J.M.W. Turner, Crossing the Brook, 1815.

Oil on canvas, 193 x 165.1 cm.

Tate Collection, London.

 

 

Whilst Gainsborough regards Nature in the light of his own pure and tender feeling, Constable, in a masterful and imperious manner, lifts the veil of beauty and depicts her in her grand and angry moments.

His style is rich and impetuous. His studies, exhibited at the South Kensington Museum, give the impression of an energetic brain and impulsive execution. He is a poet whose nature is roused to ecstasy by stormy elements; although not blind to tranquil beauty, it is life and movement which stir the depths of his soul. In France, Constable’s pictures wrought a wonderful effect. So great was their success that our modern school of landscape is greatly indebted to him. This new school was first started by Paul Huet, who courageously set himself, unaided, to the task of changing the prevailing style.

Constable’s example wonderfully tended to strengthen his energy in this great work. It was not effected without much opposition from former leaders of classical art. There is a curious letter on this subject by Constable himself. “Collins,” he writes, “declares that only three English painters have made a name in Paris – Wilkie, Lawrence, and Constable.

But the Parisian critics are up in arms against the infatuation of the public, and severely warn the young artists. ‘What resemblance can you find,’ ask they, ‘between these paintings and those of Poussin, which we ought always to admire and imitate? Beware of this. Englishmen’s pictures; they will be the ruin of our school. No true beauty, style, or tradition is to be discovered in them.’ “I am well aware,” adds Constable, “that my works have a style of their own, but to my mind, it is exactly that which constitutes their merit, and besides, I have ever held to Sterne’s precept: ‘Do not trouble yourself about doctrines and systems, go straight before you, and obey the promptings of nature.’”

And thus it was that a style of faithful landscape painting was established; but how many people still entertain fears that the rage for an exact study of nature will have a too realistic influence on the other branches of art?

How many times must we remind them that, as art is a perpetual representation, the fact represented must be viewed by the painter through a medium, which is nothing less than his own soul, which is his highest conception, the mainspring of his intellectual existence? It is in virtue of this alone that he gains any distinctive merit, but the medium must be entirely his own. There are many persons who, possessing none, borrow their neighbour’s, and thus imitate a reflection. They present us with a distorted representation of what has been conceived by another mind. And were this mind the highest imaginable, such a system cannot fail to be injurious and utterly fatal to them.

For want of genuine virtues, artificial ones are brought forward. Feebleness is honoured by a high-sounding title, and we speak of the respect due to tradition. Pretending to believe that the old masters have solved every problem, we humble ourselves in the dust before them. They are exalted as if they were superhuman, and as though – as in the Divine commands the waves – they had the right to say, “Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.”

And this fraud has actually held its own. Let us in opposition quote Ralph Waldo Emerson’s grand words: “To believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men – that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense.”

And these, nobler still: The highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato, and Milton, is that they spoke not what men thought, but what they thought.

This, in his own line, is Constable’s merit, and one which we have a right to demand from all artists – that he gave utterance to his own thought.

His whole life was a struggle which he maintained by self-reliance. Aptly he illustrates the American philosopher’s words: “A man is to carry himself in the presence of all opposition as if everything were titular and ephemeral but he.” Learn all you can from the past, and forget it – this is the only rule for great artists.

We shall now speak at some length of a celebrated landscape painter, who ever most faithfully followed this rule – J.M.W. Turner[13]. What a singular character was this man! and how admirably suited to perplex and baffle those who desire nothing in an artist but a slavish submission to formula! By these, Turner’s life is divided into two portions – the sane, and the insane. They do not deny him a certain amount of talent in his first fifteen years of work, while he labours in well-known tracks. But when the painter, having perfected the means of accomplishment, attempts with ever-increasing zeal to attain his self-conceived ideal, then they can follow him no longer, but consider it their duty to pass judgment on what they term his wild extravagance, and with many regrets excommunicate him from the realms of art.

But why do they allow him so much indulgence during the early part of his career? He never for an instant swerved from the course which he laid down for himself. The fact was that this great painter worked for the realisation of an unusual ambition, and with the prospect of a long life (he lived until the age of seventy-five), he possessed a most important attribute for those who seek distinction – patience.

Turner’s one dream, the extraordinarily high aspiration of his life, was to gain a complete knowledge of light in all its phases. With this end in view he spared no pains. For a long time he made a careful and thorough investigation of the works of Claude Lorrain, the painter considered the most skilful of any in effects of light. He studied, analysed, and copied his paintings, and never rested until he had thoroughly mastered all that this artist had to teach. He also imitated his style, as well as that of Lorrain’s friends, Nicholas and Caspar Poussin, and when these clever imitations were exhibited to the public, he was declared in his turn to be a master by the leading judges of the day. Turner only smiled to himself, and, unhindered by either flattery or criticism, slowly but surely continued in his course towards the attainment of his purpose. At the time when others said of his work, “That is perfection!” he was saying of himself, “I have just done with leading-strings, and am beginning to walk alone.”

One may easily mistake his design by merely seeing the titles of his pictures, which are nearly all mythological in subject, historical scenes, Apollos, Hannibals, Didos, Muses, Medeas, etc., in short, all the ordinary themes of historical landscape painters. But about this he gives himself very little concern, and, indeed, he is thus only drawing attention to the subordinate parts of his talent. Here and there in his pictures one may find some figures fairly well done, but it must be admitted that, as a rule, they are not only indifferent, but atrociously bad. There is one, however, which is admirable, that of Apollo in the picture called Apollo Killing the Python. I do not know whether the great French artist, Gustave Moreau, has ever seen this lifelike painting, but whenever he does he will appreciate the genius of one of his ancestors.