Part 7

ON THE RELATION OF OPTICS TO PAINTING.

Being the substance of a series of Lectures delivered in Cologne, Berlin, and Bonn.

I fear that the announcement of my intention to address you on the subject of plastic art may have created no little surprise among some of my hearers. For I cannot doubt that many of you have had more frequent opportunities of viewing works of art, and have more thoroughly studied its historical aspects, than I can lay claim to have done; or indeed have had personal experience in the actual practice of art, in which I am entirely wanting. I have arrived at my artistic studies by a path which is but little trod, that is, by the physiology of the senses; and in reference to those who have a long acquaintance with, and who are quite at home in the beautiful fields of art, I may compare myself to a traveller who has entered upon them by a steep and stony mountain path, but who, in doing so, has passed many a stage from which a good point of view is obtained. If therefore I relate to you what I consider I have observed, it is with the understanding that I wish to regard myself as open to instruction by those more experienced than myself.

The physiological study of the manner in which the perceptions of our senses originate, how impressions from without pass into our nerves, and how the condition of the latter is thereby altered, presents many points of contact with the theory of the fine arts. On a former occasion I endeavoured to establish such a relation between the physiology of the sense of hearing, and the theory of music. Those relations in that case are particularly clear and distinct, because the elementary forms of music depend more closely on the nature and on the peculiarities of our perceptions than is the case in other arts, in which the nature of the material to be used and of the objects to be represented has a far greater influence. Yet even in those other branches of art, the especial mode of perception of that organ of sense by which the impression is taken up is not without importance; and a theoretical insight into its action, and into the principle of its methods, cannot be complete if this physiological element is not taken into account. Next to music this seems to predominate more particularly in painting, and this is the reason why I have chosen painting as the subject of my present lecture.

The more immediate object of the painter is to produce in us by his palette a lively visual impression of the objects which he has endeavoured to represent. The aim, in a certain sense, is to produce a kind of optical illusion; not indeed that, like the birds who pecked at the painted grapes of Apelles, we are to suppose we have present the real objects themselves, and not a picture; but in so far that the artistic representation produces in us a conception of their objects as vivid and as powerful as if we had them actually before us. The study of what are called illusions of the senses is however a very prominent and important part of the physiology of the senses; for just those cases in which external impressions evoke conceptions which are not in accordance with reality are particularly instructive for discovering the laws of those means and processes by which normal perceptions originate. We must look upon artists as persons whose observation of sensuous impressions is particularly vivid and accurate, and whose memory for these images is particularly true. That which long tradition has handed down to the men most gifted in this respect, and that which they have found by innumerable experiments in the most varied directions, as regards means and methods of representation, forms a series of important and significant facts, which the physiologist, who has here to learn from the artist, cannot afford to neglect. The study of works of art will throw great light on the question as to which elements and relations of our visual impressions are most predominant in determining our conception of what is seen, and what others are of less importance. As far as lies within his power, the artist will seek to foster the former at the cost of the latter.

In this sense then a careful observation of the works of the great masters will be serviceable, not only to physiological optics, but also because the investigation of the laws of the perceptions and of the observations of the senses will promote the theory of art, that is, the comprehension of its mode of action.

We have not here to do with a discussion of the ultimate objects and aims of art, but only with an examination of the action of the elementary means with which it works. The knowledge of the latter must, however, form an indispensable basis for the solution of the deeper questions, if we are to understand the problems which the artist has to solve, and the mode in which he attempts to attain his object.

I need scarcely lay stress on the fact, following as it does from what I have already said, that it is not my intention to furnish instructions according to which the artist is to work. I consider it a mistake to suppose that any kind of æsthetic lectures such as these can ever do so; but it is a mistake which those very frequently make who have only practical objects in view.

I. FORM.

The painter seeks to produce in his picture an image of external objects. The first aim of our investigation must be to ascertain what degree and what kind of similarity he can expect to attain, and what limits are assigned to him by the nature of his method. The uneducated observer usually requires nothing more than an illusive resemblance to nature: the more this is obtained, the more does he delight in the picture. An observer, on the contrary, whose taste in works of art has been more finely educated, will, consciously or unconsciously, require something more, and something different. A faithful copy of crude Nature he will at most regard as an artistic feat. To satisfy him, he will need artistic selection, grouping, and even idealisation of the objects represented. The human figures in a work of art must not be the everyday figures, such as we see in photographs; they must have expression, and a characteristic development, and if possible beautiful forms, which have perhaps belonged to no living individuals or indeed any individuals which ever have existed, but only to such a one as might exist, and as must exist, to produce a vivid perception of any particular aspect of human existence in its complete and unhindered development.

If however the artist is to produce an artistic arrangement of only idealised types, whether of man or of natural objects, must not the picture be an actual, complete, and directly true delineation of that which would appear if it anywhere came into being?

Since the picture is on a plane surface, this faithful representation can of course only give a faithful perspective view of the objects. Yet our eye, which in its optical properties is equivalent to a camera obscura, the well-known apparatus of the photographer, gives on the retina, which is its sensitive plate, only perspective views of the external world; these are stationary, like the drawing on a picture, as long as the standpoint of the eye is not altered. And, in fact, if we restrict ourselves in the first place to the form of the object viewed, and disregard for the present any consideration of colour, by a correct perspective drawing we can present to the eye of an observer, who views it from a correctly chosen point of view, the same forms of the visual image as the inspection of the objects themselves would present to the same eye, when viewed from the corresponding point of view.

But apart from the fact that any movement of the observer, whereby his eye changes its position, will produce displacements of the visual image, different when he stands before objects from those when he stands before the image, I could speak of only one eye for which equality of impression is to be established. We however see the world with two eyes, which occupy somewhat different positions in space, and which therefore show two different perspective views of objects before us. This difference of the images of the two eyes forms one of the most important means of estimating the distance of objects from our eye, and of estimating depth, and this is what is wanting to the painter, or even turns against him; since in binocular vision the picture distinctly forces itself on our perception as a plane surface.

You must all have observed the wonderful vividness which the solid form of objects acquires when good stereoscopic images are viewed in the stereoscope, a kind of vividness in which either of the pictures is wanting when viewed without the stereoscope. The illusion is most striking and instructive with figures in simple line; models of crystals and the like, in which there is no other element of illusion. The reason of this deception is, that looking with two eyes we view the world simultaneously from somewhat different points of view, and thereby acquire two different perspective images. With the right eye we see somewhat more of the right side of objects before us, and also somewhat more of those behind it, than we do with the left eye; and conversely we see with the left, more of the left side of an object, and of the background behind its left edges, and partially concealed by the edge. But a flat picture shows to the right eye absolutely the same picture, and all objects represented upon it, as to the left eye. If then we make for each eye such a picture as that eye would perceive if itself looked at the object, and if both pictures are combined in the stereoscope, so that each eye sees its corresponding picture, then as far as form is concerned the same impression is produced in the two eyes as the object itself produces. But if we look at a drawing or a picture with both eyes, we just as easily recognise that it is a representation on a plane surface, which is different from that which the actual object would show simultaneously to both eyes. Hence is due the well-known increase in the vividness of a picture if it is looked at with only one eye, and while quite stationary, through a dark tube; we thus exclude any comparison of its distance with that of adjacent objects in the room. For it must be observed that as we use different pictures seen with the two eyes for the perception of depth, in like manner as the body moves from one place to another, the pictures seen by the same eye serve for the same purpose. In moving, whether on foot or riding, the nearer objects are apparently displaced in comparison with the more distant ones; the former appear to recede, the latter appear to move with us. Hence arises a far stricter distinction between what is near and what is distant, than seeing with one eye from one and the same spot would ever afford us. If we move towards the picture, the sensuous impression that it is a flat picture hanging against the wall forces itself more strongly upon us than if we look at it while we are stationary. Compared with a large picture at a greater distance, all those elements which depend on binocular vision and on the movement of the body are less operative, because in very distant objects the differences between the images of the two eyes, or between the aspect from adjacent points of view, seem less. Hence large pictures furnish a less distorted aspect of their object than small ones, while the impression on a stationary eye, of a small picture close at hand, might be just the same as that of a large distant one. In a painting close at hand, the fact that it is a flat picture continually forces itself more powerfully and more distinctly on our perception.

The fact that perspective drawings, which are taken from too near a point of view, may easily produce a distorted impression, is, I think, connected with this. For here the want of the second representation for the other eye, which would be very different, is too marked. On the other hand, what are called geometrical projections, that is, perspective drawings which represent a view taken from an infinite distance, give in many cases a particularly favourable view of the object, although they correspond to a point of sight which does not in reality occur. Here the pictures of both eyes for such an object are the same.

You will notice that in these respects there is a primary incongruity, and one which cannot be got over, between the aspect of a picture and the aspect of reality. This incongruity may be lessened, but never entirely overcome. Owing to the imperfect action of binocular vision, the most important natural means is lost of enabling the observer to estimate the depth of objects represented in the picture. The painter possesses a series of subordinate means, partly of limited applicability, and partly of slight effect, of expressing various distances by depth. It is not unimportant to become acquainted with these elements, as arising out of theoretical considerations; for in the practice of the art of painting they have manifestly exercised great influence on the arrangement, selection, and mode of illumination of the objects represented. The distinctness of what is represented is indeed of subordinate importance when considered in reference to the ideal aims of art; it must not however be depreciated, for it is the first condition by which the observer attains an intelligibility of expression, which impresses itself without fatigue on the observer.

This direct intelligibility is again the preliminary condition for an undisturbed, and vivid action of the picture on the feelings and mood of the observer.

The subordinate methods of expressing depth which have been referred to, depend in the first place on perspective. Nearer objects partially conceal more distant ones, but can never themselves be concealed by the latter. If therefore the painter skilfully groups his objects, so that the feature in question comes into play, this gives at once a very certain gradation of far and near. This mutual concealment may even preponderate over the binocular perception of depth, if stereoscopic pictures are intentionally produced in which each counteracts the other. Moreover, in bodies of regular or of known form, the forms of perspective projection are for the most part characteristic for the depth of the object. If we look at houses, or other results of man’s artistic activity, we know at the outset that the forms are for the most part plane surfaces at right angles to each other, with occasional circular or even spheroidal surfaces. And in fact, when we know so much, a correct perspective drawing is sufficient to produce the whole shape of the body. This is also the case with the figures of men and animals which are familiar to us, and whose forms moreover show two symmetrical halves. The best perspective drawing is however of but little avail in the case of irregular shapes, rough blocks of rock and ice, masses of foliage, and the like; that this is so, is best seen in photographs, where the perspective and shading may be absolutely correct, and yet the total impression is indistinct and confused.

When human habitations are seen in a picture, they represent to the observer the direction of the horizontal surfaces at the place at which they stand; and in comparison therewith the inclination of the ground, which without them would often be difficult to represent.

The apparent magnitude which objects, whose actual magnitude is known, present in different parts of the picture must also be taken into account. Men and animals, as well as familiar trees, are useful to the painter in this respect. In the more distant centre of the landscape they appear smaller than in the foreground, and thus their apparent magnitude furnishes a measure of the distance at which they are placed.

Shadows, and more especially double ones, are of great importance. You all know how much more distinct is the impression which a well-shaded drawing gives as distinguished from an outline; the shading is hence one of the most difficult, but at the same time most effective, elements in the productions of the draughtsman and painter. It is his task to imitate the fine gradation and transitions of light and shade on rounded surfaces, which are his chief means of expressing their modelling, with all their fine changes of curvature; he must take into account the extension or restriction of the sources of light, and the mutual reflection of the surfaces on each other. While the modifications of the lighting on the surface of bodies themselves is often dubious--for instance, an intaglio of a medal may, with a particular illumination, produce the impression of reliefs which are only illuminated from the other side--double shadows, on the contrary, are undoubted indications that the body which throws the shadow is nearer the source of light than that which receives the shadow. This rule is so completely without exception, that even in stereoscopic views a falsely placed double shadow may destroy or confuse the entire illusion.

The various kinds of illumination are not all equally favourable for obtaining the full effect of shadows. When the observer looks at the objects in the same direction as that in which light falls upon them, he sees only their illuminated sides and nothing of the shadow; the whole relief which the shadows could give then disappears. If the object is between the source of light and the observer he only sees the shadows. Hence we need lateral illumination for a picturesque shading; and over surfaces which like those of plane or hilly land only present slightly moving figures, we require light which is almost in the direction of the surface itself, for only such a one gives shadows. This is one of the reasons which makes illumination by the rising or the setting sun so effective. The forms of the landscape become more distinct. To this must also be added the influence of colour, and of aerial light, which we shall subsequently discuss.

Direct illumination from the sun, or from a flame, makes the shadows sharply defined, and hard. Illumination from a very wide luminous surface, such as a cloudy sky, makes them confused, or destroys them altogether. Between these two extremes there are transitions; illumination by a portion of the sky, defined by a window, or by trees, &c., allows the shadows to be more or less prominent according to the nature of the object. You must have seen of what importance this is to photographers, who have to modify their light by all manner of screens and curtains in order to obtain well-modelled portraits.

Of more importance for the representation of depth than the elements hitherto enumerated, and which are more or less of local and accidental significance, is what is called aerial perspective. By this we understand the optical action of the light, which the illuminated masses of air, between the observer and distant objects, give. This arises from a fine opacity in the atmosphere, which never entirely disappears. If, in a transparent medium, there are fine transparent particles of varying density and varying refrangibility, in so far as they are struck by it, they deflect the light passing through such a medium, partly by reflection and partly by refraction; to use an optical expression, they scatter it in all directions. If the opaque particles are sparsely distributed, so that a great part of the light can pass through them without being deflected, distant objects are seen in sharp, well-defined outlines through such a medium, while at the same time a portion of the light which is deflected is distributed in the transparent medium as an opaque halo. Water rendered turbid by a few drops of milk shows this dispersion of the light and cloudiness very distinctly. The light in this case is deflected by the microscopic globules of butter which are suspended in the milk.

In the ordinary air of our rooms, this turbidity is very apparent when the room is closed, and a ray of sunlight is admitted through a narrow aperture. We see then some of these solar particles, large enough to be distinguished by the naked eye, while others form a fine homogeneous turbidity. But even the latter must consist mainly of suspended particles of organic substances, for, according to an observation of Tyndall, they can be burnt. If the flame of a spirit lamp is placed directly below the path of these rays, the air rising from the flame stands out quite dark in the surrounding bright turbidity; that is to say, the air rising from the flame has been quite freed from dust. In the open air, besides dust and occasional smoke, we must often also take into account the turbidity arising from incipient aqueous deposits, where the temperature of moist air sinks so far that the water retained in it can no longer exist as invisible vapour. Part of the water settles then in the form of fine drops, as a kind of the very finest aqueous dust, and forms a finer or denser fog; that is to say, cloud. The turbidity which forms in hot sunshine and dry air may arise, partly from dust which the ascending currents of warm air whirl about; and partly from the irregular mixture of cold and warm layers of air of different density, as is seen in the tremulous motion of the lower layers of air over surfaces irradiated by the sun. But science can as yet give no explanation of the turbidity in the higher regions of the atmosphere which produces the blue of the sky; we do not know whether it arises from suspended particles of foreign substances, or whether the molecules of air themselves may not act as turbid particles in the luminous ether.

The colour of the light reflected by the opaque particles mainly depends on their magnitude. When a block of wood floats on water, and by a succession of falling drops we produce small wave-rings near it, these are repelled by the floating wood as if it were a solid wall. But in the long waves of the sea, a block of wood would be rocked about without the waves being thereby materially disturbed in their progress. Now light is well known to be an undulatory motion of the ether which fills all space. The red and yellow rays have the longest waves, the blue and violet the shortest. Very fine particles, therefore, which disturb the uniformity of the ether, will accordingly reflect the latter rays more markedly than the red and yellow rays. The light of turbid media is bluer, the finer are the opaque particles; while the larger particles of uniform light reflect all colours, and therefore give a whitish turbidity. Of this kind is the celestial blue, that is, the colour of the turbid atmosphere as seen against dark cosmical space. The purer and the more transparent the air, the bluer is the sky. In like manner it is bluer and darker when we ascend high mountains, partly because the air at great heights is freer from turbidity, and partly because there is less air above us. But the same blue, which is seen against the dark celestial space, also occurs against dark terrestrial objects; for instance, when a thick layer of illuminated air is between us and masses of deeply shaded or wooded hills. The same aerial light makes the sky blue, as well as the mountains; excepting that in the former case it is pure, while in the latter it is mixed with the light from objects behind; and moreover it belongs to the coarser turbidity of the lower regions of the atmosphere, so that it is whiter. In hot countries, and with dry air, the aerial turbidity is also finer in the lower regions of the air, and therefore the blue in front of distant terrestrial objects is more like that of the sky. The clearness and the pure colours of Italian landscapes depend mainly on this fact. On high mountains, particularly in the morning, the aerial turbidity is often so slight that the colours of the most distant objects can scarcely be distinguished from those of the nearest. The sky may then appear almost bluish-black.

Conversely, the denser turbidity consists mainly of coarser particles, and is therefore whitish. As a rule, this is the case in the lower layers of air, and in states of weather in which the aqueous vapour in the air is near its point of condensation.

On the other hand, the light which reaches the eye of the observer after having passed through a long layer of air, has been robbed of part of its violet and blue by scattered reflections; it therefore appears yellowish to reddish-yellow or red, the former when the turbidity is fine, the latter when it is coarse. Thus the sun and the moon at their rising and setting, and also distant brightly illuminated mountain-tops, especially snow-mountains, appear coloured.