we distinguish the tint of his complexion and the shape of his features.
But it would be untrue to Nature if we painted or drew details in his face when he first appears. His face is a blur—because of the space that intervenes.
Things in the distance cannot be as strongly drawn as those in the middle distance. For between the artist and the distant object floats a veil of atmosphere.
Some young artists will argue that they have seen pictures drawn with firm lines and details even to the very horizon. This is perfectly true. But we must bear in mind that we are discussing the subject from the point of view of pure light and shade. It is quite correct to say that details can be drawn with firm outlines and the effect of space more or less ignored. That represents a certain style of drawing or painting, a conventional kind of art. But, if we are honestly trying to draw light and shade, if we are drawing varied tones, painting not merely flat washes of colour, then we cannot ignore the truth. And it is by these observations, and the recording of these observations, that our work becomes artistic or otherwise.
Such facts, like all simple laws of Nature, we cannot avoid even if we would. The newspaper with its photographs of ordinary events confirms them daily. Look, for instance, at a photograph representing crowds gathered together in the open. In the foreground are large strong masses of light and shade, broken up into details—clothes, hands, faces, and features; in the background are misty effects, either of trees or other details of a landscape; in the middle distance are groups of people, some sitting and some walking, their clothes of dark or uniform tint, their faces misty blurs, their features indistinguishable.
The clearer is the atmosphere, the more distinct is the distance. The more brilliant is the sun, the richer and deeper are the shadows. The rich shadows of a tropical scene will be richer in the foreground than in the distance. It is purely
