A Popular Handbook to the National Gallery, Volume I, Foreign Schools

108

See Report of Select Committee on the National Gallery, 1853, p. 432, where the whole story will be found very frankly told in Sir C. Eastlake's evidence.

109

Similarly Raphael Mengs, a later Spanish painter, said of Velazquez that he appeared to have painted with his will only, without the aid of his hand.

110

I read the other day in an otherwise intelligent memoir of Ruskin that "a generation which admired Velazquez had outlived the art criticism of Ruskin." Not outlived, but absorbed, and so forgotten. It was Ruskin who, half a century before, proclaimed the consummate excellence of Velazquez – the "greatest artist of Spain," and "one of the great artists of the world"; the master to all schools in his "consummate ease"; the man who was "never wrong." In his admiration of Velazquez Ruskin never wavered. The citations above given are from his earlier books. In his later period, a picture by Velazquez was included among the "Four Lesson Photographs" as "an example of the highest reach of technical perfection yet reached in art; all effort and labour seeming to cease in the radiant peace and simplicity of consummated human power" (Fors Clavigera, 1876, p. 188).

111

This was written in 1846. In 1853 some "horrible revelations" were made about the picture before the Select Committee on the National Gallery. Ruskin turned out to be curiously wrong, but also curiously right. He was wrong; for so far from the picture being "in genuine and perfect condition," a considerable portion of the canvas, as we now see it, turned out to be not by Velazquez's hand at all. Lord Cowley, its former owner, had sent it to a Mr. Thane, a picture dealer, to be relined. A too hot iron was used, and a portion of the paint entirely disappeared. Thane was in despair. The picture haunted him at nights. He saw the figure of it in his dreams becoming more and more attenuated until it appeared at length a skeleton. He was near going mad over it, when a good angel came to his rescue in the shape of Lance, the flower and fruit painter, who offered to restore the missing parts out of his head. So far Ruskin was decidedly wrong. But he was also right. The parts which Lance painted in "out of his head" were the groups on the left of the foreground, and some of the middle distance. "I endeavoured," he says, "to fill up the canvas, such as I supposed Velazquez would have done; and I had great facility in doing that, because if there was a man without a horse here, there was a horse without a man there, so I could easily take his execution as nearly as possible, and my own style of painting enabled me to keep pretty near the mark"(!). But the high lights of the sky, he particularly added, were untouched by him. So that there Ruskin was right. The picture, when restored to its owner, gave complete satisfaction, and Lance's share in it was kept a secret. A year or two later he must have felt a proud man. The picture was being exhibited at the British Gallery. In front of it Lance met two cognoscenti of his acquaintance. "It looks to me," he said, testing them, "as if it had been a good deal repainted." – "No! you're wrong there," they said; "it is remarkably free from repaints." It should be added that soon after the Parliamentary inquiry referred to above, a tracing of Goya's copy, procured from Madrid, showed in fact that the restored work differed but slightly from the copy, and Lance's work was probably far less important and extensive than he asserted. An idea of the original condition of the picture may be had from a reduced replica, or first sketch, now in the Wallace Collection.

112

The view Diderot thus took of Greuze's art suggests the importance of historical perspective in criticism. Pictures, like everything else, should be judged with reference to contemporary circumstances, as well as by the standard of abstract principle. From the former point of view Greuze, as we have seen, is a moralist in painting. From the latter Ruskin suggests the consideration "how far the value of a girl's head by Greuze would be lowered in the market if the dress, which now leaves the bosom bare, were raised to the neck" (Modern Painters, vol. iii. pt. iv. chap. v. § 7).

113

Another instance of this intimate union of art with business may be seen in the number of Dutch artists of the period who themselves held municipal office. See, for instance, Terburg (864) and Delen (1010). Many of the Italian painters also were men of business and of official standing. Thus Titian was a timber merchant; whilst Manni, Perugino, and Pinturicchio were all magistrates.

114

"The bit of bluish ribbed paper on which he made his design in light and dark strokes, now gone brown, and which he had pricked through for the purpose of tracing the design on the panel, is framed beside it. He left it about, not thinking that in 350 years it would be under glass in the distant city of London, stared at by English roughs, who would say, "Sithee Bill, he's pricked it a' through with a pin, and spilt th' ile on it!" for there are two or three of these amber-coloured blurs which come from a sketch being inadvertently put down on a palette knife" (Letters of James Smetham, p. 168).

115

These pictures, like the other Florentine works here exhibited, except 564 (which is on linen cloth attached to wood) and 276 (which is in fresco), are painted in tempera on wood. Tempera (or distemper) painting is a generic term for the various methods in which some other substance than oil was the medium. Various substances were thus used – such as gum, glue or size, flour-paste, white of egg, milk of figs. Cennino Cennini, who wrote a treatise on painting at the end of the fourteenth century, professes to give the exact method of Giotto. Egg beaten up with water was preferred by him, except where the yellowness of the mixture injured the purity of the colour. The colours thus mixed were laid on to a panel (or on to a cloth stretched over the panel) previously prepared with a smooth white ground of plaster. And finally oil or albumen was used to go over the whole surface. This was the practice in general use for all detached pictures until the middle of the fifteenth century, when what is known as "the Van Eyck method" came into vogue (see under 186).

Fresco painting is painting upon walls of wet plaster with earths of different colours diluted with water. It is so called from the colour being applied to the fresh wet surface of lime, but it is of two kinds: (1) fresco secco, when the plaster of lime has been allowed to dry on the wall and is then saturated with water before painting; this was the method in use till after Giotto's time; (2) buon fresco, when the colours are laid on to the fresh plaster before it is yet dry. (The fullest account of these various technical processes and their history is Sir C. Eastlake's "Materials for a History of Oil Painting," a review of which by Ruskin appeared in the Quarterly Review, and is reprinted in On the Old Road, vol. i.).

116

The note in the Official Catalogue says that the picture does not correspond in the scheme of colour to the works of Velazquez's early period. On the other hand, "it shows so decided an affinity with the fine picture by Zurbaran, in the Palace of San Telmo, at Seville, not only in colouring but in every detail of the treatment, that there can be no doubt that the attribution to Velazquez was an error, and that Zurbaran is the true painter of this beautiful work, which may be considered the best picture he ever painted." But "we would fain see proof," says another critic, "that Zurbaran ever painted a head like that of the Divine Child. The rest of the picture recalls the early Seville manner of Velazquez in the style of Ribera" (Quarterly Review, April 1899).

117

This picture, when first purchased for the National Gallery in 1853, was ascribed to Giorgione. For many years it was given to the "School of Bellini." In 1883 it was identified by Messrs. Crowe and Cavalcaselle as a work by Catena. Signor Morelli and other critics of his school supported this view, which in 1898 was adopted by the authorities of the Gallery. No. 694 has also been so attributed to him in the Catalogue. Other pictures which have at one time or another been connected with Catena are 599, 812, and 1160.

118

"The roguish little terrier pretends not to see what is going on. But what are the partridges doing behind the chair of the Blessed Virgin? Was the Knight a worldling, given to sport, but arrested in the pursuit of pleasure by some inward voice or vision; and so, taking the result of the day's work, he lays it at the feet of the Divine Child and His Mother? Or was worship simply the pious Knight's godly commencement of the day? Why, too, is the dog so sly looking? Is that little mass of curly white wool a sceptic, doubting his master's good resolutions?" (Sophia Beale in Good Words, July 1895).

119

Ruskin, in his classification of artists from this point of view, calls them "sensualists," reserving the traditional title "naturalists" to the greatest men, whose "subject is infinite as nature, their colour equally balanced splendour and sadness, reaching occasionally the highest degrees of both, and their chiaroscuro equally balanced between light and shade." This class represents the proper mean. In excess on one side are the "purists" (Angelico, Perugino, Memlinc, Stothard), who take the good and leave the evil. "The faces of their figures express no evil passions; the skies of their landscapes are without storm; the prevalent character of their colour is brightness, and of their chiaroscuro fulness of light." Then in excess on the other side are the "sensualists" (Salvator Rosa, Caravaggio, Ribera), who "perceive and imitate evil only. They cannot draw the trunk of a tree without blasting and shattering it, nor a sky except covered with stormy clouds; they delight in the beggary and brutality of the human race; their colour is for the most part subdued or lurid, and the greatest spaces of their pictures are occupied by darkness" (Stones of Venice, vol. ii. ch. vi.). Elsewhere, Ruskin speaks of Caravaggio and Ribera as "the black slaves of painting" (Elements of Drawing, p. 317).

120

This is the story told by Dominici, the Neapolitan historian. According to Cean Bermudez, following Palomino (the Spanish historian), Ribera died at Naples honoured and rich.

121

The tradition that he was a natural son of the Barbarella family, and in consequence called Barbarelli, appears to be unfounded.

122

"Two figures of Giorgione's are still traceable, one of them (wrote Ruskin in 1846), singularly uninjured, is seen from far above and below the Rialto, flaming like the reflection of a sunset" (Modern Painters vol. i. ed. 3 pt. ii. sec. i. ch. vii. § 30). This beautiful figure was engraved by Ruskin for his fifth volume; he called her from her glowing colour "the Hesperid Aeglé."

123

Ruskin's seven are Giorgione, Titian, Veronese, Tintoret, Correggio, Reynolds, and Turner (Modern Painters, vol. v. pt. ix. ch. xi, § 8, n).

124

A reaction in this respect is observable in the latest writer on Giorgione (Mr. Herbert Cook in the "Great Masters" Series), who shows good cause for restoring many pictures to the master. The National Gallery, he says (p. 95), affords unrivalled opportunity for studying the various phases of Giorgione at different stages of his career. Nos. 1160 and 1173 represent his earliest style; No. 1123, his later; Nos. 269 and 636 are intermediate.

125

A contemporary document, recently discovered, proves that the artist died of the plague. (See appendix to Mr. Herbert Cook's Giorgione, 1900).

126

Lecture at Oxford 1884 (reported in Cook's Studies in Ruskin, p. 251). See also the "Traveller's edition" of the Stones of Venice, vol. ii. ch. vi., where the picture is described as "one which unites every artistic quality for which the painting of Venice has become renowned with a depth of symbolism and nobleness of manner exemplary of all that in any age of art has characterised its highest masters." A copy of this masterpiece is in the collection of the Arundel Society, now to be seen in the National Gallery.

127

In an interesting discussion with Sir J. E. Millais, R.A., Mr. Watts, R.A., refers to the colours in this picture. Sir J. Millais had said that time and age are the greatest old masters, and that old Venetian colours were crude. Mr. Watts replied: "The colour of the best-preserved pictures by Titian shows a marked distinction between light flesh tones and white drapery. This is most distinctly seen in the small 'Noli me Tangere' in our National Gallery, in the so-called 'Venus' of the Tribune, and in the 'Flora' of the Uffizi, both in Florence, and in Bronzino's 'All is Vanity,' also in the National Gallery (651). In the last-named picture, for example, the colour is as crude and the surface as bare of mystery as if it had been painted yesterday. As a matter of fact, white unquestionably tones down, but never becomes colour; indeed, under favourable conditions, and having due regard to what is underneath, it changes very little. In the 'Noli me Tangere,' to which I have referred, the white sleeve of the Magdalen is still a beautiful white, quite different from the white of the fairest of Titian's flesh – proving that Titian never painted his flesh white" (Magazine of Art, January 1889).

128

Or possibly at Vicenza. See Layard, i. 283 n. The words in the document relied upon to establish his birth at Vicenza are ambiguous, and may refer to his father.

129

Its ascription to Botticelli's own hand is, however, questioned by many critics. Thus Dr. Richter says, "I know of no authentic picture by Botticelli in which the drawing of the hands and feet is so poor and coarse as are here, for instance, those of the Infant Saviour; the type of the child is positively repulsive, whereas in Botticelli's own works it is pre-eminently in the representation of the Infant Christ that his great merits are strikingly apparent" (Lectures on the National Gallery, p. 62). The child, whether painted by Botticelli or by another hand, is undeniably ugly; but the expression of the Madonna, and the figures of the Baptist and the Angel seem to me to show certainly the work of the master himself. Moreover, the critics who dispute the authenticity of this picture admit that of No. 915. Yet, as "D. S. M." says, "the mother here is the same person as the Venus, looking out of the picture with the same effect of gentle detachment, circumscribed with the same draughtsman's lines; the infant, whose type Dr. Richter finds 'positively repulsive,' is the same infant as the Satyrs of the other picture, and so all through" (Saturday Review, Feb. 18, 1899). On the back of the panel is written in the style of the 16th century the name of Giuliano da San Gallo, the celebrated architect, who was also a painter. There are drawings from his hand in the British Museum, which show that he came from Botticelli's school. His name on the back of this picture proves, it is argued, that it is by him. It may, however, very probably only signify that the picture formerly belonged to him.

130

Mr. Pater, in a well-known passage, gives a different explanation of the peculiar sentiment in Botticelli's Madonnas. "Perhaps you have sometimes wondered why they attract you more and more, and often come – although conformed to no obvious type of beauty – back to you when the Madonnas of Raphael and the Virgins of Fra Angelico are forgotten. At first, contrasting them with those, you may have thought that there was something even mean or abject in them, for the lines of the face have little nobleness, and the colour is wan. For with Botticelli she too, though she holds in her hands the 'Desire of all Nations,' is one of those who are neither for God nor for his enemies (see under III. 1126), and her choice is on her face. She shrinks from the presence of the Divine Child, and pleads in unmistakable undertones for a warmer, lower humanity" (W. H. Pater: Studies of the Renaissance).

You promise heavens free from strife,Pure truth and perfect change of will;But sweet, sweet is this human life,So sweet I fain would breathe it still.Your chilly stars I can forgo:This warm, kind world is all I know.Ionica: Mimnermus in Church.

131

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicleThat's curdied by the frost from purest snowAnd hangs on Dian's temple.

132

The doors of the temple of "two-headed Janus" at Rome were always thrown open when the State was at war, and only closed in time of peace.

133

The whole, or part, of this picture was at one time freely ascribed to Raphael; but Morelli has effectually disposed of the superstition by showing, amongst other arguments, that the drawings for Tobias and the Angel (in the Oxford University Gallery and in the British Museum) are undoubtedly by Perugino (Italian Art in the German Galleries, 1883, p. 289). The Oxford drawing is described and discussed, on the assumption that it is by Raphael, in Sir J. C. Robinson's Drawings by Michael Angelo and Raffaello, p. 129.

134

For a record of his movements the reader may refer to Morelli's Italian Masters in German Galleries, 1883, pp. 285-291.

135

Vasari's bias against the Umbrian master is too marked for any of his attacks to be accepted without corroboration.

136

In a critique of F. Walker's "Fishmongers' Stalls," Ruskin says: "If the reader will waste five minutes of his season in London in the National Gallery, he may see in the hand of Perugino's Tobias a fish worth all these on the boards together" (Arrows of the Chace, i. 177).

137

With regard to the "purist ideal" it should be noticed that "these fantasies of the earlier painters, though they darkened faith, never hardened feeling; on the contrary, the frankness of their unlikelihood proceeded mainly from the endeavour on the part of the painter to express, not the actual fact, but the enthusiastic state of his own feelings about the fact; he covers the Virgin's dress with gold, not with any idea of representing the Virgin as she ever was, or ever will be seen, but with a burning desire to show what his love and reverence would think fittest for her. He erects for the stable a Lombardic portico, not because he supposes the Lombardi to have built stables in Palestine in the days of Tiberius, but to show that the manger in which Christ was laid is, in his eyes, nobler than the grandest architecture in the world. He fills his landscape with church spires and silver streams, not because he supposes that either were in sight at Bethlehem, but to remind the beholder of the peaceful course and succeeding power of Christianity" (Modern Painters, vol. iii. pt. iv. ch. iv. § 10). For a different kind of feeling in "naturalistic" art, see under 744.

138

Visitors who are interested in such points of connoisseurship may be glad of this summary with regard to the works ascribed in the Official Catalogue to the associated painters, Fra Filippo Lippi, Filippino Lippi, and Botticelli. The undisputed pictures of Fra Filippo are 248, 666, and 667; of Filippino, 293 and 927. The pictures 592 and 1033 have marked resemblances both to Fra Filippo, Filippino, and to Botticelli, and are ascribed by different critics to one or other of those masters or pupils. 598 and 1124 are often ascribed to a pupil of Filippino; the pictures 586 and 589 to a pupil of Fra Filippo. The undisputed pictures of Botticelli are 1034 and 1126. The pictures 226, 275, 782, 915, and 916, are all ascribed by some critics to a pupil of his only, whilst to Botticelli himself has now been ascribed the portrait 626, formerly classed as "Unknown." To a supposed painter, christened by the critics "Amico di Sandro," 1124 and 1412 are attributed.

139

Layard, ii. 621. Similarly Ruskin says: "The possession of the Pisani Veronese will happily enable the English public and the English artist to convince themselves how sincerity and simplicity in statements of fact, power of draughtsmanship, and joy in colour, were associated in a perfect balance in the great workmen in Venice" (Catalogue of the Turner Sketches and Drawings, 1858, p. 10). As an instance of Veronese's "economical work" – a sure sign of a great painter – Ruskin refers to "the painting of the pearls on the breast of the nearer princess, in our best Paul Veronese. The lowest is about the size of a small hazel nut, and falls on her rose-red dress. Any other but a Venetian would have put a complete piece of white paint over the dress, for the whole pearl, and painted that into the colours of the stone. But Veronese knows beforehand that all the dark side of the pearl will reflect the red of the dress. He will not put white over the red, only to put red over the white again. He leaves the actual dress for the dark side of the pearl, and with two small separate touches, one white, another brown, places its high light and shadow. This he does with perfect care and calm: but in two decisive seconds. There is no dash nor display, nor hurry, nor error. The exactly right thing is done in the exactly right place, and not one atom of colour, nor moment of time spent vainly. Look close at the two touches, – you wonder what they mean. Retire six feet from the picture – the pearl is there!" (Modern Painters, vol. v. pt. viii. ch. iv. § 18). "One of the chief delights which any one who really enjoys painting finds in that art as distinct from sculpture, is in the exquisite inlaying or joiner's work of it, the fitting of edge to edge with a manual skill, precisely correspondent to the close application of crowded notes without the least slur, in fine harp or piano-playing. In many of the finest works of colour on a large scale, there is even some admission of the quality given to a painted window by the dark lead bars between the pieces of glass. Both Tintoret and Veronese, when they paint on dark grounds, continually stop short with their tints just before they touch others, leaving the dark ground showing between in a narrow bar. In the Paul Veronese in the National Gallery, you will find every here and there pieces of outline which you would suppose were drawn with a brown pencil. But no! look close, and you will find that they are the dark ground left between two tints, brought close to each other without touching" (Lectures on Landscape, § 68). Elsewhere, Ruskin calls special attention to the painting of "the drooped left hand of the princess, holding her crown" (Academy Notes, 1858, p. 46).

140

An even more striking instance is to be found in Veronese's picture of the Last Supper, now in the Academy of Venice. Here too he introduced his favourite dog, as well as dwarfs and armed retainers. He was summoned before the Inquisition for such irreverent anachronisms; and the account of his cross-examination is most amusing and instructive reading. A translation will be found in the appendix to Ruskin's Guide to the Academy at Venice.

141

Some readers may like to be referred to the passages in which Ruskin discusses the place of the dog in art, with special reference to Veronese. They are, Modern Painters, vol. v. pt. ix. ch. vi., and The Eagle's Nest, i. ch. viii.

142

Richter (Italian Art in the National Gallery, p. 74) disputes this. The kneeling girls are, he believes, the artist's daughters, whom he has also introduced into a picture in the Louvre, and the courtier presenting them is Veronese himself.

143

The pattern of the Madonna's robe in this picture is worth notice – "a good specimen of the treatment, probably taken from Persian examples, of a ground sprinkled with conventional sprays of flowers spaced regularly" (Vacher).