When I left you we had just taken a view in which we sadly wanted a heron. Our artistic instincts craved for that long-legged bird, but it was denied to us. By the introduction of the heron the picture would have been raised from insignificance to a position of some importance; it would have shown intention, acquired a meaning, been sensibly improved in sentiment, and the proprieties of composition would have been observed; yet we did without the figure rather than use a stuffed one which we had at hand, and which, if used, could not have been distinguished in the print from the live, feathered, fish-eating biped. From a miserable fear of being found out we spoilt our picture. We refrained from doing something which nobody would have detected, and which, to blissful ignorance, would have been harmless—nay, very good —because we were afraid of the critics. How useful critics are to keep us guiltless of deception!—and that is the only moral I can find in it.
Even a bird—and a live one, too—may sometimes be made to pose as the balancing point in a photograph. I once selected the corner of a small piece of water as a good subject, if I could only get a “point” of light or dark in the right place on the water. A boat was not available, but there was a solitary swan that appeared to be very much interested in what we were about. After playing with him and throwing him biscuits for nearly an hour, I got him to the place where he was wanted, when he steadied himself in expectation of more crumbs.
At the time of exposure a puff of wind ruffled part of the water and greatly improved the effect by giving surface as the reflections give depth. The swan makes a very small point in the picture, but is invaluable to the effect. I won’t go into the reason why. You have read my little book, “Pictorial Effect in Photography,” in which I have gone fully into the subject of the balancing point. I would rather that you should now know and feel that the picture is made by the swan. Imagine the scene without the swan, and you will at once see how little there is in it. All this is much more apparent in the photograph than in the little illustration.
This would be a convenient time for me to enter a little into the question of figures in photographic landscapes. In one of his delightful papers, written always with rare humor, and nearly always with sound sense, my friend, Mr. Andrew Pringle, gives many reasons why the photographer should not attempt to introduce figures. Writing in the British Journal of Photography, he says:
“A very crucial test of a man’s artistic power is his selection and arrangement of figures in a landscape. I do not wish to be hypercritical, and the stone I throw hits myself often, but I must say that in ninety-nine out of every hundred landscapes with figures that I see, the figures ruin the whole affair. They are inappropriate figures, inappropriately dressed, inappropriately occupied, inappropriately posed, inappropriately and wrongly placed, and in most cases would be better at home in bed. Wherever figures are in a landscape picture, they are sure to catch the eye; if they are near the camera, the eye can with difficulty look beyond them; if they are at a moderate distance, they irritate and distract, unless treated with the greatest skill; if at a great distance, they look like defects in the plate; if they appear near one side of the picture, they are in almost all cases fatal; while in the middle they are almost invariably mischievous. I have never myself learned properly to arrange figures in a landscape, and I prefer sins of omission to those of deliberate commission, so, as a rule, I leave figures out, and among the photographers of the world I cannot count more than three or four who ever use figures perfectly, and not one who is always happy in his arrangement. Among the hundreds of landscape negatives with figures in my possession, not one satisfies me in this respect, while most of them are actually criminal in their ugliness. The commonest faults are (1) Making the figures so important that one cannot say whether the “subject” of the picture is a landscape or a figure subject; (2) Making the figures so small as to distract and harass the eye, and to produce a sensation of superfluity; (3) Putting figures in without any connection with the landscape, or where figures are not wanted at all.”
The writer gives one excellent reason for figures in landscapes, which should be all-sufficient to the enthusiastic photographer. He says that to introduce figures properly requires the greatest skill, and is a “test of a man’s artistic power.” Ordinary photography is so easy and so entirely mastered down to its chemicallist depths by Mr. Pringle, that he should be rejoiced to find there is still something left to call for his reserve powers. I agree with much that my friend says. It does too often happen that the figures are inappropriate to the last degree—wrongly dressed, wrongly occupied, wrongly placed. All this only shows that there is a good deal of art-ignorance and want of taste amongst photographers, and that the great thing they really want is art-teaching. What is the use of all their fine manipulation if they cannot turn it to a good use? All photographers strive to get beautiful gradation in their negatives; this is the one bit of art beyond which they do not attempt to go. Why cannot they go further, a step at a time, until they really learn how to “put squadrons in the field?” That figures attract the eye is true—it is one of their chief functions; that they irritate and distract is, as Mr. Pringle justly says, from want of skill in the artist; but how they can be especially fatal when they appear on one side of the picture puzzles me; figures are often very useful at the side. Their quality, though small in size, will often balance mere quantity on the other side. For an illustration of this see the little picture, “It Calling the Cows,” in Letter No. 3. Mr. Pringle would probably call this composition “juist a wee ae-sidet,” but to my eye the mass of trees to the right is perfectly balanced by the greater pictorial value of the cows to the left. To leave out figures, to prefer sins of omission to sins of commission, is not worthy of the pluck I know Mr. Pringle possesses.
Mr. Pringle points out the “commonest faults;” my answer as a teacher is, don’t commit them. Not that I think the first of them a very great defect. I don’t know whether it is necessary to anybody but a statician to know whether a picture is a landscape or a figure subject. If it is interesting, it will give sufficient pleasure without being tabulated.
A landscape without a figure in it can seldom claim rank as a picture. I have taken the trouble to look through the exhibition of the Royal Academy for examples of pure landscape without figures, and have found very few—not one per cent. I call to mind one or two fine exceptions, of which Millais’ “Chill October” is the chief, but their beauty depends almost entirely on the splendid power of execution. They do not translate well into black and white, and can therefore be no guide to the photographer. Of course there are some scenes which come under the head of landscape in which figures would be inappropriate or impossible, such as some aspects of Niagara, yet in one view of this tremendous scene I have seen a tiny steamer which, by contrast, added immensely to the realization of the majesty of the mighty rush of water, and I have seen others in which the impertinence of the figures have made me sorry that photography was ever discovered. There can be little doubt that “combining the aspects of nature with the doings of man” is at the root of all great landscape, whether painted or photographed. I grant that it is difficult to obtain good models, but it is a difficulty which can be surmounted. Then, again, I am often told by young beginners that they cannot think of incidents, cannot find anything for their figures to do. All I can say is, these things will come by constant study, and the more subjects an intelligent photographer may use up, the more will come to him. Ideas seem to come with practice. John Stuart Mill, who had more ingenious ways of making himself miserable than any dozen other pessimists, used to reflect on a time when all musical combinations would be exhausted; and the artist also may look with apprehension to the time when all possible subjects may be used up. But he need not fear. It may be said of nature as of Cleopatra—”Nothing can stale her infinite variety.”