ART.
DISMAL ART.
Is it true that English Art is becoming more gloomy in subject and in various other ways than it used to be ? There are evidently some people who think and say so. It is now a year or two ago that a "Country Critic," in the Corn/sill Magazine, de- clared that the art of the Pre-Itaphaelites, which, if we are not mis- taken, he clearly took to be the most living art of the time, was infected with incurable melancholy ; that our landscapes, especially if they were the work of " rising " men, represented, always leaden-grey skies, barren moorlands, and a world in general "chill with ruinous rain ;" and that after a course of such art as he could see in a round of exhibitions, studios, and the rooms of certain highly-cultivated "collectors" of his- acquaintance in Oxford and elsewhere, he was fain to rush into the National Gallery, for the sake of refreshing himself with the sight of a Titian or a Turner. And now we have the phrase "Dismal Art" appearing as the title of several letters in the Times. In the first of these, the writer complains that our Artiste give us nothing but pictures of humanity in rags, misery, and wretchedness, and of nature in every form of atmospheric discom- fort and gloom, and like the "Country Critic," he, too, makes his last word one of loving regret for the sweetness of Reynolds and Gains- borough and the happy splendour of Turner. "An Artist "replies that we are not nearly so dismal in our pictures as the French, and that if we do not produce so large an annual crop of pleasing art of the "Vicar of Wakefield" and "Don Quixote" kind as we did once, it is because art has got itself emancipated from the old race of patrons, "who liked to have pretty, cheerful pictures, wherewith to enliven the walls of their dining-rooms ; but now that Art is become more general, it is found that there is a market for something better than namby-pamby pictures." "Art is becoming more truthful, and hence more offensive to a portion of the public."
That we had a great deal too much of the "Vicar of Wake- field" in the quiet times which preceded the Pre-Raphaelite -outburst is certainly. true. We must not forget also that some very dismal pictures indeed were painted in the old days, when Fuseli did his best to dream horrors, and so get ideas for his witches, and when Sir Thomas Lawrence (of all men in the world) stretched his " Satan " on the biggest canvas he could get. What should we say to such abominations now ? Still it strikes us as a very strange view to say that the public, or any portion of the public, is offended with recent art on account of its truthfulness. Is it not that we are beginning to ask why this valuable truthful- ness should be so much bound up with ugly, unpleasing, and melancholy choice of subject,—with awkward or common-place design, and with crude, dingy, or positively bad colour. We may be quite right in believing that we have truer notions than the last generation had about technical matters, that we recog- nise more perfectly the necessity of good draughtsmanship and of thorough training as a means of obtaining it, above all, that we see more clearly that a painter's first business is to paint, and have a pious horror of prettiness and pretence ; but do we care as much about the choice of things to be painted, or keep in mind the lofty function which Art is properly called to fulfil, for let the upholders of the Art for Art's sake doctrine say what they will, the world knows better. There is no denying that we do not do so. Nay, there are those who will have it that our artists have very nearly lost the power of seeing beauty altogether, that Napoleon-like, they seek only to strike, and strike hard, and aim at nothing so little as the perfect setting-forth of calm and abiding loveli- ness. Other critics put their complaint more rudely, but it means much the same thing. They cry out that there is too much paint in our picture-shows and too little mind, and we hold it true that there is a real connection between the dominant fashion of laying colour on canvas (a fashion which has its merits of force and " telling " power, only they are incom- patible with the highest excellences of colour), and the fashion which dictates the choice of subject. Both subject and treatment we know are realistic, but why should realism be so little capable of giving us our fair proportion of pictures representing heroic deeds such as would make our hearts burn within us, or pictures which realise even terrible things, but with such tenderness and manifest love of beauty, quickened by the intensity of the artist's sympathy, that the effect is not one of horror, but of noblest pleasure? Realism has not been inconsistent with such things in poetry.
It is to deeper causes than we can enter into here that we owe the disposition, which is only too manifest in the best work of the time, to be content with far other qualities than those of loveli- yeas in form and colour, and delight in the expression of sympathy with heroism or moral beauty. A phase of national life as well -as of art development is reflected in it, and whatever the character of the years that are to come may be, that of the last few pro- sperous years, with their leaps and bounds in the increase of wealth, has not been favourable to the growth of a noble conception of Art. If, however, there is a doctrine which artists reject with -scorn, it is that of any relation existing between the art and morality of either individual or nation. As a rule, they would hold that art is not the expression of a man's whole nature, -of his body, soul, and spirit in mysterious and wonder-working unison, but only the result of the exercise of a few very excellent craftsman's gifts. Hence the choice of subject is a matter of technical considerations altogether ; nay, it would be main- tained, if the question were raised at all, that a painter had better not run the risk of being confused by considerations of any other kind, or feel strongly, as possible subjects, things which might strain his power, or embarrass him ever so little in the easy exer- cise of it. Of course artists are not to be blamed, quite the reverse, for carefully considering and keeping within each his own peculiar range ; but there is such a thing as losing sight of the -duty of endeavouring so to raise the whole nature, of which the power of art-expression is but the slave, as to make it incapable of dwelling on unredeemed or nncontrasted ugliness, pain, or vul- garity. How much cynicism, how much defiant mockery do we see on canvas now-a-days, all told with unpitying force and com- plete enjoyment ! How seldom do we see a picture which makes us feel that life, with all its meanness, is worth living, and that the
pain and distress of Nature have indeed a meaning, and that for good!
But if this dismal tendency may perhaps be open to ques- tion as regards the subjects of recent pictures, there cannot surely be a doubt about it as regards their colour. And here we had better declare at once that we yield to none in our respect for such members of the colour system as greys and browns. If they do not excite us as much as some colours do, they are de- lightful to live with, in their proper place. Our heart warms to them as familiar and well-tried friends. But dirty browns and muddy or inky greys,—we follow Mr. Ruskin in thinking them fit for the expression of dullness and impiety, and nothing else! It is to be hoped that the author of an able and interesting article on colour in the current number of the Cornhill Magazine shares this view, for it gives us a slight shock to see that he looks for- ward to the time when our landscapes will be "greyer and more truthful." Purer and brighter we hope that they will become, and consequently more truthful, but we fear the writer is one of those who think that it is only in sunsets and sunrises and ex- ceptional momenta of natural splendour that we get more brilliant and rejoicing colours than any palette can cope with successfully. Ordinary sunlight, on ordinary grass, rock, heather, or foliage, will strain the art of the colourist to the utmost, and will very seldom allow the picture to be a grey one. It is just the predominance of grey, generally of the dirty kind, which we complain of in modern landscape work. How is it, too, that realistic painting is so often heavy, opaque, and uniformly loaded ? How is it that richness and force of colour are sought by means which make the work only just escape being a daub ? Great genius runs the risk and triumphs, but what of the effect of such triumphs on lesser men ? Whatever causes the ignoble choice of subject causes also the discordant or dismal colour. Fine colour will not lend itself to base design ; the mind which can create the one is incapable of creating the other.
It is a singular instance of contrasted opinions that just after the "Dismal Art" letters, the Times should print an extract from a French criticism on the English School, as represented in Paris. It is a perfect waft of applause, and makes us almost believe that English Art is bewitching the world by its grace, truthfulness, and beauty. Let us hope that our foreign critic is nearer the truth than our dismal ones at home, and take
courage. A.
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