§ 1. I have already, in the Stones of Venice, had occasion to analyze, as far
as I was able, the noble nature and power of grotesque conception; I am not
sorry occasionally to refer the reader to that work, the fact being that it and
this are parts of one whole, divided merely as I had occasion to follow out one
or other of its branches; for I have always considered architecture as an
essential part of landscape; and I think the study of its best styles and real
meaning one of the necessary functions of the landscape-painter; as, in like
manner, the architect cannot be a master-workman until all his designs are
guided by understanding of the wilder beauty of pure nature. But, be this as it
may, the discussion of the grotesque element belonged most properly to the essay
on architecture, in which that element must always find its fullest
development.
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§ 2. The Grotesque is in that chapter divided principally into three kinds:
(A). Art arising from healthful but irrational play of the imagination in
times of rest.
(B). Art arising from irregular and accidental contemplation of terrible
things; or evil in general.
(C). Art arising from the confusion of the imagination by the presence of
truths which it cannot wholly grasp.
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It is the central form of this art, arising from contemplation of evil, which
forms the link of connection between it and the sensualist ideals, as pointed
out above in the second paragraph of the sixth chapter, the fact being that the
imagination, when at play, is curiously like bad children, and likes to play
with fire; in its entirely serious moods it dwells by preference on beautiful and sacred
images, but in its mocking or playful moods it is apt to jest, sometimes
bitterly, with undercurrent of sternest pathos, sometimes waywardly, sometimes
slightly and wickedly, with death and sin; hence an enormous mass of grotesque
art, some most noble and useful, as Holbein's Dance of Death, and Albert Durer's
Knight and Death, going down gradually through various conditions of less and less seriousness
into an art whose only end is that of mere excitement, or amusement by terror,
like a child making mouths at another, more or less redeemed by the degree of
wit or fancy in the grimace it makes, as in the demons of Teniers and such
others; and, lower still, in the demonology of the stage.
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§ 3. The form arising from an entirely healthful and open play of the
imagination, as in Shakspere's Ariel and Titania, and in Scott's White Lady, is
comparatively rare. It hardly ever is free from some slight taint of the
inclination to evil; still more rarely is it, when so free, natural to the mind;
for the moment we begin to contemplate sinless beauty we are apt to get serious;
and moral fairy tales, and such other innocent work, are hardly ever truly, that
is to say, naturally imaginative; but for the most part laborious inductions and
compositions. The moment any real vitality enters them, they are nearly sure to
become satirical, or slightly gloomy, and so connect themselves with the
evil-enjoying branch.
§ 4. The third form of the Grotesque is a thoroughly noble one. It is that
which arises out of the use or fancy of tangible signs to set forth an otherwise
less expressible truth; including nearly the whole range of symbolical and
allegorical art and poetry. Its nobleness has been sufficiently insisted upon in
the place before referred to. (Chapter on Grotesque Renaissance, §§
LXIII. LXIV. &c.) Of its practical use, especially in
painting, deeply despised among us, because grossly misunderstood, a few words
must be added here.
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A fine grotesque is the expression, in a moment, by a series of symbols
thrown together in bold and fearless connection, of truths which it would have
taken a long time to express in any verbal way, and of which the connection is
left for the beholder to work out for himself; the gaps, left or overleaped
by the haste of the imagination, forming the grotesque character.
§ 5. For instance, Spenser desires to tell us, (1.) that envy is the most
untamable and unappeasable of the passions, not to be soothed by any kindness;
(2.) that with continual labor it invents evil thoughts out of its own heart;
(3.) that even in this, its power of doing harm is partly hindered by the
decaying and corrupting nature of the evil it lives in; (4.) that it looks every
way, and that whatever it sees is altered and discolored by its own nature; (5.)
which discoloring, however, is to it a veil, or disgraceful dress, in the sight
of others; (6.) and that it never is free from the most bitter suffering, (7.)
which cramps all its acts and movements, enfolding and crushing it while it
torments. All this it has required a somewhat long and languid sentence for me
to say in unsymbolical terms,—not, by the way, that they
are unsymbolical
altogether, for I have been forced, whether I would or not, to use
some
figurative words; but even with this help the sentence is long and tiresome, and
does not with any vigor represent the truth. It would take some prolonged
enforcement of each sentence to make it felt, in ordinary ways of talking. But
Spenser puts it all into a grotesque, and it is done shortly and at once, so
that we feel it fully, and see it, and never forget it. I have numbered above
the statements which had to be made. I now number them with the same numbers, as
they occur in the several pieces of the grotesque:—
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"And next to him malicious Envy
rode(1.) Upon a ravenous wolfe, and
(2. 3.) still did chawBetween his
cankred teeth a venemous todeThat all the
poison ran about his jaw.(4. 5.)
All in a kirtle of discolourd sayHe
clothed was, y-paynted full of eies;(6.) And in his bosome secretly there
layAn hatefull snake, the which his
tail uptyes(7.) In many folds, and
mortall sting implyes."
There is the whole thing in nine lines; or, rather, in one image, which will
hardly occupy any room at all on the mind's shelves, but can be lifted out,
whole, whenever we want it. All noble grotesques are concentrations of this
kind, and the noblest
convey truths which nothing else could convey; and not only so, but convey them,
in minor cases with a delightfulness,—in the higher instances with an
awfulness,—which no mere utterance of the symbolised truth would have possessed,
but which belongs to the effort of the mind to unweave the riddle, or to the
sense it has of there being an infinite power and meaning in the thing seen,
beyond all that is apparent therein, giving the highest sublimity even to the
most trivial object so presented and so contemplated.
"'Jeremiah, what seest thou?' buy oil paintings online
'I see a seething pot, and the face thereof is toward the
north,
'Out of the north an evil shall break forth upon
all the inhabitants of the land.'"
And thus in all ages and among all nations, grotesque idealism has been the
element through which the most appalling and eventful truth has been wisely
conveyed, from the most sublime words of true Revelation, to the "ἀλλ᾿ ὅτ᾿ ἂν
ἡμίονος βασιλεὐς," &c., of the oracles, and the more or less doubtful
teaching of dreams; and so down to ordinary poetry. No element of imagination
has a wider range, a more magnificent use, or so colossal a grasp of sacred
truth.
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§ 6. How, then, is this noble power best to be employed in the art of
painting?
We hear it not unfrequently asserted that symbolism or personification should
not be introduced in painting at all. Such assertions are in their grounds
unintelligible, and in their substance absurd. Whatever is in words described as
visible, may with all logical fitness be rendered so by colors, and not only is this a legitimate branch of ideal art,
but I believe there is hardly any other so widely useful and instructive; and I
heartily wish that every great allegory which the poets ever invented were
powerfully put on canvas, and easily accessible by all men, and that our artists
were perpetually exciting themselves to invent more. And as far as authority
bears on the question, the simple fact is that allegorical painting has been the
delight of the greatest men and of the wisest multitudes, from the beginning of
art, and will be till art expires. Orcagua's Triumph of Death; Simon Memmi's frescoes in the
Spanish Chapel; Giotto's principal works at Assisi, and partly at the Arena;
Michael Angelo's two best statues, the Night and Day; Albert Durer's noble
Melancholy, and hundreds more of his best works; a full third, I should think,
original oil paintings for sale, of the works of Tintoret and Veronese, and nearly as large a portion of those of
Raphael and Rubens, are entirely symbolical or personifiant; and, except in the
case of the last-named painter, are always among the most interesting works the
painters executed. The greater and more thoughtful the artists, the more they
delight in symbolism, and the more fearlessly they employ it. Dead symbolism,
second-hand symbolism, pointless symbolism, are indeed objectionable enough; but
so are most other things that are dead, second-hand, and pointless. It is also
true that both symbolism and personification are somewhat more apt than most
things to have their edges taken off by too much handling; and what with our
modern Fames, Justices, and various metaphorical ideals,
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and other such purposes, there is some excuse for our not well knowing what the
real power of personification is. But that power is gigantic and inexhaustible,
and ever to be grasped with peculiar joy by the painter, because it permits him
to introduce picturesque elements and flights of fancy into his work, which
otherwise would be utterly inadmissible; to bring the wild beasts of the desert
into the room of state, fill the air with inhabitants as well as the earth, and
render the least (visibly) interesting incidents themes for the most thrilling
drama. Even Tintoret might sometimes have been hard put to it, when he had to
fill a large panel in the Ducal Palace with the portrait of a nowise interesting
Doge, unless he had been able to lay a winged lion beside him, ten feet long
from the nose to the tail, asleep upon the Turkey carpet; and Rubens could
certainly have made his flatteries of Mary of Medicis palatable to no one but
herself, without the help of rosy-cheeked goddesses of abundance, and
seven-headed hydras of rebellion.
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