[1] From notes of a lecture given to the Fabian Society, 1917.

[2] New Quarterly, 1909.

[3] Rodin is reported to have said, “A woman, a mountain, a horse—they are all the same thing; they are made on the same principles.” That is to say, their forms, when viewed with the disinterested vision of the imaginative life, have similar emotional elements.

[4] I do not forget that at the death of Tennyson the writer in the Daily Telegraph averred that “level beams of the setting moon streamed in upon the face of the dying bard”; but then, after all, in its way the Daily Telegraph is a work of art.

[5] AthenÆum, 1919.

[6] AthenÆum, 1919.

[7] Reprinted with considerable alterations from “The Great State.” (Harper. 1912.)

[8] AthenÆum, 1919.

[9] Burlington Magazine, 1910.

[10] “The Rendering of Nature in Early Greek Art.” By Emmanuel Loewy. Translated by J. Fothergill. Duckworth. 1907.

[11] “Bushman Drawings,” copied by M. Helen Tongue, with a preface by Henry Balfour. Oxford: Clarendon Press. 1909. £3 3s. net.

[12] This absence of decorative feeling may be due to the irregular and vague outlines of the picture space. It is when the picture must be fitted within determined limits that decoration begins. I have noticed that children’s drawings are never decorative when they have the whole surface of a sheet of paper to draw on, but they will design a frieze with well-marked rhythm when they have only a narrow strip.

[13] This is certainly the case with the Australian Bushmen.

[14] AthenÆum, 1920.

[15] Burlington Magazine, 1918.

[16] Thomas A. Joyce, (1) “South American ArchÆology,” London (Macmillan), 1912; (2) “Mexican ArchÆology,” London (Lee Warner), 1914; (3) “Central American ArchÆology,” London and New York (Putnam), 1916.

[17] The Burlington Magazine, vol. xvii., p. 22 (April, 1910).

[18] Burlington Magazine, 1910.

[19] G. Migeon, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, June, 1905, and “Manuel d’Art Musulman,” p. 226.

[20] I cannot help calling attention, though without any attempt at explaining it, to the striking similarity to these Sassanid and early Mohammedan water jugs shown by an example of Sung pottery lent by Mr. Eumorfopoulos to the recent exhibition at the Burlington Fine Arts Club, Case A, No. 43. Here a very similar form of spout is modelled into a phoenix’s head.

[21] The following, from the Monthly Review, 1901, is perhaps more than any other article here reprinted, at variance with the more recent expressions of my Æsthetic ideas. It will be seen that great emphasis is laid on Giotto’s expression of the dramatic idea in his pictures. I still think this is perfectly true so far as it goes, nor do I doubt that an artist like Giotto did envisage such an expression. Where I should be inclined to disagree is that there underlies this article a tacit assumption not only that the dramatic idea may have inspired the artist to the creation of his form, but that the value of the form for us is bound up without recognition of the dramatic idea. It now seems to me possible by a more searching analysis of our experience in front of a work of art to disentangle our reaction to pure form from our reaction to its implied associated ideas.

[22] Cf. H. Thode: “Franz von Assisi.”

[23] Dr. J. P. Richter: “Lectures on the National Gallery.”

[24] One picture, however, ascribed by Vasari to Cimabue, namely, the Madonna of the National Gallery, does not bear the characteristics of this group. Dr. Richter’s argument for giving the Rucellai painting to Duccio depends largely on the likeness of this to the Maesta, but there is no reason to cling so closely to Vasari’s attributions. If we except the National Gallery Madonna, which shows the characteristics of the Siennese school, these pictures, including the Rucellai Madonna, will be found to cohere by many common peculiarities not shared by Duccio. Among these we may notice the following: The eye has the upper eyelid strongly marked; it has a peculiar languishing expression, due in part to the large elliptical iris (Duccio’s eyes have a small, bright, round iris with a keen expression); the nose is distinctly articulated into three segments; the mouth is generally slewed round from the perpendicular; the hands are curiously curved, and in all the Madonnas clutch the supports of the throne; the hair bows seen upon the halos have a constant and quite peculiar shape; the drapery is designed in rectilinear triangular folds, very different from Duccio’s more sinuous and flowing line. The folds of the drapery where they come to the contour of the figure have no effect upon the form of the outline, an error which Duccio never makes. Finally, the thrones in all these pictures have a constant form; they are made of turned wood with a high footstool, and are seen from the side; Duccio’s is of stone and seen from the front. That the Rucellai Madonna has a morbidezza which is wanting in the earlier works can hardly be considered a sufficient distinction to set against the formal characteristics. It is clearly a later work, painted probably about the year 1300, and Cimabue, like all the other artists of the time, was striving constantly in the direction of greater fusion of tones.

[25] I should speak now both with greater confidence and much greater enthusiasm of Cimabue. The attempt of certain scholars to dispose of him as a myth has broken down. The late Mr. H. P. Horne found that the documents cited by Dr. Richter to prove that Duccio executed the Rucellai Madonna referred to another picture. I had also failed in my estimate to consider fully the superb crucifix by Cimabue in the Museum of Sta. Croce, a work of supreme artistic merit. In general my defence of Cimabue, though right enough as far as it goes, appears to me too timid and my estimate of his artistic quality far too low (1920).

[26] The important position here assigned to the Roman school has been confirmed by the subsequent discovery of Cavallini’s frescoes in Sta. Cecilia at Rome (1920).

[27] “Drunken with the love of compassion of Christ, the blessed Francis would at times do such-like things as this; for the passing sweet melody of the spirit within him, seething over outwardly, did often find utterance in the French tongue, and the strain of the divine whisper that his ear had caught would break forth into a French song of joyous exulting.” Then pretending with two sticks to play a viol, “and making befitting gestures, (he) would sing in French of our Lord Jesus Christ.”—“The Mirror of Perfection,” edited by P. Sabatier, transl. by S. Evans.

[28] “Florentine Painters of the Renaissance and Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance,” by B. Berenson.

[29] This was the first “representation” of the kind in Italy, and is of interest as being the beginning of the Italian Drama, and also of that infinite series of allegorical pageants, sometimes sacred, sometimes secular, which for three centuries played such a prominent part in city life and affected Italian art very intimately.

[30] The Master of the Cecilia altar-piece has been the object of much research since this article was written, and a considerable number of important works are now ascribed to him with some confidence. He has been tentatively identified with Buffalonaceo by Dr. Siren. See Burl. Mag., December, 1919; January, October, 1920.

[31] This quality is to be distinguished from that conscious naturalistic study of atmospheric envelopment which engrossed the attention of some artists of the cinquecento; it is a decorative quality which may occur at any period in the development of painting if only an artist arises gifted with a sufficiently delicate sensitiveness to the surface-quality of his work.

[32] I cannot recall any example in pre-Giottesque art.

[33] Derived, no doubt, but greatly modified, from Cimabue’s treatment of the subject at Assisi.

[34] The attribution of the Stefaneschi altar-piece to Giotto is much disputed and some authorities give it to Bernardo Daddi. I still incline to the idea that it is the work of Giotto and the starting point of Bernardo Daddi’s style (1920).

[35] His name was Bianchi. ‘Faut il se plaindre,’ says M. Maurice Denis in his ThÉories, ‘qu’un Bianchi, plutÔt que les laisser pÉrir, ait ajoutÉ un peu de la froidure de Flandrin aux fresques de Giotto À Santa Croce.’

[36] This passage now seems to me to underestimate the work of Giotto’s predecessors with which we are now much better acquainted (1920).

[37] Burlington Fine Arts Club Exhibition of Florentine Paintings, 1919.

[38] Burlington Magazine, 1914.

[39] Introduction to DÜrer’s Letters and Diary. Merrymount Press, Boston (1909).

[40] See Plate, where I have also added DÜrer’s version of the subject. This is of course a new design and not a copy of Mantegna’s drawing, though I suspect it is based on a vague memory of it. In any case it shows admirably the distinguishing points of DÜrer’s methods of conception, his love of complexity, and his accumulation of decorative detail.

[41] AthenÆum, 1920.

[42] Burlington Magazine, 1904.

[43] Now in the possession of W. Graham Robertson, Esq.

[44] Burlington Magazine, 1907.

[45] As, for instance, in a wonderful drawing, “On the Banks of the Tiber,” in Mr. Heseltine’s collection.

[46] It is not impossible that Claude got the hint for such a treatment as this from the impressionist efforts of GrÆco-Roman painters. That he studied such works we know from a copy of one by him in the British Museum.

[47] AthenÆum, 1904.

[48] Preface to Catalogue of second Post-Impressionist Exhibition, Grafton Galleries, 1912.

[49] Burlington Magazine, 1912.

[50] I have had to paraphrase this passage, but add the original. Whether my paraphrase is correct in detail or not, I think there can be little doubt about the general meaning.

Plin., Nat. Hist., xxxv. 67: “Parrhasius ... confessione artificum in liniis extremis palmam adeptus. HÆc est picturÆ summa sublimitas; corpora enim pingere et media rerum est quidem magni operis, sed in quo multi gloriam tulerint. Extrema corporum facere et desinentis picturÆ modum includere rarum in successu artis invenitur. Ambire enim debet se extremitas ipsa, et sic desinere ut promittat alia post se ostendatque etiam quae occultat.”

[51] See No. 62, where, so far as possible, all the forms are reduced to a common measure by interpreting them all in terms of an elongated ovoid.

[52] Burlington Magazine, 1917: “Paul CÉzanne,” by Ambroise Vollard (Paris, 1915).

[53] This has been done. “Paul CÉzanne,” by Ambroise Vollard (Paris).

[54] Vogue, 1918.

[55] AthenÆum, 1919.

[56] 1920.