We are continually receiving letters from correspondents asking us to recommend them some books on art.

Now we can deeply sympathize with these earnest fellow-workers, for at one period we wasted much time in vexation of mind in reading the works of “self-appointed preachers, who knew many things save their subject.” When we endeavoured to learn something of art we put the very same question to our teachers, and the answer came, “There is nothing worth reading; some good things have been written by painters but they are old now, for art has developed greatly of late years, one thing only we can advise you, don’t read anything not written by a practical man.”

When we came to consider the writings of artists, we found that but very little had been written by them, and we can only repeat to the student, with the full conviction of experience, that he must read nothing save that written by practical artists.

The technique and practice of art can be taught in studios, and its principles can be scientifically recorded, but the poetry of art cannot be taught, only hints can be thrown out. The poetic qualities which make an artist as distinguished from the craftsman are born in a man and cannot be acquired by any amount of training. It is for this reason we must suppose that artists have, as a rule, thrown out suggestions and hints rather than enunciated any laws: these hints and suggestions, then, coupled often with the rhapsodies of literary men, form the body of all writings on art.

The only books we know of from which the student will derive some benefit are Leslie’s “Life of John Constable.”

William Hunt’s “Talks about Art.”—This excellent little book is often contradictory and illogical, but nevertheless we heartily recommend it.

In the body of this work we spoke of recommending a few books which every photographer should have in his library, and if he has no library he should at once make a modest beginning. The library is, to the intellectual man, the armoury wherein are kept the arms which he must wield in the battle for truth.

Every photographic society in the world, worthy of the name, should collect all journals, pamphlets, and books bearing on photography, as well as all books illustrated by photography and photographic processes. Scrap-books should be kept in which are pasted all newspaper and magazine articles on photographic subjects. Photography is but young, and there is plenty of time to make such a collection complete. If all the numerous societies subscribed, it might be worth while to reprint whole volumes of rare journals.

The numerous photographic societies in this country could easily get library subscriptions, or even organize entertainments amongst their members and friends to procure the necessary funds for a library.

The Camera Club has set an admirable example in this direction which will no doubt be followed. Among the books we should recommend the student to begin with are—

Dr. Wilson’s edition of Burnet’s Treatise on Painting. This book can be obtained of Messrs. Lund and Co., St. John Street, Bradford.

The late Mr. Baden Pritchard’s Photographic Studios of Europe, Piper, Carter, and Co.

Mr. Bolas' Cantor Lectures on Photo-mechanical Processes, Piper, Carter, and Co.

Mr. Hodgson’s Modern Methods of Book Illustration.—Mr. Hodgson’s was the first book on photo-mechanical processes, and it still remains one of the best.

Dr. Liesgang’s Manual of Carbon Printing, Sampson Low and Co.

Messrs. Welford and Sturmey’s Photographer’s Indispensable Handbook. Iliffe and Son.

Mr. Chapman Jones' Science and Practice of Photography. Iliffe and Son.

TraitÉ EncyclopÉdique de Photographie, par Dr. Charles Fabre. Paris, Gauthier-Villars.

APPENDIX II.

SCIENCE AND ART.

(A Paper read at the Camera Club Conference, held in the rooms of the Society of Arts, London, on March 26th, 1889.)

Mr. President, Ladies, and Fellow-Photographers,—Before beginning this paper I would fain ask of you two things,—your attention and your charity, but especially your charity. The reception which you accord me, ladies and gentlemen, assures me you will give both, and I thank you beforehand.

Since all mental progress consists, as Mr. Herbert Spencer has shown, for the most part in differentiation,—that is in the analysis of an unknown complex into known components,—surely it were a folly to confuse any longer the aims of Science and Art. Rather should we endeavour to draw an indelible line of demarcation between them, for in this way we make mental progress, and Science and Art at the same time begin to gather together their scattered forces, each one taking under its standard those powers that belong to it, and thus becoming integrated, and necessarily stronger and more permanent; for evolution is integration and differentiation passing into a coherent heterogeneity. Now, I do not mean to premise that this confusion between Science and Art exists everywhere,—it does not. But I feel sure that it exists largely in the ever-increasing body of persons who practise photography. The majority of them have not thoroughly, nay, not even adequately, thought the matter out. It is obvious then, according to the teachings of evolution, that, if we are to make progress, this differentiation must be made, thoroughly understood, and rigidly adhered to by every practitioner of photography. Each one must have his aim clearly stamped upon his mind, whether it be the advancement of Science or the creation of works whose aim and end is to give Æsthetic pleasure. Proceed we now to analyze the difference between the aims and ends of Science and Art.

Let us first approach the subject from the scientific standpoint.

Assuming that we have before us a living man, let us proceed together to study him scientifically, for the nonce imagining our minds to be virginal tablets, without score or scratch. Let us proceed first to record the colour of his skin, his hair and eyes, the texture of his skin, the relative positions of the various orifices in his face, the number of his limbs, the various measurements of all these members. So we go on integrating and differentiating until we find that we have actually built up a science,—ethnology. If we pursue the study, and begin to compare different races of men with each other, we find our ethnology extends to a more complex anthropology.

We next observe that the eyelids open and close, the lips open, sounds issue from the mouth, and our curiosity leads us to dissect a dead subject, and we find that beneath the skin, fat, and superficial fasciÆ there are muscles, each supplied with vessels and nerves. We trace these vessels and nerves to their common origins, and are led to the heart and brain. In short, we find the science of anatomy grows up under our hands, and if we go on with our studies we are led into microscopy. Then we begin to ponder on the reasons why the blood flows, on the reasons why the corrugator supercilii and depressores anguli oris act in weeping, the musculus superbus in practical arrogance, and the levator anguli oris in snarling or sneering. So we go on studying the functions of all the organs we find in our man, and lo! we are deep in physiology; and if we go deeply enough we find the thread lost in the most complex problems of organic chemistry and molecular physics. And so we might go on studying this man; and if our lives were long enough, and if we had capacity enough, we should be led through a study of this man to a knowledge of all physical phenomena, so wonderful and beautiful is the all-pervading principle of the conservation of energy, and so indestructible is matter. As we proceeded with our studies we should have been observing, recording, positing hypotheses, and either proving or disproving them. In all these ways we should have been adding to the sum of knowledge. And in the greatest steps we made in our advancement we should have made use of our constructive imagination,—the highest intellectual power, according to recent psychologists.

The results of these investigations, if we were wise, would have been recorded in the simplest and tersest language possible, for such is the language of Science. It is needless to point out that in these records of our studies, as in the records of all scientific studies, too many facts could not possibly be registered. Every little fact is welcome in scientific study, so long as it is true. And thus the humblest scientific worker may help in the great work; his mite is always acceptable. Such is, alas! not the case with that jealous goddess, Art: she will have nothing to do with mediocrity. A bad work of art has no raison-d'Être; it is worse than useless,—it is harmful.

To sum up, then, “Science,” as Professor Huxley says, “is the knowledge of the laws of Nature obtained by observation, experiment, and reasoning. No line can be drawn between common knowledge of things and scientific knowledge; nor between common reasoning and scientific reasoning. In strictness, all accurate knowledge is Science, and all exact reasoning is scientific reasoning. The method of observation and experiment by which such great results are obtained in Science is identically the same as that which is employed by every one, every day of his life, but refined and rendered precise.”

Now let us turn to Art, and look at our imaginary man from the artistic standpoint. Assuming that we have learned the technique of some method of artistic expression, and that is part of the science we require, we will proceed with our work.

Let us look at the figure before us from the sculptor’s point of view. Now what is our mental attitude? We no longer care for many of the facts that vitally interested us when we were studying the man scientifically; we care little about his anatomy, less about his physiology, and nothing at all about organic chemistry and molecular physics. We care nothing for his morality, his thoughts, his habits and customs,—his sociological history, in fact; neither do we care about his ethnological characters. If he be a good model, it matters little whether he be Greek, Italian, or Circassian. But we do care, above all, for his type, his build, and the grace with which he comports himself; for our aim is to make a statue like him, a statue possessing qualities that shall give Æsthetic pleasure. For the raison-d'Être of a work of art ends with itself; there should be no ulterior motive beyond the giving of Æsthetic pleasure to the most cultivated and sensitively refined natures.

The first thing, then, we must do is to sit in judgment on our model. Will he do for the purpose? Are his features suitable? Is he well modelled in all parts? Does he move easily and with grace? If he fulfils all these conditions we take him. Then we watch his movements and seize on a beautiful pose. Now with our clay we begin to model him. As we go on with our work we begin to see that it is utterly impossible to record all the facts about him with our material, and we soon find it is undesirable to do so,—nay, pernicious. We cannot model those hundreds of fine wrinkles, those thousands of hairs, those myriads of pores in the skin that we see before us. What, then, must we do? We obviously select some,—the most salient, if we are wise,—and leave out the rest.

All at once the fundamental distinction between Science and Art dawns upon us. We cannot record too many facts in Science; the fewer facts we record in Art, and yet express the subject so that it cannot be better expressed, the better. All the greatest artists have left out as much as possible. They have endeavoured to give a fine analysis of the model, and the Greeks succeeded.

It is beside the question to show how Science has exercised an injurious influence upon certain schools in art; but that would be very easy to do. At the same time, the best Art has been founded on scientific principles,—that is, the physical facts have been true to nature.

To sum up, then, Art is the selection, arrangement, and recording of certain facts, with the aim of giving Æsthetic pleasure; and it differs from Science fundamentally, in that as few facts are compatible with complete expression are chosen, and these are arranged so as to appeal to the emotional side of man’s nature, whereas the scientific facts appeal to his intellectual side.

But, as in many erroneous ideas that have had currency for long, there lurks a germ of truth, so there lurks still a leaven of Art in Science and a leaven of Science in Art; but in each these leavenings are subordinate, and not at the first blush appreciable. For example, in Science the facts can be recorded or demonstrated with selection, arrangement, and lucidity; that is, the leaven of Art in Science. Whilst in Art the physical facts of nature must be truthfully rendered; that is, the leaven of Science in Art.

And so we see there is a relationship between Science and Art, and yet they are as the poles asunder.

II.

We shall now endeavour to discuss briefly how our remarks apply to photography. Any student of photographic literature is well aware that numerous papers are constantly being published by persons who evidently are not aware of this radical distinction between Science and Art.

The student will see it constantly advocated that every detail of a picture should be impartially rendered with a biting accuracy, and this in all cases. This biting sharpness being, as Mr. T. F. Goodall, the landscape-painter, says, “Quite fatal from the artistic standpoint.” If the rendering were always given sharply, the work would belong to the category of topography or the knowledge of places, that is Science. To continue, the student will find directions for producing an unvarying quality in his negatives. He will be told how negatives of low-toned effects may be made to give prints like negatives taken in bright sunshine; in short, he will find that these writers have a scientific ideal, a sort of standard negative by which to gauge all others. And if these writers are questioned, the student will find the standard negative is one in which all detail is rendered with microscopic sharpness, and one taken evidently in the brightest sunshine. We once heard it seriously proposed that there should be some sort of standard lantern-slide. My allotted time is too brief to give further examples. Suffice it to say, that this unvarying standard negative would be admirable if Nature were unvarying in her moods; until that comes to pass there must be as much variety in negatives as there are in different moods in Nature.

It is, we think, because of the confusion of the aims of Science and Art that the majority of photographs fail either as scientific records or works of art. It would be easy to point out how the majority are false scientifically, and easier still to show how they are simply devoid of all artistic qualities. They serve, however, as many have served, as topographical records of faces, buildings, and landscapes, but often incorrect records at that. It is curious and interesting to observe that such work always requires a name. It is a photograph of Mr. Jones, of Mont Blanc, or of the Houses of Parliament. On the other hand, a work of Art really requires no name,—it speaks for itself. It has no burning desire to be christened, for its aim is to give the beholder Æsthetic pleasure, and not to add to his knowledge or the Science of places, i.e. geography. The work of Art, it cannot too often be repeated, appeals to man’s emotional side; it has no wish to add to his knowledge—to his Science. On the other hand, topographical works appeal to his intellectual side; they refresh his memory of absent persons or landscapes, or they add to his knowledge. To anticipate criticism, I should like to say that of course in all mental processes the intellectual and emotional factors are inseparable, yet the one is always subordinated to the other. The emotional is subordinate when we are solving a mathematical problem, the intellectual is decidedly subordinate when we are making love. Psychologists have analyzed to a remarkable extent the intellectual phenomena, but the knowledge of the components of the sentiments or the emotional phenomena is, as Mr. Herbert Spencer says, “altogether vague in its outlines, and has a structure which continues indistinct even under the most patient introspection. Dim traces of different components may be discerned; but the limitations both of the whole and of its parts are so faintly marked, and at the same time so entangled, that none but very general results can be reached.”

The chief thing, then, that I would impress upon all beginners is the necessity for beginning work with a clear distinction between the aims and ends of Science and Art. When the art-student has acquired enough knowledge—that is, Science—to express what he wishes, let him, with jealous care, keep the scientific mental attitude, if I may so express it, far away. On the other hand, if the student’s aim is scientific, let him cultivate rigidly scientific methods, and not weaken himself by attempting a compromise with Art. We in the photographic world should be either scientists or artists; we should be aiming either to increase knowledge,—that is, science,—or to produce works whose aim and end is to give Æsthetic pleasure. I do not imply any comparison between Science and Art to the advantage of either one. They are both of the highest worth, and I admire all sincere, honest, and capable workers in either branch with impartiality. But I do not wish to see the aims and ends of the two confused, the workers weakened thereby, and, above all, the progress of both Science and Art hindered and delayed.

III.

Next I shall discuss briefly the ill-effects of a too sedulous study of Science upon an Art student.

The first and, perhaps, the greatest of these ill-effects is the positive mental attitude that Science fosters. A scientist is only concerned with stating a fact clearly and simply; he must tell the truth, and the whole truth. Now, a scientific study of photography, if pushed too far, leads, as a rule, to that state of mind which delights in a wealth of clearly-cut detail. The scientific photographer wishes to see the veins in a lily-leaf and the scales on a butterfly’s wing. He looks, in fact, so closely, so microscopically, at the butterfly’s wing, that he never sees the poetry of the life of the butterfly itself, as with buoyant wheelings it disappears in marriage flight over the lush grass and pink cuckoo-flowers of May.

I feel sure that this general delight in detail, brilliant sun-shiny effect, glossy prints, &c., is chiefly due to the evolution of photography: these tastes have been developed with the art, from the silver plate of Daguerre to the double-albumenized paper of to-day. But, as the art develops, we find the love for gloss and detail giving way before platinotype prints and photo-etchings.

The second great artistic evil engendered by Science, is the careless manner in which things are expressed. The scientist seeks for truth, and is often indifferent to its method of expression. To him, “Can you not wait upon the lunatic?” is as the late Matthew Arnold said, as good as, “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?” To the literary artist, on the other hand, these sentences are as the poles asunder,—the one in bald truth, the other literature. They both mean the same thing; yet what Æsthetic pleasure we get from the one, and what a dull fact is, “Can you not wait upon the lunatic?” There are photographs and photographs; the one giving as much pleasure as the literary sentence, the other being as dull as the matter-of-fact question. The student with understanding will see the fundamental and vital distinction between Science and Art as shown even in these two short sentences.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I do not think I can do better than finish this section by quoting another passage from the writings of the late Matthew Arnold.

“Deficit una mihi symmetria prisca.—‘The antique symmetry was the one thing wanting to me,’ said Leonardo da Vinci, and he was an Italian. I will not presume to speak for the American, but I am sure that, in the Englishman, the want of this admirable symmetry of the Greeks is a thousand times more great and crying in’in’ any Italian. The results of the want show themselves most glaringly, perhaps, in our architecture, but they show themselves also in our art. Fit details strictly combined, in view of a large general result nobly conceived: that is just the beautiful symmetria prisca of the Greeks, and it is just where we English fail, where all our art fails. Striking ideas we have, and well-executed details we have; but that high symmetry which, with satisfying delightful effect, contains them, we seldom or never have. The glorious beauty of the Acropolis at Athens did not arise from single fine things stuck about on that hill, a statue here, a gateway there. No, it arose from all things being perfectly combined for a supreme total effect.”

Conclusion.

And now I must finish my remarks. I have not perhaps told you very much, but if I have succeeded in impressing upon beginners and some others the vital and fundamental distinction between Science and Art, something will have been achieved. And if those students who find anything suggestive in my paper are by it led to look upon photography in future from a new mental attitude, something more important still will have been attained. For, in my humble opinion, though it is apparently but a little thing I have to tell, still its effect may be vital and far-reaching for many an honest worker, and if I have helped a few such, my labour will have been richly rewarded indeed.