or painting in the form of a print is a marvel. We accept this as a matter of course, as we do all other manufactured articles. In this age of industrial miracles, we have no time to praise one above another. Behind the machinery is the artist with his simple tools, pencil, brush, and color. Here is the wizard performance by which a few dexterous strokes will transform a blank sheet into a living creature, or fill vacancy with a fairy world. Outwardly the success of his work depends upon his craftsmanship. He must be master of a thousand technical details. He must know anatomy, perspective, the values of light and shade, modeling, drawing, the mixing of colors, and whatever else has to do with the manipulation of the raw materials. Of all that makes up the so-called technique of art the ordinary layman has little inkling. Only one who has tried his own hand at it has any notion that what looks so easy is really so hard. And just as a few elementary lessons in the use of any musical instrument give the amateur some faint idea of the skill represented in a great orchestra, so the drawing lessons of the public school train the eye to discriminate between fine and faulty draughtsmanship. It is a fashion in certain social circles to frequent the haunts of artists and pick up some of the studio vernacular, but it is a question how far this goes towards raising art standards. What will really help us to a more intelligent appreciation of a picture is to understand its structure. For every noble work of art is based on principles as well defined as the laws of nature,—principles which are common to all the branches of the fine arts: painting, sculpture, poetry, music, and architecture. It is true that in the highest creative work, the artist acts as by inspiration, without conscious analysis. But when his work is done, it is tested by its conformity to certain laws of composition. The symmetry of a tree seems like a happy accident, but as a matter of fact there are phyllotactic laws governing the position of every branch. The stars seem scattered over the sky as carelessly as the leaves on a tree, yet each one is a world revolving in a fixed orbit by immutable laws. Nothing “happens” either in nature or art.
“Composition means literally and simply putting things together so as to make one thing out of them, the nature and goodness of which they all have a share in producing.” This is Ruskin’s definition in the Elements of Drawing, and I have never found a better one. It means that in a true art composition there is a reason for everything. Not a single line or spot of color is superfluous or meaningless. Every touch contributes to the whole effect. The architect, sculptor, painter, musician, and poet shape their materials into a complete and perfect oneness—a unity. The methods of reducing variety to unity constitute the laws of composition.
To begin with, a picture contains some one feature to which all others are subordinate. This is Principality, and by this law every means should be taken to fix attention upon the supreme point of interest. In some cases the scheme of color brings the important element into prominence. Again the method of lighting is the artist’s device for emphasizing his leading idea. In a portrait by Rembrandt the wonderful high light in the face illumines the very soul of the sitter, and is intensified by the heavy shadows from which it emerges. In most pictures the principal features are shown by the use of a diagram or framework, so to speak, on which the linear composition is built. One can trace the structural form by connecting the strongest lines of the picture. Notice, for instance, how carefully the four figures are placed in Landseer’s Shoeing. On the left side the three heads—the horse’s, the donkey’s, and the dog’s—are all in line. On the right, the blacksmith stands so that his entire figure will come compactly within the diagram.
One of the commonest compositional forms is the pyramid, which was a favorite device with the Italian masters, especially Raphael. Some of his Madonna pictures and Holy Familics, referred to in my lists, are in this style. Murillo used this form a great deal in arranging his groups, the Children of the Shell being an excellent example. The lamb is lying in such a position that a line drawn from the Christ-child’s head to the left corner forms one oblique side of the pyramid, and the diagram is completed on the other side by a line running along the back of the kneeling St. John. The two Fruit Venders also lean towards each other in attitudes which bring the figures within a pyramidal outline. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who, like Murillo, derived much from the Italians, arranged many portraits in pyramidal style. Miss Bowles is an instance, the spreading dress on one side and the spaniel on the other helping to produce the desired effect. Many of Millet’s peasant figures, like the Milkmaid, the Man with the Hoe, and the Woman Churning, are posed in a way to suggest the pyramidal outline. In all these cases, of course, the apex of the pyramid is the focal point of the picture, the point the painter wishes you to see.
Some beautiful elliptical designs are illustrated in compositions by Botticelli, the Lippi, and Michelangelo. The Delphic Sibyl of the Sistine Chapel ceiling is drawn in this form. Trace the curve described by her scroll and continue it along the edge of her robe to form an arched line on the left side. This meets the complementary curve of her back and makes a complete ellipse. Even more wonderful, perhaps, is the Italian tondo, or circular design, so perfectly consummated in Botticelli’s Incoronata and Raphael’s Chair Madonna. Here the lines flow around in concentric circles, producing a charming effect which has been likened to the clustering petals of a rose. Titian had a way of bisecting his space with a diagonal line, as in the Pesaro Madonna, where the draperies fall in a sort of cascade across the picture. The portrait of Lavinia is designed in the same way, the foundation line being the long curve running diagonally across the canvas from upper left to lower right corner. Van Dyck and Rubens, who were Titian adorers, imitated this method with great success. Van Dyck’s St. Martin dividing his Cloak with a Beggar is constructed in this way, and Rubens’s Descent from the Cross is a masterly example of the same idea. These academic methods of older artists have become a standard for later art, though with less geometrical exactness. The aim in every case is to bring one object before the eye as the leading idea of the picture. In describing a picture to one who has not seen it, or in showing a picture to a child, we are unconsciously guided by this law of Principality in picking out the most important feature of the picture at the first glance.
Next to Principality let us note the law of composition most pleasing to the child: Repetition. No one who reads or tells stories to children can fail to observe the gurgle of delight which greets the recurrence of some repeated line. How eagerly the little listener waits for the catch phrase. The oldest storytellers made abundant use of this principle, as we see in the Old Testament literature, and it is the most captivating quality in popular verse and song.
Repetition is the simplest element in decorative design. One of the child’s never-failing amusements is to pick out the repetitive feature in the rugs and wall hangings. The first lessons in designing are based on this principle, and teachers often use the Doge’s Palace in Venice to illustrate the beauty of this device. Repetition occurs in a picture in many forms: in color, mass, or line. We see it illustrated in a very simple way in Landseer’s composition of the Newfoundland Dog where the cloud forms repeat the ripples in the water. A clever example of Repetition is found in the favorite school picture of Prince Baltasar on his pony (Velasquez). How charmingly the boy’s searf and sash, and even his baton, emphasize the diagonal line described by the pony’s spirited attitude. Without any suspicion of the reason, the child catches the buoyant sense of the forward motion expressed in the whole picture. Precisely the same idea is carried out in Guido Reni’s Aurora in a succession of parallel curves across the composition. Long before either of these pictures was painted, however, Raphael had set the example in St. Michael and the Dragon. In this composition the uplifted spear of the warrior angel makes a line parallel with that running the length of his right side and along the right leg, while his sword swings back in a line parallel with the left leg. These devices add to the spirited effect of the attitude.
Repetition is offset, compositionally speaking, by Contrast. This principle, as the word implies, means a direct opposition of elements, light to dark, the perpendicular to the horizontal, the convex to the concave, etc. The main diagonal line of St. Michael and the Dragon (running from upper left to lower right) is offset by the diagonals running directly across them. These contrasting lines may be traced, one across the left arm and left wing of the angel, and another across the outstretched arms of the prostrate victim. In exactly the same way the curve of Lavinia’s uplifted arm cuts across the curve of her swaying body and Diana’s right arm cuts the long line extending from her left hand to her right foot. The drawing of Millet’s Sower is on a similar plan. The predomi
From carbon print by Braun, Clement & Co.
ST. MICHAEL SLAYING THE DRAGON
The Louvre, Paris
Contrast comes into effective play where a good many figures are brought together: youth offset by age, gayety by seriousness, motion by repose. The angelic beauty of Raphael’s St. Michael is contrasted with the ugliness of Satan; the rugged strength of St. Christopher by the infantine face of the Christ-child; the aristocratic sleekness of the horse in Landseer’s Shoeing by the shaggy coat of the plebeian donkey. Such devices, however, must not be too pronounced. They are held in check by the laws of Consistency and Continuity. In other words, the elements of a good composition are homogeneous, and hold together well, so to speak. All the color should conform harmoniously with the one scheme and the flow of line should be complete and satisfying.
It is obvious that the art of a picture may be considered quite apart from the subject, and that we may admire the composition as such, either in color or line, whether the subject is “pretty” or not, and whether we like or dislike the theme. The word “art” is not a synonym for prettiness or sentimentality, though the popular taste so often calls for these qualities. Some of the noblest pictures contain figures which are far from “pretty” in the general acceptance of that term, like Millet’s Milkmaid, or Water Carrier, or the Man with the Iloc. Van Eyck’s famous portrait of the Man with the Pink represents an almost ludicrously ugly subject treated with consummate artistry. Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson, which repels the average person, is one of the world’s masterpieces. It is often with pictures, as with novels, whose cleverness we are bound to admit, but whose themes are unpleasant or objectionable. A Drunken Bacchanal by Rubens may delight us for its color, or a Tavern Brawl by Teniers or Brouwer attract us for its life and action, however disgusting we may think the subject. The distinction should be kept clearly in mind between subject and art. Nevertheless, the perfect picture is that which unites noble ideals with strong craftsmanship. Such should be the art we set before our children.
No hard-and-fast rules can be laid down about the age at which the child may be taught the artistic qualities of a picture, so much depends upon the natural aptitude. Generally speaking, children are curious to hear how things are made. They like to see the wheels go round, and they are pleased to learn that even pictures have secrets. Repetition and Contrast are the most readily noticed of all qualities. Often without any hint from an elder the child points out in a picture one, two, three spots of red, or a curved line here and another like it there. The pupil who is fond of drawing may very likely ask questions which will open the way naturally to simple explanations. He is quick to see how his lessons in design may be applied to the structure of a picture.
I knew a boy of fourteen who became much interested in Raphael’s compositions as a help in his camera work. He had attended an art lecture only for the fun of hearing his sister speak in public, but when the diagrams of the various Madonna groups were explained, he observed at once their application to the arrangement of figures in photographs. An intelligent lad who has a definite motive like this can learn a great deal by placing iracing-paper over the photograph of a good composition, and outlining in pencil the strongest lines. I am confident that ingenious mothers and teachers can make a great deal of picture-posing or tableaux to show the children how much better the effect is when the figures are properly related. The boy taking the exact pose of Millet’s Sower, and the girl posing à la Lavinia must get some notion of the rhythmic flow of Sine in these masterpieces. Another chapter is given to the full explanation of this subject.
When the botanist analyzes a flower he must needs leave it in fragments, but the process once over, he ever after remembers the blossom in its entircty. The critical analysis of a picture would be a sad process if it were the end and object of our interest. Whatever we see in the beauty of its make-up should help us to enjoy it better as a whole. For the true work of art, like one of God’s flowers, is made first and foremost to delight the heart of man.
Rererence Books:—
M.S. Emery. How to Enjoy Pictures.
Joun C. Van Dyke. Art for Art’s Sake.
Charles H. Caffin. Guide to the Study of Pictures.
Joun Ruskin. Elements of Drawing.
Arthur W. Dow. Composition.
George Lansing Raymond. The Genesis of Art Form.