Ernest Govett

Limitations of the landscape painter—Illusion of opening distance—Illusion of motion in landscape—Moonlight scenes—Transient conditions.

Considered as a separate branch of the painter's art, landscape is on a comparatively low plane, because the principal signs with which it deals, and the arrangement of them to form a view, may be varied indefinitely without a sense of incongruity arising. Thus there can be no ideal in the art; that is to say, no ideal can be conceived which is general in its character. The artist can aspire to no definite goal: his imagination is limited to the arrangement of things which are inanimate and expressionless. He may produce sensorial, but not intellectual, beauty. The nobler human attributes and passions, as wisdom, courage, spiritual exaltation, patriotism, cannot be connected with landscape, and so it is unable to produce in the mind the elevation of thought and grandeur of sentiment which are the sweetest blossoms of the tree of art.60

Another drawback in landscape is the necessity for painting it on an extraordinarily reduced scale. Because of this the highest qualities of beauty in nature—grandeur and sublimity—can only with difficulty be suggested on canvas, for actual magnitude is requisite for the production of either of these qualities in any considerable degree. A volcano in eruption has no force at all in a painting, a result which is due, not so much to the inability of the painter to represent moving smoke and fire, as to the impossibility of depicting their enormous masses. The disability of the painter in respect of the representation of magnitude is readily seen in the case of a cathedral interior. This may or may not have the quality of grandeur, but a picture cannot differentiate between one that has, and one that has not, because no feeling of grandeur can arise in looking at a painted interior, the element of actual space being absent.

Seeing that an ideal in landscape is impossible, the landscape painter cannot improve upon nature. In the case of the human figure the painter may improve upon experience by collecting excellencies from different models and putting them into one form, thus creating what would be universally regarded as ideal physical beauty; and he may give to this form an expression of spiritual nobility which is also beyond experience because it would imply the absence of inferior qualities inseparable from man in nature. Thus to the physical, he adds intellectual beauty. Such a perfect form may be said to be an improvement upon nature, for it is not only beyond experience, but is nature purified. But the landscape painter cannot improve upon the signs which nature provides. He may vary the parts of a tree as he will, but it would never be recognized as beyond possible experience unless it were a monstrosity.61 And even if he could improve upon experience with his signs, this would help him but little, for the beauty of a landscape depends upon the relation of the signs to each other, and not upon the beauty of the separate signs which vary in every work with the character of the design. In colour also the painter cannot apply to his landscape an appropriate harmony which the sun is incapable of giving. From all this it follows that the Æsthetic value of a landscape depends entirely upon its correspondence with nature.

A good landscape must necessarily be invented, because it is impossible to reproduce the particular beauty of a natural scene.62 This beauty is due to a relation of parts of the view, infinite in number, to each other, but what this relation is cannot be determined by the observer. Further, whatever be the relation, the continuous changing light and atmospheric effects bring about a constant variation in the character of the beauty. It is possible for an actual view to suggest to the artist a scheme for a beautiful landscape, but in this the precise relation of the parts would have to be invented by the painter and fixed by experiment. The principal features from a natural view may be taken out, but not those which together bring about the beauty. There is no great landscape in existence which was painted for the purpose of representing a particular view. There have of course been scenes painted to order, even by notable artists, but these only serve the purpose of record, or as mementoes. The great view of The Hague, painted by Van Goyen under instructions from the syndics of the town, is the feeblest of his works, and the many pictures of the kind executed by British and German artists of the eighteenth century have now only a topographical interest. Constable painted numerous scenes to order, and there are something like forty views of Salisbury Cathedral attributed to him, but only those in which he could apply his own invention are of considerable Æsthetic value. A good artist rarely introduces into a painting even a small sketch of a scene made from nature. Titian is known to have drawn numerous sketches in particular localities, but not one has been identified in his pictures. In nearly every painting of Nicholas Poussin the Roman Campagna may be recognized, and here he must have made thousands of sketches during the forty years he spent in the district, yet the most patient examination has failed to identify a single spot in his many beautiful views. So with Gaspar Poussin, who, unlike his famous brother-in-law, occasionally set up his easel in the open air; and with Claude who never left off sketching in his long life. The greatest landscapes are those which are true to nature generally, but are untrue in respect of any particular natural scene.

Seeing that in landscape the production of sensorial beauty only is within the power of the painter, and that the beauty is enhanced as nature is the more closely imitated, it is obvious that for the work to have a permanent interest, the scene depicted and the incidents therein should be of common experience, otherwise the full recognition of the beauty is likely to be retarded by the reasoning powers being involuntarily set to work in the consideration of the exceptional conditions. Naturally the term "common experience" has a varied application. What is of common experience in scenery among people in a temperate climate, is rare or unknown to those living under the burning sun of Africa. The artist is fully aware of this, and in designing his work he takes into account the experience of the people who are likely to see his paintings. A view of a scene in the East, say in Palestine or Siam, may be a beautiful work and be recognized as true because the conditions depicted are commonly known to exist; it would further have an informative value which would result in added pleasure; but among people habituated to a temperate climate it would tire more quickly than a scene of a kind to which they are daily accustomed. In the one case an effort, however slight, is required to accommodate the view to experience, and in the other the whole meaning of the scene is instantaneously identified with its beauty.

In nature there is always movement and sound. Even on those rare days when the wind has ceased and the air seems still and dead, there is motion with noise of some kind. A brook trickles by, insects buzz their zigzag way, and shadows vary as the sun mounts or descends. But most commonly there is a breeze to rustle the trees and shrubs, to ripple the surface of the water, and to throw over the scene evidence of life in its ever charming variety. The painter cannot reproduce these movements and sounds. All he represents is silent and still as if nature had suddenly suspended her work—stayed the tree as it bent to the breeze, stopped the bird in the act of flight, fixed the water, and fastened the shadows to the ground. What is there then to compensate the artist for this limitation? Why, surely he can represent nature as she is at a particular moment, over the hills and valleys, or across great plains, with sunlight and atmosphere to mark the breadth and distance and so produce an illusion of movement to delight the eyes of the observer with bewitching surprise. For the eye as it involuntarily travels from the foreground of the picture to the background, proceeds from sign to sign, each decreasing in definition in conformity with the changes in nature, till vague suggestions of form announce that far distance has been reached. The effect is precisely that of the cinematograph, except that the eye moves instead of the picture. The apparent movement corresponds closely with the opening of distance in nature when one proceeds in a fast moving vehicle along a road from which a considerable stretch of country may be observed. Very rarely is the illusion so marked that the apparent movement is identified to the senses. When it is so marked the distance seems to come forward, but is instantaneously stayed before consideration can be brought to bear upon it. Clearly if one specially seek the illusion, it becomes impossible because search implies reason and an examination slow out of all proportion with the rapidity of the sensorial effect. Accident alone will bring about the illusion, for it can only arise when the eye travels at a certain rate over the picture, the minimum of which rate is indeterminable.

(See page xii)

It is evident that any landscape of fair size in which considerable depth is indicated must necessarily produce an illusion of opening distance if the varying signs are sufficiently numerous and properly painted in accordance with the aerial perspective; and this illusion is undoubtedly the key to the extraordinary beauty observed in the works of the great masters of landscape since Claude unveiled the secrets of distance painting. That the apparent movement is rarely actually defined is immaterial, for it must be there and must act upon the eye, producing an involuntary sensation which we interpret as pleasure arising from admiration of the skill of the artist in giving us so good a representation of distance in his imitation.

As will presently be seen there are other kinds of illusion of motion which may be produced in landscape, but this illusion of opening distance is the most important, and it should be produced wherever distance is represented. In nature the effect of the unfolding of distance is caused by a sequence of signs apparently diminishing in size and clearness as the eye travels back, and a sequence of this kind should be produced by the artist in his picture. It is not sufficient that patches of colour of the tone and shape of sections of vegetation, trees, varied soils, and so on, be given, for while these may indicate distance as any perspective must do, yet an illusion cannot be produced by such signs because they are not sufficiently numerous for the eye to experience a cinematographic effect when passing over them. It is not distance that gives the beauty, but an illusion of opening distance, without which, and presuming the absence of any other illusion, only simple harmonies of tone and inanimate forms are possible. Moreover the patches of colour do not properly represent nature either as she appears to the eye, or as she is understood from experience. If one were to take a momentary glance at a view specially to receive the general colour impression, he might conceivably retain on his mind a collection of colour masses such as is often put forward as a landscape, but natural scenes are not observed in this way, and the artist has no right to imply that a view should be painted as it is observed at an instantaneous glance. One cannot be supposed to keep his eyes closed, except for a moment, when in front of nature, and he cannot be in front of nature for more than a moment without involuntarily recognizing thousands of signs. There must necessarily be a certain clearness of the atmosphere for distance to be represented, and in the minimum clearness, trees, bushes, rivulets, and buildings of every kind, are well defined at least to the middle distance. These can and should be painted, and there can be no object whatever in omitting them, except the ignominious end of saving trouble.

And it is necessary that the signs, whether shadow or substance, should be completely painted as they appear to the eye in nature when observed with average care by one inspecting a view for the purpose of drinking in all its beauties, for this is how a painted landscape is usually examined. There is no place in the painter's art for a suggestive sign in the sense that it may suggest a required complete sign. A sign must be painted as completely as possible in conformity with its appearance as seen from the presumed point from which the artist sketched his view, for the reason that its value as a sign depends upon the readiness with which it is understood.63 This is incontrovertible, otherwise the art of painting would be an art of hieroglyphics. In poetry suggestion is of great importance, and it may be so glowing as to present to the imagination a higher form of beauty than can be painted; but the signs of the painter cannot suggest beauty in this way, because the exercise of the imagination in respect of them is limited by their form. A sign painted less distinctly than as it is seen in nature is obviously removed from its proper relative position, or else is untrue, and in either case it must have a weakening effect upon the picture.

The successful representation of aerial perspective depends upon the careful and close gradation of tones in conformity with the varying atmospheric density. This is difficult work because of the disabilities arising from the reduction of the scene into miniature form, which necessitates the omission of many tones and effects found in nature, just as a portrait in miniature involves the exclusion of various elements of expression in the human countenance. But fortunately in landscape the variableness of nature greatly assists the artist. Only rarely is the atmosphere of equal density over a considerable depth of ground, and this fact enables the painter to simplify his work in production of the illusion without appearing to depart from nature. Thus he may deepen or contract his foreground within wide limits. The changes in the appearance of the atmosphere in nature have to be greatly concentrated in a painting, and as this concentration becomes more difficult as distance is reached, it follows that the artist has a better chance of success by making the foreground of his picture begin some way in front of him, rather than near the spot where he is presumed to stand when he executes his work. He may of course maintain some very near ground while materially shortening his middle distance, but this method must obviously lower the beauty of the painting as a distance landscape, and make the execution vastly more difficult. Claude adopted this plan sometimes, but it is seen in very few of his important works. In his best time Turner was careful to set back his foreground, and to refrain from restricting his middle ground.

If a scene be taken from the middle distance only, as in many Barbizon works, the labour is much simplified because neither the close delineation of foliage, nor any considerable gradation of atmosphere is required, but then the beauty resulting from either of these two exercises is missing. It is equally impossible for such a scene to indicate growth and life, or the charm of a changing view. Some modern artists have a habit of blotting out the middle and far distance by the introduction of a thick atmosphere but this is an abuse of the art, because however true the aspect may be in the sense that a natural view is sometimes obscured by the atmosphere, the beauty of the scene as a whole is hidden, and the picture consists largely of an imitation of the mist, where an illusion of movement is impossible. The painter should imitate the more beautiful, and not the less beautiful aspects of nature. Jupiter has been sometimes painted as an incident in a picture, nearly wholly concealed by a cloud, but to exhibit a separate work of the god so concealed, would only be regarded as an excuse for avoiding exertion, however well the cloud may be painted; yet this would not be more reprehensible than to hide the greater part of a view by a dense atmosphere.

With a clear atmosphere an illusion of opening distance may be secured with the far distance and the greater part of the middle distance unobservable, but in such a case a successful design is difficult to accomplish owing to the limited number of signs available. Many signs, as trees and houses, either darken or hide the view, while sunlight effects on unobstructed ground, sufficiently definite to be used as signs, could not be very numerous without appearing abnormal. The only really first-class method of producing a satisfactory near-ground illusion was invented by Hobbema in the later years of his life. This is to use skilfully placed trees and other signs through which paths wind, or appear to wind, and to throw in a strong sunlight from the back.[a] The light enables far more signs to be used in depth than would otherwise be possible, and so the eye has a comparatively long track to follow. That the remarkable beauty of the pictures of Hobbema composed in this way is almost entirely due to the illusion thus created, is readily seen when they are compared with some of his other works, very similar in all respects except that the light is thrown in from the front or the side. Before placing his light at the back, the artist tried the side plan in many pictures, and while this was a decided improvement upon his earlier efforts to secure depth of near-ground signs, it was naturally inferior to the latest scheme. Jacob Ruysdael adopted the plan of Hobbema in two or three works with great effect.[b]

When the middle distance is hidden by a rising foreground, an illusion may be created by the far distance alone if this be of considerable depth. Since the fifteenth century it has been a frequent practice to conceal the middle distance, though mostly in pictures of figure subjects.64 The Dutch artists of the seventeenth century who painted open-air scenes of human and animal life, as Paul Potter, Wouverman, and Albert Cuyp, avoided the middle distance whenever possible, but often managed to secure a fair illusion. In pure landscape the system is less often practised, and never by great artists.

The only means available to the painter of land views for creating an illusion of motion, apart from that of opening distance, is by the representation of flowing water so that a series of successive events in the flow, each connected with, but varying in character from, the preceding one, can be exhibited. Thus, a volume of water from a fall proceeds rapidly over a flat surface to a ledge, and thence perhaps to another ledge of a different depth, from which it passes over or round irregular rocks and boulders, and thence over smaller stones or into a stream, creating in its passage every kind of eddy and current.[c] Here is a series of progressive natural actions in which the progression is regular and continuous, while the separate actions cover such time and space that they may be readily separated by the eye. If, therefore, the whole series be properly represented, an illusion of motion will result.65 Obviously the canvas must be of considerable size, and the breaks in the flow of water as varied in character and as numerous as possible. Everdingen and Jacob Ruysdael seem to have been the first artists to recognize the significance of this progression, but Ruysdael far surpassed his master in the exhibition of it. He examined the problem in all its variations, solved it in a hundred ways, and at his death left little for succeeding painters to learn regarding it. Very rarely, one meets with a landscape where the double illusion of motion of water and opening distance is provided, and needless to say the effect is superb.[d]

Sea views occupy a position by themselves inasmuch as there is a fixed horizontal distance for the artist. He cannot shorten this depth without making his work look abnormal, and an effort to increase it by presuming that the picture is painted from a considerable height above the sea level, is seldom successful because the observer of the work finds a difficulty in fitting in the novelty with his experience. Except when depicting stormy weather, or showing a thick atmosphere, the painter of a sea view has no trouble in obtaining absolute accuracy in his linear perspective, but this is not sufficient, for if a variety of trees, herbage, brooks, and so on, requires an illusion of movement, then certainly does a sea view which has monotony for its keynote. The motion of the waves in fine weather cannot be suggested on canvas because it is continuous and equal. One wave displaces another and so far as the eye can reach there is only a succession of similar waves. Thus the motion appears unbroken, and from the canvas point of view the waves must be motionless as the sand hillocks of a desert. Of course in the actual view, the expanse, the "immeasurable stretch of ocean," is impressive and to some extent weird, but nothing of this feeling is induced by a painted miniature. With a bright sky and clear atmosphere the painter of a sea view cannot well obtain an illusion of opening distance by means of a multiplication of signs as on land, for the introduction of many vessels would give the work a formal appearance, but the problem can be satisfactorily solved by putting the sun in the sky towards the setting, and using cloud shadows as signs. Aivasovsky, one of the greatest marine painters of modern times, was very successful with this class of work. His long shadows thrown at right angles to the line of sight, carry back the distance till the horizon seems to be further off than experience warrants, the illusion being perfect. An illusion of opening distance may, however, be easily obtained in a sea view when there is a haze covering, but not hiding, the horizon, by introducing as signs, two or three vessels, the first in the middle distance.

Another method of giving a suggestion of motion, which may be used by the sea painter, is in truthfully representing the appearance of the water round a vessel passing through it. What is probably the finest example of this work in existence is Jacob Ruysdael's The Rising Storm.[e] The sea is shown close to a port, and half a dozen smacks and small boats are being tossed about by choppy, breaking waves. In the centre of the picture is a large smack over the weather bow of which a huge foaming wave has broken, and part is spending its force on the lee bow, from which the water gradually becomes quieter till at the stern of the boat little more than a black concavity is seen. The progression of wave movement is completely represented, and the effect is very impressive.

The coast painter can produce an excellent illusion of motion from waves breaking on a beach, for in nature this action is made up of a series of different consecutive acts each of which is easily distinguishable to the eye. The wave rises, bends over its top which becomes crested, and splashes forward on the beach, to be converted into foam which races onwards, breaking up as it goes till it reaches the watermark, then rapidly falling back to be met by another wave. Here is a series of consecutive incidents which can all be painted so as to deceive for a moment with the idea of motion. The attempt to represent the action of waves breaking against steep rocks is invariably a failure, because of the great reduction of the apparent number of incidents forming the consecutive series. In nature the eye is not quick enough to follow the separate events, and so they cannot be distinguished in a painting. Thomson's fine picture of Fast Castle is distinctly marred by a wide irregular column of water shown splashing up against a rock. There is no possibility here of representing a series of actions, and so an instant suffices to fix the water on the rock. In another work by the same artist there are waves breaking against precipitous rocks, but in this case the water first passes over an expanse of low lying rocks, and a sequence of actions is shown right up to the cliff, an excellent illusion of movement being brought about.[f]

Apart from those exhibiting an illusion of motion of some kind, the only landscapes which have a permanent value, are near-ground scenes in which conditions of atmosphere of common experience, as rain or storm are faithfully rendered. In these works the signs must be numerous and varied in character, for it is only in the multiplication of small changes of form and tone that the natural effects of a particular weather condition can be imitated. Jacob Ruysdael and Constable were the greatest masters of this form of landscape, Crome and Boecklin closely approaching them, but it is uncommon for a serious worker in landscape to attempt a picture where distance is not recorded. The best paintings of Constable present an illusion of opening distance, and when Jacob Ruysdael painted near-ground only, it was nearly always a hilly slope with water breaking over low rocks.

Moonlight and twilight scenes are not good subjects for the painter of landscape, because, shown as they must be in daylight, or with artificial light, they become distinctly uninteresting after the first impression of tonal harmony has passed away, owing to the unconscious revolt of the mind against something with an unreal appearance.66 This is the chief reason why no scene has lived which depended for its beauty entirely upon moonlight effects. It is about two hundred and fifty years since Van der Neer died, and he still remains practically the only moonlight painter known to us whose works seem of permanent interest. But he did not rely altogether upon moonlight effects for his beauty, for the representation of distance is the principal feature in all his works. Further he commonly makes us acquainted with the human life and habitations of his time, and in this way enhances our appreciation of his pictures. Before Van der Neer, moonlight scenes were very rarely executed, and only two or three of these have remained which are worthy of serious consideration. The best of them is a view by Rubens, where the light is comparatively strong, and practically the whole of the beauty rests in the opening distance, which can hardly be surpassed in a work of this kind.[g]

It is not necessary to deal with varieties of pure landscape other than those mentioned. They are painted in their myriads, and form pleasant tonal harmonies, or have local interest, but they do not live. As the foliage in springtime they are fresh and welcome to the eye when they first appear, but all too soon they fade and disappear from memory like the leaves of the autumn.

In landscape as in all other branches of painting, whatever is ephemeral in nature, or of uncommon experience, should be avoided. Rare sun effects and exceptional phases of atmosphere should not find their way into pictures, while strokes of lightning and rainbows should only be present when they are necessitated by the design, and then must be subordinated as far as possible. Of all these things the most strongly to be deprecated are strange sunlight effects, for they have the double drawback for the painter, of rarity and evanescence in nature. A stroke of lightning is not out of place where the conditions may be presumed to be more or less permanent, as in the celebrated picture of Apelles, where Alexander was represented in the character of Jupiter casting a thunderbolt, and forks of lightning proceed from his hand; or where the occurrence is essential in the composition, as in Gilbert's Slaying of Job's Sheep.[h] So in Danby's The Sixth Seal Opened, the lightning is quite appropriate, for all nature is disturbed. In Martin's Plague of Hail, and The Destruction of Pharaoh, the first a night scene, and the second a view darkened by dense black clouds, lightning is well used for lighting purposes; and in Cot's The Storm,[i] where the background is dark and no sky is visible, lightning is the only means possessed by the artist of explaining that the fear expressed by the lovers in the foreground, arises from the approaching storm. Great masters like Giorgione,[j] Rubens,[k] Poussin,[l] used a stroke of lightning on rare occasions, but took every care that it should not be conspicuous, or interfere in any way with the first view of the picture. The lightning is invariably placed in the far background, and no light is apparently reflected from it.

A rainbow in nature has a life of appreciable duration, and so may be appropriately used in landscape, but obviously it should be regarded as a minor accessory except where it forms a necessary feature in the design.[m] The great drawback in a prominent rainbow is that it forces itself upon the attention of the observer to the detriment of the picture as a whole, and if it be very conspicuous and crosses the middle of the painted view, as in Turner's Arundel Castle, the picture appears divided in two parts, and the possibility of an illusion of opening distance is destroyed.[n] Almost as bad is the effect when a rainbow cuts off a corner of a picture, for this suggests at first sight an accidental interference with the work.[o] Of all artists Rubens seemed to know best how to use a rainbow. He adopts three methods. The first and best is to put the bow entirely in the sky[p]; the second to throw it right into the background where part of it is dissolved in the view[q]; and the third to indicate the bow in one part of the picture, and overshadow it with a strong sunlight thrown in from another part.[r] Any of these forms seems to answer well, but they practically exhaust the possibilities in general design. A section of a rainbow may be shown with one end of it on the ground, because this is observable in nature[s]; but to cut off the top of the arch as if there were no room for it on the canvas is obviously bad, for the two segments left appear quite unnatural.[t]

The small rainbows sometimes seen at waterfalls are occasionally introduced into paintings, but rarely with success because they tend to interfere with the general view of the scene. Such views are necessarily near ground, and so a bow must seriously injure the picture unless it be placed at the side, as in Innes's fine work of Niagara Falls (the example of 1884).

The use of a rainbow as a track in classical pictures is sometimes effective, though the landscape is largely sacrificed owing to the compulsory great width and bright appearance of the bow, which must indeed practically absorb the attention of the observer. The best known picture of this kind is Schwind's Rainbow, which shows the beautiful form of Iris wrapped in the sheen of the bow, and descending with great speed, the idea being apparently taken from Virgil.[u] To use the top of the rainbow for a walking track is bad, as the mind instinctively repels the invention as opposed to reason.[v]

But if fleeting natural phenomena become disturbing to the observer of a picture, how much more objectionable are the quickly disappearing effects of artificial devices, as the lights from explosions. In a battle scene covering a wide area of ground, a small cloud of smoke here and there is not out of place, because under natural conditions such a cloud lasts for an appreciable time; but no good artist will indicate in his work a flash from a gun, for this would immediately become stagy and unreal to the observer. Nor can fireworks of the ordinary kind be properly represented in a picture. The beauty of these fireworks lies in the appearance out of nothing, as it were, of brilliant showers of coloured lights, and their rapid disappearance, to be replaced by others of different form and character, the movement and changes constituting important elements in their appreciation. But the painter can only indicate them by fixed points of light which necessarily appear abnormal. Stationary points of light can have no resemblance whatever to fireworks, and if the title of the picture forces the imagination to see in them expiring sparks from a rocket, the impression can only last a moment, and will be succeeded by a revolt in the mind against so glaring an impossibility as a number of permanent sparks. The only painted firework display that does not appear abnormal is a fountain of fire and sparks which may be presumed to last for some time, and therefore would not quickly tire the mind.[w]