The Crown of Wild Olive
branches from that seen in the view from above. They are generally seen
more or less in profile, as you look at the whole tree, and Nature puts
her best composition into the profile arrangement. But the view from
above or below occurs not unfrequently, also, and it is quite necessary
you should draw it if you wish to understand the anatomy of the tree.
The difference between the two views is often far greater than you could
easily conceive. For instance, in Fig. 9., _a_ is the upper view, and
_b_ the profile, of a single spray of Phillyrea. Fig. 8. is an
intermediate view of a larger bough; seen from beneath, but at some
lateral distance also.
When you have done a few branches in this manner, take one of the
_drawings_, and put it first a yard away from you, then a yard and a
half, then two yards; observe how the thinner stalks and leaves
gradually disappear, leaving only a vague and slight darkness where they
were, and make another study of the effect at each distance, taking care
to draw nothing more than you really see, for in this consists all the
difference between what would be merely a _miniature_ drawing of the
leaves seen _near_, and a _full-size_ drawing of the same leaves at a
distance. By full size, I mean the size which they would really appear
of if their outline were traced through a pane of glass held at the
same distance from the eye at which you mean to hold your drawing. You
can always ascertain this full size of any object by holding your paper
upright before you, at the distance from your eye at which you wish your
drawing to be seen. Bring its edge across the object you have to draw,
and mark upon this edge the points where the outline of the object
crosses, or goes behind, the edge of the paper. You will always find it,
thus measured, smaller than you supposed.
When you have made a few careful experiments of this kind on your own
drawings, (which are better for practice, at first, than the real trees,
because the black profile in the drawing is quite stable, and does not
shake, and is not confused by sparkles of lustre on the leaves,) you may
try the extremities of the real trees, only not doing much at a time,
for the brightness of the sky will dazzle and perplex your sight. And
this brightness causes, I believe, some loss of the outline itself; at
least the chemical action of the light in a photograph extends much
within the edges of the leaves, and, as it were, eats them away so that
no tree extremity, stand it ever so still, nor any other form coming
against bright sky, is truly drawn by a photograph; and if you once
succeed in drawing a few sprays rightly, you will find the result much
more lovely and interesting than any photograph can be.
All this difficulty, however, attaches to the rendering merely the dark
form of the sprays as they come against the sky. Within those sprays,
and in the heart of the tree, there is a complexity of a much more
embarrassing kind; for nearly all leaves have some lustre, and _all_ are
more or less translucent (letting light through them); therefore, in any
given leaf, besides the intricacies of its own proper shadows and
foreshortenings, there are three series of circumstances which alter or
hide its forms. First, shadows cast on it by other leaves--often very
forcibly. Secondly, light reflected from its lustrous surface, sometimes
the blue of the sky, sometimes the white of clouds, or the sun itself
flashing like a star. Thirdly, forms and shadows of other leaves, seen
as darkness _through_ the translucent parts of the leaf; a most
important element of foliage effect, but wholly neglected by landscape
artists in general.
The consequence of all this is, that except now and then by chance, the
form of a complete leaf is never seen; but a marvellous and quaint
confusion, very definite, indeed, in its evidence of direction of
growth, and unity of action, but wholly indefinable and inextricable,
part by part, by any amount of patience. You cannot possibly work it out
in fac simile, though you took a twelvemonth's time to a tree; and you
must therefore try to discover some mode of execution which will more or
less imitate, by its own variety and mystery, the variety and mystery of
Nature, without absolute delineation of detail.
Now I have led you to this conclusion by observation of tree form only,
because in that the thing to be proved is clearest. But no natural
object exists which does not involve in some part or parts of it this
inimitableness, this mystery of quantity, which needs peculiarity of
handling and trick of touch to express it completely. If leaves are
intricate, so is moss, so is foam, so is rock cleavage, so are fur and
hair, and texture of drapery, and of clouds. And although methods and
dexterities of handling are wholly useless if you have not gained first
the thorough knowledge of the form of the thing; so that if you cannot
draw a branch perfectly, then much less a tree; and if not a wreath of
mist perfectly, much less a flock of clouds; and if not a single grass
blade perfectly, much less a grass bank; yet having once got this power
over decisive form, you may safely--and must, in order to perfection of
work--carry out your knowledge by every aid of method and dexterity of
hand.
But, in order to find out what method can do, you must now look at Art
as well as at Nature, and see what means painters and engravers have
actually employed for the expression of these subtleties. Whereupon
arises the question, what opportunity have you to obtain engravings? You
ought, if it is at all in your power, to possess yourself of a certain
number of good examples of Turner's engraved works: if this be not in
your power, you must just make the best use you can of the shop
windows, or of any plates of which you can obtain a loan. Very possibly,
the difficulty of getting sight of them may stimulate you to put them to
better use. But, supposing your means admit of your doing so, possess
yourself, first, of the illustrated edition either of Rogers's Italy or
Rogers's Poems, and then of about a dozen of the plates named in the
annexed lists. The prefixed letters indicate the particular points
deserving your study in each engraving.[216] Be sure, therefore, that
your selection includes, at all events, one plate marked with each
letter--of course the plates marked with two or three letters are, for
the most part, the best. Do not get more than twelve of these plates,
nor even all the twelve at first. For the more engravings you have, the
less attention you will pay to them. It is a general truth, that the
enjoyment derivable from art cannot be increased in quantity, beyond a
certain point, by quantity of possession; it is only spread, as it were,
over a larger surface, and very often dulled by finding ideas repeated
in different works. Now, for a beginner, it is always better that his
attention should be concentrated on one or two good things, and all his
enjoyment founded on them, than that he should look at many, with
divided thoughts. He has much to discover; and his best way of
discovering it is to think long over few things, and watch them
earnestly. It is one of the worst errors of this age to try to know and
to see too much: the men who seem to know everything, never in reality
know anything rightly. Beware of _hand-book_ knowledge.
These engravings are, in general, more for you to look at than to copy;
and they will be of more use to you when we come to talk of composition,
than they are at present; still, it will do you a great deal of good,
sometimes to try how far you can get their delicate texture, or
gradations of tone; as your pen-and-ink drawing will be apt to incline
too much to a scratchy and broken kind of shade. For instance, the
texture of the white convent wall, and the drawing of its tiled roof, in
the vignette at p. 227. of Rogers's Poems, is as exquisite as work can
possibly be; and it will be a great and profitable achievement if you
can at all approach it. In like manner, if you can at all imitate the
dark distant country at p. 7., or the sky at p. 80., of the same volume,
or the foliage at pp. 12. and 144., it will be good gain; and if you can
once draw the rolling clouds and running river at p. 9. of the "Italy,"
or the city in the vignette of Aosta at p. 25., or the moonlight at p.
223., you will find that even Nature herself cannot afterwards very
terribly puzzle you with her torrents, or towers, or moonlight.
You need not copy touch for touch, but try to get the same effect. And
if you feel discouraged by the delicacy required, and begin to think
that engraving is not drawing, and that copying it cannot help you to
draw, remember that it differs from common drawing only by the
difficulties it has to encounter. You perhaps have got into a careless
habit of thinking that engraving is a mere _business_, easy enough when
one has got into the knack of it. On the contrary, it is a form of
drawing more difficult than common drawing, by exactly so much as it is
more difficult to cut steel than to move the pencil over paper. It is
true that there are certain mechanical aids and methods which reduce it
at certain stages either to pure machine work, or to more or less a
habit of hand and arm; but this is not so in the foliage you are trying
to copy, of which the best and prettiest parts are always etched--that
is, drawn with a fine steel point and free hand: only the line made is
white instead of black, which renders it much more difficult to judge of
what you are about. And the trying to copy these plates will be good for
you, because it will awaken you to the real labour and skill of the
engraver, and make you understand a little how people must work, in
this world, who have really to _do_ anything in it.
Do not, however, suppose that I give you the engraving as a model--far
from it; but it is necessary you should be able to do as well[217]
before you think of doing better, and you will find many little helps
and hints in the various work of it. Only remember that _all_ engravers'
foregrounds are bad; whenever you see the peculiar wriggling parallel
lines of modern engravings become distinct, you must not copy; nor
admire: it is only the softer masses, and distances; and portions of the
foliage in the plates marked _f_, which you may copy. The best for this
purpose, if you can get it, is the "Chain bridge over the Tees," of the
England series; the thicket on the right is very beautiful and
instructive, and very like Turner. The foliage in the "Ludlow" and
"Powis" is also remarkably good.
Besides these line engravings, and to protect you from what harm there
is in their influence, you are to provide yourself, if possible, with a
Rembrandt etching, or a photograph of one (of figures, not landscape).
It does not matter of what subject, or whether a sketchy or finished
one, but the sketchy ones are generally cheapest, and will teach you
most. Copy it as well as you can, noticing especially that Rembrandt's
most rapid lines have steady purpose; and that they are laid with almost
inconceivable precision when the object becomes at all interesting. The
"Prodigal Son," "Death of the Virgin," "Abraham and Isaac," and such
others, containing incident and character rather than chiaroscuro, will
be the most instructive. You can buy one; copy it well; then exchange
it, at little loss, for another; and so, gradually, obtain a good
knowledge of his system. Whenever you have an opportunity of examining
his work at museums, &c., do so with the greatest care, not looking at
_many_ things, but a long time at each. You must also provide yourself,
if possible, with an engraving of Albert Durer's. This you will not be
able to copy; but you must keep it beside you, and refer to it as a