Monday, April 30, 2012

On the relation between colour and form

1.  First, then, I think that in making this reference we are to consider our building as a kind of organised creature; in colouring  which  we  must  look  to  the  single  and  separately organised creatures of Nature, not to her landscape combinations. And  the  first  broad  conclusion  we  shall  deduce  from observance of natural colour in such cases will be, that it never follows  form,  but  is  arranged  on  an  entirely  separate  system. What mysterious connection there may be between the shape of  the  spots  on  an  animal’s  skin  and  its  anatomical  system,  I do not  know,  nor  even  if  such  a  connection  has  in  anywise  been traced:  but to the eye the systems are entirely separate, and in many  cases that of  colour is accidentally variable. The stripes of a zebra do not follow the lines of its body or limbs, still less the  spots  of  a  leopard.  In  the  plumage  of  birds,  each  feather bears a part of the pattern which is arbitrarily carried over the body, having indeed certain graceful harmonies with the form, diminishing or enlarging in directions which sometimes follow, but also not unfrequently oppose, the directions of its muscular lines.  Whatever  harmonies  there  may  be,  are  distinctly  like those of two separate musical parts, coinciding  here and there only—never  discordant,  but  essentially  different.  I  hold  this, then, for the first great principle of architectural colour.  Let it be  visibly  independent  of  form.

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The   boundaries   of   the   forms   he   will   assuredly, whatever  the  object,  have  found  drawn  with  a  delicacy  and precision  which  no  human  hand  can  follow.  Those of  its colours he will find in many cases, though governed always by a  certain  rude  symmetry,  yet  irregular,  blotched,  imperfect,  liable to all kinds of accidents and awkwardnesses. Look at the tracery  of  the  lines  on  a  camp  shell,  and  see  how  oddly  and awkwardly its tents are pitched.   It is not indeed always so: there is  occasionally,  as  in  the  eye  of  the  peacock’s  plume,  an apparent precision, but still a precision far inferior to that of the drawing of the filaments which bear that lovely stain; and in the plurality of cases a degree of looseness and variation, and, still more  singularly,  of  harshness  and  violence  in  arrangement,  is admitted in colour which would be monstrous in form. Observe the difference in the precision of a fish’s scales and of the spots on them.

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 Infinite  nonsense  has  been  written about the union of perfect colour with perfect form. They never will, never can be united. Colour, to be perfect, must have a soft outline  or  a  simple  one:  (it  cannot  have  a  refined  one;) and you  will  never  produce  a  good  painted  window  with  good figure-drawing in it. You will lose perfection of colour as you give  perfection  of  line.  Try to  put  in  order  and  form  the colours of a piece of opal."

(Seven Lamps of Architecture, Chapter IV: The Lamp of Beauty, §§ 36-38)