In his "Art in the Netherlands," and his various books on Italian art, H. Taine has maintained that the hand of the mediÆval painter was largely guided by optical sensations. And, following this rather suggestive, than conclusive, trend of argument, we will readily perceive that the peculiar lighting conditions of those days, the semi-darkness of the interiors, the play of sunlight dying in the obscurity of shadows, and the absence of strong artificial lights have done much to disclose to the genius of a Titian and a Rembrandt the manifold harmonies of chiaroscura, of colouring, modelling and emotion. The tallow candle, the oil lamp, the torch and the open fire-place were the only artificial light appliances known to the Middle Ages, and they were all only like solitary rays of light in universal darkness. Illumine a room by night, by placing a candle on the table or on the floor, and judge for yourself. The effects obtained, no doubt, would appear to you as weird and picturesque. The flickering light is uncertain, the shadows are intensely dark and pronounced, almost crude and vacillating, as if engaged in a continual combat with light. The contrasts are startling, yet not discordant, the vague train of light mingled with shadows accentuate only a few places with vivid spots, perchance the polished surface of a piece of furniture, a glass or pewter mug on the table, the collaret or jewelled belt of some fair lady. The eye is led to noticing gradations of obscurity, the darkness grows animated with colour and form, and we see the objects as through a glaze of Van Dyke brown.

No wonder that the painter of the Middle Ages, having become sensible to the beauty of transparent darkness and the brilliant passages of light, dared to unite extremes and to show every form and colour in its full strength. The vagueness of chiaroscural effects was the great modifier which enveloped all adjacent objects in clair obscure and tempered them with a warm and mellow radiance.

How different are the conditions in our time. There are no more Schalcken or Rembrandt effects. We have succeeded in banishing darkness from our homes. We have become very sanitary, we want light and air, the walls of houses are built less substantial, and through the increased largeness and transparency of panes, the daylight streams in with dazzling vehemence. It penetrates into the remotest nooks and corners. Even at dawn the shadows are only vaguely dark, of an uncertain and mixed bluish grey. Lenbach, the portrait painter, realized this deficiency, and found it necessary to construct a special studio, where the light was only sparingly admitted through deep casements, and where the sitters for his old-master-like interpretations of modern characters were placed far away from the windows.

Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum, New York
LADY IN GRAY.

The greatest havoc among chiaroscural effects, however, has been played by modern light appliances. Gas and electric light, with their various modifiers and intensifiers, have killed all the old ideals. There are no longer any striking chiaroscural contrasts or strong accentuations. In the Middle Ages dress and drapery showed depth of folds and recesses which are absolutely unknown to-day. Now, everything is diffused with light. Nothing is steady and fixed, and yet objects stand out in painful relief. The modelling has lost much of its tonal variety, and all objects vaguely reflect the imprint of all-pervading light. The values of colour appear bleached and vary incessantly. Our eyes are perpetually moving in a restless manner from one part to another, and no longer find any place to rest in the depth of shadows.

Luckily for us, we have been rendered unconscious of these dangers, we have grown accustomed to them, but their influence on modern painting has been a most palpable one. Chiaroscural composition underwent a complete transformation. Saliency of object induced the modern painter for a time, at the beginning of the last century, to strive solely for fixed and precise conceptions of form and to utterly neglect the beauty of light and shade. When he discovered his error, he went to the other extreme, and not merely softened contours, but blotted them out completely. At a loss how to meet this difficulty he lost himself in an intenser and more varied study of illumination, with the aim to reach a higher pitch of light. Lamplight and firelight effects and the contrasts of commingling light rays from two, or even three, sources became the order of the day. Sargent studied the effect of Japanese lanterns on white dresses in twilight. Harrison tried to fix the play of sunlight on the naked human body. Dannat experimented with flesh tones and electrical arclight and magnesium flashlight illumination. Zorn endeavoured to solve in his Omnibus picture the conflict of various lights in a glass-encased interior. Degas and Besnard became enchanted with illumination from below, in the cross lights and the lurid unnatural lights of the stage, and his disciples introduced the effects of footlights into interiors by placing the lamp on the floor.

All these studies address themselves most powerfully to the modern mind, as they depict contemporary conditions. The eye may be offended or even repelled by unnecessary trivialities at times, but the underlying aspiration is, after all, the truth. From an Æsthetic view-point it is less satisfactory, as this modern substitute of light and shade composition, consisting of an opposition of colours, rather than of masses, does not afford, in the speech of Herbert Spencer, "the maximum of stimulation with the minimum of fatigue." It contains a discord, a lack of normal gratification, and this shortcoming, in conjunction with the deterioration of the crafts, which were replaced by factory labour, and the hopelessly prosaic aspect of modern dress, as far as colour is concerned, directed the painter into other fields of investigation. He realized that nature had remained unchanged, that the colour-symphony of sea and landscapes, of dawn and sunset, were as beautiful as ever, and he went out of doors for inspiration. And then, to his great astonishment, he discovered that the optical sensations afforded by nature were very similar to those he had experienced in his home life, also how everything was diffused with light, and forms rendered uncertain by the vibration of light.

The famous colour harmony of Italian painters, red, green and violet, which aroused action successively in the whole field of vision without exhausting it, seemed meaningless. Strange, apparently discordant combinations of green and blue and yellow, orange and red, which stimulate only certain portions of the retina at the expense of others, obtruded themselves upon his optical consciousness. It became apparent that light does not emphasize, but that it generalizes, and that colours and tones, although more varied, are less decisive than in the painting of the Old Masters. The charm of pictorial illusion seemed to have shifted from the juxtaposition of contrast to the more subtle and less powerful variety of half tones. It is not so much the richness and fullness of colour the modern painter strives for, as Raffaelli has pointed out, but the combination of colours which yield a sensation of light, which, in a way, is a reflection of our temporary light conditions. That the Impressionists banished black from their palette is significant itself.

Owned by John H. Whittemore
"L'ANDALUSIENNE."

Ever since the semi-darkness of the Middle Ages was dispelled, the minds of painters had been occupied with the invention of a new method of painting. Chardin and Watteau, who crosshatched and stippled pure colours in their pastels and water colours, were really the forerunners of impressionism. Delacroix was the first master-painter who scientifically concerned himself with light and colour notation, as Turner (viz. Ruskin) introduced the emphasis of the colour of shadows at the expense of their tones. But not before science came to the assistance of the painter, was he able to perfect his system of open air mosaics, of producing tone by the parallel and distinct projection of pure colours.

And it is Chevreul, Young, Helmholtz and Ogden Rood, who, after analyzing colour sensations from a physiological viewpoint and tracing them to their causes, supplied the genius of Manet, Monet and Degas with a new pictorial revelation of light and colour. The modern style of painting is a direct outcome of the environment in which we live. With the decline of candlelight parties the new era was ushered in, and the kerosene lamp was the last harmonizer of light and darkness. As it went slowly out of fashion, the reign of half and quarter tones, or, in other words, a new reign of light, of light transposed into tone, set in.

It set in, however, at the expense of everything else. It is largely technical, and the representations are photographic, prosaic, crude and often without the slightest suggestion of sentiment, not even that which an ordinary scene out of doors produces in an imaginative mind. This, more than any other course, estranges art from the approval of the general public.

The subject of an Old Master, although mostly of a religious order and legible to the ordinary mind, at times may have soared beyond the ordinary faculties of comprehension, but the object represented invariably appealed to the sense of sight, as it was painted in such a way as to create an illusion. The Old Masters succeeded in suggesting on a flat surface the roundness and actual colouring of things. The modern painter depicts objects in which the beauty is not always palpable to the layman, and in a manner which is less convincing, as he suggests form rather than actually representing it, and adheres most stubbornly to individual colour interpretation. It needs connoisseurship and technical knowledge to understand and appreciate the paintings of to-day. The paintings of a Degas, Besnard or Renoir remain a myth even to the people who are fond of art. Comparatively few persons are versed in the thought-transference from colour to sentiment.

Whistler did not believe in the constant mechanical mixture of seven solar tones, which make the eye perform the work which should be done by the painter. He tried hard for the dissociation of tones by endeavouring to translate the flat tints of the Japanese into oil paintings executed in Western fashion, but was not satisfied with the result.

Living in London, with a view on the Thames, he realized that the aspects of modern life have turned grey. They have nothing to do with Oriental embroideries. Our large cities with their smoke and manifold exhalations (not to speak of communities subjected to the use of soft coal) have acquired a dust-laden, misty atmosphere. This peculiarity of city atmosphere, however, to be noticed in London and Paris as much as in Chicago and Pittsburg, is a wonderful subduer and eliminator of detail, and should prove a valuable ally in conquering new suggestions of light effects. This Whistler realized, and he used it to express what the inner life of things in modern art needed most to express, the poetry of paint expressed in tone and light. "The study of light per se" as Leon Dabo says, "had become a creed with Monet, Manet and their followers. Somehow Whistler's contribution to this naissance—for it was a real birth, first successfully carried out by Constable—has been entirely neglected for the more obvious quality of full sunlight produced by the so-called Impressionists. Whistler's paintings prove conclusively that where there is harmony of colour there is vibration of atmosphere, and, therefore, the illusion of light."

When we stand before the "Mona Lisa" of Leonardo da Vinci and before his less famous, but almost equally fascinating woman of the Liechtenstein Gallery, we do not marvel merely at the lifelike representation, which seems to actually vibrate; but at something evasive and unfathomable that we find difficult to express in words. We experience something similar when we contemplate Whistler's "Mother" or some portraits of modern masters like Blanche, Lavery, enigmatic Khnopff, or the grey men and women of Carriere, who rise so softly and mistily out of the background. Although they have not attained the mastership of the former in the representation of the living, breathing people, there is the same mysterious mood in their paintings. They seem to quiver with something that is essentially modern, and cannot emanate alone from the charm of momentary expression which is one of their main attractions. The modern figures have a less corporeal effect than those of the Renaissance; they resemble apparitions which have suddenly taken shape in the greyness of life only to dissolve again into shadows. This is more than a technical change, it is a new way of thinking. We concede a new attribute to these painters and call their achievements the "psychological style" of painting. Robert Henri's "Young Woman in Black" is an interesting attempt in this direction.

By this we wish to convey that the figures tell us something of the inner life, and that the way in which this is accomplished impresses us like a commentary on their souls. Of course this is nothing new. All the masterpieces of portraiture, no matter how different technically they may be, whether clear and sharp or soft and diffused, whether by a Raphael or a Rembrandt, Titian or Franz Hals, have the faculty to make us dream and invent some psychical annotation to the figures represented, but modern life is more analytical. We rejoice in dissecting our thoughts, sentiments and moods, and some of our foremost contemporaries, though they may wield their brushes as dexterously as the Old Masters, concentrate upon the endeavour to reflect specifically the spiritual qualities and to accentuate its functions as far as it is possible in paint.

The modern painter is fond of specializing, not only in subject, but technically, because he lacks the overflowing energy and strength to conquer all the elements of his profession in one effort. This age, at least in the upper intellectual strata, has become very skeptical. We are not concerned so much about divinities and our future state as about ourselves in the present. Religion no longer furnishes the emotional staff on which we may lean on our pilgrimage of life, and yet we need some spiritual support, some science for the soul, and we may look about for something that may mystify us and lift us above the prose of every-day existence. And this search is mirrored in the endeavour of these men who would like to paint enigmatic figures, like "Mona Lisa" and the woman of the Liechtenstein Gallery.

Conditions change, but not so much that they become entirely extinct. The possibilities for emotional art are to-day as great as ever.

For portraiture, single figure representation and character delineation gentle effects capable of subtler gradations are more desirable. They may be found in many out-of-the-way places. A modern Ribera may find endless suggestions for new light and shade combinations in an ordinary cellar, and the picturesque "tavern atmosphere" of a Caravaggio or Terborg can surely be substituted in some obscure nooks and corners of our towns. Our living-rooms show a wealth of still life that, by the play of light, could be turned into beautiful accessories. There is nothing more gratifying to the eye than a bright, haphazard shimmer on some objects while the remainder is lost in a vague, picturesque haze.

The student of light and shade will find the range of light is still a very wide one. The vivid glow of firelight, here flickering brightly, there vanishing in gloom, will always produce a striking effect. A pale splendour caressing the human form with vague reflections could be obtained by light streaming through stained-glass windows. The dazzling illumination of the hour of sunset, which pales and subdues all objects, and, concentrated on the human body, makes it look as if it had been absorbed all in light and radiated it (which Prudhon has attempted and Henner specialized), may fill our minds with new dreams of vision. Even the ghostlike rays of shimmering moonlight (as Steichen has shown in his versions of Rodin's Balzac) may open novel methods to render tone and form in the broadest and softest manner possible.

Still I do not believe in the garish effects of certain modern painters, who take special delight in reproducing the flaring vagaries of artificial light. The trend of such works is towards an affected Æstheticism. They may be fascinating and "stunningly clever" but they do not ring true. They are at their best only in colour experiments specially made to startle the beholder. When Elsheimer painted his "Christ Taken Prisoner," showing the pale light of the moon in the background, while the nocturnal figures in the foreground are enveloped by the glare of torches, he ventured upon a problem that was, after all, logical and true to life. But to place a lamp on the floor merely for the purpose of throwing interesting diagonal shadows upwards on a woman's figure, is not far from being an absurdity.

The various aspects of electrical illumination, gaslight, flashlight effects, searchlight, etc., no doubt can be solved pictorially, but they should never be applied unless the character of the picture absolutely demands them.

Tone is the ideal of the modern painter. It is his highest ambition. It is the powerful subduer of all the incongruities of modern art.

But what painters strive for, in most instances are merely fragmentary accomplishments. It is not tone in the large sense as the Old Masters understood it. To Titian and Rembrandt and Velasquez "tone" meant a combination of all pictorial qualities, the contrast of colour, the balance of lighter and darker planes, the linear arrangement; all these together produced tone. They do not sacrifice form or detail, correct drawing, the physiognomy of the faces and the idea and conception of the picture to it.

Do not misunderstand me. Tone is desirable; no picture should be without it. But it is merely one of the elements that enter into the making of a picture, and not the whole thing. There are light tonalities as well as dark tonalities. A Renoir is as much in tone as a black-in-black Tissot.

What tonal painters see in tone is merely the appearance of old age. The Old Masters have become famous, and the public has acquired a certain predilection for dark-toned pictures. The modern painters try to reproduce it, overlooking (perhaps wilfully) that the dark tonality is entirely an artificial product, caused by dirt and dampness, the chemical action of light, and the gradual change of colour, oil and varnish.

The Old Masters painted in a low key, but they probably never thought that some day their pictures would look as they do now. The modern painters try to produce a quality that has nothing to do with art, they cater to the taste of certain art patrons that have a liking for old-looking things.

In portraiture the simplest scheme will always be most certain of success. Variety is desirable, but no exaggeration or strained effects. Of all modern painters Whistler and CarriÈre seem to have excelled in conquering the modern limitations of light and shade composition and making the most of them. They have enveloped their figures in clair-obscure that is uncertain in form, mystic in tendency, but suggestive of atmosphere, depth and space, some grey or dark interior filled with struggling shadows, capricious gleams of light and tonal gradations, tantalizing in their subtlety and power of suggestion.

All sharp lines are dissolved, each detail vanishes with soft delicacy into the other and their light, falling from some unknown source, quivers like a soft chord through the twilight.

The "Mother and Child" of CarriÈre has but little of the robust yet sweet and seductive charm of the Madonna pictures. Its glimmer of light is sad and dreamy, as if it were woven out of grey monotonies of everyday life. And in Whistler's "Sarasate" we see in the plastic, but solitary light passage, on face and shirt front a symbol of all the glamour of romance and poetry that light can yield in our prosaic age. Whistler translated all objects into flat surface planes, and, in that way, sacrificed more to the realization of tone than any other painter. His fragmentary visions are almost colourless but never give the impression of monochrome. Looking at one of his enigmatic figures receding into vague shadows, a strange association of thought occurs to me: I see in one of the sunless courtyards of the Escurial the dark figure of a woman standing near a fountain and holding a red rose in her hand. At one of the palace windows is seen the proud face of Velasquez, gazing absent-mindedly upon the scene. And the wind ruffles the flower, carries one petal after another and scatters them upon the surface of the water. Is this dark silent woman the personification of Whistler's muse, and does she tell us that the splendour of light and shade composition of the Old Masters has faded, that we know nothing of its fervour that rose from the depths of a more picturesque age, and that all we can do is to scatter a few colour notes across the darkness of space? For the jubilant and passionate note is altogether missing in Whistler's art, though it can claim profundity and some dreaminess.

Carnegie Art Institute, Pittsburg
ARRANGEMENT IN BLACK: SENOR PABLO SARASATE.

Light now flits phantom-like across the masterpieces of pictorial delineation, but it is still the great elixir of art, that will give life to any scene and animate any object. No special method can be indicated. Every worker must be his own pioneer and pathfinder. The new era of light is yet in a primitive stage. It is a lonely art whose language is understood but by the few, though we have approached the hour of dawn before the awakening. Life may seem dreary and colourless to us, yet we should realize that only one beam of light is needed to change it into a vision of beauty.

To Rembrandt even the Bree-straat in Amsterdam, resplendent in his time of Oriental culture and Moorish pomp, may have seemed dull and colourless. He had to create for himself a distant and enchanted realm from out the prosaic world in which he lived. And so must every ambitious artist dream himself far away from the grey of everyday life and construct a poetic world for himself alone.

Light is, after all, objective and merely suggestive. The artist's mind must serve as some Faustean retort, which will turn these suggestions into the soft gleams and sparkling shimmers of art. Whistler was one of the few to accomplish the task.