JOHN RUSKIN wrote The Elements of Drawing during the winter of 1856–1857. The book, published by Smith, Elder, & Co. of London, appeared for sale on June 22, 1857, and promptly sold out. It was necessary to bring out a second edition by October. A third, issued in three separate thousands, came out in 1859, 1860 and 1861. When the third edition was exhausted, the book remained out of print until Ruskin’s permission was obtained for a fourth edition in 1892. This was followed by a fifth in 1895, then by a sixth in February 1898, and impressions of this edition were dated 1900, 1901 and May 1904, making a total sale of 16,000—a considerable sale for a book of its kind. In 1904, a new pocket edition appeared on the market, in which the reverse of the title page stated that the total printing had then reached 19,000. This figure does not include the 2062 copies in the Library Edition of all of Ruskin’s writings in 39 volumes, edited magnificently and thoroughly by E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, and published by George Allen of London; nor could it include the Everyman Library edition published by J. M. Dent, London, associated with E. P. Dutton, New York, in 1907, reprinted in 1911. And it does not include the portions of the text which were published in Our Sketching Club: Letters and Studies on Landscape Art by the Rev. R. St. John Tyrwhitt of Oxford, published by Macmillan of London in 1874, and subsequently published in Boston, in 1875, by Roberts Brothers. There were also several unauthorized editions in the United States, the first being published by Wiley & Halstead of New York, in 1857, the same year the first English edition came out.
The Elements of Drawing was one of a triad of books on drawing written by Ruskin. The second book, The Elements of Perspective, came out in 1859. The third, The Laws of Fésole, a volume of revised lessons on drawing, belongs to a later period in Ruskin’s life, 1877–1878. It appeared in 1879, published by George Allen of Orpington, Kent, and London. Ruskin planned The Laws of Fésole as a two-volume work, the first devoted to drawing, the second, to painting and color. The subtitle of Volume I was “A familiar treatise on the elementary principles and practice of drawing and painting as determined by the Tuscan masters. Arranged for the use of schools.” The condition of Ruskin’s health, mental as well as physical, discouraged him from writing, or even beginning, Volume II.
Ruskin undertook The Elements of Drawing as a way of answering the many requests he received after the publication of Volume I of Modern Painters in 1843 for advice and assistance in the practice of drawing. These requests came to him from people in all walks of life: from ladies in high society, from old and close friends, from art students and from workmen like Thomas Dixon, the cork-cutter at Sunderland, to whom Ruskin was later to address the letters which form the volume of his writings entitled Time and Tide.
Ruskin had been in the habit of giving drawing lessons by letter from a much earlier date. In a letter to his friend, Sir Henry Wentworth Acland, he observes: “I know of no book which is a sufficient guide to this study. Most artists learn their rules mechanically and never trouble themselves about the reason of them.”
Two years before writing The Elements of Drawing, in 1854, he began teaching at the newly opened Working Men’s College in London (where one of his colleagues was Dante Gabriel Rossetti) and soon people began to talk about his classes. By this time Ruskin was chief among contemporary English writers on art and certainly the only critic with both the will and the ability to translate principles into practice. For Ruskin had been drawing since early youth. Even when totally absorbed in the writing of The Stones of Venice, or at work on the different volumes of his great work, Modern Painters, there was hardly a day when Ruskin did not draw or paint for several hours.
Cook and Wedderburn, the editors of the Library Edition of Ruskin’s writings, state that an examination of the proofsheets from the paragraph numbered 99 onwards shows that one set was corrected by Ruskin himself, the other by his friend W. H. Harrison. From the condition of these galley proofs, one learns that Ruskin attained simplicity and clarity of writing only by the most careful of revisions—and these by the costliest of indulgences, rewriting in proof.
Ruskin, not always a modest man, was yet modest about his methods of instruction, according to one of his students. He did not attach supreme importance to a particular method, believing that in teaching, the personality of the teacher is of more importance than the method. His object was not to instruct professional artists, but to show how the elements of drawing might best become a factor in general education. For his system he claimed only that it was calculated to encourage refinement of individual perception, to train the eye in close observation of natural beauties and the hand in delicacy and precision of manipulation—thus, to help his students understand what masterly work meant and be able to recognize it when they saw it.
But although he believed that people who wanted to enter into art as professionals should study it in academies or art schools, there is nothing in The Elements of Drawing unworthy of the attention of the professional artist or art student. Indeed, the book is a gem of information and clarity. Not a footnote could be removed from it without harming the book as a whole.
The form in which Ruskin cast the work and the method he adopted in his teaching were conditioned in large measure by the times he lived in. First, he wished in a practical way to protest against certain tendencies in the current teaching of art. Second, he wished to encourage closeness of observation rather than manual dexterity and neatness of execution. And third, he wished to fix the attention on natural objects rather than upon plaster casts of sculpture, or upon “nonsense lines” as they were to be found in the manuals of drawing which were then the only books available to students.
Of his system, Ruskin made the claim that although it was at variance with the practices of all recent European academy schools, yet it was founded on that of Leonardo da Vinci.
What of the book’s influence? Though it was directed to the student and amateur, artists read it also. At least parts of it were known to some of those whom we consider today as the giants of French painting of the later nineteenth century.
In an article in the March 1911 Contemporary Review on “What is Impressionism?” Wynford Dewhurst quotes Monet as having told a British journalist in 1900 that “ninety per cent of the theory of Impressionist painting is in . . . Ruskin’s Elements of Drawing.” This opinion by one of the greatest masters of direct perceptual painting outdoors is remarkable in view of the fact that it is doubtful if Monet could have read English with any real fluency, and that The Elements of Drawing was never translated into French. (It was, however, translated into German and Italian.) And yet he may have struggled through it, just as Marcel Proust, known to have had a poor knowledge of English, nonetheless read deeply in Ruskin and was the translator into French of The Bible of Amiens and Sesame and Lilies.
More probably Monet’s acquaintance with Ruskin’s ideas came from reading the two long passages from The Element of Drawing which Ogden Rood, the New York physicist and professor at Columbia, quoted in his book Modern Chromatics, a review of everything then known on the perception of color. This book, published in New York in 1879 by D. Appleton & Co., was subsequently reissued by the same publisher as The Students’ Text-Book of Color, or Modern Chromatics with Application to Art and Industry, in 1881. A translation of The Students’ Textbook appeared in Paris in the same year, entitled Ethereal Scientifique des Couleurs. A review of the book by Philippe Gille drew the attention of the young Georges Seurat, who obtained the book and read it carefully. The parts quoted by Rood from Ruskin were paragraph 172, part C, headed “Breaking one colour in small points through or over another,” in Letter III On Colour and Composition, and the even more striking passages from paragraphs 169 (4) and 168 (3)—in Rood’s order of selection, not Ruskin’s order of writing. In the last section one literally sees Seurat’s Neo-Impressionist technique.
Near the end of Rood’s book, he again refers to Ruskin, to his method of isolating the different colors in a landscape with the aid of a small aperture in a piece of white cardboard, by which the student is able to convince himself of the true nature of the colors composing a scene. For when these are seen isolated from the colors next to them, they are not heightened or altered by contrast; also, with such patches of color, the judgment is not affected by the memory of the colors which the objects exhibit at short distances, or by what artists call “local color.”
It is instructive to compare this with the piece of advice attributed to Monet quoted by Charles Biederman in Art as the Evolution of Visual Knowledge, published by the author privately in Redwing, Minnesota, in 1948. Says Monet: “When you go out to paint, try to forget what object you have before you, a tree, a house, a field, or whatever. Merely think, here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow, and paint it just as it looks to you, the exact color and shape, until it gives you your own naive impression of the scene before you.”
Apropos this passage, it seems timely to mention Ruskin’s own theory about unclarity, or “mystery,” in nature. It is impossible for the human intelligence to perceive all of nature. Thus he who represents what he sees before him, but is able to see either not at all or only in part, produces an abstraction which will be a projection of his own being or soul, providing he can rid himself—as much as is humanly possible—of the pictorial conventions through which he, and to a great extent, all of us who have been exposed to paintings, illustrations or photographs, have learnt, since infancy, to grasp nature conceptually. The following lines are from Modern Painters, Volume IV, Chapter 4. “Take the commonest, closest, most familiar thing, and strive to draw it verily as you see it. Be sure of this last fact, for otherwise you will find yourself continually drawing, not what you see, but what you know. The best practice to begin with is, sitting about three yards from a bookcase (not your own, so that you may know none of the titles of the books), to try to draw the books accurately, with the titles of the backs and patterns on the bindings as you see them. You are not to stir from your place to seek what they are, but to draw them simply as they appear, giving the perfect look of neat lettering; which, nevertheless, must be (as you will find it on most of the books) absolutely illegible. Next, try to draw a piece of patterned muslin or lace (of which you do not know the pattern), a little way off, and rather in the shade; and be sure you get all the grace and look of the pattern without going a step nearer to see what it is. Then try to draw a bank of grass, with all its blades; or a bush, with all its leaves; and you will soon begin to understand under what a universal law of obscurity we live, and perceive that all distinct drawing must be bad drawing, and that nothing can be right, till it is unintelligible.”
One of the popular misconceptions about Ruskin, repeated without end by those who have not read him, but only books about him, or have seen quotations out of context, is that what he meant by visual truth meant only a literal, factual recording of visual information with each fact recorded quite separately from the facts next to it—the remorseless technique of the Pre-Raphaelite Holman Hunt. To such misconceptions, Element of Drawing is an antidote. It is true, however, that Ruskin in his own drawings had difficulty in quenching his enthusiasm for individual detail. And so we find many of his drawings with brilliantly drawn “facts” isolated in surroundings of generalized unfinished effects (which may remind the viewer of some of the most recent developments in modern art). But Ruskin made these drawings for himself and sometimes for his friends. He gave them away freely. He did not think of them as drawings for sale. There are examples of an unflagging attention throughout the length and breadth of a single drawing, but for the most part it is as though his interest gave out at a certain point, or was exhausted by the intensity of his concentration upon one particular aspect of a building or a scene.
As a writer, Ruskin is sometimes silly, but always brilliant. Yet for us today, he is often a difficult writer. The reason is his inability to concentrate. As Kenneth Clark states in his introduction to his admirable anthology of Ruskin’s writings entitled Ruskin Today, published by Penguin Books: “This inability was part of his genius. In his mind, as in the eye of an impressionist painter, everything was more or less reflected in everything else; and when he tries too hard to keep his mind in a single track, as in the second volume of Modern Painters, some of its beautiful colour is lost. Still, it must be admitted that after the age of about thirty, his inability to stick to the point becomes rather frustrating, and in his later writings, where literally every sentence starts a new train of thought, he reduces his reader to a kind of hysterical despair.”
But the modern reader should have no difficulty reading The Elements of Drawing. Only perhaps where Ruskin refers to painters well known to mid-nineteenth-century readers but hardly known today except to specialists, will the reader come up against any hurdles. Also, when he speaks of “cakes” of watercolor, the best substitute today will be the small pan containing watercolor rather than the watercolor in the tube. There will be other passages about art supplies where the modern reader may have to use his own judgment in making modern substitutions. One exception is the Gillott lithograph crowquill pen, which, if the present writer is not mistaken, is still to be had on the market.
The essence of Ruskin’s art credo may be understood by assembling three widely quoted passages from different books: “The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something, and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one” (Modern Painters, Vol. III, Part IV, Chapter 16, Section 28; published in 1856). “In order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed. They must be for it; they must not do too much of it; and they must have a sense of success in it” (Pre-Raphaelitism, published in 1851). “There is no Wealth but Life” (Unto this Last, four essays on the principles of political economy, published in 1860).
In his introduction to The Art Criticism of John Ruskin, a useful as well as delightful selection of Ruskin’s writings on art made in 1964 (published by Doubleday in its Anchor Books series, but unhappily now out of print) Robert L. Herbert sums up Ruskin’s principles in a statement based on Ruskin’s own summary in The Eagle’s Nest, 1872. “First, to represent visual appearances only, never memory knowledge. This is what placed him in opposition to conventional art circles and allied him, unknowingly, with progressive French art. Second, to test these appearances only by the aspect of knowledge that pertains to visual appearances so that, for example, one would avoid the error of drawing each lash of an eye because one can’t really see them as individual hairs. Third, having learned to represent actual appearances faithfully, if you have any human faculty of your own, visionary appearances will take place to you which will be nobler and more true than any actual or material appearances; and the realization of these is the function of every fine art, which is founded absolutely, therefore, in truth, and consists absolutely in imagination.”
One should not, Ruskin says over and again, leave the truth of visual appearance by one iota, unless directed by the play of imagination. For it is the imagination, unrestrained by scientific knowledge or preconceived ideas, which enables the artist to travel beyond appearance. The works of art which result from the state of exaltation resulting from knowing the truth of nature’s appearances—which means the artist’s own subjective experience—and contemplating these appearances to the point of ecstasy, will not resemble what we think nature looks like because we shall be seeing it through another mind, that of the artist.
Says Ruskin: “We do not want his mind to be like a badly-blown glass, that distorts what we see through it, but like a glass of sweet and strange colour, that gives new tones to what we see through it; and a glass of rare strength and clearness too, to let us see more than we could see ourselves.”
Concludes Herbert, a perfect modern Ruskinite: “We therefore return again to that central precept; the artistic imagination as the source of great art.”
It is on this note of heroic optimism that this introduction may conveniently close.
1970
LAWRENCE CAMPBELL