Details in painting and the general truth

...a  man  who attended   to   general   character   would   in   five minutes produce a more faithful representation of a tree, than the unfortunate mechanist in as many years,  is  thus  perfectly  true  and  well founded; but  this  is  not because details are undesirable, but because they are best given by  swift execution,  and  because,  individually,  they  cannot  be given to all.

(Modern Painters I, p. 340)

Beautiful incomprehensibility

But if there be this mystery and inexhaustible finish merely in  the  more  delicate  instances  of  architectural decoration, how much more in the ceaseless and incomparable decoration of nature. The detail of a single weedy bank laughs the carving of ages to scorn.  Every  leaf  and  stalk  has  a  design  and  tracery  upon  it; every  knot  of  grass  an  intricacy  of  shade  which  the  labour  of  years could never imitate, and which, if such labour could follow it out even to the last fibres of the leaflets, would yet be falsely represented, for, as in all other cases brought forward, it is not clearly  seen,  but  confusedly  and  mysteriously.  That  which  is nearness  for  the  bank,  is  distance  for  its  details;  and  however near  it  may  be,  the  greater  part  of  those  details  are  still  a beautiful incomprehensibility.

The mystery of distance

Every object, however near the eye, has something about it which you cannot see, and which brings the mystery of distance even into every part and portion of what we suppose ourselves to see most distinctly. Stand  in  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco,  at  Venice,  as  close  to  the church as you can, without losing sight of the top of it. Look at the capitals of the columns on the second story. You see that they are exquisitely rich, carved all over. Tell me their patterns: You cannot.  Tell  me  the  direction  of  a  single  line  in  them: You cannot. Yet you see a multitude of lines, and you have so much feeling of a certain tendency and arrangement in those lines, that you are quite sure the capitals are beautiful, and that they are all different from each other. But I defy you to make out one single line in any one of them. Now go to Canaletto's painting of this church,  in  the  Palazzo  Manfrini, taken  from  the very  spot  on  which  you  stood.  How  much  has  he represented  of  all  this?  A  black  dot  under  each capital for the shadow, and a yellow one above it for the light. There is not a vestige nor indication of carving or decoration of any sort or kind.

Very different from this, but erring on the other side, is the ordinary drawing of the architect, who gives the principal lines of the design with delicate clearness and precision, but with no uncertainty  or  mystery  about  them;  which  mystery  being removed, all space and size are destroyed with it, and we have a drawing of a model, not of a building.

(Modern Painters I)

Mysterious, but always abundant

The  grass  blades  of  a meadow  a  mile  off,  are  so  far  discernible  that  there  will  be  a marked difference between its appearance and that of a piece of wood painted green. And thus nature is never distinct and never vacant,  she  is  always  mysterious,  but  always  abundant;  you always see something, but you never see all.

And thus arise that exquisite finish and fulness which God has appointed to be the perpetual source of fresh pleasure to the cultivated  and  observant  eye;  a  finish  which  no  distance  can render  invisible,  and  no  nearness  comprehensible;  which  in every  stone,  every  bough,  every  cloud,  and  every  wave  is multiplied   around   us,   for   ever   presented,   and   for   ever exhaustless. And hence in art, every space or touch in which we can  see  everything,  or  in  which  we  can  see  nothing,  is  false. Nothing can be true which is either complete or vacant; every touch is false which does not suggest more than it represents, and every space is false which represents nothing.

(Modern Painters I)

And how absolutely necessary to the faithful representation of space this indecision really is, might  be proved  with  the  utmost  ease  by  any  one  who  had veneration enough for the artist to sacrifice one of his pictures to his fame; who would take some one of his works in which the figures were most incomplete, and have them  painted  in  by any  of  our  delicate  and  first-rate  figure painters,  absolutely  preserving  every colour  and  shade  of Turner's group, so as not to lose one atom of the composition, but giving eyes for the pink spots and feet for the white ones. Let the picture be so exhibited in the Academy, and even novices in art would feel at a glance that its truth of space was gone, that every   one   of   its   beauties   and harmonies   had   undergone decomposition,  that  it  was  now  a  grammatical  solecism,  a painting of impossibilities, a thing to torture the eye and offend the mind.
 

Second principle of chiaroscuro

The  second  point  to  which  I  wish  at  present  to  direct attention has reference to the arrangement of light and shade. It is the constant habit of nature to use both  her  highest  lights  and  deepest  shadows  in exceedingly  small  quantity;  always  in  points, never  in  masses.  She  will  give  a  large  mass  of  tender  light  in  sky  or  water,  impressive  by  its quantity,  and  a  large  mass  of  tender  shadow relieved against it, in foliage, or hill, or building; but the light is always subdued if it be extensive, the shadow always feeble if it be  broad.  She  will  then  fill  up  all  the  rest  of  her  picture  with middle tints and pale greys of some sort or another, and on this quiet  and  harmonious  whole  she  will  touch  her  high  lights  in spots: the foam of an isolated wave, the sail of a solitary vessel, the  flash  of  the  sun  from  a  wet  roof,  the  gleam  of  a  single white-washed cottage, or some such sources of local brilliancy, she will use so vividly and delicately as to throw everything else into definite shade by comparison. And then taking  up  the  gloom,  she  will  use the  black  hollows  of  some overhanging bank, or the black dress of some shaded figure, or the depth of some sunless chink of wall or window, so sharply as to throw everything else into definite light by comparison; thus reducing the whole mass of her picture to a delicate middle tint, approaching, of course, here to light, and there to gloom; but yet sharply separated from the utmost degrees either of the one or the other.

....

And it is most singular that this separation, which is the great source of brilliancy in nature, should not only be unobserved, but absolutely forbidden, by our great writers  on  art,  who  are  always  talking  about connecting    the    light    with    the    shade    by imperceptible  gradations.  Now  so  surely  as  this  is  done,  all sunshine is lost, for imperceptible gradation from light to dark is the characteristic of objects seen out of sunshine, in what is, in landscape,  shadow.  Nature's  principle  of  getting  light  is  the direct reverse. She will cover her whole landscape with middle tint, in which she will have as many gradations as you please, and a great many more than you can paint; but on this middle tint she touches her extreme lights, and extreme darks, isolated and sharp, so that the eye goes to them directly, and feels them to be keynotes  of  the  whole  composition. And  although  the  dark touches are less attractive than the light ones,  it  is  not  because  they  are  less  distinct,  but  because  they exhibit  nothing;  while  the  bright  touches  are  in  parts  where everything is seen, and  where in consequence the eye  goes to rest.  

Of truth of chiaroscuro

"Be so kind, on the first bright, sunny day after you have read this, as to look for a white [washed?] cottage, on one side of which the sun falls as directly as may be, but so as yet to get slightly and obliquely at another side. On the high light you will find that you  cannot  see  the  projecting  granulation,  but  in  the  oblique  light  you  can  see  every pebble  separately.  Whatever  detail  or  projections  are  on  the  high  light,  as  the  sun penetrates into every chink and cranny of them, can cast no shadows, and have no dark sides and,  therefore,  are  indistinctly  and  imperfectly  seen,  and  indeed,  unless  very large and important, are not seen at all; whence arises the general rule. There can be no detail on the high light. It is all blaze. But whatever projections and details exist on the surface turned obliquely to the light, each, however small, has its dark side and shadow, and every one is seen, more and more distinctly as the object is turned more and more from the light. The result of this is, that as every object not polished has more or less of texture on its surface, and nearly all have roughness and projections, and detail in some degree, a general tone of shadow is obtained on these oblique surfaces far deeper than could be accounted for by the mere fact of the oblique fall of the light, and they sink, practically,  into  what  artists call Middle  Tint.  Again,  the  Dark  Side, though  entirely inaccessible to the direct lightŕis very strongly affected by the reflected light, which as it were fills the whole atmosphere, and illuminates every object open and exposed to it; and it is also very often so energetically illumined by accidental lights that its mass is broken up, and it usually becomes also merged in what artists call Middle Tint. But that part of it which is accidentally Shadow is usually, by its position, inaccessible even  to the reflected light, and always more inaccessible than the Dark Side. It is therefore, in near  objects,  and  in  sunlight,  so  dark  in  comparison  with  the  high  lights,  that  their relative degrees of intensity can be scarcely expressed with real truth, except by the jet black of  chalk on white paper."

Hence shadows are in reality, when the sun is shining, the most conspicuous things in a landscape, next to the highest   lights.   All   forms are understood  and explained chiefly by their agency: the roughness of the bark of a tree, for instance, is not seen in the light, nor in the shade; it is only seen between the two, where  the shadows of the ridges explain  it. And hence, if we have to express vivid light, our very first aim must be to get the shadows sharp and visible; and this is not to be done by blackness (though indeed chalk on white paper is the only thing which comes up to the intensity of real shadows), but by  keeping  them  perfectly  flat,  keen,  and  even.  A  very  pale shadow, if it be quite flat, if it conceal the details of the objects it crosses, if it be grey and cold compared with their colour, and very  sharp-edged,  will  be  far  more  conspicuous,  and  make everything out of it look a great deal more like sunlight, than a shadow ten times its depth, shaded off at the  edge,  and  confounded  with  the  colour  of  the  objects  on which  it  falls.

Modern Painters I