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Understanding the Arts (1932) is a book by Helen Gardner.

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UNDERSTANDING THE ARTS

BY

HELEN GARDNER, A.M.

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF HISTORY OF ART IN THE SCHOOL OF THE ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO AUTHOR OF “ART THROUGH THE AGES”

HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY NEW YORK • CHICAGO

COPYRIGHT, 1932, BY HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission in writing from the publisher.

PRINTED IN THE U-S-A

Preface

oday the arts are coming to the fore. Colleges and

-L high schools are increasing their courses both in num¬ ber and in content. Art appreciation programs, especially in music, are coming over the air. The layman is de¬ manding better design in his car, in the furnishings of his home, in advertising. Thousands evince a healthy interest in art and a genuine desire to understand it. The purpose of this book, then, is to suggest an approach to an under¬ standing of the arts; and while it is adapted primarily to high school and normal school art appreciation courses, it is the hope of the author that it will serve anyone who is eager for guidance.

Guidance, we say. For neither book nor instructor can teach true appreciation of art any more than a guide can climb the mountain for the traveler. The most that one can do is to offer guidance, to show a path which will help the student to do his own climbing, that is, to see, to feel, and to think for himself. How this guidance can be given will always be a matter for difference of opinion. There can be no one approach. For the subject is too complex and appreciation too personal to be reduced to catchwords. Dudley Scott is sensitive to rhythm; hence a work of art that is strongly rhythmic will appear to him as “ great.” James Ball, on the other hand, is sensitive to color, to cer¬ tain harmonies and contrast; Sally Brown, to other color combinations; Lee Barnes, to austere symmetry; Marian Fischer to grace and charm. There is neither formula nor authority to judge dogmatically which among pictures is “ the greatest.” Art is broad enough to include many kinds of greatness. It matters little whether Dudley Scott and James Ball agree or disagree on this or that picture. But it matters much whether each knows why he likes one

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IV

PREFACE

picture better than another; that each can trace his prefer¬ ence in part, at least, to fundamental principles.

An appreciation of art, then, involves an understanding of essential principles of art expression — balance, propor¬ tion, rhythm, variety, unity, harmony. Hence it is the aim Vi>f the author so to present these principles that the student can see them, feel them, and can think through the whys of their operation, and can discern this operation not only in great works of art but also in everyday life.

The approach suggested in this book is the result of years of experience in teaching the introductory course in the subject in the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, with modifications to make the volume practicable for classroom use. It recommends going to the best teachers first, that is, to works of art of acknowledged high quality. “ I go to the Louvre,” said Cezanne, “ to find myself.” Its theory is this: show the student a building of the best quality and explain why it is what it is and why it is good; and show him, for contrast, a building that is not so good and explain why it is not so good; then lead him to see that his own home or school is good or not so good for the same reasons. Answering this question “ why ” in the case of a dozen buildings will bring out principles that are common to them all and will reveal the fact that the skyscraper, the Nebraska State Capitol, and the University of Chicago Chapel are one in principle with the Colos¬ seum, the Parthenon, Chartres, and the Taj Mahall. Thus the student is given concrete evidence of the universality of these principles; of their equal functioning in the cathe¬ dral and in the factory; and of their equal validity today and two thousand years ago.

In the same way other arts are discussed — city-planning, sculpture, painting, book-making, weaving, pottery — arts

V

PREFACE

which seem a little closer to the student’s experiences than others. Etchings, lithographs, metal work, ivory carvings, glass, drama, the dance — these and others have been omit¬ ted for the obvious reason that all the arts cannot be in¬ cluded in one volume. The examples selected have been chosen not on grounds of age or nationality but because of their quality and because they lend themselves clearly and forcibly to the question “ why so clearly, in fact, that the student is led easily and logically to see that the principles disclosed permeate all life and that the things of everyday life are good or bad for the same reasons as the master- works.

With the last objective in mind, projects are suggested in many of the chapters on the theory that understanding comes from doing, and that doing is applicable to a far wider range of daily activity than seems at first apparent. The last section, “ Art in Everyday Life,” aims to gather into a unit the suggestions on this point scattered through the book.

In building up this approach to understanding there has been a conscious emphasis, perhaps overemphasis, upon certain points at the expense of others: upon seeing, for example, seeing everything as a form created by nature or by man and re-created (not copied) by the artist accord¬ ing to such fundamental principles as balance, proportion, rhythm, variety, unity, harmony. The technical handling of the medium and the relation of the form to the medium is another point of emphasis. On the other hand biogra¬ phy and history are not touched upon and social back¬ ground is not given its due.

This quest for understanding is an adventure, great but not easy. In its pursuance, however, the student has learned to appreciate a few of the more important art

VI

PREFACE

forms; to become more observant; to look at things in a new way; he has been exposed, at least, to good taste, has laid a basis for sound judgment, and has opened up a world that will enrich his life immeasurably.

In writing a book of this type the author has drawn upon many sources, far too many to acknowledge individu¬ ally. Ideas and germs of ideas have been reaped in the written page, in the class room, in discussion, in travel, now accepted in toto, now transformed by the writer’s own mental and emotional processes, consciously and subcon¬ sciously. To whatever source of old and of today thanks are due, they are here given, genuine and hearty. More immediate and concrete has been invaluable constructive criticism on the part of some who are interested in art education to whom the author is sincerely grateful:

Miss Floy Dentler, Rockford High School; Miss Effie A. Gardner, Former Principal of Brooks Classical School, Chi¬ cago; Mrs. Kathryn D. Lee, University High School, Univer¬ sity of Chicago; Miss Emma McCall, Supervisor of the Teach¬ ing of Art Education, University of California; Miss Elizabeth Mitchell, Supervisor of Art, Akron, Ohio; Miss Florence New¬ comb, Haaren High School, New York City; Mr. William G. Whitford, Associate Professor of Art Education, University of Chicago; Mr. Leon L. Winslow, Director of Art, Baltimore; Mr. Joseph Wiseltier, Director of Art, State Board of Educa¬ tion, Hartford. To my colleague Kathleen Blackshear I owe a debt of gratitude for her companionship in a vigorous attack upon probems of art appreciation and also for some of the analytical drawings; to Electra Papadopoulos Cryer and Eliza¬ beth M. Fisher for drawings; to individuals and firms for per¬ mission to reproduce, acknowledgment of which is noted with the specific illustration; to Marion F. Williams for assistance with proof and index; to the Ryerson Library of the Art In¬ stitute of Chicago for the use of photographs; and to the pub¬ lishers for their generous cooperation.

Helen Gardner

Contents

Preface .iii

I Eyes to See . 1

II The Art of Building. 9

The Skyscraper, 16; The Colosseum, 25; The Parthenon, 32; An Egyptian Temple, 43; The Baths of Caracalla, 52; Santa Sophia, 59; Two Early Christian Churches, 68; Chartres, 74;

Two Domes, 92; The Nebraska State Capitol,

101; The Taj Mahall, 106; A Colonial Home,

113; Some Interiors, 116

III The Art of the Garden.125

IV The Art of City Planning.132

V The Art of Sculpture. 141

The Columbus Memorial, 148; Khafre, 151;

The Tomb of a Prince, 154; Three Figures from the Parthenon, 158; A Japanese Saint,

162; A Bronze Maiden, 165; Two Com¬ memorative Statues, 168

VI The Art of Sculpture in Relief . . . . 174

VII The Art of Painting .178

Some Masters of Line, 189; Some Masters of Line and Color, 194; Some Masters of Space, 214; Water and Rocks, 232; Three Portraits, 236

VIII The Art of the Book .243

A Book of Persian Romances, 253; Some Printed Books, 256

Vlll

CONTENTS

IX The Art of Weaving.272

Tapestries of Peru, 281; Silk Fabrics, 284;

A Persian Carpet, 287; A Navajo Blanket, 291

X The Art of Pottery .296

A Persian Jar, 300; A Pitcher from Bokhara,

304; A Greek Cup, 306; A Hopi Jar, 309; China and Today, 313

XI Art in Everyday Life.318

Index .............. 329

Part One

EYES TO SEE

W hat do eyes do? They are seeing all the time. Every waking hour they are carrying to the mind a picture of the world in which we live — our homes, our friends, our schools, cities, and the country. But a little reflection or a talk with an artist on the subject reveals the fact that this ordinary daily seeing is quite different from the artist’s way of looking at things, though the objects seen are the same and the means of seeing — the human eyes — the same. Has the artist then a capacity of vision not granted average people?

Before answering this question, shall we discuss these two kinds of vision? Let us take, as an illustration, your week-end visit to the country. On your return you talked enthusiastically of your friend’s summer home. The family began to ask questions. How near the lake was the house? What kind of trees were there in the yard? What color were the curtains? Your recollection of the visit seemed reduced to a blurred picture and a general feeling of pleasure, with certain impressive details stand¬ ing out vividly. You say that you really did see every¬ thing; it is memory that has failed. Perhaps so. As a simple experiment take a house with which you are fa¬ miliar. Look at it again and shut your eyes. How many questions can you ask about it that you cannot answer? “ Every time I see it, I see something different ” is a familiar saying. The more we think about it, the more does everyday seeing, for us average folk, seem a very imperfect sort of thing.

But is it seeing alone that is so makeshift? At the con¬ cert last evening you heard pleasurable sounds, sometimes

2 EYES TO SEE

soothingly harmonious, sometimes stridently discordant and exciting. Now there was a low tranquil mood, now a thrilling outburst. Was that all? When you listened more closely, did you notice a repetition of a certain melody? Now you heard it in the major, now in the minor; now in one tempo, now in another; played now on the violin, now by the French horn, now by all the instru¬ ments in unison. And soon you began to realize that the composition was built up on the various things you could do with that melody.

It is the same with our sense of touch. We handle countless things mechanically. Do we follow with our fingers and palms the rounding surface of the tumbler or the flat surfaces of a square box and the edges where they meet? Do we consciously feel one object as soft or hard, rough or smooth, silky or woolly? What a soothing delight there is in the soft silkiness of velvet! How cool and smooth is polished marble! How rough is the bark of an oak tree! There is an irritating harshness in some kinds of stucco; a quieting pleasure in the pliancy of soft leather; a forbidding sternness in the rigidity of bronze.

Generally speaking, we do not see, hear, or feel more than a fraction of what the mechanism of our eyes, ears, and hands is capable of experiencing. Imperfect, however, as our ordinary seeing, hearing, and tactile sensation may be, still they serve us well for the practical purpose of getting around in the world. This is because the whole process is a much more complex thing than the matter of the actual image, sound, or feeling which the eye, the ear, or the hand sends to the mind. When the picture of a house, for example, travels from the eye to the brain, it does not rest there alone, isolated. It intermingles with countless other impressions of houses and of everything

EYES TO SEE 3

associated with houses, impressions that we have been stor¬ ing up from earliest babyhood. Another thing that the message from the eye, ear, or hand to the brain does, is to start action somewhere in the body. Touch something hot and you start away. Hear a sudden crackling in the woods, and your muscles tighten in suspense. See a red light flash when you drive a car through a city and your feet and hands work almost unconsciously to stop the car.

But what of the unused capacities of the eye, the ear, and the hand? Can we isolate just seeing as the scientist in his laboratory isolates a germ, a cell, oxygen, a ray of light? Let us try, with a tree for our material.

The opening of my porch frames a patch of fairly thick woods over which towers a fine large oak. How many associations and meanings in the minds of my friends and myself the sight of that oak can arouse because of the thousand and one impressions of oak trees stored in our minds! My friend the scientist sees the tree as an example of a certain kind of oak, and is thinking of its life history. The lumberman sees it as so much potential flooring and wonders about its graining. The builder sees it as an important feature in landscaping, and broods over the possibilities of its place in a future garden. As for myself, I am particularly interested just now in discovering what I can really see. I observe that sun and shadow fleck the warm gray of its rough trunk, and glossy green foliage weaves dancing patterns on it. This trunk is a cylinder, rough and irregular, to be sure. My eyes and fingers seem to be working together, seeing and feeling the rough curv¬ ing surfaces. At the base it spreads outward with a fine sweep into the wintergreen carpet of the earth. It then moves upward and sends forth warm-gray gnarled branches to hold a dome of glossy green foliage which sweeps above

4 EYES TO SEE

the rest of the woods. Near by is a small pine that shoots straight up out of the earth. Its horizontal branches are spaced at regular intervals and its dark spiky foliage masses itself into a cone. A storm is just retreating and a high wind from the lake is dappling the sky with swiftly moving patches of gray, silvery white, and intense blue. I look out to my oak and pine. What movement and what sta¬ bility! What scintillating light and deep rich color! Over the ground runs the light movement of the bracken and the brush; the tree trunks are richly dark with wet; the great oak stands firmly in the wind, while the little pine sways elastically as if it would pull itself free from the earth and run off with the wind. The foliage is all aquiver. The oak leaves flash in the light and a diamond sparkles on the tip of each long pine leaf. Above race the clouds across the blue.

Let us look at another scene, this time at a city thorough¬ fare. As I emerge from my underground station I meet abruptly a great traffic artery. Huge buildings rear their masses sheer from the sidewalk. This one, not so large, is a warm note with its rough red brick. Next to it is the overpowering cliff of a lofty skyscraper, its gray stone as cold as its sheer, crushing facade. On up the avenue the eye is carried by the wall of buildings whence rise lofty towers which cut sharp angles boldly against the sky or emerge from the mists or recede into them. In rain, snow, or sunshine they create fantastic outlines, whose irregu¬ larity is balanced, down at the street level, by the receding line of the black lamp-posts, so sternly regular in spacing and so uniform in design, like an insistent rhythm in poetry or music that forcefully binds all variations into a unity. Along the base of the wall and by the motionless lamp-posts crowds of hurrying people surge backward and forward.

EYES TO SEE 5

Automobiles glide swiftly by, accented and enlivened by the bright yellow of the taxis.

But it is difficult to separate our “ just seeing ” from the impressions and associations stored in the mind. Shape, color, space, movement, take on meaning; in the case of the city, the meaning of the city, its power and energy, its hurry and restlessness; in the country, the mean¬ ing of the forces of nature, as we see them typified in our oak. The cylindrical trunk, we said, spread with an out¬ ward curve at the base. Why? Because it thrusts roots downward and outward into the earth, both to give it a firm hold so that it can lift a heavy expanse of foliage without danger of falling over even when storms beat upon it, and also to reach far down for the vital water. The dome of foliage it spreads out to the sunlight to get material for making food. The trunk, with the branches and stems, not only supports this green leafy area, but also contains and protects with wood and bark the channels by which the water and salts are conducted up to the cells of the leaves. Marvelous factories, these leaf cells, where food is made and sent to all parts of the tree. Here then is an orderly organic life that explains the underlying reason for the two forms, 1 the cylinder and the dome. These forms are fundamentally the same in all trees, yet they vary in detail, as in the pine and the oak, and give each tree a de¬ cided personality. The forms alone have great capacity for giving us pleasure with their masses, lines, color, textures,

1 Form is used not as a synonym for shape, but in a wider sense, including shape, proportions, contours, weight, material, texture, color — every element that enters into the composition of an object which can come to us through our senses. Everything has form; and this form is not unchangeable. Seen in the full sunshine, because of light, shadow, and color, it gives an illusion of depth; seen against the setting sun or in moonlight, it appears to flatten out into a silhouette; in varying lights its colors vary; at varying distances color, size, and other elements change.

6 EYES TO SEE

and movement. But when form is infused with life and

meaning, does it not then give us added delight?

There is another way in which our eyes are working as they see the tree and the life within it. Have you not observed that the more you see a landscape, the more de¬ tails drop away? In the shore of a lake, minor irregulari¬ ties disappear in the big sweep of line where sand and water meet. In a tree, twigs are lost in the big masses of trunk and branches, and single leaves, in the big masses of foliage. What matters most in seeing the tree is a feeling of strength in the cylindrical trunk that sends roots down into the earth to secure a firm hold, not the details of the bark; and a feeling of reaching out to the sun in the leafy dome, not the exact shape of each leaf. Trunk and spread¬ ing foliage — essentials of life; cylinder and dome — es¬ sentials of form; and both life and form gain in emphasis as tiresome details fade away.

Let the painting of a Young Girl illustrate this (Pl. iB) . Place beside it the photograph of a girl (Pl. iA) . In the photograph, the eye wanders from one detail to an¬ other. The flashing eyes, the tousled hair, the gay head¬ dress, the elaborate necklace — each is a realistic detail with no clearly felt inner relationships. And soon the eye wearies of it all. In the painting, the details that we know actually exist have been submerged into a large sim¬ plicity in which there is unity and harmony because all the parts reveal a relationship one with another. Unbroken contours and surfaces form a pattern based on curves, with straight lines and angles in the loose end of the turban which contrast with the curves and bring the whole into harmony with the frame (Fig. 1). Details, such as the curves of the eyes, the mouth, the earring, and the folds of the turban, all relate to these large controlling lines and

Plate i

A. Photograph of a Young Girl of Algeria. B. Portrait of a Young Girl. Vermeer.

Compare the multitudinous realistic detail of A with the great simplification of B; and the pleasing relation of the head to the space that it occupies in B with the lack of such a relation in A.

Plate 2

A Skyscraper. From a lithograph by T. E. Tallmadge. An expression of upward rhythmic movement of masses as inevitable as that of the plant form in Fig. 12. (Mr. Tallmadge)

EYES TO SEE 7

surfaces. And this unified whole has a definite relation to the space that it occupies, defined by the frame, which is as much a part of the painting as the figure itself. The head is placed slightly to the right and the strong straight lines and the mass of the turban-end balance the unbroken ground on the left and emphasize the beauty of the contour of the head so firmly cut against it. The eye of the artist has seen these larger relationships and by emphasizing them has expressed not only an intrinsic harmony and bal¬ ance that delight us but a more con¬ vincing characterization of the girl, because our eyes, undistracted by de¬ tail, are free to be guided easily through the picture to see what the painter wanted our eyes to see.

To return, then, to the question asked at the beginning of the chapter: Has the artist a capacity of vision not granted every one? If he lacks this capacity, he is not an artist. But who is the artist? Although we think of him as one who has built a skyscraper, composed a symphony, painted a picture, or written a drama, the potential artist exists in every one who, in his looking about the world, uses his eyes in the artist’s way. He may well be yourself as you hang a picture in your room, select your clothes, or take your kodak pictures.

SUGGESTIONS

i. Observation from different points of view: Select a land¬ scape, street, person, chair, room, in fact almost anything, and write the different ways in which different people might see it, one of which will be the artist’s way of “ just seeing.”

Fig. i. Line Organi¬ zation of Pl. ib. Note the repetition of the oval and the contrasting long straight lines of the turban end.

8

EYES TO SEE

2. Look at a view out of a window, or a print, or a lantern slide on the screen, (a) Look for five minutes. Write for five minutes what you see. (b) Look for five minutes. Remove the view and write from memory what you saw. Add another five minutes of observation. How many additions can you make to the first observation?

3. Observation of line: (a) What lines do you see: vertical, horizontal, diagonal, curved? (b) Are they continuous or broken? (c) Do any repeat?

4. Observation of light and dark: (a) Where is the highest light, that is, nearest white? (b) Where is the lowest light, that is, nearest black? (c) Is there more light or more dark?

5. Tactile sensation: (a) Handle objects with closed eyes. Follow the shapes with the fingers and the hands to feel curved surfaces, flat surfaces, change in direction of surface, edges, volumes, proportions, (b) Handle objects for quality of sur¬ face: rough, smooth, warm, cool, hard, soft; textiles, such as velvet, satin, wool, pile fabric; rough, smooth, and highly pol¬ ished stones. Handle for varying degrees of resistance: stone, ivory, wood, metal, leather, and clay.

6. Select a landscape, a person, or any object. Observe it carefully and select what is most important, most essential, in it.

7. Find other examples, analogous to those in Pl. 1, for a comparative study of a photograph and a work of art. Sug¬ gestions along this line will be found in M. H. Bulley, Art and Counterfeit (London, Methuen, 1925) ; in Pennell’s etchings of American industrial centers; in Corot’s paintings of the Italian cities; in Meryon’s etchings of Paris; in El Greco’s View of Toledo. See particularly “Cezanne’s Country,” by Erie Johnson, in The Arts, April, 1930, in which photographs and Cezanne’s paintings of the same subjects are placed side by side.

Part Two

THE ART OF BUILDING

I n all lands there are buildings, isolated on mountain tops, crowded into the valleys, nestled on seacoasts, and scattered about in woods, on plains, and on hillsides. So common are they that it is difficult to imagine our world without them. Some seldom see clouds or rain and never snow; others stand now in the cold rain, now in warm sun¬ shine, or lie partly buried in sand. Some shelter one race of people, some another; some the lowest savage, others the most cultivated peoples. In all lands, in all climates, in all ages, man has built for himself. The South Sea Island¬ er’s thatched roof on four posts squats by the shining Pacific; the mighty pyramids rise on the edge of the Nile; the Navajo’s hut dots the Western desert; powerful sky¬ scrapers loom above the shores of the Atlantic.

Look at the myriad buildings of man the world over and ask the questions: How many of these buildings really in¬ terest you? How many delight you? How many are just buildings to house somebody or something, and nothing more? Why do some buildings catch and hold your at¬ tention? Why does one bridge, which is an engineering feat, give you a sense of efficiency only, while another not only satisfies but thrills you? Why do you select one car in preference to another when the mechanical parts are equally satisfactory? To answer these and similar ques¬ tions is the purpose of our course.

Picture again the whole world and you will note four things about every building: (1) that it has a specific pur¬ pose; (2) that it is a mass or volume 1 standing in light;

1 When we say mass we are thinking about the bulk of the building without considering its form; when we say volume we are emphasizing the form of the mass and the surfaces that define it.

10 THE ART OF BUILDING

(3) that it is made of certain material; and (4) that it stands in a definite geographic and climatic setting. Let us discuss these four points.

First, every building has a purpose, a function to per¬ form. Man has not built for the sake of building but be¬ cause he wished to provide himself with a shelter, with a place of retirement or seclusion for private life or for wor¬ ship; with places for amusement, for education, for the conduct of his government or his industry. Immediately the questions arise: Is the building well adapted to its use? Is there harmony between its appearance and its use? Does this building look like a factory? Does that look as if it could accommodate large crowds comfortably? Does another inspire the feeling of seclusion and friendliness that is the mark of a home?

Another question relating to function is: Why do certain people expend their best energy in erecting certain kinds of buildings? Why did the Egyptians build tombs and temples? Why the twentieth-century American, skyscrap¬ ers? Why cathedrals in Europe of the Middle Ages? Ar¬ chitecture touches everyday life very intimately. To un¬ derstand the purpose of a building is to understand the life of the men who built it: how they lived, thought, believed, worked, governed.

Whatever its purpose, every building is a mass or volume set in the out-of-doors light — our second point. In other words it has width, height, and depth, is a volume made of the floor, the walls, and the roof. The parts of the volume which face the light are light and those away from it are in shadow, as is true of all volumes (Fig. 2) . Few structures, however, are as simple as the cylinder or the pyramid. Buildings usually consist of a group of two or more masses made interesting by shape and proportion, by the way in

THE ART OF BUILDING 11

which they are combined, and by their projections and de¬ pressions which catch light and hold shadow. In this Chapel for instance (Pl. 3 and Fig. 3) , 2 one large rectangu-

Fig. 2. Geometric Solids and Buildings Based upon Them. A, cube; B, pyramid; C, cylinder; D, sphere.

lar volume set on its long side forms the body of the build¬ ing and another, set on end, the tower. From the view seen in Pl. 3 these two main volumes are united and given variety and interest by the smaller volumes in the corner.

Fig. 3. Mass Organization of the Chapel of the University of Chicago.

This interest results partly from the forms themselves and their relative proportions and partly from the masses of alternating light and shadow, which differ, however, every hour and every season. When the sun is intense and the

2 The Chapel of the University of Chicago. Bertram G. Goodhue and the Goodhue Associates, architects. 1929.

THE ART OF BUILDING

12

air clear the contrast of light and dark 3 is strong. In win¬ ter or on a gray day it is only the half-lights that play. In the dark or by moonlight the building seems to flatten out and reveals only the mass and its contours. Moreover, it can be seen from many angles. In our chapel, the two main rectangular volumes give a different appearance when seen from the front and from the other sides. But from all angles the volumes unite harmoniously in a feeling of rocklike strength and noble aspiration — strength, from large, simple masses, unbroken lines, and the strong rhythm of the great windows; aspiration, from the bold verticality and proportions of the tower.

Another source (our third point) contributes to this strength — the thick stone walls. Power through solidity could never have resulted from light material. Not only is stone strong but also it gives an appearance of enduring strength, which with its color and its texture are inescap¬ able factors in the total effect of the building. The com¬ pelling force of some of our bridges (Pl. 5 ) is due largely to the fine frank use of steel. Yet it is not only the material itself but also the way in which it is handled that makes a good or a bad building. A good building must stand firmly and present to the eye an appearance of stability. For with the rarest exceptions, the volumes which make buildings are not solid but hollow. Walls and pillars rise

3 One needs to distinguish between light and shadow, and light and dark (light-dark, dark-light). The former is the natural result of illumination; the latter, an arbitrary breaking up of unbroken masses and surfaces which tend to be monotonous, for the eye can find nothing but the edges to catch its attention. Break them up ever so little by making some parts lighter and some darker (often lighter and darker color), and the attention is fixed and a rhythm started. Light and shadow often coincide with light and dark, as in Fig. 2A and PI. 3, where the diagonals of the shadows create an effective light-and-dark pattern; and in PI. 6, where the deep shadow of the open arches forms the same kind of a pattern as if one had painted dark arched areas on an unbroken cylindrical surface.

THE ART OF BUILDING 13

from the ground to support a roof, and even the flimsiest roof bears down heavily. Here is an engineering problem that must adjust the downward pressure and the upward

thrust in such a way that there is no danger of col¬ lapse. How this is done depends upon the material of which the building is made and how that mate¬ rial is used, as we shall see later.

A building, then, has a purpose; it is a mass or volume constructed of a certain material, stabilized by mechanical laws, and organized so as to give evi-

//

Fig. 4. Building in the Mountains of Switzerland.

dence of its purpose and to please the eye; that is, it is mass designed. And also (our fourth point) every building has a definite climatic and geographical setting which deter¬ mines certain elements of the design. In a hot dry coun¬ try protection is needed

from the heat and glare, and a flat roof will suffice. In a northern country, on the contrary, the light and heat of the sun are wel¬ comed through ample openings; the walls are tight against the cold wind; and the roofs slope enough to shed rain and snow. Again, the location of a building calls for a harmony between the shape of the volume and itself. For example, the Parthenon (Pl. 7) crowning a

Sgjjfcg

Fig. 5-

ovn-'

Adobes on a Mesa of the Southwest.

14 THE ART OF BUILDING

cubical hill in a mountainous country; the Nebraska State Capitol on the Great Plains (Pl. 24); the Swiss Chalet among the steep slopes of the Alps (Fig. 4) ; or the Indian Adobe on the Western mesa (Fig. 5). Place each of these types in a different setting. For example, interchange the

chalet and the adobe or set the Par¬ thenon down in the midst of a crowded American city. Discord re¬ sults and the original pleasure that we took in the building has vanished.

Fig. 6. An Early Automo- To re turn to our query: When

bile Model. . . n 1

is a building a work of art (which is architecture) in distinction from “ just a building ”? We have noted four fundamental qualities that are essen¬ tial to architecture. Yet it is not the existence of these qualities as separate elements but the harmonious func¬ tioning of all together that distinguishes the art in build¬ ing. Just as in an automobile. The smoothness and speed of the engine, the proportions and long curves of the low-swung body, suggest swift movement

over the ground; the harmonious

. Fig. 7. A 1930 Model.

adjustment of lights, spare tire,

and fittings are part of the general design. It is not one of these factors alone that constitutes the most desirable car but the harmonious unity of them all. This is why the design of the automobile has been so revolutionized since the early days when a car was a buggy with an engine (Figs. 6 and 7). Notice how unfinished Fig. 6 appears without the horse. We have come to understand that a vehicle drawn by a horse calls for a very different design from one propelled by a motor. Function and design must harmonize. So in a fine building. The function, the

THE ART OF BUILDING 15

shape and proportions of the mass, the materials of which it is constructed, the manner in which the lights and shadows combine, the relation of the organized mass to its setting — all these elements must fit to¬ gether harmoniously if the building is more than just a building.

When any building seems, for these reasons, to rise above the ordinary, have you noticed how its whole effect impresses you in a personal way? A person may be a stranger in language, dress, customs, religion, society, and yet have a power, a charm, a poise or verve, that is under¬ stood and appreciated universally. In the same way the Taj Mahall of India (Pl. 25) impresses every one, Hindu or American, Moslem or Christian, with its tenderness and poetry; Chartres Cathedral (Pls. 17 and 18) , with its aspiration; the Skyscraper (Pls. 2 and 4), with its self- assurance, boldness, and efficiency; the Colonial Home (Pl. 26), with its comfort and cordiality.

Thus in a general way we have set up a method of look¬ ing at a building and a standard for judging its art quality. To test this method let us journey to various parts of the world and “ see ” buildings.

READING

Brown, G. B., The Fine Arts, London, Murray, 4th ed., 1916. Flaccus, L. W., Spirit and Substance of Art, N. Y., Crofts, 1931. Hamlin, T. F., Enjoyment of Architecture, N. Y., Scribner, 1921.

Mumford, L., Architecture, Chicago, American Library Asso¬ ciation, 1926.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Select some good building, a local building that can be studied in different lights and from several angles, and try changing the proportions of the main volumes. In the Chapel

16

THE ART OF BUILDING

of Pl. 3, for example, lower the tower, shorten or lengthen the body, remove one or both of the corner volumes.

2 . Select five or six local buildings. Study each for the relation of purpose, material, and design. Does the general aspect or personality harmonize with the function? If not, what changes would you make to secure this harmony?

3. A study of line, and of dark and light. Select a building and choose a point of view. At a time when the shadows are not too strong study the lines alone. What important vertical, horizontal, diagonal, and curved lines do you see? Are these more generally broken or unbroken? Does any one pre¬ dominate? Make a sketch. From the same point of view but at a time when the light and shadow are strong, make a similar study of light and dark. Compare the sketches.

4. Select any geographic setting. Design a building to fit into it, the main volumes and lights and darks only. Do not go into detail. For illustrations of the progressive steps in the designing of the mass of a building, see R. W. Sexton, The Logic of Modern Architecture, N. Y., Architectural Book Pub¬ lishing Co., 1929, pp. 35 and 62.

THE SKYSCRAPER

Let us begin our journey at home — in the America of today. Take an airplane trip across the country: Boston, New York, Detroit, St. Louis, Kansas City, Los Angeles, San Francisco. Wherever we stop, in the urban industrial sections we see towering buildings of bold simple masses which create a fantastic sky line above and canon-like streets below. There is something thrilling in the sight.

Should our ancestors see today these cities which they founded but a century or two ago, how puzzled they would be! What are these gigantic piles, they would ask, rising twenty, thirty, forty stories, cutting the sky with bold angles (Pls. 2 and 4) ? Why so huge and why so severe? How do they stand, so tall and so thin? How can you climb

THE ART OF BUILDING 17

to the top, and how many stoves does it take to heat them? No, it must be a fairyland of giants that we see.

Let us look at one of these buildings of “ giants,” to see what it really looks like. The Daily News Building (Pl. 4) 4 will serve our purpose. We can see it best from across the narrow river. And what do we see? A huge mass, not heterogeneous and misshapen but organized into an orderly, powerful group of volumes that stands so firmly and soars so assuredly. The building is made up of rec¬ tangular volumes with exceptionally clean unbroken lines and angles. From the river there is a definite rhythmic movement upward and inward. At the base, upward and inward in rapid succession and varying interval; then a great leap upward; then a repetition of the steplike up¬ ward and inward. The masses, the lines, the lights and darks, all move to this rhythm. These volumes seem to rise naturally one out from the other like a plant that pushes up from the earth and unfolds naturally, inevitably. Nor is this rhythm wavering or uncertain but bold and as¬ sertive, giving the building a forceful personality.

As the eye is being carried by this rhythm from the river to the top it is also noticing that the lights and darks are largely a matter of openings. There is as much window space as wall. The building seems to summon light and air from every direction. In a northern climate, with vari¬ able weather, it is adequately serving a great many people by providing efficiently for their needs. The impression of assertive strength that the building gives on first ap¬ pearance means that it is expressive of some assertive force. And that force is the present-day highly organized industry. Our Colonial forbears knew nothing of central heating

4 Chicago. The river front measures 394 ft. Holabird and Root, architects. I929-

18

THE ART OF BUILDING plants, electricity, elevators, telephones — all the things that make for efficient working quarters in a large complex city. Nor did they conceive of business on the scale that we know it. Hence, they would be puzzled at the sight of such a building as this, which to us is a clear expression of business efficiency on a colossal scale. So we take added delight in the design when we realize that the use of the building and its design harmonize.

Let us look at this relationship a little more in detail. First we must see the plan. For in any building, from the

colossal Skyscraper to the summer cottage, the plan determines its salient features. A peculiar situ¬ ation met the builders of this Daily News Building (Fig. 8). Here was a long, narrow plot of

Fig. 8 . Plan of the Daily News Build- g roun d with railroad

ing (Pl. 4). The portion shaded by tracks and a river front diagonals is the part resting on the build- TAT1

. i . , . 8 • • ,. on one lonff side. What

mg lot; the remainder is on air rights, o u TT

easement (right of way) granted to the was to be done? The Union Station; and a dock. need of widening the plot

and reaching the river led to the utilizing of air rights, that is, the space over the railroad tracks, without, how¬ ever, interfering with their operation. What is the re¬ sult? The main mass of the building covers the plot of ground. It is symmetrically balanced about a cen¬ tral axis marked by the fountain. Projecting wings form a plaza, which is in reality a roof over the tracks. At the river level the deep shadow in the evenly spaced open¬ ings adds variety to this base without detracting from its strength and strikes the first note in the upward rhythm

THE ART OF BUILDING 19

as it is carried by dark accents. At the same time these openings are amply wide for handling freight, for this lowest level is a dock. The plaza and the wings furnish unbroken surfaces restful to the eye and at the same time provide an open recreational spot. The large openings, with deep shade and unbroken wall between, play a vital part in furnishing solidity and shadow to the base of the design and in re¬ ceiving and holding for a moment the rhythm of darks begun at the river. At the same time they sug¬ gest proper space and adequate lighting for the gigantic presses of a modern daily paper. Above, the many small windows evenly spaced give a quiet steady move¬ ment equally vertical and hori¬ zontal in contrast to the sheer verticals of the enframing projec¬ tions at the sides. At the same time these numerous windows suggest a large number of small rooms, offices of all kinds. Near the top they are recessed and grouped vertically to create tall slender areas of dark that again accent the movement started at the river. Two more rows of small windows, and again the dark motif appears to terminate the design (Fig. 9). Thus we find that every part of the design — and this can be carried out in far greater de¬ tail — echoes something functional in the building. Or, to put it the other way around, every phase of the use of the building reveals itself in harmony with the design.

Fig. 9. Rhythmic Move¬ ment in the Daily News Building.

20

THE ART OF BUILDING But what of the construction? What do our eyes tell us of that? Do they see any relation between the way the

building is con¬ structed and the way it looks? We have already noted the insist¬ ence upon the vertical line held in restraint by horizontals. Our ancestors won¬ dered how stone could be laid firmly to such a height and with so many open¬ ings. That was because they did not know about a great building material of today, steel. We see the beauty of its strength in some of our bridges (Pl. 5) where riveted steel girders, slender, strong, and elas¬ tic, mark a defi¬ nite rhythm with¬ in the fine sweep

Sound RocK.

Fig.

10. The Framework of a Skyscraper: Steel and Reinforced Concrete.

THE ART OF BUILDING 21

of the low-swung curves. It needs no mask. It frankly reveals its function of strong support and at the same time presents to the eye a beauty of proportion and of line.

The Daily News Building is constructed of steel girders riveted together. Their foundations of reinforced con¬ crete reach far down, in places ninety feet, until they find a firm foothold on bed rock. In the building, however, the situation is different from that in the bridge. As the building cannot serve its function without a protective screen against the weather, it must have walls. And these are largely glass with thin stone between. The stone is really not a wall at all, as it is in the Chapel (Pl. 3) . The real structure that lifts and supports the building is the framework of steel (Fig. 10) . A good builder usually wants his building to show how it is built. What can he do in this situation? Since he cannot leave the steel beams exposed, he uses the stone and glass to suggest the frame¬ work beneath. As its slender girders rise one directly above another, making an unbroken line with horizontals between, so the stone and glass repeat the verticals and horizontals. Is there a curve in the design? 5

Thus we see how the purpose of the building, its ma¬ terial, its structure, and its design form a whole that is beautiful and forceful because all these elements work together in harmony. But why, you ask, are we building Skyscrapers today? Did two or three or even a whole so¬ ciety of builders get together and decide, “ We will build skyscrapers ” ? No. Things do not happen that way. A definite need in a definite situation determines what the builder shall do, and predestines certain factors in the result. What in our age predestined the Skyscraper?

6 Note the present tendency to use glass alone to fill the spaces, making even more emphatic the idea of a steel frame. (See the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright in America and the buildings of Walter Gropius in Germany.)

22 THE ART OF BUILDING

When our ancestors founded the American colonies they were farmers, many on a small scale. It was not long, however, before they began to develop trade even across the Atlantic. Manufacturing followed. Trade required centers for making and distributing goods. So cities arose. Soon the colonists pushed across the mountain barrier at the call of the unbounded wealth of the prairies. Agricul¬ ture developed by leaps and bounds. Great natural re¬ sources such as lumber and minerals provided the raw materials for making articles of trade. The inevitable re¬ sult has been the large city, growing larger and more com¬ plicated in proportion as industry has grown more and more complicated. To be manageable at all it must be efficiently organized. Large numbers of people must live near by. Crowded conditions make land expensive. Prices rise. Buildings must not cover much of this costly ground, even if larger plots were available. Hence the necessity of rising up into the air.

This great industrial development and the Skyscraper that symbolizes it were impossible without science, another dominating force in our lives today. Scientific discoveries have made possible structural steel, fireproof construction, elevators, and devices for heating and lighting. How diffi¬ cult it is for us to realize that only within the last hundred years of the thousands and hundreds of thousands that man has lived on the earth has he had machinery, electricity, and all that these imply. Within the last fifty years have come the most marvelous and the most numerous scientific discoveries that man has ever made. While on the one hand these have made living more comfortable and in some respects easier, on the other they have brought great complexity.

It is a hurrying world in which we are living, with in-

Plate 3

Chapel of the University of Chicago. The compact massing and proportion¬ ing of the body and tower and their clear definition in light and shadow; the solidity of the stone walls; the upward reach of the sturdy tower in a quick strongly accented rhythin (an allegro in stone) and the contrasting reposeful strength of the body with a slow stately rhythm through the use of a few large windows (an andante in stone) — all these elements contribute to an impression of power and aspiration. (Photo. R. W. Trowbridge)

Plate 4

• tlafei||||siii!ii|||{|||2 I I* i ■ 5 • llif ilillliiifitli 1 fi 1 f I M illllfli lilliflll

i!

| li

ti

I

Mi

II

( 11

r i

The Chicago Daily Xews Building. Rectangular masses with clean-cut un¬ broken lines and angles rise rhythmically from the river to the top. Their organization is determined by the function of the building which is to house a newspaper plant and many offices on many floors: and by its constructional material, steel. Chicago Daily Xews)

THE ART OF BUILDING 23

dustry as a controlling factor. That is why it is the indus¬ trial building in which we see some of the most creative work. Huge scale in industry expresses itself in huge scale in building. Yet scale (quantity) of itself never created a work of art.

Another factor in our city situation has proved to be a great asset to the builder — the zoning law. The multi¬ plication of Skyscrapers had begun to make the streets into canons and the lower stories of the buildings too dark and airless for health. To meet this situation laws were passed which limit the height to which a building can rise with¬ out stepping back. What an illustration of how a necessary limitation may prove to be an Aladdin’s lamp, artistically!

In Fig. 11, how boldly power¬ ful are the great masses of the Telephone Building! Would the builders have profited so much by this device had it not been forced upon them?

As one more example of the Skyscraper, we shall look at a design never carried out, a design of a European who saw the possibilities with great imagination (Pl. 2) . 6 Above the restless traffic at its base it rises majestically serene. Its mass is of extraordinary

8 The design was submitted by Eliel Saarinen, of Helsingfors, Finland, and awarded the second prize in the international competition for the Chicago Tribune Tower, 1922. The lithograph reproduced in PI. 2 is an imaginative rendering by T. E. Tallmadge.

Fig. 11. Telephone Building, New York.

24 THE ART OF BUILDING

compactness: a single rectangular volume set on end for the base, from which rise the other volumes with a feeling of controlled movement. Each grows out of the other, is not set one on top of another. The feeling of life growth is as inevitable as in nature (Fig. 12) . The mass is firmly rooted in the soil. Decisive contours mark it off as an

astonishingly coherent unit and also de¬ fine the volumes of which it is composed as well as their proportions. But within these lucid, almost stern definitions of mass, volume, and contour, is a fluid rhythmic movement as the volumes inter¬ weave. Notice how the horizontal meet¬ ing of planes is softened by sculpture and by curves in the window openings.

Each volume is a box of small boxes made of steel beams with tops, bottoms, and sides of tile, concrete, stone, and glass. This structural organization reveals itself in the appearance of the building, not with mechanical consistency but with sensitive variations, as in the ornament and the curves. Because of the geometric simplicity of form the shadows are bold and simple, with broken shadow at important points for the sake of accent.

Fig. 12. Winter Horsetail. One part seems to grow from another by some inevitable law of nature. (After Blossfeldt)

READING

Cheney, S. W., Primer of Modern Art, N. Y., Boni, 5th ed., i9S°-

-New World Architecture, N. Y., Longmans, 1930.

Le Corbusier (Jeanneret-Gris, C. E.), Towards a New Archi¬ tecture, N. Y., Payson and Clark, 1927.

Mumford, L., Sticks and Stones; a Study of American Architec¬ ture and Civilization, N. Y., Boni, 1926.

THE ART OF BUILDING 25

Park, E. A., New Backgrounds for a New Age, N. Y., Har- court, 1927.

Tallmadge, T. E., Story of Architecture in America, N. Y., Norton, 1927.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Study any building of the Skyscraper type for (a) mass, (b) silhouette, (c) light and dark, (d) material and evidences of construction, (e) fenestration (window arrangement) .

2. Fenestration. Find good and bad examples, explaining in each case why the arrangement is good or bad. Suggest changes for improvement. Make sketches or use a kodak to illustrate.

3. Design a Skyscraper in your immediate locality. If there is no zoning law, create an imaginary one. From the ground plan, determined by the use and the site, organize the mass.

THE COLOSSEUM

From the bold masses of the Skyscraper, angular, sky- reaching, the expression of colossal industry, we turn to an expression of colossal amusement, a huge cylinder reach¬ ing far out over the ground (Pl. 6) . This building too is powerful; but its dominating curved lines produce a more undulating rhythm than do angles where verticals and horizontals meet. Our cylinder’s surface, everywhere curving, is organized into uninterrupted arcades 7 which hold deep shadows and are firmly united by the unbroken sweep of shadow-making cornices. 8 Built on a valley floor in the midst of a crowded city, surrounded by low hills covered with houses, palaces, gardens, and temples — a broken variable setting—it takes its place assertively by the largeness and boldness of its design.

7 A series of arches supported on piers or columns.

8 A broad horizontal projection used chiefly to crown a design or an important part of the design. Note the absence of the cornice on most Sky¬ scrapers.

26 THE ART OF BUILDING

“ While stands the Colosseum Rome shall stand; when falls the Colosseum Rome too shall fall; and with it shall fall the world.” Such was the impression that this amphi¬ theater made upon the pious pilgrims who journeyed to Rome — a dangerous and difficult adventure in the chaotic days of the eighth century. Standing in the midst of silent ruins, it so impressed them with its power and grandeur that it became to them a symbol of the ultimate power of the universe. And notwithstanding the varied and tragic events through which it has lived — struck by lightning, shaken by earthquakes, now serving as an iron mine (for its stones are held by bits of iron), now as a stone quarry, a fortress in war, weathered by nature, and mutilated by man — notwithstanding all this, it still rises a silent, im¬ pressive ruin, symbolizing the grandeur and magnificence of pleasure-loving imperial Rome. 9 What circumstances led to its erection?

In the reign of Nero a great fire had destroyed a large part of Rome. In addition to this disaster the emperor had angered the people by his extravagances, especially by building a gorgeous palace and by appropriating for gar¬ dens and a lake public open places and even important

9 Also called the Flavian Amphitheater. Built, on the exterior, of travertine held with iron cramps; on the interior, of tufa, brick-faced concrete, and some travertine. Greater diameter, 620 ft.; lesser, 513 ft.; height, 157 ft.; seating capacity, about 45,000. It was begun by Vespasian; continued and opened for use by Titus, 80 a.d.; completed by Domitian; repaired by later emperors; was used for shows until the sixth century; was struck by lightning in the third century and again in the fourteenth. In the earthquake of 1349 the western half collapsed; in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries it lay a vast heap of ruins overgrown with shrubbery. From the time it ceased to be used as a place of amusement it has served builders as a quarry; in fact has con¬ tributed half its material to this end. The marble seats and all ornament have disappeared. Many of the marble seats were used as bishops’ seats in the early Christian churches. It is only since the middle of the eighteenth century that the structure has been protected from demolition, has been excavated and the iveak parts strengthened.

Plate 5

Michigan Avenue Bridge, Chicago. A revelation of the beauty of naked constructional steel when its use is subject to proportion, line, rhythm. (Photo. W. C. Duncan)

Plate 6

Colosseum. Rome. A cylinder whose sweeping curves unite rhythmically repeated arches. At the same time it

adequately performs its function of enabling huge crowds to see the enclosed arena.

THE ART OF BUILDING 27

thoroughfares. What joy, then, ran through the city when Nero’s successor, Vespasian, destroyed the palace, reclaimed the garden space, and began to build on the bottom of the drained lake a huge amphitheater for games and shows for the people! Slowly it rose, even with plenty of cheap labor, so huge was it. Finally it was opened in the reign of Titus, Vespasian’s son, an event so important that a rep¬ resentation of the structure appeared on this emperor’s coins, as it did on those of later emperors who repaired the build¬ ing (Fig. 13) ; just as today events are commemorated with our stamps. Tickets were distrib¬ uted free for the shows that con¬ tinued a hundred days: gladia¬ torial fights, animal hunts, and, most exciting of all, an actual naval battle in the flooded arena.

Thus the Colosseum served a definite function, as its name implies: amphitheatrum, a see¬ ing from all sides. It provided seats for nearly fifty thou¬ sand spectators around an out-of-doors arena, with reason¬ ably easy entrances and exits. These specific needs deter¬ mined much of the design and the fundamental unit of the design — the arch. It is the heart of the construction and facilitates the use of the building. Let us study the Colos¬ seum, then, from these points of view: stable construction, efficient functioning, satisfying appearance, and finally and most important, the harmonious unity of all these ele¬ ments.

The construction is of stone masonry (stone or brick laid with cement or metal fastenings) and concrete used on the

Fig. 13. Coin of a Roman Emperor, Gordianus. Beside the Colosseum is seen a Colos¬ sus after which the amphi¬ theater may have been named.

28 THE ART OF BUILDING

arch principle. Arch and arch principle — what do these mean? In all building a vital mechanical problem is how to raise walls which have openings for doors and windows, and how to roof over the space enclosed by the walls, so that the structure is stable. The simplest way is the method of the child playing with blocks: build the walls of blocks, place blocks over the space left for openings, then lay more blocks over the top from wall to wall (Fig. 14) . This method, known as the lintel method because the blocks are called lintels, has been successful in some of our finest buildings. But they are usually on a small scale,

Fig. 14. Two Systems of Building. A, the lintel system; B, the arch system. C, an arch under construction showing the centering (the wooden framework) which holds the arch until it is set by the keystone.

because the moment you increase the size of your building you meet the problem of where to obtain lintels long enough to span the space. Timber is fairly long but not permanent. Stone, though permanent, is costly, difficult to obtain except in comparatively short lengths, and very heavy. The larger the building, the larger the roof, and the more heavily it weighs down upon the walls. Addi¬ tional supports may be added (Fig. 26) but they often mar the appearance as well as take up too much space. To be independent, then, of too many supports, and to be able to use small material — which is only too often necessary from an economic point of view — is the con¬ structional problem solved by the arch.

THE ART OF BUILDING 29

An arch is made by building wedge-shaped blocks of stone, brick, tile, or concrete from the supporting piers along a curved line until they meet and are held securely by the central wedge, called the keystone (Fig. 14) . There are several advantages in the arch: its method of construc¬ tion enables the builder to use small, easily obtainable ma¬ terial; the science of its construction enables it to carry a heavier weight than a lintel because it throws this weight

Fig. 15. A, Plan of the Colosseum. Lower right quarter, first or ground story; upper right, second story; upper left, third story; lower left, top or attic story. B, Section of the Colosseum.

away from the space beneath to the supporting piers and the adjoining walls; its shape gives the builder an oppor¬ tunity to use curved lines.

Let us return now to the Colosseum and see how this arch principle dominates the building. Look at both the exterior (Pl. 6) and the section (Fig. 15B) . Everywhere you see these arches with heavy piers for support. Italy supplied the Roman with abundant material for building: a fine hard stone called travertine, softer volcanic stones, and small rock, gravel, and lime for concrete. Yet abun¬ dant as the supply was, and wealthy in money and labor as

30 THE ART OF BUILDING

Rome was, she could not quarry enough travertine for so gigantic a structure. So, while the exterior is made of trav¬ ertine blocks, the interior is chiefly of other stones, and of concrete faced with brick. Of these materials the builders constructed a great system of arches both parallel to and at right angles to the outer circumference (Fig. 15A). These arches form three stories of the outer shell, the exterior corridors, and the supports for the sloping seats surrounding the arena. The heavy piers are strong enough to carry the weight, for arch rises above arch and pier above pier to meet the weight of the fourth or solid attic, whose walls contain closely placed brackets to hold the masts that supported a huge awning.

The seats surround the arena parallel to the outer wall of the building and rise in four tiers, corresponding to the four external stories and dividing the spectators into four social groups — the lowest tier for the royal family, high officials, ambassadors, and more distinguished citizens; the second for the middle class; the third for the poor; and the fourth for women. Access is easy, for each of the eighty arches on the ground story (except for two reserved for the emperor) form public entrances to the various cor¬ ridors and stairways, providing free circulation of great crowds, and ample protection in all kinds of weather. Thus the framework of arches ensures both stable con¬ struction and adequate functioning. Can you think of a plan that would serve huge crowds better?

Let us look at the exterior design once more, and see if it relates to the construction and the function. This consists of three tiers of arches, arch exactly above arch, bound by a horizontal band with a projecting cornice. How these cornices follow and repeat the curving sur¬ face of the cylindrical shape! The rounding tops of the

THE ART OF BUILDING 31

arches, in rapid even rhythm, harmonize as no other line could. It is a design based upon curves, with contrasting horizontals in the cornices and verticals in the engaged columns. 10

But it is not line alone upon which the builder is de¬ pending. The design of line is overlaid, as it were, with a similar design of light and shadow. The hollow arches hold deep shadows that suggest inward movement, and the projecting engaged columns advance to catch the light. Hence a movement is started in and out as well as around and upward, so that we have movement in three directions. Yet the piers rising from an inconspicuous two-step base seem rooted in the ground; the arches are bound firmly by the unbroken line and shadow of the cornices; and the solid attic finishes the design and marks it off from its sur¬ roundings. Thus, in spite of the vigorous movement within the limitations of its space, the structure gives the impression of quiet strength.

So we see that the organization of our volume — have you noticed that the Colosseum is one volume only?—by line and light and dark not only harmonizes with the pur¬ pose of the building and the arch construction but also reinforces them by its suggestion of movement and sta¬ bility. Our study of the building from three points of view — stable construction, efficient functioning, satisfy¬ ing appearance — has led us to a realization of the insep¬ arable unity of the three, a unity which produces that total impression of power and domination, a symbol of the grandeur of imperial Rome, which even in ruin so im¬ pressed the early pilgrims.

10 An engaged, in distinction from a free-standing, column is attached to a wall and projects only part of its diameter.

32

THE ART OF BUILDING

READING

Anderson, W. J., and Spiers, R. R., Architecture of Ancient Rome, rev. by Thomas Ashby, N. Y., Scribner, 1927. Breasted, J. H., Ancient Times, Boston, Ginn, 1916.

Davis, W. S., A Day in Old Rome, Boston, Allyn and Bacon, J925-

Showerman, G., Eternal Rome, New Haven, Yale Press, 1924.

SUGGESTIONS

1. A relief map in sand or clay of ancient Rome will not only serve to fix the sites in mind but will help to correlate with history and Latin courses. See S. B. Platner, Topography and Monuments of Ancient Rome , Boston, Allyn and Bacon, 1911. Such a map can also be used for medieval and Renais¬ sance Rome.

2. Find examples, such as the modern stadium, in which the architectural problem of function and design is the same as in the Colosseum. Has the solution been the same?

THE PARTHENON

From the huge cylinder of the Colosseum set in the midst of the capital of a great empire, with its spirit of grandeur and domination, let us journey eastward to Greece and look at a small rectangular structure (Pl. 7) standing aloof upon a hill overlooking a city (Figs. 16 and 17) d 1 Its

11 Parthenon, Acropolis, Athens. Of Pentelic marble. The base, not including the steps, 228 by 101 ft. Begun in 447 b.c., dedicated in 438; work was still going on as late as 432. It remained practically in its original condition until it was converted, in the fourth or fifth century a.d., into a Christian church, and in 1458 into a Mohammedan mosque. In 1687, when it was used as a powder magazine during a war, it was wrecked by an explosion. Fortifications, houses, and mosques were built in and around it. Until the nineteenth century its stone served as a quarry and its sculpture fed the limekiln. In 1801-03 most of what was left of the sculpture was taken to England by Lord Elgin and in 1816 was purchased for the British Museum. Since that time the foreign structures have been removed from the Acropolis, which is now under the care of the Greek Government. For fine plates showing the recent restoration, see W. Hege and G. Rodenwaldt, Die Akropolis (Berlin, Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1930).

THE ART OF BUILDING . 33

sides seem to continue those of the sheer cliff below; its base is a part of the level-topped hill; and its mass as a whole repeats the mass of the hill. Though it stands out clearly as something to demand attention against the in¬ tense blue sky or the broken grays of the storm clouds, still

Fig. 16. Athens.

with the hill as its base, it takes its place in perfect unison with the varied mountainous landscape. Like the Colos¬ seum, its exterior consists of alternating light and dark masses that suggest inward and outward movement. But these masses are rectangular, not arched, and are bound by a horizontal band into one large rectangular volume which meets the air and sky, not too abruptly, with a low-pitched

34 THE ART OF BUILDING

roof. Its whole personality is strikingly unlike that of the Colosseum. Apart from the difference in size and site, here is no striving aloft, no assertive power, but quietude and restraint.

If the Colosseum in size and dominating design sym¬ bolizes a dominating and imperial spirit in the Roman, shall we infer from the Parthenon that the spirit of Athens is serene, and qualitative rather than quantitative? Let us go to Athens, at the time of the festival that reveals the place of this building in the life of the city.

Fig. 17. Parthenon on the Acropolis, Athens.

Chorus. Of all the land far famed for goodly steeds

Thou com’st, O stranger, to the noblest spot, Colonus, glistening bright,

Where evermore, in thickets freshly green. The clear-voiced nightingale Still haunts, and pours her song,

By purpling ivy hid,

And thick leafage sacred to the God . . .

And in it grows a marvel such as ne’er On Asia’s soil I heard,

Nor the great Dorian isle from Pelops named, A plant self-sown, that knows No touch of withering age,

Terror of hostile swords,

Plate 7

Parthenon. Athens. A rectangular volume, strong yet reposeful because of the proportions and of the sensitive balance of vertical and horizontal. (Photo. H. Wagner, Athens)

Plate 8

The Great Hall of an Egyptian Temple. Majestic in its massiveness and in the stately rhythm of its columns, an expression of enduring power. (G. Jequier, U Architecture et la Decoration dans VAncienne Egypte. Paris, Morance)

35

THE ART OF BUILDING

Which here on this our ground Its high perfection gains,

The grey-green foliage of the olive-tree,

Rearing a goodly race;

And never more shall man,

Or young, or bowed with years,

Give forth the fierce command And lay it low in dust.

For lo! the eye of Zeus,

Zeus of our olive groves,

That sees eternally Casteth its glance thereon,

And she, Athena, with the clear, grey eyes. 12

Thus Agathocles quoted as he stood in the colonnade 13 of the temple on the hill and wrapped his woolen cloak about him more tightly. Day was dawning. The prepara¬ tions for the festival were completed and soon he must join the procession that was already forming down in the city near the Dipylon, or Double Gate (Fig. 16).

Still he lingered, scanning the wide view before him. To the north and west swung a fringe of mountains. There were Parnes and Cithaeron, favorite haunts of Apollo and the Muses. To the south the vine- and olive- covered plain broke through the mountain circle to meet the sea, which deepened its blue as the sun rose above the eastern crests. Turning his eyes toward the hilltop where he was standing, Agathocles saw that the two bronze Athenas near by were reflecting the early sunshine. One was the colossal warlike champion of Athens with helmet, spear, and shield; the other was smaller, bareheaded, hel¬ met in hand, gracious in appearance. Athena was both their champion and the guardian of their arts. And this

12 Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonos. Translation of E. H. Plumptre.

13 A series of columns connected by lintels.

36 THE ART OF BUILDING

was her very sanctuary where he was standing. Though Zeus was the king and father of all, Demeter gave them grain, Pan piped for their delight along the streams, as the dryads danced to his tunes; though Poseidon fought for their ships against the anger of the north wind, still dearest to their hearts was Athena, who had given them their olive trees and their name and had become their protector and patron. And this was her birthday.

For three days Athens had been celebrating with athletic and musical contests. How beautiful the torch race had been last night as the wind-blown torches danced across the plain in the hands of runners hidden by the dark! Agatho- cles’ brother, though fifth at the goal, was winner of the race, for he alone had kept his flame burning. But Agatho- cles straightened with pride at the thought of his own prize in the flute contest — a wreath of olive and a jar of oil from the sacred trees of Athena. “ Are we not fortunate,” he thought as he moved away from the temple and looked up at the kindly Athena, “ to be under the care of so strong and so gracious a goddess? ”

Then down the steep path he hurried to meet the pro¬ cession that was already winding through the narrow streets. Here were maidens with the embroidered robe; cows for the sacrifice; dignified elders with laurel branches; chariots rumbling over the cobblestones; and a long caval¬ cade, which Agathocles joined. As the throng reached the crest of the hill the temple was gleaming in the full light of the August sunshine. Conscious of the dignity of the occasion, they moved to the front of the temple through whose open door the colossal gold and ivory statue of Athena, filling the half-lighted room, gleamed majestically. After the robe had been presented all the people joined in the sacrifice at the altar in front of the temple, shared in

THE ART OF BUILDING 37

the ceremony with hymns and prayers; and after Athena’s portion had been offered to her, all feasted and were joyous.

Throughout the day the festival continued until as the afternoon waned Agathocles again found himself alone at the corner of the colonnade. The great festival was over and not for four years would it be celebrated again. As the sun was sinking be¬ hind the ragged crests of the moun¬ tains everything stood out with crystalline clearness, saturated and quivering with color and gold.

The sun god him¬ self seemed to be saying a joyous farewell, and soon the moon goddess would arrive in her chariot to close the festival by en¬ veloping every¬ thing in her quiet light. Agathocles,

young as he was, felt it all. The natural beauty of the land, the joyous harmony of a colorful nature, the pride in his city, and the love of a beneficent goddess were a part of the very fiber of his life.

First let us see the Parthenon as Agathocles did from his modest little home in the crowded city, standing clearly on the hill two hundred feet above — colorful, splendid, serene. Climb the steep path with this youth and study the temple close at hand. In

Fig. ig. Parthe¬ non and Chartres Cathedral (Pl. 17). (After Benoit)

Fig. 18. Plan of the Parthenon.

38 THE ART OF BUILDING

plan, construction, and size it is most simple. In plan (Fig. 18) it is a rectangle, with a door at each end, and surrounded by a colonnade doubled at the ends. The columns support a superstructure with a sloping roof which forms a gable, or pediment, at each end. In construction, it is built on the lintel system (Fig. 14), of blocks of Pentelic marble quarried in the mountain near by, and set, not with mortar, but with bronze cramps and dowels (Fig. 20 ), which hold the stones firmly and also with an elasticity that is necessary in a land subject, as Greece is, to earthquakes. Of what the roof was made,

Fig. 20. Cramps and Dowels. Iron or bronze cramps hold the stones of the same course; iron dowels, packed with lead poured in through channels left for that purpose, hold the stones of different courses.

we are not certain. It was probably tiled, perhaps with translucent marble. In size, the temple is very small in comparison with many of the buildings that we are visit¬ ing on our journey. But what need was there for a larger one? The Greek performed his religious ceremonies, as we have seen, at an altar outside the temple where there was ample space for all the people to participate. The only need for the building was to house the statue, to protect the gifts, to glorify the divinity and, indirectly, the city which erected the temple.

Is not this fact illuminating, that the Greek in one of his greatest works of art was content with, in fact pre-

THE ART OF BUILDING S 9

ferred, small size, the simplest method of construction, and an old well-known plan? It was not to something novel, or colossal, or grandly splendid that he devoted his best efforts, but toward refining and perfecting an old form (Fig. 21) and expressing through it a quiet harmony that was consistent with the Greek ideal of balance and moderation.

Again, his ideal was qualitative.

Long since the Greek had evolved a build¬ ing that suited his geographic setting and his religious needs, and he felt no need of changing its essential ar¬ rangement. In these circum¬ stances two things can happen. The new building can be a copy of the old and, while adequate, quite devoid of life and feeling. Or the new building, while still retaining the old form, can present new propor¬ tions, new refinements of all detail, such an entirely new way of putting together the old forms that it becomes filled with life and vitality. That is originality. Return to Fig. 21. The older Greek temples are superior buildings, but their heaviness reveals a rugged age not yet trained to

Fig. 21. Similar Elements Combined in Different Proportions. D is the Parthenon.

40

THE ART OF BUILDING

TT

the sensitive proportions of the Parthenon. The very fact that the builders of the Parthenon refused to follow the old exactly, though accepting the best of it, shows how keenly they felt that their expression must be their own.

Like these prototypes, the Parthenon is a building of quiet vigor and serenity. To realize this compare it with Chartres Cathedral (Pl. 17 and Fig. 19), a building filled

with restless and eager aspiration. This serenity results from the proportions, variety, and balance of simple units of mass, line, light and dark, and color. Let us study these principles in the facade. Long quiet horizontal lines contrast in subtle proportion with ac¬ tive verticals, and with still more active diagonals (Fig. 22A) . The verticals are long in the columns, and are em¬ phasized by repetition because the col¬ umns are grooved or fluted. In the frieze groups of short verticals are re¬ peated twice as often as in the columns below, thus affording a change in the

Fig. 22. Design of rh Y thm - But as the facade is made of the Facade of the Par- stones that project and recede, there thenon. results a pattern of light and dark that

essentially repeats the pattern of line, and produces an in¬ ward and outward movement (Fig. 22B) . Still the design is not satisfactory until you add the sculptured ornament and color in the frieze and gable, for these supply the broken irregular masses of light and dark to give variety to the regular rectangular areas below, and also provide curved broken lines to soften the severity of vertical, hori¬ zontal, and right angle; while the diagonal of the sky line is

THE ART OF BUILDING 41

softened by the ornament and thereby better united with the sky (Fig. 22C).

Thus the sculptured ornament is far from being some¬ thing added or applied as an afterthought. It is so integral a part of the organizing lines and lights and darks that without it, vitality is lost. On the other hand these sculp¬ tured forms are not abstract, in order to provide line and light and shadow only, but they represent subjects suitable for the temple: The Birth of A thena, the Contest of A thena and Poseidon, and other subjects that relate to gods and heroes; and finally, as evidence of the close harmony be¬ tween humanity and divinity, inside the colonnade along the top of the solid wall of the temple runs a Frieze repre¬ senting man’s tribute to Athena, the great Panathenaic Procession (Pl. 51) . This same happy union of content and design we shall find in the mosaics, frescoes, and glass of the Christian churches and cathedrals, and in the carved ornament of the Nebraska State Capitol.

Color was necessary, the Greek felt, because of climatic conditions. The sunshine in Greece is brilliant, and when reflected by the glittering marble would efface the forms. So he differentiated them with color, not naturalistic but conventional. The ground of the metopes 14 is red, against which the sculpture can be seen; the adjoining triglyphs 14 are blue because red and blue are contrasting colors. Blue was also used as a ground for the sculpture in the pedi¬ ment / 5 while a little green or gilding brought out a detail or furnished an accent. Strongly contrasted color stressed the decorative pattern of the upper cornices and the roof

14 Metopes are the “between places,” the squares between the triglyphs or grooved parts of the frieze (border) which runs around Greek temples of the Parthenon type just beneath the cornice (PI. 7 and Fig. 23). There is now no color on the Parthenon.

15 The gable at the end of a building made by the sloping roof (Fig. 23).

42

THE ART OF BUILDING

Fig. 23. Corner of a Greek Building. Notice that it consists of a base and columns which sup¬ port the upper parts weighing down upon them. The balance be¬ tween these two parts is most im¬ portant in the general effect of the building (see Fig. 21). The tech¬ nical terms are not specifically Greek but are common archi¬ tectural terms.

ornaments. Color is found in the upper parts of the building only. This is sig¬ nificant. There was no need of it below, where the base, the column, and the wall were clearly distinguished. Furthermore, if color is judi¬ ciously and conventionally used it enlivens the white marble and by contrast en¬ hances the beauty of the stone, just as black iron brings out the richness of colored glass (see page 90).

But there is another factor that plays an important part in the art of the Parthenon. All through our discussion we have been speaking of the temple as a rectangle. Rec¬ tangular, vertical, horizontal, serve our purpose in a gen¬ eral way, but are really inac¬ curate, for in this building there is literally not one straight line. The corners standing strong against the light (Pl. 7) show how the columns slope inward as they rise. Careful measurements added to sensitive vision dis¬ close the fact that the entire volume slopes inward, that

43

THE ART OF BUILDING the contours of the columns are ever so slightly curved; that the stone base, too, curves upward from the corners to the center. The columns stand considerably closer together at the corners than in the central parts of the colonnade. Go wherever you will about the building and you will find these deviations from regularity, slight, sensitive, powerful. For the Parthenon has life, vitality, power; but power that is quite different from the power of the Skyscraper, which is the product of the Machine Age. Each is “ right ” in its own way, consistent with the age out of which it grew.

READING

Anderson, W. J., and Spiers, R. R., Architecture of Ancient Greece, rev. by W. B. Dinsmoor, N. Y., Scribner, 1927.

Davis, W., A Day in Old Athens, Boston, Allyn and Bacon,

1 9 1 4 *

►Dickinson, G. L., The Greek View of Life, Garden City, Doubleday, 7th ed., 1925.

Any readings, in translation, of Greek literature.

SUGGESTIONS

1. A relief map of Attica showing the relation of Athens and the Acropolis to the surrounding country. See E. A. Gardner, Ancient Athens, N. Y., Macmillan, 1907, or C. H. Weller, Athens and its Monuments , N. Y., Macmillan, 1913.

2. Find examples of slight variations from regularity in colonnades or arcades, spacing of windows and doors, etc. Compare with examples of mechanical regularity.

3. Find examples of buildings designed after the Parthenon. Observe the site and the purpose. Do you think the design in each case is well adapted to the use?

AN EGYPTIAN TEMPLE

“ Still another rectangular building,” you say as our boat ties at the landing at Thebes, far up the Nile River

44

THE ART OF BUILDING

(Fig. 2 4) . Through the palms appears a long low mass of stone terminating at one end in a high wall with sloping sides (Fig. 25) . Solidly mas¬ sive, it suggests neither the up¬ ward reach of the Skyscraper nor the inward movement of the Colosseum and the Parthe¬ non. Its great windowless walls make it appear to close in upon itself, disdainful of the outside world. Yet these surfaces are not monotonous, for they are broken by masses of red, blue, yellow; and the general austerity of the Tem¬ ple is softened by the flags floating above the high fa¬ cade, 16 by flashes of metal, and by the enfolding greenery of palms and of grain fields. Be¬ yond, the distant barren cliffs with horizontal crests repeat the sheer walls and their un¬ broken level tops.

Is this impression that the _ „ Temple makes on us the same

Fig. 24. Egypt. 1

that it made on the Egyptian of old, who understood it infinitely better than we can? We are already in Thebes. But let us go back to the Thebes of long ago.

16 This facade is known as the pylon, a Greek word for a gateway. Hence this type of temple is called the pylon temple.

THE ART OF BUILDING 45

Even in the chill of early morning Nakht felt the ap¬ proaching heat as the sun rose fiercely brilliant into a cloudless sky. He was standing on the bank of the Nile, this young noble (Fig. 26) who for the first time was visit¬ ing Thebes for the festival of the sun god. “ The Nile,” he mused, “ the gift of the gods. Yes, only through the power of the gods can it perform its yearly miracle of bringing down a great flood of life-giving water and fresh soil.” The long line of barren cliffs on both sides of the river valley, he well knew, offered open portals to vast deserts. Only

in the narrow valley between the long even line of their menacing brows could life exist. It was a luxuriantly rich valley, this gift of the gods, with its grain fields, groves of palms, cities, and villages, and barges with their wares sail¬ ing up and down. “ Yes, the gods are good in this their greatest gift.”

Thus pondering he turned toward the Temple; the abiding-place of these gods. The building was but a short distance from the river, and as Nakht looked, he stood in wonderment. A broad avenue flanked by solemn recum¬ bent animals carried his eye to the huge mass as it rose sternly simple, bold, and colorful in the midst of the sur¬ rounding palms. Flags floated lazily above the high facade, and two lofty obelisks lifted their pointed metal tips to catch and reflect the sunshine. Stern giant statues looking straight forward sat in solemn silence at the small doorway through which he could see far into the Temple; first a

46 THE ART OF BUILDING

flash of sunshine, then dimness, and in the far distance mysterious darkness. How majestic! How filled with the spirit of worshipful awe of the gods who gave the sun and

the wonderful river! Through the trees he caught a glimpse of the bordering cliffs, suggesting the sterile deserts so vast and so close that they almost seemed to choke, in their jealousy, the luxuriant valley between. How the temple’s vast¬ ness and sternly simple lines on the one hand and the vivacious color, gleaming metal, strong light and shade, and en¬ shrining greenery on the other, just exactly fitted! And as he looked at the only entrance, a small door in the great facade guarded by the seated statues, he felt how effectively the world was shut out and how secure the sacred dwelling- place was from profane eyes.

As he slowly approached along the avenue he loitered behind the gathering crowds to look at the reposeful rams with statues of the pharaoh between their paws and between their horns polished metal discs that flashed brilliantly. And here were the two famous obelisks, sin¬ gle granite shafts nearly a hundred feet high. Every one in Egypt knew their story: how they had been quarried at the cataract far up the Nile (Fig. 24) and when the river was high had been loaded on a barge, a load so great that it took thirty galleys and nearly a thou¬ sand oarsmen to tow it down to Thebes. And there the

Fig. 26. Costume of an Egyptian of the Time of Nakht. It consists of a tunic with loose plaited sleeves; a plaited skirt, tight in the back and held by a sash with one end fringed and the other, pointed, hang¬ ing down in front. The dress is white linen. Accessories are important in Egyptian costume: armlets, bracelets, chains with pend¬ ants, and a bead collar. (Metropol¬ itan Museum)

THE ART OF BUILDING 47

pharaoh had them carved with inscriptions telling of his exploits and set them up in front of the temple to cele¬ brate his jubilee. As they rose high into the air they tapered finely, and their simple shape and unbroken line were as grandly monumental as the Temple itself. Be¬ hind the obelisks rose the majestic facade with sloping sides, its sheer wall vibrating with carvings painted in large flat areas of intense color but softened by the brilliant light

Fig. 27. Section of the Great Hall of an Egyptian Pylon Temple. The pylon (gateway) is the lofty entrance.

and finished at the top by a cornice whose broad outward sweep cast a deep horizontal shadow that gave a definite finish to the facade so that the blue of the painted carvings would not be lost in the blue of the sky.

Music in the distance reminded Nakht that he must hurry to the Temple. For was not the festival the very purpose of his visit? This was the day when the pharaoh alone, closest of all people to the sun god, entered the mysterious dark sanctuary. As Nakht passed the solemn

48 THE ART OF BUILDING

statues guarding the doorway he noticed that the great cedar doors with silver inlay, swung back to admit the crowd, were gleaming dully in the shadow. “ These are suitable doors,” he thought, “ for the house of Amon, Amon-Re the mighty sun god.”

Through the doorway, and he was in the sunshine of a large open court (Fig. 28), along the sides of which ran a covered colonnade whose shade afforded a welcome pro¬ tection from the heat. Into this court the people crowded, waiting. It was as far as they were permitted to go. Only a few, Nakht among them, were privileged to enter the dim hall beyond. This hall was lofty, though not so high as the great facade with its flagstaffs and obelisks, and was dim, cool, and mysteriously quiet. Apart from the small doorway, the only light filtered through narrow stone grat¬ ings high up under the roof, so high that it was soon lost in the shadows (Pl. 8 and Fig. 27). The people too seemed lost in the enormous space, if not hidden by the columns. A double row of majestic shafts, higher than the rest, formed a central aisle. Near the top they spread out in great curves as if stretching out their arms to receive the weight of the huge roofing-stones that rested upon them. At first Nakht felt as if he were back in that forest of Lebanon where his father once took him on a journey to buy timber.

The music was sounding nearer as the procession crossed the open court. The insistent clatter of a rattle was keep¬ ing away the evil spirits. A priest with a censer headed the procession, followed by musicians and dancers, and a mili¬ tary escort, above whom appeared the king seated, carried high on a palanquin. He wore a lofty crown with the ser¬ pent, the emblem of royalty, on his forehead, a collar necklace and other jewels, and carried a flail and a crosier,

49

THE ART OF BUILDING the royal insignia. His officials bore his standards, fans, and sunshades, and his servants followed with his sandals, his bow and quiver. Brilliant in gold and color the pro¬ cession passed through the crowded court into the shaded hall and disappeared in the dim distance, where, Nakht knew, the pharaoh, after he had been anointed, robed, and ornamented, entered the sanctuary alone to perform the rites and to entreat the favor of the gods.

. . . Thou shalt give me high and plenteous Niles in order to supply thy divine offerings and to supply the divine offer¬ ings of all the gods and goddesses of South and North; ... in order to preserve alive the people of all thy lands, their cattle and their groves which thy hand has made. For thou art he who has made them all and thou canst not forsake them to carry out other designs with them; for that is not right. 17

Without in the court, the people stood silent.

Thus the Temple’s function was to provide a dwelling- place for the divinity, secluded from the world, and so con¬ structed as to impress with awe and mystery. For the Egyptian’s religious belief centered about majestic power and its mystery. The mass of people could approach only at a distance; hence the large open court, beyond which they could see only into the great columned hall, dim and majestic, and thence toward unfathomable darkness, the dwelling-place of the god. This vista was the reason for the Temple’s being built along an axis (Fig. 28). The lofty hall of stone columns and the still loftier stone facade added to the feeling of majesty, an austere kind of majesty, to be sure, yet powerful and enduring. 18

17 J. H. Breasted, History of Egypt , N. Y., Scribner, 1912, p. 458.

18 The conservative Egyptian, when once he had evolved a temple plan that met his needs, continued to build for centuries on this plan; and ambitious pharaohs kept adding to the original temple; for, as the site was sacred, a new location could not be chosen. Hence the huge temples at Luxor and Karnak

50

THE ART OF BUILDING To build a temple that would serve this function, his country afforded the Egyptian an abundance of stone and his social system provided almost unlimited slave labor. He understood how to make arches but preferred not to use them except in inconspicuous places. Massive solidity and great scale he could well secure by the lintel system. It was a simple matter to build great walls with no open-

Fig. 28. Plan and Section of an Egyptian Temple. A, entrance through the pylon; B, open court; C, great hall; D, vestibule to the sanctuary; E, sanctuary.

ings. But how could he roof a spacious hall with lintels? This problem he solved by adding more and more supports (Fig. 27). By seeing how many rows of roofing stones

(ancient Thebes) are but elaborations of the simple pylon type (Fig. 28), are aggregations of pylons, courts, halls, and small additional complete temples. Karnak represents two thousand years of such building. The Great Hall (Fig. 27) was erected by Seti I and Rameses II of the nineteenth dynasty (1350-1205 b.c.). Study these temples as colossal expressions of enduring power through the simple organization of mass. The Great Hall of PI. 8 is from the Ramesseum , a temple at Thebes built by Rameses II.

THE ART OF BUILDING 51

there are we can tell how many rows of columns stand beneath. The great size of the columns is due largely to the weight of the huge stone lintels that form the roof. In this case the filling of the space with columns mattered little, as but few were admitted to the hall and the vista through it was enhanced by the repetition of the vertical lines.

To break the monotonous stretches of surface and to add a note of vivacity, low reliefs cover the walls and the col¬ umns; on the interior, scenes and inscriptions relating to the gods; on the exterior, to the pharaoh. In the brilliant light and in the deep shadow — there is but little half-light — these carvings could not be seen were not color used to differentiate the figures. Rich though they are, these colorful carvings are kept sternly subject to the main surfaces and lines. They en¬ hance; they never obtrude.

The design of the Temple as a whole — bold geometric vol¬ umes and unbroken lines, with light and dark and color used in large units, with detail kept rigidly subordinate (Fig. 29 ) —recalls that of the Skyscraper. Yet in the Skyscraper the mass is pierced by many openings; the stone is a thin protective curtain; the steel beams that construct the building rise with dynamic force. In the Temple the mass is only lightly broken by carvings and color; the stone walls function as supports, are solid, inert, enduring. Hence, though similar in some re¬ spects, the buildings are quite opposite in effect, because

$ LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY |

Fig. 29. View from the Back of the Temple toward the Pylon. For simplicity and power of mass compare with the skyscraper.

f

OF ALBERTA

t

52 THE ART OF BUILDING

differences in function, material, and geography are des¬ tined to produce different results.

READING

Breasted, J. H., Ancient Times, Boston, Ginn, 1916.

Baikie, J., Life in the Ancient East, N. Y., Macmillan, 1923. National Geographic Magazine, March and September 1926. For color in Egyptian architecture, see under The Tomb of Nakht and Tawi, p. 194.

SUGGESTION

Make a model of a pylon temple. Ivory soap is good because it will take color. Cut the soap into blocks for the masonry and carve the statues out of the same material. Place the temple in a proper setting, which can be made of sand or clay.

THE BATHS OF CARACALLA A Roman Clubhouse

The Great Hall of the Egyptian Temple (Pl. 8 and Fig. 2 7), with its deep vista through avenues of lofty columns, refreshingly dim and mysteriously quiet, adequately served a favored few as a vestibule to the dwelling-place of the god. Its majestic impressiveness not only befitted the house of a god but also attuned the spirit of the worshiper to an attitude of reverence.

There are circumstances, however, when it is necessary to accommodate large numbers of people in an enclosed space where columns would both break the view and en¬ cumber the floor. It then becomes a problem of how to free an enclosed space of supports other than the walls. It was the demands of the luxury-loving Romans that stimu¬ lated the builders to solve the problem successfully.

Compare the Hall of this Roman club (Pl. 9) with the Great Hall of the Egyptian Temple (Pl. 8). The latter

THE ART OF BUILDING 53

conveys an impression of sheer bulk and enduring power. Yet only here and there can you catch a vista of the length or width, much less grasp a conception of its mass as a unit. The former enables your eye with one sweep to take in the entire space enclosed. Within the unencumbered interior of a great volume you are standing, yourself serv¬ ing as a scale by which to perceive its size. This interior space is molded into a design by the walls and the roof; thick sturdy walls, though broken with openings, and gi¬ gantic columns from which springs a roof of varyingly curved surfaces. Nothing obstructs. Hundreds of people can move about easily. The polished colored marbles of floor, columns, and walls, and the gilded and painted ceil¬ ing glittering in the light from the large high windows, give an air of wealth and luxury. Yet this hall could no more serve the Egyptian Temple than the latter the Roman club, because each fittingly expresses its function.

What was the Rome of Caracalla, and what function in its life did such a club play? Rome at this time did not exist for herself alone. She was the proud capital of a great empire, just now peaceful and prosperous. Literally and figuratively all roads led to Rome (Fig. 30) , on land and on sea, good roads and well-charted sea lanes safe from bandits and pirates. From all parts of this vast empire and even from beyond her boundaries these routes brought grain from Egypt, silk from China, tin from Britain, cotton goods from India, marbles from Greece, Asia, and Africa. Was it not natural and even necessary that the leading city of such an empire should present an appearance befitting her station? And so Rome was magnificent, outwardly perhaps the most magnificent capital that the world has known. Her material power found expression in lavish display. Fringing this city of a million people was a green

54 THE ART OF BUILDING

ring of parks, gardens, and fountains. Within the walls little oases of gardens and fountains dotted the crowded city of fine homes, broad streets, splendid public build¬ ings, and temples around open squares. Sumptuous places

of amusement and miles of covered porticoes offered pro¬ tection from sun and rain.

The populace was cosmopolitan. Many foreigners — traders, provincials, soldiers, ambassadors — could be seen at any time. As for the Romans themselves, the stern disci¬ pline of Vespasian in the days of the building of the Colos¬ seum was gone. The wealthy upper classes idled in luxury. The masses found both their bread and their pleasure dur¬ ing long indolent days in the patronizing dole and free

Plate 9

Baths of Caracalla, Central Hall (restored). Rome. The entire interior space is grasped as a unit for the roof curves up from the sides with no inter¬ mediate supports. (Anderson and Spiers, Architecture of Greece and Rome, London, Batsford)

Plate i o

Santa Sophia. Istanbul. Spherical masses, compactly grouped, rise rhyth mically to the climax of the dome. (© Pub. Photo. Service)

Fig. 31. A Roman Club, or Baths.

THE ART OF BUILDING 55

tickets of weak emperors who by these means sought po¬ litical support.

It was for this Rome that the great clubhouses were built. As the city was large, the emperors wealthy, and the masses to be entertained ever growing in number, so the baths became correspondingly huge and mag¬ nificently luxuri¬ ous. Their pur¬ pose was not simply to provide a place for the daily bath, a ne¬ cessity to the Ro¬ man, but also to furnish a place where one could find association with friends and the great of the day. More than sixteen hundred people at a time could be comfort¬ ably cared for by the great corps of slaves at the

Fig. 32. Plan of the Baths of Caracalla. 1, tepi- darium (warm lounge); 2, calidarium (hot room); 3, frigidarium (cooling room); 4, open peristyle; 5, lecture rooms and libraries; 6, promenade and gardens; 7, shops; 8, stadium; 9, reservoirs.

baths proper, and many more in the gardens, athletic grounds, libraries, concert halls, and dining-rooms (Figs. 31 and 32). Whatever the Roman’s inclination in

56 THE ART OF BUILDING

the matter of exercise and leisure, there he could

indulge it.

To build on a large scale, 19 with magnificence and also with practical conveniences, was the problem that con¬ fronted the builders in the employ of the rich emperors. That they built well and magnificently might not be in¬ ferred from the first glance at the ruins today, mightily im¬ pressive though they are even in their gauntness. To form an adequate conception, we must rebuild the fallen roofs and restore the marbles.

We have already formed our first impression — a vol¬ ume of uninterrupted interior space, great in scale, molded clearly and held firmly by the enclosing floor, walls, and roof. We do not question its stability. Yet how has it been done? In comparison with the sheer bulk and weight of the mighty Egyptian columns (Pl. 8) , here is a spring, a lightness, something alive, as the eye is caught and car¬ ried along the sweeping curves. As in the Colosseum, the dominant curved line bespeaks the arch. It is the arch principle, carried farther than we noted in the Colosseum, that makes the effect possible.

We might consider, to digress for a moment, some possi¬ bilities of roofing a rectangular room. The simplest way is to lay lintels (of any material) from wall to wall (Fig. 33A). But as the size of the room is limited by the size of the material available for lintels, only small-scale rooms can use this method unless additional supports are added be¬ tween the walls (Fig. 33B). If the lintels are heavy, as when made of stone, the walls must be proportionally thick enough to carry the weight. The interior space thus en-

19 The Baths of Caracalla. The entire establishment has a frontage of about 1200 ft. The central hall, the tepidarium or warm lounge, is 183 ft. by 79 ft., and 108 ft. high. The Baths contained many Greek and Roman statues, so that the ruins have yielded important examples of these. 212-16 a.d.

THE ART OF BUILDING 57

closed is rectangular, of small dimensions, and most suit¬ able for seclusion and privacy. Most of the rooms in our homes are built thus. But add to this rectangular volume a sloping roof (Fig. 33C) ,

and you have a much more interesting exterior because of the diagonal line and the gabled ends, as well as

A

B

additional height on the in¬ terior. This is the basic de¬ sign of many buildings the world over.

So far we have kept to straight lines and used lin¬ tels only. Let us now em¬ ploy the arch and introduce the curved surface and curved line. Fig. 33D shows our volume covered with continuous arches forming a barrel vault.

Built of stone, brick, or con¬ crete, it is very heavy and so demands thick walls to support it and walls not broken by doors and win¬ dows enough to endanger their carrying power. On a small scale, where dim light is desirable, a barrel vault may be used with impres¬ sive result. But if too large, its unbroken uniformly curved ceiling may prove monotonous.

To obviate the limitations of the barrel vault — that is,

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Fig. 33. Some Ways of Roofing a Rectangular Room.

58 THE ART OF BUILDING

to secure size, lighting, variety — the Romans conceived the idea of crossing the barrel vault at right angles with one or more other barrel vaults (Fig. 33E) . The advan¬ tages of this plan are that the curved surface is broken in an interesting way; that the semicircular openings on the sides as well as on the ends give ample space for lighting; and also that the weight of the vault is not felt the entire length of the wall but is concentrated at the points where the groins 20 converge. Therefore only at these points do the walls need to be very strong and to be supported by additional masses of masonry, while the intervening parts can safely contain large openings.

Returning to our Roman club, we recognize at once the last method — groin vaulting. We feel the barrel vault running the length of the room intersected at equal inter¬ vals by three other barrel vaults affording three semicircu¬ lar spaces along the side walls for windows. Imagine for a moment the long barrel vault alone covering this hall. How insufferably heavy it would have been, not to men¬ tion the impossibility of such lighting as the groin vault affords. As it is, the strongly contrasting areas of light and dark caused by the contrasting directions of curvature in the various parts of the vaulting, break the surface into a rhythmic design that harmonizes with the broken areas of the wall design.

The same problem of material confronted the builders here as in the Colosseum. The enormous size made stone masonry impossible and invited the use of easily worked concrete. A dislike of the plain concrete surface, however, led the builders to sheathe it with colored marbles, which, together with the supporting columns of red, green, and other colored stones, ships brought from the ends of the

20 A vault formed by the intersection of barrel vaults is called a groin vault for the curving edge where the vaults meet is known as a groin.

Plate i i

.f

Santa Sophia, Interior. As the exterior suggests, arches and half domes rise in increasing rhythmic volume to the crowning dome. No intermediate supports hinder the eye from apprehending the unity of the interior space organization. (Drawing by J. B. Fulton, in the Architectural Review)

Plate i2

Mosaic Portrait of Theodora. Detail of a group in San Vitale, Ravenna. The technical demands of mosaic lead to great simplification of form while the flatness and gold ground add to the decorative effect.

THE ART OF BUILDING 59

empire. Added to these were the gilded and painted cof¬ fers (sunken panels) of the vaulting and the large num¬ ber of bronze and marble statues, many of them Greek masterpieces, which Roman conquerors had brought to Rome.

Return from our imaginative sojourn in third-century Rome to the Rome of today to wander among these quiet majestic ruins. What builders these Romans were! If the taste of their day demanded too much colored marble and gilding, at least in the structure itself the artist’s soul could find expression. And now, with the marbles and gilding gone, how impressive is the impelling sweep of arches and of vaults!

READING

See under The Colosseum, p. 32.

SUGGESTIONS

1. The Baths of Diocletian may also be studied in this con¬ nection. They are even larger than those of Caracalla and more of the structure remains today because Michelangelo made part of it into a convent and the central hall into the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli (Saint Mary of the Angels).

2. Note the influence of the Roman baths upon the design of some of our larger railroad terminals (such as the Pennsyl¬ vania Station in New York). Is the modern builder using the same materials in the same way that the Roman did? Is the function (that of housing large crowds of people) the same?

3. Make models to illustrate the different ways of roofing a space, as suggested in Fig. 33.

SANTA SOPHIA

On the headland that thrusts the old part of Istanbul (Constantinople) out into the sea (Fig. 34), by the side of

60

THE ART OF BUILDING an open square rises a compact pile of masonry, a closely knit group of volumes that rise rhythmically to the cul¬ minating dome whose contours suggest the contours of the sky (Pl. 10 and Fig. 2C) . 21 Imagine away the four corner towers, later incongruous additions, and the heterogeneous

Fig. 34. Istanbul (Constantinople). The heart of the city, in the time of Justinian, was about the Acropolis.

encumbrances about the base. Volumes with curved sur¬ faces and curving contours dominate the mass but are sta-

21 Church of Santa Sophia. Of brick set with thick joints of mortar. Probably part of the exterior was sheathed in marble; the domes are lead-covered, the windows of carved marble lattice. On the interior the constructional brick¬ work is entirely covered with rare marbles and mosaics. 235 by 250 ft., exclusive of the court; diameter of the dome, 107 ft. Built by Justinian (527-65 a.d.) on the site of an older church of Santa Sophia (Church of the Holy Wisdom); consecrated, 537; reconsecrated, after damage by an earthquake, 563; pilfered of its finest furnishings by the Crusaders, 1204; converted into a Mohammedan mosque and many of the mosaics covered, 1453; minarets built between 1453

THE ART OF BUILDING 61

bilized by rectangular volumes with straight angular con¬ tours. Together they form a unit of singular harmony and quiet strength. The red brick set in thick layers of mortar and the dull gray lead covering of the domes offer no dis¬ play and hint at no magnificence. It is the volumes alone that hold the attention, catching light and holding shadow, speaking clearly of an inclosed space.

Let us step within (Pl. i i) . You stop a moment to catch your breath in surprise and then to breathe deeply as if in a newly discovered great out-of-doors, more insistently real than in nature itself. Arches swell into greater arches, and half-domes into greater half-domes. Everywhere is rhythmic movement upward in a great crescendo to the culminating dome. Light from many windows, softened by the stone lattice, reveals the splendid interior of the drab inclosing shell, an interior entirely incrusted with the richest of colored marbles, gold-ground mosaics, lacy carving, polished metal. Every inch of the surface gleams with color and gold, splendid but not glittering; quite subordinate to the powerful sweep of the arches and domes, yet enriching them with contrasting delicacy. 22

What building is this? What purpose is met by an in¬ terior that impresses one with a feeling of reserved mag¬ nificence and serene exaltation? Your guide in Istanbul tells you that it is a mosque (a Mohammedan, or Muham¬ madan, church). To understand its original purpose, however, we must go to the Istanbul (then known as Con-

and 1574; some of the mosaics uncovered and some restoration, 1847. Santa Sophia, in fact all the culture and art expression of Constantinople and her empire is called Byzantine after the older name of the city whose several names it is well to keep in mind: Byzantium (about the seventh century b.c. -330 a.d.); Constantinople (330-1929); Istanbul (1929—).

22 This was the original effect. Today the church is shabby and marred by the Mohammedan additions. Parts of the mosaic surfaces are covered with paint or whitewash and all the lavish equipment is pilfered or lost.

62 THE ART OF BUILDING

stantinople) of the sixth century a.d., the city which had superseded Rome as the capital of the Roman Empire.

In 527 Justinian and Theodora had been crowned em¬ peror and empress. Theodora was an extraordinary woman who had risen to this high station from a lower social rank through ambition, daring, and intelligence, qualities which sometimes made her, as empress, a wiser statesman than Justinian. 23 Together with affairs of state Justinian encouraged and liberally patronized the arts, especially that of building. A sedition in which he had nearly lost his crown furnished him an opportunity, for the old Santa Sophia in which he and Theodora had been crowned was burned during the rioting. Hardly a month passed before he began to rebuild the church in a manner that should be worthy not only of the Christian faith, for Justinian was a devout Christian, but also of leadership in the faith. For the emperor’s aim was to restore the rapidly disintegrating Roman Empire and to make Santa Sophia not only the mother church but the symbol of a restored Christianized empire. Furthermore, his great wealth enabled him to build on a grand scale, with the richest materials, and to indulge his love and that of Theo¬ dora for costly splendor, as we infer from a sentence in his dedicatory prayer, “ I have surpassed thee, O Solomon.”

What were the problems involved? The Christian Church has always been congregational, that is, all follow¬ ers of the faith have free access to the church, witness the ceremonies and participate in them, quite in contrast to the Egyptian faith, where the pharaoh or the priest alone entered the sanctuary. Thus a Christian church must pro¬ vide a space large enough to contain all its membership and

23 For a vivid picture of Theodora see C. Diehl, Byzantine Portraits , N. Y., Knopf, 1927.

THE ART OF BUILDING 63

make its sanctuary visible to all. To Justinian then fell the problem of providing an interior of spacious propor¬ tions and sumptuous appearance, an interior that would symbolize a great faith and a great empire. As for the plan, there was no desire to create something novel but rather, as in the case of the Parthenon, to refine a well- known design. For centuries builders in eastern Mediter¬ ranean lands had been experimenting on the problem of how to cover a square area with a dome and had succeeded, on a small scale. Now came the summons from an em¬ peror to build in the greatest city in the East on an un¬ precedented scale. This was stimulation to great endeavor. For nearly six years they labored, Justinian and Theodora constantly consulting and advising. 24 Then early one Christmas morning Justinian and all the people dedicated the church as together they “ hymned their songs of prayer and praise.”

Let us picture Santa Sophia as Justinian and Theodora built it. It stood on a rocky hill (Fig. 34) with an open square on the south, across which stood the emperor’s palace. At the foot of the hill lay the Hippodrome, the great racecourse and a center of activity for political fac¬ tions. 25 This part of the city was indeed its heart. In front of the church lay its own open court (Fig. 35), above whose walls towered cypress trees. Within, around the marble¬ faced walls ran covered passages with marble columns; marble walks wound through the gardens; and in the cen¬ ter stood a fountain for the customary ablutions before entering a place of worship, a symbol, in the eyes of these early Christians, of the purification of sin by the blood of

24 Many of the royal monograms carved on the capitals of the columns con¬ tain the names of both Justinian and Theodora.

25 For an air view of Istanbul showing Santa Sophia, the square and the Hippodrome, see The National Geographic Magazine, Dec. 1928, p. 720.

64 THE ART OF BUILDING

Christ. Thus was the worshiper prepared to enter, both

physically and spiritually.

The impression upon entering, according to writers of Justinian’s day, 26 was one of being caught up into a mood of exaltation, particularly by the dome that “ standing upon a circle does not appear to rest upon solid foundation but to cover the place beneath as though it were suspended by the fabled golden chain”—an impression similar to

our own today, only more in¬ tense because of the accessories, now lost, and of the greater har¬ mony which the Mohammedan additions and demolitions have marred. Even the Mohamme¬ dan conqueror of Istanbul found himself subject to its power. 26

What is the source of this power? It is due to the daring and masterly way in which the interior space is organized and to the richness of detail that enhances but never interferes with the clear enunciation of the big elements of the design (Pl. 11). The space is enclosed with no other supports than the walls, and the walls and roof are so organized that all the lines and sur¬ faces lead rhythmically to the focal point, 27 the dome. As the poet says, the dome seems to hang in the air and the

26 There is a large amount of detailed description of Santa Sophia in the work of Justinian’s court poet, quoted in W. R. Lethaby and H. Swaimson, The Church of Sancta Sophia , London, Macmillan, 1916. For the story of the Mo¬ hammedan conqueror, see Ibid., p. 126.

27 A focal point (center of interest, climax) is that point in a design (a drama, symphony, painting, building, city) where the artist wishes to concentrate emphasis.

Fig. 35. Plan of Santa Sophia.

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Fig. 36. Section of Santa So¬ phia without the Court.

THE ART OF BUILDING 65

light coming in through the windows that fringe its base seems to half-separate it from its supports.

Here the arch principle of construction has produced a different effect, based upon a different method of roofing a rectangular volume from any that we have noted so far (Fig. 33). Let us see how it is done. Both the exterior view and the plan show a square area covered with a dome flanked on two sides by rectangular areas with half-domes and on the other two by vaulted aisles. The problem in¬ volved is how, in covering a cube with a hemisphere, to handle the upper corners of the cube so that there will be a pleasing transi¬ tion from the angular form to the spherical form, and how to secure a cir¬ cular base for the dome. The builder solves these problems by raising arches on the four walls of the cube, con¬ necting their crowns (highest parts) with an imaginary circle and filling the spaces between with masonry (Fig. 37). In this way, start¬ ing with a square base he has worked up with his arches and curved surfaces to a great circle and has supplanted the an¬ gular corners with upward curving surfaces that make a

Fig. 37. A Dome on Pendentives. abed is a square area to be covered with a dome. A illus¬ trates one method which, however, produces the feeling that four sections have been sliced off the sides of the dome to make it fit the square base. To secure a circular base the builder throws arches from pier to pier as in A, fills in the corners with masonry up to the crowns of the arches (B). On the circular base so secured he erects a dome with no sliced off sides (C). At the same time he has made a pleasing transition from the square to the circular base. The triangular surfaces which make this transition are called pendentives ( P ) and a dome so erected is known as a dome on penden¬ tives.

66 THE ART OF BUILDING

transition between the vertical surfaces within the arches and the curved surface of the dome. The weight of the dome is carried toward the corners of the cube by the arches which are met there by heavy masonry. The walls then are quite unnecessary as supporting members and so can be omitted, thus enlarging the space as they do on two of the sides, or they can be filled with arcades and light walls largely broken by windows as they are on the other

two sides. But the problem is more complicated in Santa Sophia, where the area to be covered is a rectangle consisting of a central square and two flanking rectangles (Figs. 35 and 36). The solution consisted of erect¬ ing the lofty dome over the central square and a series of lower half¬ domes over the rectangles, thus cre¬ ating the effect of rhythmic move¬ ment of volumes and surfaces that is the most marked characteristic of the building.

To this rhythmic space design a wealth of detail — colored and carved marbles, gold-ground mosaics, bronze, gold and silver — lent color, flash of

Fig. 38. Tesserae for Making Mosaic. These squarish pieces of glass and stone average one- fourth inch in size and are roughened on the under side ( A ) so as to adhere more firmly to the cement. (After Leth- aby)

metal, and contrasting textures. All this richness en¬ hanced the effect because nothing obtruded itself at the expense of the basic space design. Marbles covered the floors and sheathed the walls; columns, door frames, and window lattice were of marble: dull red, emerald-green, soft green with dark veining, rose-red, rich red on white, warm yellow, startling black on white, all laid to bring out the harmonies, gradations, and contrasts of color and vein-

Plate i3

Cloister of Saint Paul’s Without the Walls. Rome. Long sweeps of cornice and frieze bind the arches together and by contrast accent their sweeping rhythm. The proportions, in all details, are peculiarly fitting for an interior court.

Plate 14

Saint Paul’s Without the Walls. Rome. In this rectangular interior the lines and lights and darks lead the eye in a horizontal

direction to the altar framed by the great arch, instead of upward as in Santa Sophia.

THE ART OF BUILDING 67

ing. As these marbles were handsawn, their surfaces were pleasantly, not mechanically smooth and, finished with wax, reflected softly the gold of the mosaics.

These mosaics covered all the upper surfaces. By mosaic we mean a surface incrusted with a design made by laying tiny pieces of colored glass or stone, called tesserae, in cement. The tesserae are roughly square in shape, averag¬ ing less than half an inch in the Theodora mosaic (Pl. 12), though many are triangular. They are usually roughened on the under side so as to adhere more firmly to the cement (Fig. 38). Set irregularly so as to produce an uneven surface, they catch and reflect the light, thus creating a vibrant effect. Gold tesserae were often used for the back¬ ground against which the figures stood out in dull reds, ivory-whites, blues, and greens, for the colors used were few. The portrayal of the human figure in mosaic de¬ mands, one can see, a highly simplified treatment. Not naturalistic appearance but an almost abstract pattern of line and color derived from the figure becomes the aim of the artist.

Mosaic is highly decorative and of solemn splendor, most impressive in a half-light. But it was not to the decora¬ tive effect alone that these mosaics contributed; their sub¬ ject matter was carefully determined by the Church. In this age, we must remember, when the mass of the people was illiterate, the Church taught the Christian story and the Christian faith by the decorations in its meeting- places. So, just as the lines and volumes rise to the climax of the dome, the subject matter of the mosaics rises from the angels, saints, prophets, and doctors on the lower walls through the four great cherubim of the pendentives to the sternly majestic colossal figure of Christ as Judge and Re¬ deemer in the crown of the dome.

68

THE ART OF BUILDING

READING

Byron, R., The Byzantine Achievement, London, Routledge,

J 929 -

TWO EARLY CHRISTIAN CHURCHES

Saint Paul’s Without the Walls Santa Maria in Cosmedin

From the exaltation of Santa Sophia’s dome we turn to another early Christian church to find ourselves in an at¬ mosphere of serene calm (Pl. 14 and Fig. 40). The rec¬ tangular volume with a flat wooden ceiling is so organ¬ ized that the rhythmically repeated arcades, silhouetted against shadow, the cornices, the patterning of the floor, the coffering of the ceiling — all the lines and lights and darks — carry the eye to the great central arch which frames and emphasizes the canopied altar. Here too, as in Santa Sophia, is richness of marble and mosaic. The dominant note is a cool blue seen in the floor, the columns, and the mosaics, through which plays the yellow of ala¬ baster, mellow light from the high windows, and the gilded carvings of the ceiling, which shines “ like a sea of gold.”

There is an enfolding peace about this interior close to the earth. And one feels it the more as he steps outside and looks at the plain exterior (Fig. 39). Perhaps we may see in this contrast a symbol of life as the early Christian saw it — the meanness and roughness of external life contrasting with the rare beauty of the inward spirit. For life was rough and chaotic in the Rome that built Saint Paul’s a very different Rome from the one that lifted the great

28 Saint Paul’s Without the Walls (San Paolo fuori le Mura). On the road to Ostia, about three miles from Rome. The site of the tomb of Saint Paul had been marked by a church since the days of Constantine. The present church was first erected in 390; was enlarged and embellished frequently; was largely destroyed by fire in 1823; and was rebuilt in 1854 on the same plan and dimen¬ sions but with more gorgeous decoration. The Cloister, 1205-41 a.d.

THE ART OF BUILDING 69

vaults of the Baths of Caracalla. Then there was order, peace and prosperity, wealth and magnificence. Now there was no central power to maintain order. The city was falling in ruin, overwhelmed as it was with warfare, poverty, squalor, beggars. Why the change? Rome’s earlier splendor, cloaking inward decay, had no strength to withstand the rugged northern invaders who for cen¬ turies had been battering the frontiers. Again and again they swept in upon the city, sacking, plundering, looting. The emperor himself lived at Constantinople in the peace¬ ful East, and though he sent governors to Italy he could not prevent chaos.

But a new power was gradually growing into the place of old Rome — the Christian Church.

The vigor of the new faith, however, could not always rise above despair.

A governor sent out from Constantinople writes to the Emperor Justinian that Rome was “ a vast empty mass of tumbling ruins among which dwelt in misery the merest handful of despairing men.” A pope sends to France for clothes and money. Gregory the Great thus addressed the Roman people: . . the world

grows old and hoary and through a sea of troubles hastens to an approaching death.”

And yet the city did not lose its power. On the whole the Church was gaining strength. The barbarians were becoming a little less barbarous. Here in this pitiable city were the sacred places, sites made memorable by martyrdom, by the burial of saints, by relics. Among the

Fig. 39. Saint Paul’s Without the Walls Before the Fire of 1823. The side wall of the court is omitted to show the facade. The windows are filled with stone lattice.

70 THE ART OF BUILDING

most sacred were the tombs of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. To these shrines came pilgrims from all parts of Europe. We see them, in a great throng, making their way along

shaded porticoes — for the northerners are not ac¬ customed to the hot sun of Italy — past the silent ruins that so impressed these strangers, out through the city gate toward the church that covers the burial place of Saint Paul. Here are all kinds and all classes of people — kings, criminals, the learned, the adventurer, the knight in coat of mail, and the bare¬ footed monk in woolen cas¬ sock.

Hence a memorial church in Rome needed not only to provide a suitable shrine for the sacred spot and for local needs of worship but also to care for these great throngs of pilgrims. And this was not so simple a matter as for the builders of Santa Sophia, diffi¬ cult as their problem had been. For in these dark days in Rome the building craft had suffered and was so well-nigh lost that it was necessary to send to Constantinople for craftsmen. Nor was the lav¬ ish wealth of Justinian at their disposal. Materials were

trance; B, open court (atrium); C, vestibule (narthex); D, nave; E, aisles; F, transverse aisle; G, apse; H, altar. Notice that the plan as a whole is T shape.

Plate i5

Santa Maria in Cosmedin. Rome. A similar design to that of PL 14 but more direct and emphatic. The difference in feeling is due to the greater simplicity, to different proportions, and to a different rhythm in the arcades because of their interruption by the walls. The walls were formerly covered with frescoes.

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THE ART OF BUILDING 71

difficult to obtain, for robbers lurked outside the city walls. The “ Roman peace ” no longer protected the old high¬ ways. Yet materials were at hand within the walls in abundance. Great quarries of finely cut travertine, col¬ umns, marbles of all colors and sizes, existed in a vast number of ruins such as the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla. Inscribed stone and marble could be used by turning the inscription to the wall or the under side of the floor; columns could be set up intact for interior arcades and if one ruin did not supply enough for a long arcade, more could be taken from another and it mattered little if they did not match in style or even in size, for additional bases could prop them up to the required height. Further¬ more, the great Roman shafts of varicolored marble could be sawn into discs for flooring, pulpit, and altar decora¬ tions, and the small pieces made into encircling borders.

Because of the importance of the site, Saint Paul's be¬ came the center of a settlement. Monasteries, chapels, porticoes, clustered about it, all within a protecting wall; and round about were farms and orchards. Though much of this settlement has disappeared, one of its most charming parts, a Cloister, remains (Pl. 13) . It is a square open court with grass and flowers and in the center a fountain. Around its sides runs a spacious arcaded portico. Looking through the arches in the foreground to the side seen in the background, the movement, variety, and unity of the design appear. What the eye sees first is the regular repe¬ tition of arches, holding deep shadow, united by a long quiet horizontal — movement under control. Was this not the basis of the design of the Colosseum (Pl. 6) ? In the cloister these same elements are used with a lightness and an elasticity that are suitable for this light one-story arcade and which would be unsuitable for a massive struc-

72 THE ART OF BUILDING

ture like the Colosseum. Having caught the two main fac¬ tors of the design, the eye begins to see details. Just above the swinging arches runs a frieze of round and rectangular pieces of red and green marble interlaced and set in white stone. How beautifully the round of the arch and the horizontal of the cornice are here combined! And what a pleasing touch the color adds! Bring your eye back to the columns in the foreground. Many are twisted, some straight. A twisted column does not impress one as suffi¬ ciently strong to support anything. Should you see it in the Colosseum you would run away from the building. But here in the cloister the small scale, the lightness, the single story, justify its use. Many of the columns are fluted and the flutings filled with bands made of bits of colored marble and gilded glass, thus carrying out the color scheme of the frieze. Though grouped in pairs — more often than not, the two of a pair are unlike — there is a refresh¬ ing charm in these minor irregularities and in the vivacity of the color with its occasional flash of gold, because the whole is dominated by the steady rhythm of the arcades and the sustained horizontals.

To see the same design as that of Saint Paul's creating a different effect, let us return within the city and make our way to a small church near the Tiber, Santa Maria in Cos- medin (Pls. 15 and 16) . 29 As we enter we see a rectangu¬ lar volume whose side walls are cut by groups of arcades. The end is nearly filled with the arch of the apse, whose shadow brings out so definitely the center of interest, the canopy-covered altar. Reaching out into the nave in front

29 Erected in the fifth century a.d. on the site of an ancient corn exchange, it utilized in its structure some of the columns of an ancient portico. Built for a Greek brotherhood, it was first called Santa Maria in Schola Graeca; later the name was changed to Santa Maria in Cosmedin after a square in Constantinople. Campanile, twelfth century. Remodeled in Renaissance style, sixteenth to eighteenth century; restored, 1884-99.

THE ART OF BUILDING 73

of the altar and shut off by a low marble rail is the choir, the space occupied by the clergy who participate in the service. Here are the two pulpits from which are read respectively the gospel and the epistle. About the sanctu¬ ary and the choir is concentrated the decoration — carving, marble inlay, mosaic.

Compare this interior with that of Saint Paul's. The lat¬ ter is sumptuous throughout, which perhaps detracts from a trenchant emphasis upon the sanctuary. Its proportions create a peaceful spaciousness and majesty, and the col¬ umns, set at regular intervals, a quiet rhythm. Santa Maria is plain. Its clearly defined parts with the help of the con¬ centrated decoration impel the eye to the focal point of the design. Its proportions accent the vertical, the line of aspiration; and the walls, rising from the floor where they break the arcades, strengthen the unity and vary the rhythm.

In Santa Maria in Cosmedin one sees how the materials of older Rome were used. The first column at the left is fluted and carries an elaborate capital carved with figures. The others are plain, all of different sizes with varying capitals and bases. These incongruous details, however, do not interfere with the clear strong design.

Seen from the outside (Pl. 16A), simple unadorned volumes, sensitively proportioned and coordinated, make the exterior as effective as the interior: first, the nave with clerestory 30 and sloping roof; then an arcaded vestibule set at right angles, with a roof of the same angle of slope; next, a central projecting portico with an arch and a slop¬ ing roof, the arch linking it with the vestibule and the line of the roof repeating the line of the nave roof. Finally,

30 The clerestory is the part of a building which rises, like an additional story, above the roof of the rest of the building and contains openings for lighting.

74 THE ART OF BUILDING

the tower standing in the angle of the nave and the vesth bule, though later in date and broken by arched openings, offers a fourth rectangular volume. What a clear coordina¬ tion of these parts! Clean-cut in light and shadow! Con¬ trast for a moment a later remodeling (Pl. 16B). The eye no longer sees clear interrelations. The church has flat¬ tened out because the lofty facade masks the clerestory, the roof, and part of the tower, thus concealing its conjunction with the building. The gable over the portico finds no answering gable above. The square windows over the arches are related to nothing. It is a jumble of forms where everything jars. How restful to return to the quiet har¬ mony of the original church!

READING

Lowrie, W., Monuments of the Early Church, N. Y., Mac¬ millan, 1923.

Showerman, G., Eternal Rome, New Haven, Yale Press, 1924.

THE CATHEDRAL OF OUR LADY OF CHARTRES

From almost any part of the old French city of Chartres you can see rising boldly on the hilltop the big mass of a church with two tall spires (Fig. 41). Close about it huddles the city, low and compact. Once, danger from robbers and warring lords forced the city to protect itself with heavy walls, a moat, and drawbridges, and the farmers to build their homes within this wall. That is why the houses are so crowded and the streets so narrow.

Let us climb up one of those streets toward the hill, a street so steep that part of the way it rises by steps, and turn into Shoemakers’ Lane. Here the houses, projecting over the street as they rise, leave but a slit of the sky visible and then draw back as if to disclose a partial view, a hint

Plate 17

Cathedral of Chartres. An expression of lofty aspiration through the in¬ sistence upon vertical lines and the upward reach. Compare PI. 7 for an opposite expression of restraint through different proportions and a greater emphasis upon the horizontal.

Plate i8

Cathedral of Chartres. The organization of this interior space by propor¬ tions, insistent verticals, the pointed arch, and rich color creates an impression of unfulfilled aspiration. Compare PI. 11 where a greater width for the height and unbroken round curves express a more completely fulfilled ex¬ altation. Chartres is restless; Santa Sophia, serene.

THE ART OF BUILDING 75

as it were, of the majestic building (Fig. 42) . The houses, so small by comparison, cluster very closely as if clinging to a strong protector. From the tiny square in front a great precipice of wall rises sheerly and parting, reaches by its two lofty spires far up into the sky (Pl. 17). Everywhere is the upward-moving line, so insistently repeated that you feel as if you too would like to reach up, far above the earth.

Step inside a moment. After the sunshine of the open square you can hardly see, and you have no desire to speak.

Fig. 41. View of the City of Chartres.

When your eyes have become adjusted to the light you begin to notice that the space, though very large, is so nar¬ row and high that although the eye impulsively looks up¬ ward for the ceiling it finds only curved surfaces and pointed arches disappearing into violet shadow. And then it is carried down a long vista, like a straight narrow road through the woods, at the end of which the eye is caught and held by masses of intense blue and red like gigantic clusters of rubies and sapphires. Look to the right and to the left, through the columns, and high up on the walls. There are the same glowing masses warming the

r>?

M

76 THE ART OF BUILDING

cold gray stone with splashes of red, blue, and violet. When to the spirit of uplift that comes from the lines and proportions are added this ecstatic color and stately music, the outside world is forgotten as you are carried into an¬ other world that we may call the realm of religion. What¬ ever one’s belief or creed, here is a building that catches one up into that searching, that aspiration, that mys¬ tery, which underlie all religious be¬ lief. To return to the little square | outside involves a readjustment not only of the eyes to the ordinary light but of the feelings to matter-of-fact existence.

Shall we sit down on this bench in the little square and while looking at the facade recall the tale of the build¬ ing of this lofty church? 31 For, way¬ farers though we may be from distant lands, of different customs and beliefs, it needs no proof of words to convince us that a great spirit lies back of the building of this church and has infused into its stone and glass as strong a personality as that of any human per¬ sonality.

It was in June of the year 1194. The people of Chartres

J \

Fig. 42. A Street in Chartres, Showing the South Porch of the Ca¬ thedral in the Distance.

31 The Cathedral of Chartres. Built of local limestone, which is rather coarse but hard and very pleasing in texture and color. Exterior length, 506 ft.; width of western fagade, 156 ft. Interior, nave, 426 by 53^ ft.; height, 122 ft. The site appears to have been associated with Christianity from its introduction, each successive church suffering from fire and pillage of war. The present cathedral dates from the fire of 1194 a.d., which destroyed all except the western end, and was dedicated in 1260. The north and south porches were added in the thirteenth century. The northern spire, of wood, was destroyed by lightning in 1506 and reerected of stone in 1506-12. The windows, removed in 1918 for safety during the Great War, were cleaned and replaced in 1919-23.

THE ART OF BUILDING 77

were weeping over the smoking ruins of their church. “ But weeping will do us no good,” young Jacques the weaver was saying. “ Surely the Virgin will show us a way to build for her another church, perhaps a finer one, said the cardinal yesterday, all of stone so that we shall have no more fires. Fires enough we have had. Well I remember the stories my father used to tell us of the big one sixty years ago that burned everything, church and town. But see what they did. You’ve all seen old Mother Marchand point out her stones in the church over there near the bottom of the tower. Though only twenty years old then, she pulled on the same cart as Prince Jean, Father Louis, and Pierre the pastry cook. Of all the carts that covered the five miles from the quarries theirs reached Chartres before any one else’s, though young Sir Gaspard, who had just returned from a Crusade, nearly passed them as he carried one huge block alone on his shoulder. Back and forth that five miles they dragged their loads. It seemed like a miracle. Can’t we do what our fathers did? We’ve got something to begin on. The fire is all out and the towers are not hurt. The doorway is left and the three windows above it. And, too, our Belle Verriere, our Beautiful Window, is safe. That is a good omen. For when that part of the church was catching fire Our Lady herself seemed to help us as we worked, we don’t know how, so frantically did we struggle to get the window from the frame; and, heavy as it was, it seemed light as we carried it through the smoke down into a safe stone cellar.”

Jacques stopped for a moment as if overcome by the recollection. “ Yes,” he continued, “ Our Lady will help us. How clearly she shows us the way! Not much is left of my house or my shop. But I can give a piece of silver that escaped, and time and labor. And you know the car-

78 THE ART OF BUILDING

dinal told us yesterday that the fathers are giving the in¬ come from their farm lands for three years. Our rich fields and gardens just outside the walls and our shops inside that make us famous for our shoes, our wines, our pastry — what are all these things without Our Lady enshrined on the hill? ”

The youthful enthusiasm of the weaver became con¬ tagious. Old and young began to plan what they could give: what treasure, what labor. Years passed, five, ten,

twenty. The cathedral rose steadily behind the old towers. It was slow work cutting each stone to fit its place. For, as the cardinal had said, it was all of stone, inside and roof as well as out¬ side. Jacques’s hair was turning gray. When he was not at his loom he was around the big church with his boys and girls, watching the walls and the stone roof gradually close in the interior. The places they loved best were the quarters of the stone-carvers and the glass-makers. The sculptors with mallet and chisel (Fig. 43) were carving hundreds of statues large and small for the big side portals which the king and royal family had contributed. They were especially fond of the beau¬ tiful Christ so full of tenderness that was to stand on the pillar in the center of the doorway, and of Saint George and Saint Theodore. Never did they tire of hearing how Saint George saved the princess by killing the dragon and how

Fig. 43. Stone Carvers Working on Statues with Hammer and Chisel. From a window.

THE ART OF BUILDING 79

Saint Theodore pretended to worship an idol in order that he might get it into his hands to break it to pieces, for which he was beheaded. One day they found a jovial carver chuckling over his work. For on the block of stone he had carved a picture of his best friend the farmer, with his dress tucked up, a plaited straw cap on his head, stand¬ ing in the ripe grain that he was cutting with his sickle (Fig. 44).

How proud he will be, the old carver thought, when he learns that he represents July on the big church!

Perhaps it was the glass-makers’ shop that they loved the most.

Jacques’s oldest son Pierre, who had been apprenticed to this shop, was now one of the master work¬ men and was very busy directing the work, for there were many large windows needed to fill the great openings of the walls. What excitement ran through the city when a new order came in! Now it was from the Guild of the Bakers, now from the Shoemakers, now from the Furriers. Jacques’s own Guild of the Weavers had already commissioned two windows and was planning a third. What fun it was to stand by the big benches on which the design of the window was drawn and watch the men build up pictures of the story of Charlemagne and Roland by leading to¬ gether tiny bits of red, blue, yellow, and green glass! At the bottom of the window Pierre put a little picture of a

Fig. 44. Month of July. On the arch above the left entrance of the Western Por¬ tal of Chartres (Pl. 19).

80 THE ART OF BUILDING

furrier selling a cloak as a signature (Fig. 52), for the Guild of the Furriers donated this window. Then in me¬ dallion after medallion they pictured the incidents of Charlemagne’s adventures in fighting the Saracens and of Roland’s brave fight and death at Roncevaux. And when the window was finished and lifted into its place in the church and the sun streamed through they almost cried for joy, so like a cluster of jewels did each little story become.

And so the years went by. When the walls and the great stone roof were finished they could worship in the church. Still there were many things to be done: the sculpture at the doorways, more windows, the wood carvings in the choir and in the sanctuary, the vessels for the altar. At last the great day came, in October of 1260. The cathedral was ready, though not completed. It remained unfin¬ ished: the towers planned for the side portals and over the crossing were never built. The king and the royal family, cardinals and bishops, nobles and people, crowded into the spacious church. For now they could dedicate their labors to the Virgin. Near the front row sat Jacques. He was nearly ninety years old and long since his eyes had been unable to guide his shuttle through the warp of his loom. In the fall sunshine the windows gleamed and warmed the stone with color. The robes of the king and the vest¬ ments of the clergy shone with gold and jewels. All this Jacques saw, though dimly. He had not realized before, how beautiful it was. Tears came to his eyes as he remem¬ bered that his father, he himself, his sons, and his grand¬ sons had all helped to create this beauty; and he uttered a prayer of gratitude that he had lived to see this day.

That Chartres is an expression of faith and aspiration was suggested by our first impression. What do our eyes see to arouse this impression? From an air view — there

THE ART OF BUILDING 81

is no building in Chartres high enough for us to look down on the cathedral — the mass looks like a thick Latin cross laid on the ground (Fig. 45). Do you remember the in¬ terior, long, narrow, and lofty? The cross is curved at the top, flanked by two towers at the bottom, and covered with a steep roof. Around it, except at the towers and across the front, are low masses like crouching or kneeling figures that seem to be lifting up arches of stone to the walls like hands and arms braced up against them. Look

Fig. 45. Air View of Chartres Cathedral.

directly at the facade (Pl. 17) . Everywhere the accent is on the vertical line, restrained, at intervals, by horizontals. The openings in the wall of stone, generally high and nar¬ row, some topped with round arch and some with pointed, hold shadows which make a pattern of dark or half-dark against the light of the stone (Fig. 46). This design of light and dark is balanced on each side of a central axis, although marked differences occur in the towers, partly in the lower stories but especially in the spires. One is plainer and more robust, harmonizing with the lower parts; the other, more slender and more ornate and, though

82 THE ART OF BUILDING

beautiful in itself, less harmonious. Yet this difference does not disturb the balance because mass balances mass, not detail, detail.

This pattern, however, is not perfectly flat for it is made of projecting and receding masses which, beside forming the general composition sketched in Fig. 46, cast shadows over the surface, like overtones, making it vibrate now strongly, now lightly, according to the hour and the kind

of weather. The triple portal, on the one hand, accents the doorway and sug¬ gests entrance within; on the other, cre¬ ates a mass of dark between the towers that strengthens the base. It is not a solid, uninterrupted dark, however, but is broken; for it is elaborately carved, and its richness is enhanced by the plain¬ ness of the surrounding stone. Come nearer and you see that these carvings are figures, hundreds of them (Pl. 19). The larger ones are curiously stiff and elongated, and seem to hang in the air. But stand back at a little distance and see how harmoniously they fit the shafts. Their garments hang in vertical folds and their arms cling tightly to the body, so that there is almost no break in the contour of the figure as its mass shapes a column which stands out against the carved sur¬ face behind it. With what orderliness everything takes its place! This sculpture does for the portal at Chartres what the Parthenon sculpture does for the pediment of that temple: by creating contrasts of broken and unbroken sur¬ face it not only accents the entrance but gives variety and, therefore, unity to the entire facade.

Fig. 46. Light and Dark Pattern of the Facade of Char¬ tres Cathedral.

Plate i9

The Western Portal of Chartres. Both masonry and sculpture are of the same limestone, an important element of unity. One is aware of the figures, primarily, as integral parts of the building, and yet not without significance as Kings and Queens.

Plate 20

The Southern Portal of Chartres. Here the figures are more naturalistic than in the Western Portal and, though still decorative, impress one more as figures.

THE ART OF BUILDING 83

There is another purpose, however, besides architec¬ tural decoration. To compare it again with the Parthenon, there is a meaning in the figures that strikes deep into the life of the people who built it. Columnar though their bodies may appear, look into their faces — eager, happy, and earnest — and you begin to feel that these are real people and the imagination easily enough transforms the columns into bodies, if you wish to be more literal. This portal is known as the Royal Portal, that is, the portal of Christ as King of Kings. His figure is carved over the doorway, ten¬ derly stern, for he is the Last

same time a as his hand, uplifted in blessing, signifies.

late to this central one, the co¬ lumnar ones being Christ’s an¬ cestors, the Kings and Queens of Judah. But more than that.

Look up at the smaller figures in the arches above the Kings and Queens at the extreme right of Pl. 19. They are not columnar like the figures below. There was no need for it. Here is the neighbor cutting his grain in July (Fig. 44), the figure which Jacques and his children watched the stonecutter chuck¬ ling over. Follow the arches around and you will find the characteristic labor for each month with its sign of the zodiac (Fig. 47) — a real calendar. And why a calendar on a church? Because man has sinned and needs to be

All the figures on the portal re-

Judge, and at the forgiving Father,

Fig. 47. The Goat, a Sign of the Zodiac. Western Portal, Chartres. See how beautifully the goat with wings and ser¬ pent tail intertwines with the conventional shrubs to fill the space.

84 THE ART OF BUILDING

redeemed, Jacques would have told you, and by consist¬ ently doing the everyday things of life, month by month as the occasion demands, he helps himself to salvation. Thus all the sculpture of the portal, and of the side portals as well, is bound into a literary unity, as it pictures both liter¬ ally and symbolically the Christian story and the Christian faith. And do not forget that while it is presenting this story it is at the same time fulfilling its architectural func¬ tion. What harmony of content, form, and function!

Before going inside again, shall we look at one of the side portals which the king gave (Pl. 20) ? A broad flight of steps and a delicately carved portico lead to the triple doorway. Here are hundreds of figures. The larger ones, comparable in position and size with the Kings and Queens of the Royal Portal, are no longer stiff. They stand firmly on their feet and turn slightly to the left or to the right. Altogether they look more like human figures. How did this happen? All over Europe, in this thirteenth century, men were beginning to observe more accurately what people and things looked like, and the work of the painters and sculptors shows this. “ Why shouldn’t we paint and carve our figures to look more like real people? ” they asked. And that is what they began to do. At the same time they did not forget the column.

Let us go inside. Again we must wait a few minutes for the eyes to adjust themselves. Everything is stone and glass and everywhere are arches that are pointed, not round-topped like those in the Colosseum and Santa Sophia. Strong pillars made of a group of columns and half-columns rise from the floor and support stone arches, or ribs , as they are called, that reach out in great curves to meet in a point those that curve up from the opposite pillar. Thus you have a strong stone framework of sup-

Field-

Jer-Ribs

THE ART OF BUILDING 85

porting pillars and ribs; and it is not a difficult matter to fill the spaces between the ribs with masonry (Fig. 48), making what is called rib vaulting.

What do you suppose a vault like this weighs? It must be many, many tons. And we begin to wonder if the col¬ umns, heavy as they are, are strong enough to hold it so high in the air. Is there anything about the cathedral that tells us how the builders met this problem? Yes. Do you remember the arches that we noticed from our air view (Fig. 45), which seemed to reach up as if to brace the walls? Builders had learned by experience that the pressure of such a vault must be counter¬ balanced by an equal amount of support. So they gave the pillars added strength by build¬ ing masses of strong ma¬ sonry along the outside of the walls in line with the pier (Fig. 49) and by throwing thence arches, or flying buttresses, up to meet the wall at the points where the heavy vault tries to push out and to weigh down. So that if you should cut the cathedral in two, vertically, it would look like Fig. 50. The stability of the building, then, de¬ pends upon the balance between the vault on the one hand, and the supporting piers and buttresses on the other.

Here then is an additional way, difficult but impressive, of roofing a rectangular space (Fig. 33). Its method shows why the inside of the cathedral, with the exception of the roof, is all open arches and glass. The structural part is an open skeleton framework of stone that has no need of walls

Fig. 48. Stone Ribs with the Field Partly Filled in.

86 THE ART OF BUILDING

(Fig. 51). But to keep out the weather and to make the interior quiet and secluded, the builders filled in the wall spaces with light masonry and largely with rich glass. This was fortunate. For with no wall space for fresco or mosaic, the stone interior would have been cold indeed had not the

windows provided the nec¬ essary warm note with their color. Their effect differs very much with the weather. Though always intense in color whenever there is any outside light at all, a win¬ dow produces one effect on a cloudy day and another when the sun streaming through makes the glass gleam like jewels. But it reaches its finest effect when newly fallen snow still further intensifies this jewel-

Fig. 49. Plan of Chartres Cathedral. like radiance. Is he' not a

Compare this with Fig. 40 of which hopelessly Stolid SOul who this is an elaboration. The transept r 7 . „

has moved down the nave making the comes away from Chartres

plan cross-shape. The simple apse, without having lost himself still the sanctuary, has been sur¬ rounded by aisles and chapels. Notice in Fig. 45 that the apse, which termi-

PIER

^BUTTRESS

nates the nave, is high while the sur rounding aisles are low.

for a few moments at least in a feeling of exaltation?

It is not only the color that so impresses one but the harmony of the windows with the whole interior space. The flat decorative areas of glass in shape and proportion form an integral part of this interior design, and furnish the needed contrast. For their sparkling color acts as a foil to the cold stone and caresses it into warmth.

THE ART OF BUILDING 87

This wonderful decoration was the gift of the faithful of all classes. Kings and princes contributed, as did church¬ men. But it was the people themselves through their guilds who gave many of the finest windows. In the Mid¬ dle Ages the trades were organized into trade guilds, each with its patron saint.

So what could be more fitting than for a guild to contribute a window to a chapel dedicated to its saint? These guild windows carry at the base little pictures illus¬ trative of the trade as a guild signature (Fig.

52 )-

In making these win¬ dows, as in carving the sculpture, two things must be kept in mind and harmonized: deco¬ ration and illustration.

They were at the same time to decorate the interior and to furnish an illustrated edition, we might call it, of the Golden Legend, the most popular book of the Middle Ages. How did the glass- workers do it?

First and last they strove to keep their colors harmoni¬ ously massed and contrasted, irrespective of whether the colors used were those of naturalistic appearance or not. They did not paint these colors on the glass but added the color to the pot metal, that is. the molten glass. When it was cool they cut it into small pieces, which they put to-

Fig. 50. Section of Chartres Cathedral. Note the lofty nave with its protecting roof and the low aisles over which the flying buttress sweeps.

88 THE ART OF BUILDING

gether with strips of lead because that metal is strong but pliable. The only painting done was the detail of the face, the hair, or the drapery, in a brown enamel paint which was fired before the piece was leaded into its place. If you examine the glass closely you will find that it is rough,

Fig. 51. Stone Framework of a Gothic Cathedral. In the bay A — B the ribs only are shown; in B — C the field of the vaulting has been added.

streaked, and bubbly; thick or thin. This was intentional, to give a vibration and an intensity that could not be obtained in glass of even texture and thickness. The chief colors used were red (ruby) ; blue (sapphire) ; green (emerald). In fact the names of the jewels were used in speaking of the colors. Now when you use intense color in this way you need some contrasting element to set off its

THE ART OF BUILDING 89

brilliance. This is furnished by the opaque leads and iron frame. The iron performs another function. A large area of leaded glass is pliant and if it is not held by strong bars will soon give way to the pressure of the winds.

One more consideration is important in the decorative element. Light and distance act differently with different colors. Blue expands and red contracts. So when you look at some of the windows at a great distance they seem to be vibrat¬ ing masses of blue only.

With the limitation of keeping the area of glass decorative, how could the window-makers take into consideration the narrative element? Let us look at the Win¬ dow of the Virgin given by the Shoemakers (See page 90) . It is what is called a medallion win¬ dow, because the iron framework has been molded into medallion shapes, each containing a picture.

These windows always read from the bottom to the top. At the base is a half-medallion containing a picture of a shoe¬ maker at his bench, with a high boot hanging behind him. Above the shoemaker are represented the Death of the Virgin, the Funeral, the Assumption, and the Coronation. How simple the drawing is! There is no attempt to make a naturalistic picture with buildings and landscape. Nor is there any use of light and shade. Yet how adequately is the story told! Notice the beauty of the grouping about the recumbent figure. Three groups are so massed that they fill the space and the lines of the

Fig. 52. Furrier Showing a Fur - lined Cloak to a Cus¬ tomer. This scene serves as the guild signature of a win¬ dow given by the Guild of the Furriers. Chartres.

90 THE ART OF BUILDING

figures and the draperies curve toward the head of the Virgin and at the same time harmonize with the curving frame of the medallion, while here and there one head turns away, giving just the amount of opposing direction of line that is necessary for contrast. A beautiful sensitive piece of decoration and a beautiful sensitive way of telling the story, with nothing to detract from the heart of the incident, no background but flat scintillating blue. While blue and red are the chief colors used, see how strong areas of green and yellow play through the design, and how a large mass of green on the right is balanced by smaller masses of the same hue on the left.

Thus we see that the glass is as necessary to the interior design as the sculpture is to the exterior; and that it com¬ bines, as does the sculpture, decoration and meaning. To¬ gether they form a great book filled with the affairs of everyday life and with the deepest mysteries of life, one and inseparable. From this book we have read but a few paragraphs. Read the rest and you will learn all of the life, the thought, the fancy, the fun, and the beliefs of the people who wrote it. And nowhere will you find a more beautifully illustrated book.

And how was this accomplished? By a great corps of craftsmen, generations of them, thoroughly trained in the principles of their crafts, intensely living their own life, working harmoniously toward one end — to erect a build¬ ing that was a symbol of their faith and their life.

Compare the interior of Chartres (Pl. 18) with that of Santa Sophia (Pl. i 1) . Both are Christian churches and in both a large unimpeded space is organized by propor¬ tions, line, light and dark, and color. Yet how different are the results! In Santa Sophia the proportions are broad for their height, with a quiet balance of vertical, horizon-

Detail of a Window in Chartres Cathedral. Masses of blue, red, green, and yellow create a flat pattern of jewel-like color which warms the stone and provides a radiantly beautiful wall decoration. Lower half medallion: a shoemaker at his bench, a signature of the Shoemakers Guild, the donor of the window. Circular medallion: the Death of the Virgin. (E. Houvet)

THE ART OF BUILDING 91

tal, and curve. At Chartres the width is very narrow for the height, with an insistence upon vertical lines. In Santa Sophia the flowing rounding arches and uninterrupted curves carry the eye to the light radiant gold of the mosaic- lined dome and the spirit to joyous exaltation, then easily back again to the earth. In Chartres the emphatic verti¬ cals and staccato pointed arches take the eye and the feel¬ ings rapidly upward and hold them in the mysterious shadows, or down the long vista of the nave and hold them in the scintillating color. In Santa Sophia there is confi¬ dence and something definite and complete. In Chartres there is mystery, something indefinite and aspiring.

Thus two quite opposite effects were secured, though the elements were the same. The difference is due to the fact that the raw materials of life, that is, the immediate life of the builders, determined whether they should build a Santa Sophia or a Chartres.

READING

Adams, H., Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres, Boston, Hough¬ ton, 1913.

Houvet, E., Monographic de la Cathedral de Chartres, Chelles, Faucheux, n. d.

Male, E., Religious Art in France, XIII Century, N. Y., Dut¬ ton, 1913.

Marriage, M. and E., Sculpture of Chartres Cathedral, Cam¬ bridge, University Press, 1909.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Supplementary study. An understanding of Chartres means an understanding of all French Gothic cathedrals. Study in particular Notre Dame of Paris, Amiens, and Reims. Note likenesses and differences. The University Prints, New¬ ton, Mass., and postcards furnish good material.

2. Gothic glass: a study of windows. Find examples of fine Gothic windows. Compare with these, in effect and in prin-

92 THE ART OF BUILDING

ciples of design, the pictures in glass found in many churches. Find examples of modern windows designed according to the principles of those at Chartres , of which color reproductions and transparencies are published by E. Houvet, guardian of the cathedral. See also Y. Delaporte and E. Houvet, Les Vitraux de la Cathedral de Chartres, Chartres, 1926; and H. Arnold and L. B. Saint, Stained Glass of the Middle Ages, N. Y., Macmillan, 1926.

3. Design a window for a definite place in the style of the Chartres windows.

4. Find examples of French Gothic in America.

5. Make a model of a French medieval town with the cathe¬ dral as the center. This could be a group project in collabora¬ tion with a history course. Also a model of the home of Jacques the weaver: how it was furnished; how the people dressed.

TWO DOMES

Saint Mary of the Flower, Florence Saint Peter’s, Vatican City

From the hills that encircle the city of Florence 32 spread out in the valley of the Arno River (Figs. 53 and 96) you look down upon a choppy sea of red-tiled roofs, above which soars a massive dome (Pl. 22). Let us go down the crooked streets until we emerge upon a small open square. From its pavement a tower, rose, ivory and green- black, lifts itself with proud strength into the intense, blue of the Italian sky; beside it, the facade of a church of the same colors; and behind both, the curved surfaces of the dome. In front of the church stands a low octagonal structure of black and white marble with a low-pitched roof.

Here is the very heart of Florence: Santa Maria del Fiore,

32 There is a large amount of interesting material on Florence and life in Florence which is essential to the understanding of any artist of this city. See H. Gardner, Art Through the Ages, N. Y., Harcourt, 1926, Chap. XV, and the books there listed.

fFlORFNZV ?

k>

94 THE ART OF BUILDING

Saint Mary of the Flower 33 (Florence is the city of the lily), with its bell tower and Baptistery. Look at the tower

once more (Fig. 54). It rises

quietly story by story, for the horizontal moldings 34 keep the upward move¬ ment in restraint. Com¬ pare with it the southern tower of Chartres (Pl. 17), with its more rugged power of unbroken stone and its greater insistence upon the upward reach. The Florentine tower is solidly strong in its lower stories, breaks into slender arched openings as it rises, and harmonizes in design with the body of the cathedral. But the boldly simple mass and surface of the dome seem inharmoni-

FlS \Jr 4 ’- S a , th ^ dral ; of ( Santa ous and disjointed with the

Maria del riore) and Baptistery. J

long rectangular mass and horizontal surfaces. It is only as, turning down a side street, we see the dome segregated from the rest of the

33 Also called II Duomo or the Cathedral of Florence. Length, 555 ft.; height, with lantern, 352 ft.; height of tower, 276 ft. From 1128 a.d. there had been a church on the site. In 1294 it was decided, by popular vote, to erect a cathe¬ dral. Various architects were employed, among them Giotto, who in 1334-36 designed the tower, which was completed in 1387 on his plan except for a spire. In the fourteenth century the original plan of the cathedral was expanded; in 1418 a public competition was announced for the dome, which was won by Brunelleschi, and the dome was erected 1420-34. The cathedral was dedicated March 25, 1436; the facade was not finished until 1857-87.

34 A continuous narrow surface, either projecting or recessed, plain or ornamented, whose purpose is to break up a surface, to accent, or to decorate by means of the light and shade that it produces.

Plate 21

A Scene in Florence about 1401 a.d. Before the door of the Baptistry a group is gathered discussing the competition for a new pair of doors. (Lorado Taft and the Art Institute of Chicago)

Plate 22

Cathedral of Florence. The dome with its simple mass and unbroken sweep of line and surface dominate the city, sym¬ bolizing the power of the Church and the pride of Florence. It does not, however, harmonize with the body of the church.

Plate 23

Saint Peter’s. Vatican City. Here the dome rises from a base designed for it so that the entire mass of the church (with the exception of the later nave and main facade) is unified and harmonious.

Plate 24.

Nebraska State Capitol. Lincoln. Simple volumes with unbroken contours form a compact mass whose unity seems inevitable and at the same time dynamic because of the movement that carries the eye, by mass, line, and light and dark from the broad strong base through the mass of the portal to the upward reaching tower. (Goodhue Associates)

THE ART OF BUILDING 95

building, that we feel its real power. Here then we have a group of inconsistent elements, each fine in its own way but not as a unit. What is the reason?

To seek the reason we will go to Florence in the year 1401 a.d., when the youth Brunelleschi was defeated in the competition for a new pair of bronze doors for the Baptis¬ tery (Pl. 21) . 35 Eventually his defeat proved fortunate. For with his young friend Donatello, later to become one of Florence’s greatest sculptors, he decided to carry out a dream — to visit Rome. When the two youths reached the city, Brunelleschi seemed to have lost his wits, so the story says, over the impressiveness of the ruins: the Colos¬ seum, much of whose stone lay round about in heaps; the Baths of Caracalla, from whose wreckage Greek and Ro¬ man statues were being excavated; and particularly the Pantheon, the size of whose dome captured his imagina¬ tion and fired his ambition. For, though he had lost in the competition for the bronze doors, might he not win in a greater competition — to build a dome on Saint Mary of the Flower?

Win he did. The dream that was developing in Rome became a reality, in spite of a doubting council and jealous aspirants, and the dome soared above the cathedral and dominated the city. 36

Why does the dome not fit into the design of the cathe¬ dral? Because, with its quiet, simple mass, its unbroken curving surfaces and contours, it does not harmonize with the restless Gothic, the style of Chartres, with its vertical

35 Scene in Florence , 1401. A model given to the Art Institute of Chicago by Lorado Taft, under whose direction it was made. Before the doors of the Baptistery stand Ghiberti, Donatello, Brunelleschi, and Jacopo della Quercia of Bologna, discussing the competition. The door in the model is 32 in. high. This model suggests an infinite number of projects to make the study of the arts more vivid.

36 For the story see Vasari’s Life of Brunelleschi and Life of Donato ( Donatello ).

96 THE ART OF BUILDING

lines, pointed arches, and deep lofty nave. Several times the ambitious Florentines had changed the plan of their cathedral. Its final form (Fig. 55) is similar to that of Chartres (Fig. 49), strongly modified by the Italian early Christian church (Fig. 40). Gothic does not belong to Italy because, in a general way, great areas of glass, sup¬ pression of walls, and pitched roofs belong to the north; small windows, dim interiors, thick walls, flatter roofs, open shaded arcades, to the south. Spires be¬ long to Gothic. Yet a dome the Florentines must have.

Isolated or seen from the hills surrounding the city, Brunelles¬ chi’s dome is powerful because of the simplicity and proportions of the mass. Eight stone ribs and eight surfaces rise unbroken from its base to its crowning lantern, and the dome which they form soars free above the roof of the church, proclaiming by its form the sovereignty of the City and of the Church.

Look once more at Santa Sophia (Pl. 10). From the exterior this dome is inconspicuous, half hidden by the walls; only on the interior does one really grasp its power. The interior of Brunelleschi’s, on the other hand, counts for little. The long nave leading to it gives no hint of its vastness, while in Santa Sophia, as you step into the church the full effect of the dome bursts upon you (compare the plans of these two churches, Figs. 35 and 55).

If Brunelleschi’s dome, though satisfying in itself, lacks

Fig. 55. Plan of the Cathe¬ dral of Florence.

THE ART OF BUILDING 97

a harmonious base, can we point to an example that has one? Let a hundred years pass. One day Michelangelo, 37 riding his horse slowly over the hills above Florence, stopped to look back at the city and with his eyes fixed on Brunelleschi’s dome remarked that he could not do a thing more beautiful. He was on his way to Rome, where he was to work on the new cathedral of Saint Peter. 38

The problem involved in this new cathedral was the erection, on the site of the old Saint Peter’s, of a great new structure that should worthily serve as the mother church of Christendom and that should symbolize, in its appear¬ ance, the power and grandeur of the Church. The project had already been begun on a plan which partly coincided with Michelangelo’s ideas. This plan called for a dome, whose form as an expression of power Michelangelo real¬ ized. Brunelleschi’s dome had taught him that. But it had also shown him, by its own lack, the need of a fitting base if there was to be harmony in the building. Finally, could not a dome with a fitting base mold an interior that would be as effective as the exterior?

What did he do with the problem? His plan (Fig. 56) shows an extraordinary compactness: a circle enclosed in a Greek cross, the arms of the cross terminating in apses, and the right angles made by the arms filled in. A portico with steps forms the entrance and the entire mass is set in a large

37 Michelangelo Buonarroti, a Florentine sculptor, painter, and architect. i 475 -i 564 a.d.

38 Saint Peter’s (San Pietro in Vaticano ). Vatican City. Interior length, 615 ft.; height of dome to summit of cross, 435 ft.; diameter, 138 ft. From early Christian times a church here marked the site of the burial place of Saint Peter. The present cathedral dates from the fifteenth century. At least ten architects worked on the plans and the construction. In 1546 Michelangelo was made architect and at the time of his death in 1564 he had brought the building to the top of the drum. The dome was completed according to his drawings. Between 1606 and 1626 the nave was lengthened and the fa£ade built; in 1656-63 the colonnades were added.

98 THE ART OF BUILDING

open square. What we expect from this plan we see in a sketch (Fig. 58A) and in the cathedral itself if we look at it from the back (Pl. 23) , although the houses cut off

the view and thus destroy the pro¬ portions. In the drawing particu¬ larly we grasp the design of the uni¬ fied mass and realize how the dome is the culmination, just as the circle that represented it is the heart of the plan. The rest of the build¬ ing exists for it. And now is evident the reason for the apses. The dome rises from a rectangular base and the

Fig. 56. Michelangelo’s . . , . -nr

Plan for Saint Peter’s. e Y e 1S carried much more easily from

one to the other if there is some means of softening the sharp contrast. In Pl. 23 see how the curving contours of the cylindrical apse prepare the eye for the similar curve of the base of the dome. From every point of view these curved lines and curved surfaces affect this transition. In this view notice too the effectiveness of filling in the corners. Were the right angles left unfilled, the outline would have been so irregular that it would have weakened the solidity of the mass.

Thus the whole structure becomes a skillful unification of geometric volumes — cube, cylinder, and sphere — modulated and harmonized by line and by light and dark. The body of the building is broken by pilasters (vertical rectangular projections from the wall), cornices,

Fig. 57. Present Plan of Saint Peter’s.

THE ART OF BUILDING 99

and windows. The pilasters furnish the soaring vertical lines that are halted by an insistent horizontal in the row of carved capitals, and especially in the deep shadow cast by the cornice, which also serves to bind the parts together, as

Fig. 58. A. Michelangelo’s Design for Saint Peter’s. B. Saint Peter’s

Today.

do the cornices of the Colosseum (Pl. 6 ), and to emphasize the curves of the apses, thus bringing them into harmony with the curves of the dome. Above the cornice the pilas¬ ters again take up the vertical line and with the curves of the apses lead directly into the base of the dome. Here col-

100 THE ART OF BUILDING

umns, grouped by twos and projecting far out, catch the light and cast deep shadows, setting up a rhythm around the base. At the same time, with their emphasis upon the vertical line, they lead into the border above, where the same rhythm is repeated faintly by the shallow pilasters. From this point the ribs rise uninterrupted to the lantern, where again the motive of the double column leads to the terminating ball and cross. Were the cathedral set in a large open square where we could see it from the pavement to the ball and the cross, we should feel insistently the movement of the great masses and of the lights and darks in a strongly accented rhythm of rise and restraint from the pavement to the top.

Why have we looked at the back of the cathedral only? Because Michelangelo’s facade was never built. We know from his drawings that a broad colonnaded portico fur¬ nished accent and variety yet in no way interfered with the coherence of the large masses. But as you look at Saint Peter's today, you see a rectangle like a gigantic wall over which the dome is peering (Fig. 58B). The sweep of its base is hidden, as are the apses, so that it seems to have no organic relation with the lower part. You ask how this tragedy happened? Desire for size, for even more enor¬ mous size, led those who appeared unable either to see or to feel Michelangelo’s powerful design to add a nave (Fig. 57) and the present facade. Thus were destroyed both the unity of mass from the exterior and any hope of an interior space design dominated by the dome.

READING

Gibson, K., The Goldsmith of Florence, N. Y., Macmillan,

x 9 2 9 -

Holroyd, C., Life of Michael Angelo Buonarroti, London,

Duckworth, 1903.

101

THE ART OF BUILDING

Rolland, R., Michelangelo, N. Y., Boni, 1915.

Vasari, G., Lives of the Most Eminent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects, translated by Blashfield and Hopkins, N. Y. Scribner, 1909. Also in Everyman’s Library.

SUGGESTION

A study of domes. Find examples of domed buildings and study the relation of the dome to the base. In each case note why it is or is not harmonious. What change could be made to bring in greater harmony? To what extent is the effect marred by lack of proper setting?

THE NEBRASKA STATE CAPITOL

From the heart of the old Italian city we journey far to¬ ward the other side of the earth, to the broad plains of the United States. But we have not left the principles of architecture in Rome, although we have come to a part of the world not far removed in time from pioneer days. Here these same principles have produced as powerful a form as Saint Peter’s and equally filled with symbolic meaning (Pl. 24) . 39

This Capitol has a compelling dignity because of its simplicity — three primary masses, with almost unbroken contours, clearly expressed and harmoniously united. One is long and low; one is lofty and soaring; and one, partak¬ ing of the qualities of the other two, binds them together. These masses present a clear, bold silhouette and a striking rhythm that moves inward and upward from balustrade to portal to tower, but halted and interwoven with the quiet stately rhythm of the low facade (Fig. 59) .

The long low mass is a rectangular volume, slightly py¬ ramidal (see the contour at the left), of two stories. The

39 Nebraska State Capitol, Lincoln. Base, 437 ft. square; tower, 400 ft. high. Begun 1922; nearing completion, 1931. Architect, Bertram G. Goodhue, sculptor, Lee Lawrie.

102 THE ART OF BUILDING

lower is of beveled stone, which gives an appearance of strength to the base, with small windows closely spaced; the second is of closely joined stone, with large windows whose spacing marks a slow rhythm in contrast to that of the small openings below. A slightly projecting band finishes this part of the design and binds the windows together, as does the cornice on the Colosseum and on the Parthenon ,

Fig. 59. Main Masses of the Nebraska State Capitol.

and provides an unbroken horizontal line that gives the design much quiet strength and dignity.

The tower mass, by contrast, insists upon verticality. At the corners, unbroken lines and surfaces rise with impres¬ sive simplicity and frame slender vertical areas of strongly contrasted light and dark, like flutings in a column, which by repetition lay emphasis upon the upward movement. The corners terminate in masses which serve as a transition to the octagonal drum, whose design repeats on a different scale that of the main body of the tower. From this drum rises the dome.

THE ART OF BUILDING 103

Given a volume that is emphatically lofty and vertical and a volume that is equally low and horizontal, how can you unite them without producing a feeling of abruptness? This problem is solved by the intermedi¬ ate volume at the portal. Cover this part in the illustration and you will see the difference. It partakes of the horizon- tality of the one and the verticality of the other in very happy proportions; its door repeats the rectangular windows in shape and alignment; and its lofty arch, a strong accent of shadow, sounds here be¬ low the motif of the dome above. The profile of the portal’s top, suggesting set¬ backs, is repeated in the small masses at the base of the tower. How sensitively here has the designer put in this waver¬ ing between vertical and horizontal be¬ fore the ever-active verticals leap up¬ ward, while at the corners of the tower the clean-cut lines and surfaces rise from the very base! Thus two strongly con¬ trasting volumes are brought into har¬ monious unity without compromising their own individuality and their con¬ trast becomes pleasing instead of harsh.

This unity and proportion of simple volumes give a feeling of “ solidity with poise; stability with vitality.” No detail is allowed to interfere. Although at a distance there seems to be no decoration, at certain points a broken light and dark hints at sculpture. Come near and you see gigantic figures of Law-Givers (Fig. 60) grow-

Fig. 60. A Law- Giver. A decorative figure at one corner of the Nebraska State Capitol. Note how the figure and the wall are one in¬ separable unity.

104 THE ART OF BUILDING

ing out of the stone at the corners to soften a sharp angle. Buffalo and Maize , in low relief, conventionally treated (Fig. 61), break the plain balustrades of the stairway. So on portal and tower and on the corners of the building carvings accent where an accent is needed and break the surface where an unbroken surface is too severe.

The subject matter of this sculpture, you will notice, relates to the life of which the building is an expres¬ sion and to the func¬ tion that it is to per¬ form — the life of the plains, of the Indians, and of the pioneers; and the figures of Wisdom, Power, Jus¬ tice, and Mercy, to¬ gether with those of historical law-givers.

As a design the building has power. But is it design alone that gives it its qual¬ ity? Does the structure stand as an abstract monument to the State or does it serve those who are carrying on the functions of the State as well? Its plan (Fig. 62) shows that it is square. In distinction from the Daily News Building (Pl. 4 and Fig. 8), it spreads out over a large area of ground and, with the exception of the tower, is low. How can it, then, supply adequate light and air for the large number of offices that it must contain for the conduct

THE ART OF BUILDING 105

of the State’s business? Look again at the plan and you will see the answer. It is built around four large open courts, possible only in a low building spreading over the ground rather than rising up into the air.

As for its geographical setting, what more fitting design for the illimitable reaches of prairie arched over by the dome of the sky? And in this thought its symbolism begins.

The new capitol symbolizes the inherent power of the State of Nebraska and the purpose of its citizens. The base in the form of a rectangle four hundred and thirty-seven feet square and two stories high, typifies the wide¬ spread, fertile Nebraska plains.

The central tower . . . expresses the aspirations and ideals of the citizens, leading upward to the highest and noblest in civiliza¬ tion. . . . The capitol forms a monument not only of the out¬ door life of an agricultural state but also of the aspiration of a pioneer community which broke its material sods in order to sow its more splendid cultural future. 40

Fig. 62. Plan of the Nebraska State Capitol.

Does not the abstract form of the building express the same idea — growth from the soil?

Here then we see a building which in plan, in organiza¬ tion of mass, and in all details, functions adequately, de¬ lights the eye, and symbolizes a noble idea. So do Santa Sophia, Chartres, and Michelangelo’s Saint Peter's.

SUGGESTION

Make a study of state or county capitol buildings. How many reflect the influence of the Capitol at Washington?

40 Report of the Nebraska State Capitol Commission.

106 THE ART OF BUILDING

Study each for its general design. Does this design fit the sur¬ roundings? Does the building adequately fulfill its function and also express the dignity and sovereignty of the gov¬ ernment?

THE TAJ MAHALL

Lazily the Jumna River winds through the sun-baked plains of India and, washing the red sandstone walls of the Agra Fort, glides on toward a mass of greenery from which rises a group of shimmering domes and minarets, so

_ delicate that they seem to float

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and dissolve in the air. Or 1 from the land approach (Pl. 1 25), above the greenery the

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silver-white mass rises to its culminating dome.

Again a dome. One thinks of Saint Peter’s (Pl. 23). But here in India a kinder fate has preserved the Taj as its builders left it, in a spacious garden (Fig. 63) that serves it as Michelangelo planned a great open square should serve Saint Peter’s (Fig. 58A) . So far the comparison holds. Almost im¬ mediately, however, a sharp contrast presents itself. Saint Peter’s is definitely powerful, restless, heroic, assertive. Its masses move with sharply defined lights and darks. The Taj rises with indefinite grace and delicacy, is reposeful, and exquisitely lyric. The rhythm of its masses moves quietly to its climax, for the lights and darks shift gently. Nowhere is there deep shadow or strong contrast. Both

Fig. 63. Plan of the Taj Ma- hall and its Garden. A, Taj; B, mosques; C, pavilions for the keepers; D, entrance. B, C, and D are of red sandstone.

Plate 25

portions that produce a feeling of serenity; the contrast of trees, bright flowers, and the red sandstone buildings at the side — all these elements create an impression of lightness, grace, and tenderness. Compare the strength and assertiveness of Saint Peter’s (PI. 23). (W. E. Clark)

Plate 26

The Craigie House. The formality of the house is softened by the spacious grounds and the fine trees so that the balanced unity creates an atmosphere of well-being. (© Detroit Publishing Co.)

THE ART OF BUILDING 107

buildings stir the imagination, but they guide it into far different channels. Both are superbly designed volumes consisting of a compact base supporting a dominating dome. Yet the effect of each is almost at opposite poles. We have seen what Saint Peter’s is. What is the Tajf

It was the year 1631. Shah Jahan was seated on his throne, haggard and broken, detached in his grief but stern in his rule. For weeks he had been very ill and wished only to die and thus to rejoin his inseparable companion, his beautiful young wife, Mumtaz-i-Mahall. It was not alone her beauty that won the affection of all nor alone her grace and charm, though these she pos¬ sessed in unusual measure. Nor her queenly dignity. Above all, it was a rare loveliness of spirit in this “ Crown of the Palace ” that “ inclined all hearts to love her.”

With obvious effort the Shah straightened and addressed the silent council. A tomb was to be built, in a garden, as was the custom. He had already procured the site a mile down the river in view of the fort, where was his palace. As Mumtaz-i-Mahall had surpassed all women in loveli¬ ness and tenderness, so must her tomb exceed all wonders of the world. No portrait of her in stone could he erect. His religion forbade that. The building itself must be her portrait, breathe her spirit, and symbolize her tenderness.

The council stirred. Though they feared the cruel severity and avarice of a Shah, every one had loved the Crown of the Palace and it was almost enthusiasm that ran through the council as the Shah continued. They were to search the world for the greatest builders. They were to seek out the richest materials and most skillful crafts¬ men. This, they knew, was possible, for the Shah had stu¬ pendous wealth. So the command went forth. From far

108 THE ART OF BUILDING

and wide the designs came to be laid before the Shah. At last one was accepted, that of a Persian. Again the com¬ mands went forth for the brilliant white marble of Jaipur; for jade and crystal from China; turquoise from Tibet; lapis lazuli and sapphires from Ceylon; coral and car- nelian from Arabia; jasper, onyx, amethyst, pearls, and diamonds from equally distant lands.

For seventeen years Shah Jahan watched from his palace in the Fort or from his pavilion in the garden of the tomb. The rank growth began to take on form. Here masses of bright flowers, symbols of life; there, pinnacles of somber cypresses, symbols of death and eternity. The building rose slowly. For the rich detail required time: the inlay of the marble with precious stones and the carving of it into delicate tracery; the silver doors; and the cenotaph itself, of white marble so inlaid with precious stones that it resembled the bright flower gardens outside. At last the building was ready and the body was placed in the crypt beneath the cenotaph. On every Friday, the Moham¬ medan Sunday, a pall of pearls was placed over the ceno¬ taph, the Koran was chanted, and soft melodies floated clear and distinct in the dome above.

Today we approach the Taj 41 by the gateway of red sandstone on which is inscribed in black marble a passage from the Koran inviting the pure of heart to enter the Garden of Paradise. From a window of this gateway where

41 Taj Mahall. The garden is 971 ft. square; the platform, 313 ft. square; the tomb, 186 ft. square and 187 ft. to the crown of the dome. 1632-57 a.d. A few years after the completion of the Taj the serious illness of Shah Jahan gave his sons the opportunity they were seeking to usurp his throne. For nearly ten years he was cared for by a faithful daughter but was unable to build for himself a companion tomb, as he had planned, across the river from the Taj and con¬ nected with it by a marble bridge. So he was buried beside Mumtaz-i-Mahall in the Taj. This unfulfilled plan explains the position of the Taj along the river bank.

THE ART OF BUILDING 109

we are standing a long sheet of water flanked by cypresses 42 and geometric masses of gay flowers arrest the eye and re¬ tard its movement to the silvery white arches, domes, and minarets. The rounding masses of foliage seem to with¬ draw to the sides so as not to obstruct the vista and at the same time to guard the tomb and to provide a dense green¬ ery to enhance its delicacy.

Here is imagination that has been seeking the world over the most suitable concrete form in which to express itself. And where does it find it? In its own immediate life. It was not something novel or accidental that the builder’s vision fixed upon, but the old traditional type of Moham¬ medan tomb. Under the stimulation of a convincing idea — the personality of Mumtaz-i-Mahall — the imagination molded these traditional elements — a platform, pointed arches, a dome, minarets, a garden, no element is new — into something that in turn stirs our imagination and arouses our profoundest feelings. That is originality and that is art. It was just so in Saint Peter's, a traditional design — the Greek cross covered with a dome — made vital by a convincing idea: the power and majesty of the Church.

The Taj consists of three parts — the platform, the four towers or minarets, and the central mass — balanced about a central vertical axis, and so proportioned and interre¬ lated that the alteration or omission of one detail would be ruinous. Try covering one part after another and watch the result. Together they occupy an imaginary rectangu¬ lar volume terminating in a low pyramid (Fig. 64 ). Be¬ yond the boundaries of this volume nothing projects. That is one reason for the great unity in the group. It

42 The newly planted cypresses have not yet attained the proper size to play their part in the design adequately.

110 THE ART OF BUILDING

was conceived as a unit and everything was subordinated to that unit. It is as if the builder had started with a gigantic block of marble and carved away enough to leave the central group and the towers. And in this respect it is very close to sculpture. The three parts consist of rectangular, cylindrical, and domical volumes. In the rectangular parts the corners are softened to avoid sharp

Fig. 64. As a piece of stone sculpture is determined by the block of stone from which it is carved, so the Taj and its minarets (towers) form a unit de¬ termined by a square block which terminates in a low pyramid.

angles and sharp cutting of light and dark, and thus to form a more harmonious base for the rounding parts.

The focal point of the design is the dome, slightly bulb¬ ous in shape, which rises with an exquisite contour from a compact group of small domes. Compare the assertive strength of Saint Peter's dome with the restrained delicacy of that of the Taj. Its base is fringed with a border of lotus petals and its apex is an inverted lotus, which, in the East, is the symbol of purity because it opens its fair flowers above the mud and slime in which it is rooted.

The line organization is very much like that in the

THE ART OF BUILDING 111

Parthenon: vertical, horizontal, and curved, with an em¬ phasis upon the horizontal (Fig. 65 ) . Yet it is a subtle emphasis. The unbroken lines of the platform are re¬ peated again and again but in broken, suggested lines. For example, see how the accent which the slightly projecting balcony makes on the minarets carries over to the lower edges of the small niches, thence on to meet the opposite balcony. Every accent, every contour, every point, seems determined by these organizing lines.

Equally sensi¬ tive is the light- and-dark or¬ ganization. The lowest darks are not found in the building itself but in the gar¬ den. Purposely the building is kept in light and half-light. Everywhere the dark is avoided by making the projections just high enough to cast a light shadow. The large area of shadow in the lofty center niche containing the doorway gives a feeling of strength to the base of the dome. On each side a similar dark shape is repeated in the smaller niches, one to each story, thus quickening a rhythm that rises to the smaller domes. The shadow of the balconies on the minarets arrests the eye as it moves up the cylindrical surface, and unites the minarets with the central mass. Beside these almost constant lights and shadows are the wavering irregular lights and darks cast by the domes and minarets playing differently every hour, still further soften-

Fig. 65. Organizing Horizontals in the Taj. These horizontals are the edges of organizing planes which cut through the entire mass and de¬ termine important points in the design.

112 THE ART OF BUILDING

ing lines and unifying the parts. Through the openings of the minarets and the small domes the light and the blue of rhe sky play — another means of uniting the building with the surrounding air and sky.

To give vibration to the surface, the builders depended partly upon these changing lights and darks and partly upon the rich decoration. For the smooth glossy texture of the marble is softened and enriched by low carvings and by the inlay of precious stones. The Oriental love of color runs riot in scrolls and in inscriptions of crystal, topaz, bloodstone, amethyst, sapphire, garnet, jasper, agate. Yet the delicacy of the work is such that while the surface vi¬ brates, the richness in no way interferes with but only enhances the effect of lightness and grace. And, as in Santa Sophia, all detail is subordinate to a simple forceful design.

The interior is of the same inlaid marble as the exterior, but is seen in the soft light that filters through carved marble windows. The mellow light, the soft echo and reecho of the music played in the surrounding chambers beneath the smaller domes, and that of the chanting of the Koran all contribute to produce, in perhaps more chastened form, that effect of exquisiteness and tenderness which characterizes the exterior.

Unified and personal as is this total impression, still it needs a fitting setting. Take from it its gardens, its red sandstone gateway, and its red sandstone flanking mosques, and it would be incomplete. Dark foliage, strong color, and rough texture serve to bring out its beauty, as velvet does for a pearl. All these contrasting elements are in¬ tegral parts of the unified form which “ like a fairy vision of silver-white . . . seems to rest so lightly, so tenderly on the earth . . . as if it would soar into the sky.”

Again a convincing idea has found appropriate form.

THE ART OF BUILDING

113

READING

Coomaraswamy, A. K., Arts and Crafts of India and Ceylon, London, Foulis, 1913.

Grousset, R., The Civilizations of the East, vol. 2, “ India,” N. Y., Knopf, 1931.

Havell, E. B., Handbook of Indian Art, London, Murray, 1920.

A COLONIAL HOME

The Craigie House ( Longfellow’s Home)

The buildings that we have visited so far have been public buildings, often on a large or a magnificent scale. We have done this because in them we can see clearly and forcibly the art qualities in building and the fundamental prin¬ ciples that control the art of building.

What of small structures? you ask. What of summer cottages, of garages? What of our homes? Of our bridges, our factories? Shall we expect to find in these the same art qualities, dependent upon the use of the same fundamental principles? Yes. The small inconspicuous building, in the city or in the country, is good or bad for the same rea¬ sons that the large building is good or bad. Your garage is good because you can see by its appearance, that it does what it is built to do and that it uses its material in a straightforward manner. At the same time its proportions and the balance of its mass are pleasing and it takes its place in the corner of the grounds, not as “ just another shed ” but with a direct relationship to the grounds and to the house.

As for factories, look how the Cahokia Power Plant (Fig. 66) functions adequately and thrills with the power of its design! See what an artist has accomplished with rooms for machinery and smokestacks. What organiza-

114 THE ART OF BUILDING

tion of masses! Rectangular volumes, long and low, with unbroken horizontals and regularly repeated verticals; slender cylinders grouped by twos. How these masses are coordinated, by line and by light and dark, into a unity that is harmonious, balanced, and boldly rhythmic!

The Bridge in Pl. 5 is good because it gives one an im¬ pression of strong and elastic support by means of riveted

steel and at the same time a pleas¬ ing sensation of proportion, line, and rhythm.

To be sure we shall not feel, in the modest house, the exaltation of Santa Sophia, the heroic power of

Saint Peter's, nor Fig. 66 . Power Station. Cahokia, Illinois. the almost defiant

assurance of the Skyscraper. Such qualities do not belong to a home, whose significance lies in its expression of friendliness, comfort, seclusion.

Shall we visit, for an example, one of our Colonial homes (Pl. 26) , the house in which the poet Longfellow was a lodger at the time he purchased it and in which he lived until his death? 43 Most appealing is the unity and harmony of all that we see. The house and its setting complement each other. On the one hand, spacious lawns and majestic trees relieve the quiet simplicity of the house,

43 Vassall-Craigie-Longfellow House. Cambridge, Mass. Built by John Vassall, 1759; used by General Washington as his headquarters, 1775-76; enlarged by Andrew Craigie, 1793; purchased by Henry Wadsworth Long¬ fellow, 1843.

Plate 27

. Colonial Room. Efficiency, refined taste, and consistency mark this room. (Metro¬ politan Museum)

Plate 28

A. Stairway in a House of the Eight¬ ies. (Ryerson Li¬ brary of the Art Institute of Chi¬ cago)

B. Colonial Stair¬ way. The charm, restraint, and a clear grasp of the parts in B contrast with the wearying profusion, in A, which ob¬ scures the struc¬ tural features.

(L. French, Jr., Co¬ lonial Interiors. N.Y., Helburn)

THE ART OF BUILDING 115

whose angularity, on the other hand, enhances the sweep¬ ing lines and masses of the trees. And in the matter of color, the repetition of the dark of the foliage in the blinds of the house contributes to greater unity.

The quiet reserve of the house is due to the same use of elements that we found in other quiet buildings. The repose of the Parthenon (Pl. 7) is the result of a certain proportion of vertical and horizontal, as the restlessness of Chartres (Pl. 17) and the Sky¬ scraper (Pls. 2 and 4) is due to another. The Longfellow House belongs to the Parthenon type.

The vertical lines in the pilasters and in the placing of one window above another are balanced by horizontal rows of door and win¬ dows, cornice, the balustrade of the cut-off roof; and virility is secured by the play upon diag¬ onals in the roof, gable, and dormers. The central part car¬ ries strong by its projection, by the steps leading to it, by the enframing pilasters, and by the gable. On each side is a symmetrical balancing of all parts. The result of such a design is a feeling of repose and dignity.

Such an exterior results from a symmetrical plan (Fig. 67). The door admits to a hall running the width of the house, with rooms balanced on the two sides as symmetri¬ cally as the windows are balanced on the outside. An im¬ portant feature of the hall is the stairway (similar to that in Pl. 28B), whose dignity and fine sweep of line break the regularity of the hall and give a tone to the interior.

Fig. 67. Plan of the Vassall- Craigie-Longfellow House. The solid lines indicate the plan of the Vassall house; the dotted, later additions.

116 THE ART OF BUILDING

Contrast the stairway seen in Pl. 2 8A. The multiplicity of detail that overloads all the space conceals any basic design that may exist and reveals a taste that is far removed from the fine quality seen in the Colonial House.

Dignity and fine taste, a little austere in some cases, is what one feels in these Colonial homes, a taste that is con¬ sistently carried out in the grounds and gardens, the ex¬ terior, the interior, the furniture, the silver and glass, and, by no means the least, in the people who lived in these houses (see the next chapter and Pl. 27) . The harmony that results from this thorough consistency is one of the fundamental reasons why most people enjoy the American Colonial home.

READING

Eberlein, H. D., Architecture of Colonial America, Boston, Little, Brown, 1927.

Halsey, R. T. H., and Tower, E., The Homes of Our Colonial Ancestors, N. Y., Doubleday, 1925.

Tallmadge, T. E., The Story of Architecture in America, N. Y., Norton, 1927.

SOME INTERIORS

The art of interior architecture is no other than the art of building. 44 There is a definite relation between the ex¬ terior and the interior of a good building. One deter¬ mines the other; and the resulting consistency is a primary factor in a building that is thoroughly satisfying. If the appearance of a house suggests spaciousness and you enter a stuffy, cramped room, there is an irritating dissonance; if the appearance suggests coziness and you enter a great barnlike room, the result is the same. Consistency of

44 The current term interior decoration places too much emphasis on the decorative element, as if the decoration made the room, whereas decoration is but one of several factors in the design of any room.

THE ART OF BUILDING 117

scale and style, then, is necessary for success. How the type of hall in Pl. 28B harmonizes in these respects with the type of exterior in Pl. 26! Put into this hall the men and women of Colonial days. Everything just fits.

Consistency in an interior is also a matter of details. A successful room is a unit of several factors. There is its permanent background — the floor, walls, openings, ceil¬ ing — and there are the movable and changeable furnish¬ ings of all kinds. Still the room is incomplete. People using it complete the design. No room was built and furnished to be looked at, but to be lived in. Hence the successful room reveals a harmony among all these factors.

With this observation in mind, shall we look at sev¬ eral interiors? First, another American Colonial (Pl. 27) from the home of Samuel Powel of Philadelphia, well known in Revolutionary days. 45 The house was an im¬ posing building of red brick, with fine gardens at the back. Samuel Powel was a young man of sufficient means to travel extensively in Europe and with sufficient culture and influence to associate with well-known writers and artists and to be presented at the court of George III. Life in Europe appears to have inspired him to build a house in the colonies as fine as those in which he had been a guest abroad. But the growing intensity of feeling, in the colonies, over the stamp tax hindered him from im¬ porting the furnishings, though he appears to have brought

45 The Powel House was built in 1768, sold to Samuel Powel in 1769, and is still standing at 244 South Third Street, Philadelphia. The room reproduced in Pl. 28, which faced the garden at the back, has been removed to the American Wing of the Metropolitan Museum in New York. For an account of Samuel Powel and his house, see R. T. H. Halsey, and Fj. Tower, The Homes of Our Ancestors, N. Y., Doubleday, 1925; and R. T. H. Halsey, and C. O. Cornelius, A Handbook of the American Wing, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum, 1928.

118 THE ART OF BUILDING

statues with him for the garden. It was possible to fur¬ nish the house, however, with Colonial furnishings which quite equaled the European both in workmanship and in design. 46

In the important months during which the Constitu¬ tion was being drawn up, Washington and his friends fre¬ quented the Powel House. We can see them having tea in this very room (Pl. 2 7) as they earnestly discussed the points involved in the framing of the government. And we can also see them in the stately minuet when Benjamin Franklin’s daughter danced with Colonel Washington; or scurrying in a panic at a reception when a lofty plumed headdress came too near the lighted candles of the crystal chandelier.

The rigors of a valiant life tempered by the amenities of a cultivated society, good taste with no superficialities — that is what we feel in such a room. It conveys an im¬ pression of efficiency and solidity without heaviness. Light wood paneling fills one end of the room, with the fireplace and overmantel as an accent, partly because of the dark spot made by the picture and partly because of the strong moldings, and the carving. In the rest of the wall the mold¬ ings are so low that they make but a faint inconspicuous pattern except in the cornice, where again a dark shadow unifies and finishes the wall area. The light note is con- tinued in the stucco ceiling, the doors, and the tan Chinese paper. Contrasting warmth of color is furnished by the mahogany furniture, the damask upholstering and cur¬ tains, the fireplace, and the portrait; and a touch of vivacity and gayety, by the sparkling glass lustre with

46 A demand from the prosperous colonists for fine furniture had led to the establishment of shops whose advertisements suggest versatile proprietors. For interesting examples of these advertisements see Halsey and Cornelius, op. cit.

THE ART OF BUILDING 119

candles, the silver 47 on the tea table, and the brightly col¬ ored statuettes on the mantel.

In the furnishings is shown the same desire for efficiency, good line, proportion, and a moderate use of ornament. The furniture is of mahogany, except the walnut clock, and is the product of the skilled cabinetmakers of Phila¬ delphia. In the Chippendale style (based upon the design of Thomas Chippendale, a well-known English cabi¬ netmaker of this time) , it has the solid construction char¬ acteristic of that style and at the same time restrained, well- placed carving. The sofa has straight legs; the chairs and tables, curved — an influence from a current French style.

This French Style (Pl. 29) 48 reveals a form and reflects a life quite in contrast to the American Colonial. Here is lightness, and a movement that flows rapidly and smoothly throughout the design, uninterrupted by right angles and sharp contrasts. Everywhere the eye is guided by this light rhythm and the feelings are attuned to its key. Light color, touched with gold, contributes to the impression, and mirrors repeat the dancing rhythms. Look at the paint¬ ings of Watteau, Nattier, or Fragonard and you will see the kind of people who lived in this room. The lustrous satins, ribbons, and brocades of their costumes and their grace of manner harmonize with the charm and grace of the slender panels, the delicate moldings, the curved lines, the light color, and with the sparkle of gilding and reflec-

47 Early American silver furnishes an interesting subject from the point of view of both art and economics. For, with no banks, silver coin was made into cake baskets, sugar bowls, tankards, tea and coffee pots, and other articles, which constituted much of the family’s wealth and at the same time reached a high level artistically. Paul Revere was a silversmith of fine taste and workman¬ ship. See C. L. Avery, American Silver of the XVII and XVIII Centuries, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum, 1920.

48 A French salon of the period of Louis XV. Ancien Hotel de Carondelet, Aix-en-Provence, France.

120 THE ART OF BUILDING

tions. Everything speaks of gayety and wit, and of ex¬ quisite taste, superficial though it may be.

The furniture is in keeping with the background, with the same slender proportions and the same constantly mov¬ ing line, particularly noticeable in the console, mirror, and candle-holders at the side. Though the straight line ap¬ pears in some of the pieces, it is the curved line that domi¬ nates even in the brocaded damask of the upholstery. Some of the pieces are delightful trifles, but all reveal great craftsmanship. Inlays of tulip and other woods cover the surface with charming designs, which, however, do not relate to the structure of the object. When you open a drawer, for example, you break the design.

To keep everything consistently in the same key — the key of gayety, repartee, light movement — for a people whose lives are keyed to gayety, wit, frivolity, who had an exquisite taste for externals — this has been the objective of the designer; and he has succeeded.

For utmost simplicity and fine taste in interiors we go to the other side of the world — to Japan. Leaving your shoes at the door, step within a Japanese House (Pl. 30) . 49 To a Westerner the first impression suggests an unfur¬ nished house. It is a large, airy room. Gray-green mat¬ ting covers the floor, evenly and solidly. Wood forms the framework of the room, with sliding paper screens for the walls, and wood paneling for the ceiling. There is a con¬ spicuous absence of doors and windows yet there is no dingy darkness, for the transparent rice-paper screens give a mellow light. As the eye sweeps about the room it is caught and held by an alcove at the end, in which hangs a painting mounted on a piece of brocade, with neither

49 A room in a typical middle-class home. See R. A. Cram, Impressions of Japanese Architecture, Boston, Marshall Jones, 1930; and Okakura-Kakuzo, Book of Tea, N. Y., Duffield, 1925.

THE ART OF BUILDING 121

frame nor glass; and near by stands a bronze vase, with one spray of blossoming plum.

How quiet and refreshing! No one hurries. The serv¬ ants glide noiselessly. Where do we sit? you ask. On these silk cushions on the floor. Where do we dine? In the same place, still seated on the silk cushions, from little traylike tables of red or black lacquer, a few inches high. Where do we sleep? In this same place. From a closet is brought forth the bedding, which is spread on the floor. The paper screens are drawn and the dining-room has be¬ come a bedroom. In the morning, the day being fine, the screens slide back and the entire side of the room opens on an outside corridor that overlooks a garden, a miniature landscape, with pine trees and rocks, a waterfall, a bridge spanning a tiny lake fringed with a sandy shore, and a clump of bamboo which the night before in the moonlight decorated the drawn screens with silhouettes of its gently waving sprays.

Out of the simplest materials, provided abundantly by their country, the Japanese have evolved this type of home that functions so adequately and at the same time reaches, unostentatiously, so lofty a quality of artistic excellence. The house is framed of wood. Wood, plaster, and rice paper form the walls and partitions, and thatch or tile, the roof. These materials and the elastic method of construc¬ tion enable the buildings to withstand the shocks of fre¬ quent earthquakes. All the materials are used for their own intrinsic qualities. Wood is never painted, nor plas¬ ter covered. The wood is most carefully selected for its color and graining and is polished until all its capacity for color and texture is brought out. Likewise the plaster of various subtle tints and velvety texture, and the creamy translucent rice paper, sometimes with a light decoration,

122 THE ART OF BUILDING

contribute by subtle harmonies and contrasts to the effect of a restrained, reposeful unity.

Nothing is superfluous. A chest of drawers may be more or less permanent. The other furniture — the cushions, tables, bedding — is brought in and taken out as the occa¬ sion requires. The painting, the bronze or porcelain, the flowers in the alcove, are changed frequently, often in order to relate to something in the life of the day. If a fes¬ tival is to be celebrated, objects that directly or symboli¬ cally relate to it are brought from the treasure house.

Into this simple reposeful background and mellow light the people fit, with their silk garments, their quiet voices. Their dignity and courtliness, the very fiber of life, is the result of age-long codes of etiquette, a rich inheritance, not suddenly acquired. Restraint, inherent in the room and in the people, is a stimulation to imagination. For true beauty, says Mr. Okakura, 50 can be discovered only by one who can mentally complete the incomplete. The essen¬ tials are there. Let each one add or not as his own per¬ sonal feelings dictate. How free and imaginative is this attitude in comparison with the attitude revealed by the cluttered room of Pl. 29A! 51

READING

Gilman, R., Great Styles of Interior Architecture, N. Y.,

Harper, 1924.

50 Okakura-Kakuzo, Book of Tea, which is a very sensitive presentation, by a Japanese, of the Japanese tea ceremony.

51 Some of our best interior architects today are working in the spirit of (not copying) the Japanese, with the result that we are seeing more and more rooms every year that are simple, free from overloading with furnishings. Also woods, stucco, metals, textiles, and other materials are used for their own color and texture. See examples in D. Todd, and R. Mortimer, The New Interior Decoration, London, Batsford, 1929; and in the current art periodicals.

Plate 29

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Plate 30

A Room in a Japanese Home. Simplicity and repose through the use of the fewest essentials and through the sen¬ sitive use of materials — wood, stucco, paper, silk, lacquer, matting — each for its own peculiar beauty yet all harmoniously combined. (Helen Gunsaulus)

THE ART OF BUILDING

123

SUGGESTIONS

1. Perhaps nothing is so intimately eloquent of any people as the people themselves in their homes. Make a collection of people of both the present and the past. Costume them properly and place them in their houses with the proper fur¬ nishings. This is a good subject for group projects and cor¬ relates well with other courses.

2. A study of furniture in its relation to the design of the room as a whole.

3. The relation of any interior to climate and geography. Why, for example, are tiles used in Spain and southern Cali¬ fornia? Why wood paneling in England?

4. Select actual rooms and design or redesign them. See the last chapter of this book.

GENERAL PROJECTS ON THE ART OF BUILDING

1. Make models of the buildings studied, or parts of them, with the general location, showing the relation of the building to it. This can be done in sand, clay, soap, plaster, boards of various kinds. Use one or two figures in each case, properly costumed. This could easily be made a group project, several groups working on the building, and one on the costumes.

2. Design original buildings in clay, soap, or some material in which the model is actually three-dimensional, not on paper. Determine first the purpose and the site. Work out the large elements: shape and proportions, balance, large masses of light and dark. Use an electric bulb at various angles to get the effect of the changing position of the sun. Avoid detail.

3. Construct a building, or part of one, on the lintel system and one on the arch system. Soap serves well, for it cuts easily into building blocks. It shrinks, however, in drying, and so is not satisfactory for anything permanent.

4. Find as many ways as possible of roofing a building. Illustrate each by a drawing or a picture of an actual building.

5. Find as many examples as possible of interior space or¬ ganization of unusual quality, such as Santa Sophia and Chartres.

124 THE ART OF BUILDING

6. Find as many ways as possible of decorating a wall, such as the painted carvings of the Egyptian Temple, the marble facing of the Roman buildings, mosaics, the glass of Chartres, fresco (see sections on painting). In each case give the effect of the method, its suitability, its advantages and disadvantages.

7. Architectural sculpture. Find examples to illustrate har¬ mony between the sculpture and the building and vice versa.

8. Find copies or adaptations of the buildings studied. Dis¬ cuss the suitability of these to their purpose and to their setting.

Note: In finding examples, use actual buildings as far as possible rather than photographs or prints. See how many interesting points of view you can find. Use your kodak for a series of pictures of each building, taken from all sides.

Part Three

THE ART OF THE GARDEN

nity and variety are underlying forces in life and in

art. No building exists in a universe of its own, but is an integral part of a larger whole, its setting. To secure unity with its environment and pleasing contrasts of tex¬ ture and color many a building depends upon the garden. What would the Taj be without its garden (Pl. 25), or the Craigie House (Pl. 26) ?

“ To complete the incomplete,” says the Japanese. To him a house or temple is incomplete without a garden. This is the result partly of his sensitivity to a broadly har¬ monious design and partly of his great love of nature. Hills with streams and waterfalls, lakes, pines, bamboo, varicolored stones, white sand — nature has endowed his land with all this richness and its enjoyment is a spiritual necessity in his daily life. Instead of hanging pictures of landscape on the walls of his house he slides back the screens and sees laid out before him a real landscape, how¬ ever small, which he can enjoy in rain, in sunshine, or in snow — a whole panorama of which he and his house are an integral part. If he has no garden space in the crowded city, he satisfies his desire with a miniature box-garden or with a tiny gnarled pine tree in a pot. Every detail, whether of the large country estate or of the tiny city gar¬ den, reveals an unusual capacity to raise commonplace things to the level of art (Fig. 69).

Fig. 68 shows us a typical Japanese Garden. From a clump of bamboo near the house, stones mark a path to¬ ward a tiny lake with a white pebbly shore. The eye, in following this path, is arrested for a moment by a stone lantern before it pursues its way to a bridge which

126 THE ART OF THE GARDEN

crosses the lake. Here a picturesque gnarled pine, symbol of longevity, forms a center of interest for the entire gar¬ den. Just behind it a waterfall, partly concealed by a branch of the pine, dashes over a cliff, contributing, with its contrasting movement and silvery color, to the emphasis at this point. Near by a willow — another contrast with the pine — droops gracefully over an arm of the lake.

Fig. 68. Lay-out of a Japanese Garden Taken from a Japanese Treatise on Gardens. Hills, ponds, islands, a stream with cascades, a bridge, large and small stones and stone lanterns — all are arranged with seeming informality but actually according to strict rules.

(J. Harada, Gardens of Japan, London, The Studio)

It seems so natural; yet the garden sketched in Fig. 68 is taken from a manual which specifies the layout of a typi¬ cal hill garden. Underlying the apparent naturalism and the asymmetrical balance is a set of strict conventions, a pattern which determines just how the parts shall be com¬ posed. Water, stones, pines, bamboo, willow, Crypto- meria, box and various shrubs, sand and pebbles, stone or bronze lanterns — with these, each selected for its shape,

THE ART OF THE GARDEN 127

color, and texture the Japanese gardener builds up, in accordance with the conventional pattern, a unified bal¬ anced whole that is related sensitively to the house. Flow¬ ers, you will notice, have almost no part in the design.

In Pl. 31, for example, what a beautiful harmony re¬ sults from the perfect unity of diverse elements! The mag¬ nificent sweep and fine angles of the roof and the expanse of its tiled surface emerge from and sweep into masses of varied foliage. The restful stucco surfaces contrast with the rocks and plants below and with the pine at the corner, reflect in the placid lake, and echo in the large smooth stones that form the bridge. Line, surface, tex¬ ture, color — every detail exists in re¬ lation to the unity of the whole.

The studied informality of the Japanese Garden, based upon strict conventions, is quite different from the unstudied informality of gardens which use materials at hand. In our Colonial homes (Pl. 27) the plan was often informal, reflecting the English manor, where the natural landscape — great masses of fine trees, streams, open moors — formed the basis of the entire plan and de¬ termined the site of the buildings so that they would be one element in the large unity of the entire estate.

In Italy, on the other hand, formality and symmetry pre¬ vail in the gardens. As an example, let us visit the Villa d’Este, at Tivoli, in the Sabine Hills about twenty miles northeast of Rome. The villa, of stone, stands on the crest of the hill and its stone balcony commands a fine view out over the country as far as Rome itself; or down into the

Fig. 69. Japanese Method of Wrapping Shrubs in Straw for the Winter. (After Morse)

128 THE ART OF THE GARDEN

rich shadows of the cypresses of its gardens (Pl. 3 2 ). The plan of the estate (Fig. 70) shows how the building and gardens are laid out along an axis which forms a broad path from the villa down the hill. How insistent is the

Fig. 70. Plan of the Villa d’Este, and its Gardens, i, Original entrance at the foot of the hill; 2, ponds; 3, cascades; 4, ascending stone stairways bordered by streams of water; 5, fountains and circular stone stairway; 6, Terrace of the Hundred Fountains (Pl. 33); 7, terrace of the villa; 8, villa; 9, projecting terrace from which one obtains a fine view down through the gardens along the main axis (Pl. 32).

symmetry here in comparison with the asymmetry of the Japanese! A double stone stairway curves from the upper terrace down through the trees to meet this path, the fine sweep of its stone balustrades bringing curves into a design

THE ART OF THE GARDEN 129

that is rectangular. Cutting across this central axis at right angles are paths which open up vistas to a fountain, or to an open terrace overhanging the valley, with a view out over the hills. Magnificent cypresses dominate and together with other trees, vines, and shrubs form dense shade, interspersed with open spaces for pools with fish and aquatic plants.

Yet, with all this refreshing shade, what would these gardens be without the water! Water used architecturally and at the same time supplementing the shade with its re¬ freshing coolness. Spend a hot afternoon in these gardens. You cannot hurry in the cool soothing shadows. Leisurely you climb the lichen-covered stone steps and loiter along paths bordered by tiny jets of water and bubbling cascades (Pl. 33). Their light music is the only sound except the song of the cicada. Look to the right and a broad silver spray terminates the vista through the overarching trees. Look back toward the villa from halfway down the central path and see the fountain, like a tall cypress of silver sway¬ ing gently in the breeze. How it unites the stone villa and its garden! Light, movement, sparkle, music, in the midst of the darkness of the shade, the solidity of the stone, the solemn silence of the cypresses. Now it rises in a long avenue of jets transformed by the breeze into misty spray. Here it gushes in miniature cascades or bubbles merrily in tiny fountains; there it falls in a thin sheet over a vine- covered arcade or in a triple cascade to be reflected in a quiet pool near by. The water at Tivoli is like the glass at Chartres.

Still another type of garden we can find in the Mediter¬ ranean lands or in America where Mediterranean architec¬ ture has found a logical place, as in Florida or southern California. In the Craigie House (Pl. 2 7), at Tivoli

130

THE ART OF THE GARDEN

(Pl. 34), and in Japan (Pl. 33), the gardens form a setting for the house which looks out to them. In the Mediter¬ ranean, or more specifically in the Spanish type of house, the building appears to have gathered the gardens within its embracing wings (Pl. 34 and Fig. 71). In plan this type of house is loose and rambling instead of compact like the Craigie House (Fig. 67). The one indicates a warm climate, and suggests a cool, airy, shaded interior; the other indicates a cold climate by the grouping of the

rooms closely to keep out the cold and to facilitate the circulation of arti¬ ficially heated air. Each type is logical and appro¬ priate to its environment. That is why a Spanish bungalow on the Maine coast is not only imprac-

Fig. 71. Plan of a Typical Southern House with a Patio. Notice how the

house is spread out loosely to secure air ticable but distressing.

in contrast to the compact house of the g ut in south ern Cali-

North (Fig. 67).

fornia how delightful is

a house of tile and stucco that defies the heat and at the same time provides air and cool shade! The windows of the Heberton House (Pl. 34) look out to the greenery. Quiet unbroken lines and surfaces are enhanced by the broken dark masses of shadow-making foliage: lacy vine, shaggy eucalyptus, feathery pepper tree, and solid hedges. What a careful gradation of foliage as it varies from a solid base to the loose, swaying, ragged masses above! Urns and walks again bring the note of stone or stucco into the green¬ ery, and the reflecting pools mingle them.

As in the Japanese garden, unity and harmony have resulted from the use of the same means. Shape, material.

Plate 31

Garden of a Monastery. Kyoto. A sensitive unity of building and garden. Each completes the other through the interweaving and contrasting of lines, surfaces, and textures. (J. Harada, Gardens of Japan. London. The Studio)

Plate 32

Gardens of the Villa d’Este. Tivoli. The central path from the gate up to the villa in the foreground is the axis which controls a symmetrically balanced design by which the villa and the garden are harmoniously united. Note the magnificent cypress trees.

THE ART OF THE GARDEN 131

texture, color — each plays a definite role of harmony and contrast in creating a pleasingly proportioned and bal¬ anced whole. In this whole it is the garden that links the house with its surroundings, and brings the surroundings into the house to enable it to perform its function more adequately and to delight the eye more graciously.

READING

Cram, R. A., Impressions of Japanese Architecture, Boston, Marshall Jones, 1930.

Harada, J., Gardens of Japan, London, Studio, 1928. Hubbard, H. V., and Kimball, T., An Introduction to the Study of Landscape Design, N. Y., Macmillan, 1929.

Triggs, H. I., Garden Craft in Europe, London, Batsford, 1913.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Gardens offer a large field for creative effort, whether the garden be a small city back yard or a large place in the country. After a study of the location and climate, make a plan of the entire site establishing a unity between the buildings and the garden. Select imaginative sites and design gardens in (a) the formal Italian style, (b) the informal New England, (c) the Japanese conventional, (d) the Spanish patio.

2. Find illustrations of “ before and after ” in back yards, empty lots, or streets.

Part Four

THE ART OF CITY PLANNING

“ tvto city can have dignity, beauty, and distinction, or JLM be a great city in the best sense of the word, unless its every element is an appropriate part of a greater whole.” 1 Has curiosity ever led you to look up the definition of a city? Although the usual meaning given is “ a town or other inhabited place,” “ a large and important town,” a little investigation into the origin of the word reveals a primary meaning of citizenship, the body of citizens, the community, with emphasis upon the human element. A city, a town, or a village means much more than a group of buildings. For buildings are not an end in themselves but a means to an end, the life of the people. A city is rather a group of people engaged in community living, community work and play. People may or may not make an art of it. If they do, one factor in their success is the intelligent planning of their physical city, that is, so de¬ signing it that the different elements form a balanced and harmonious whole, providing for its citizens the greatest possibilities for the highest type of living. To this idea everything is subordinated and, vice versa, every detail contributes toward this objective.

Most cities have just grown and have awakened too late to a realization of the need of design. An example of this is Manhattan Island in New York, where the long water¬ front has been lost for recreational purposes for the peo¬ ple, and where the cost of widening streets far too narrow for traffic is prohibitive. Many a city, large and small, reveals a beautiful river bank or seashore or some other spot of natural beauty despoiled and lost because a clear

1 Milton Medary in The American Architect, May 20, 1929, p. 638.

THE ART OF CITY PLANNING 138 design did not adequately provide for both the work and the play side of life. An example of how such a mistake can be rectified is seen in Chicago, which awakened to the fact that its lake front, an asset of natural beauty that should add to the life of the citizens, was almost lost to industry. The Chicago Plan Commission, however, by depressing, electrifying, and bridging over the railroads that skirt it, and by pushing the shore line out into the lake through reclamation and the making of new land, is creat¬ ing one of the finest water fronts in the world for the benefit of the citizens.

A city is usually where it is, not from someone’s whim, but for some definite reason. It may be the center of an agricultural or a mining region; near raw materials for manufacturing; a strategic point for transportation; a natu¬ ral seaport; a recreational center. Therefore most cities have a preponderance of some interest; the steel industry in Pittsburgh; education in Oxford; government in Wash¬ ington; shipping in New York. Its very existence is de¬ pendent upon the robust life of that interest. That is a focal point of the design, just as the dome is the focal point of Saint Peter’s and of the Taj. But just as the dome, im¬ portant as it is, takes its place in a unified design, so that vital interest in a city, important though it may be, is but one element in a well-designed community.

Such a design is complex and calls for vision. Consider yourself, in imagination, a builder of cities. Though in real life it never happens this way, a community summons you to lay out for it a city on a given site, a map of whose topography is laid before you. For what factors in the life of a city will your design have regard? At least five or six major factors will determine the important elements: (1) The industrial factor, industry located with regard to

134 THE ART OF CITY PLANNING transportation and raw materials, and with regard to healthy working conditions. (2) The home factor, where the workers may live with the greatest comfort, health, and facilities for recreation. What are the best locations for healthful living? What natural resources in the site should be preserved for the benefit of all? What small areas kept open for playgrounds? What river banks for drives? What wooded areas in the environs for preserves? (3) Then there is the civic factor. A city must govern itself and provide buildings not only suitable for the functioning of the gov¬ ernment and conveniently located, but in appearance sym¬ bolic of community dignity and pride. (4) Education, (5) religion, (6) amusement—to bring these within the reach of all, liberal provision must be made.

No one of these elements, however, can operate in isola¬ tion. A city is well designed only when transportation functions with reasonable ease and rapidity from one part to another, to the environs, to other localities. Streets have well been called arteries, and, as in the body, are large or small according to their function. In planning your city, it makes a great deal of difference whether the street is to be a great thoroughfare for traffic, or a secluded tree-shaded avenue that suggests well-being in the home. Are your traffic arteries broad enough and straight enough for the amount of traffic poured into them? Are your railroad terminals so located that they serve all the interests of the city? Do your avenues in the residential parts give access to the controlling arteries and at the same time provide trees, grass, vistas, that bring both seclusion to homes and beauty for all? Have you provided for links between your parks, free from business traffic — especially important in these days of the automobile?

When all these factors are provided for, another element

Plate 33

A Terrace at Tivoli (PI. 32). Water is used here as an architectural element. Contrasting in texture, color, movement with the stone and trees, it enhances their darkness and solemnity.

Plate 34

Residence of Mr. Craig Heberton. Montecito, California. Here the garden brings cool shadows within the house and the combined beauty of the house and garden, with their contrasting light and dark, color, texture, is greater than that of each alone. (G. W. Smith)

THE ART OF CITY PLANNING 135 arises — growth. City building is too complex and too costly to take into consideration one or two generations only. Far-seeing vision must reckon with the probable directions of growth. Even the wisest, however, cannot always foresee. Who could have prophesied fifty, even twenty-five, years ago the great problem now confronting all communities — traffic congestion due to the enormous development of the motor car?

To secure this proper apportionment of the different parts of the city to its various functions is the purpose of zoning regulations. This means that the city as a corporate body and not individual citizens shall decide what is the best use to which the various parts of the city shall be put for the benefit of the community as a whole. That is, the design as a whole is considered first, rather than the detail. These regulations not only decide which localities shall be zoned for industry, for homes, for apartments, for rec¬ reation, but also determine such problems as how high a building can rise without endangering health by ob¬ structing air and light, and how near its neighbor it can stand.

Thus in planning your city the nature of the site on the one hand, and the logical demands of the work and play of the citizens on the other, with provision for growth, will determine your design.

Let us take our capital city Washington as an example of harmony between function and design in city planning. The focal interest of Washington is the administration of the affairs of government in relation to its own citizens and to the other nations of the world. Therefore a design for such a city would call for the adequate functioning of the different parts of the Government, and for the people, in their work and play, who participate in this functioning;

136 THE ART OF CITY PLANNING and also would call for an appearance, in the city, worthy of the nation, symbolizing its dignity and sovereignty. At the outset, it was the opinion of the President and his asso¬ ciates that the Potomac and the seaport at its mouth would be the great trade and transportation artery to the rich lands west of the mountains, and that the capital city would thus have a direct connection with the economics of the country. But they reckoned without a knowledge of the railroad and the dependence of trade routes upon this agency. That Washington has developed is due to its primary interest alone.

It was in 1800 that our Government moved from Phila¬ delphia to “ the backwoods settlement ” on the Potomac. The plan of the city was intrusted to Major L’Enfant, a French military engineer who had fought in the Revolu¬ tionary War. Under the supervision of President Wash¬ ington and Thomas Jefferson and also, apparently, under the influence of his native Paris and Versailles, Major L’En- fant took stock of the natural resources of the site and presented a plan whose vision and soundness have been proved by the fact that a commission appointed one hundred years later for further beautification of the capital based all its suggestions upon his fundamental plan.

What was Major L’Enfant’s plan? With future growth in mind, as well as present need, he looked at the possi¬ bilities of the site. Here was a natural amphitheater sur¬ rounded by wooded hills and traversed by a broad river. The highest point in the amphitheater he selected for the Capitol, the focal point of his design, and he laid out avenues radiating from it in all directions in order to give free access to and from this center and also to enable the Capitol to terminate and dominate the vista of each avenue

THE ART OF CITY PLANNING 137 (Fig. 7 2) . Another important center he established, the White House, on one of the radiating avenues not far from the Capitol and from this too he sent out his avenues. So

Fig. 72. Plan of the City of Washington. A, Capitol; C, White House; F, Union Station; B-D, Mall; E, Washington Monu¬ ment; D, Lincoln Memorial.

that the key to the plan of Washington consists of twin hubs, as it were, connected by a common spoke, Pennsyl-

138 THE ART OF CITY PLANNING vania Avenue. Within these spokes the streets are laid out regularly, making interesting intersections, known as circles , with the radial avenues.

A vital part of Major L’Enfant’s design was to keep the Mall, the expanse from the Capitol to the Potomac, free and unobstructed for memorials and gardens whose beauty and dignity should symbolize the great of the nation. He himself marked the site for a monument to Washington at the intersection of the axes of the Capitol and the White Ho use. Although the city lost sight of this objective, in the course of time, and even allowed buildings and a rail¬ road to encroach on the area, she remembered, almost too late. For it was only through the generosity of those who had invaded the site that she was able to revive the plan. But today on one axis stand the symbols of state and of its founders and preservers — the Capitol, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and, connected by a bridge across the Potomac, Arlington Cemetery, where those who have devoted themselves to the nation’s services are honored with burial (Pl. 35 and Fig. 72) . With the grounds and reflecting pools which are now being laid out as a setting for these monuments, with the river bank ad¬ joining the Mall developed into Potomac Park, and with fine riverside drives, Washington is providing in this sec¬ tion of her area not only recreational space but an appear¬ ance that is a worthy civic and national expression.

But it is not only this one spot to which attention has been given. The railroads through generous cooperation have united in building a terminal which functions con¬ veniently for all and at the same time, because of its site on one of the radiating avenues leading to the Capitol takes its place in the city design harmoniously. The streets, avenues, and parks have been strongly emphasized; more

Plate 35

The Washington Monument seen from the Lincoln Memorial. Stately dig¬ nity resulting from intelligent city planning. (Photo, by Horydczak)

Plate 36

Photograph of the Hands of the Sculptor, Eric Gill. (Thorpe, Eric Gill. N. Y., Cape and Smith)

THE ART OF CITY PLANNING 139 than half the area of Washington is given to these open spaces. The streets, unusually broad, are beautifully planted with elm, chestnut, linden, maple, oak, which in arching over the sidewalks and streets create deep vistas of refreshing sun-flecked shade. Not only have the circles at the street intersections been made into small spots of beauty by generous plantings of trees, shrubs, and flowers, but the sites of natural beauty about the city, such as Rock Creek Park, have been zealously guarded as one of the city’s great possessions.

Thus Washington today is the result of vision, of fair- minded regard for all interests, and of insistence upon the coherence of all parts into the “ greater whole.”

READING

Bennett, E. H., “ City Planning,” in The Significance of the Fine Arts, Boston, Marshall Jones, 1923.

Lancaster, H. V., The Art of Town Planning, London, Chap¬ man and Hall, 1925.

Lethaby, W. R., Form in Civilization, London, Oxford Press, 1922.

Nolen, E. H., New Towns for Old, Boston, Marshall Jones, 1927.

SUGGESTIONS

1. As most of the larger cities of the United States have undertaken projects of town planning and have published reports which are accessible in the public libraries, make a study of your own city or another with which you are famil¬ iar; find just what the problems are and how they are be¬ ing met.

2. Find examples of constructive city planning in European cities, both present and past. Berlin, Paris, Versailles, Rome, London, Vienna are a few among many examples.

3. Find examples of famous streets, harbors, public parks, and note the reasons why they are famous.

4. Find local examples of buildings too monotonously

140 THE ART OF CITY PLANNING

placed; of those where some variety adds to the appearance; of successful planting in parkways; of good or impeded vistas.

5. Out of materials of your immediate or an imaginative environment: (a) make a plan for civic improvement: zone the city; lay out streets to handle traffic; a park and boulevard system; the civic center; the utilization of natural resources for the benefit of the community; (b) list the best examples of buildings, landscape architecture, monuments, bridges, sculpture, paintings, stained glass windows.

Part Five

THE ART OF SCULPTURE

T he sculptor’s job is making out of stone things seen in the mind.” 1

A block of stone, a consuming idea, a specific site — these form the basis of the art of sculpture in its truest sense, as the origin of the word implies — to carve. It sounds strangely like what we have been saying of building — a mass or volume, a definite purpose, a specific site.

We are inclined, in these days of specialization, to pigeonhole the arts. Architecture is one thing, painting another, dancing another; weaving, sculpture, music, writ¬ ing — each in its own compartment. To be sure, each is a craft, subject to the laws of its own technique. But are there no common principles? No interrelations? Let us put a building and a statue side by side and, disregarding the discrepancy of size, look at them comparatively.

With a little observation and thought we begin to dis¬ cern a kinship. This is due, in the first place, to the fact that a fundamental problem of both is the organization of mass. In making this comparison we are thinking only of sculpture in the round, that is, free-standing statues which we can walk around, in distinction to relief, which is attached to a background and thus only partly free (Pls. 50-52) . First, then, the building and the statue actually exist in three dimensions; they have height, width, depth. Each is a volume or a group of volumes. Second, to design a building or a statue means to make the volume pleasing and harmonious by means of line, light and dark, texture, color; and to make this ordering of the parts har¬ monious with the purpose, or subject matter—“things

1 Eric Gill, Sculpture, p. 21.

142 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

seen in the mind.” Third, this design is to be seen from several points of view, not from one only as in a painting, an etching, or a textile, which is on a flat surface. So that while in some cases one point of view may be more favor¬ able, in general the design must be pleasing from several angles.

Both the building and the statue, again, being volumes, are subject to the laws of stability, which results from a balance between two forces, downward pressure and up¬ ward thrust. Balance is one of the fundamental principles of life. To learn to walk is a matter of learning to balance the body; and in the process we discover only too well the results of breaking its laws. This is so impressed upon us that we demand the same of a building or a statue. As we can imagine a vertical line drawn through our bodies to represent the force that is pulling the body to the ground if the parts are not balanced, so in other volumes, whether buildings or statues, there is this imaginary line which re¬ quires that the masses be balanced in a like manner. Do you not sometimes have a feeling of equilibrium in your own body when you see a finely balanced building or statue and, vice versa, seem to feel yourself toppling over when you see one out of balance? Thus the builder and the sculptor are dealing with the same fundamental prob¬ lem — organizing a mass into a balanced harmonious unit that is pleasing to the eye.

A second reason for the kinship between architecture and sculpture lies in the fact that so much sculpture was originally an integral part of a building; of the same ma¬ terial, stone; as architectural as the piers, columns, walls, and roofs, and not merely a decoration applied as an after¬ thought. Remove it and the building loses a vital part of its form and of its meaning; in the Parthenon, for example,

THE ARTOFSCULPTURE 143

in Chartres, and in the Nebraska State Capitol. Much free-standing sculpture in museums and private collections today was intended for a specific site and lighting. To understand these statues with any intelligence, then, we must restore them to their original settings. It is of vital importance whether the artist intended his statue to stand out of doors, at a distance, in a diffused light, or indoors, near by, in a dim or concentrated light.

Yet notwithstanding these marked similarities, strong dissimilarities appear. A building is abstract 2 in form, based upon geometric shapes. It does not represent any¬ thing. The statue, on the other hand, is representative; in the vast majority of cases, of the human or animal figure. Again, the building is hollow. Its interior is as important as its exterior and is molded by it. Its stability means a nice adjustment between mechanical forces controlling walls and roof so that the interior can be open and safe. In other words, a building looks both inward and outward; a statue, on the other hand, outward only. Yet the sculp¬ tor realizes that within the figure of the man or the horse which he is seeking to represent, there is an inner life — not to be found in the building—that is the vital force which determines the movements of the figure; and that the significance of the finished work is a balance between the outward form and the inner life.

What, then, is the purpose of the sculptor? Is it not to make the mass with which he is dealing not only an inter¬ esting design, but a design that is significant of this inner life; with regard, at the same time, for the place which the statue is to occupy?

What is the mass, you ask, that is to be made interesting?

2 A drawing away from realistic and representational form toward simplified and nonrepresentational. Geometric patterns and solids are abstract.

144 THEARTOFSCULPTURE

It is the material with which he is working — stone, wood, ivory, clay, bronze, a great variety of materials, each to be worked according to its own peculiar qualities. Sculpture in its truest sense, we have said, means to carve . In other words stone is the material of much of the world’s best sculpture. All stone is hard but some much more so than others; limestone and sandstone are comparatively soft; porphyry and diorite very hard; marble intermediate. Some stone is dark, some light; some dull, some glistening. Some has a coarse texture, some is fine and smooth. Some stones chip evenly; others split along a cleavage.

Whatever the stone, to carve is hard, difficult work, in¬ volving danger from a slip that would spoil the entire block. Does this character of the material in any way affect the work? Or the artist’s conception? With wooden hammer and chisels (Pl. 36) he stands before his roughly hewn block of stone. A convincing idea, “ things seen in the mind,” calls for expression. The block of stone must become the idea in visible form. So there is ever an inter¬ action between the idea and the stone. As he works at the unyielding material he sees and carves large masses. Stone requires that in its hardness. Details slip away. The statue becomes large and monumental, small though it may be in size.

This influence of the material upon the artist is seen in wood-carving, though of a different kind, because wood is less stern than stone, is softer and more easily worked. Yet the fiber or grain of which it is composed requires the cutting be done, as far as possible, “ with the grain ” in order to avoid splitting. This tendency to crack, and the disastrous reaction of wood to atmospheric conditions, ex¬ cept in a very dry climate, make it a far less permanent material than stone or bronze.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 145

Another great class of material is metal, chiefly bronze, though gold, silver, brass, and alloys are used. Bronze is dark, even when gilded, and has a reflective power, caus¬ ing strong high lights and deep shadows within which de¬ tail is lost (Pls. 47-49). Bronze-working is not carving but consists of building up a core about the size and shape of the contemplated figure, covering this with a layer of soft material like clay or wax, in which the modeling is done, and then casting it in the metal. 3 Engraving brings out the detail in a sharp, crisp manner that is necessary if it is to show in the dark color of the metal. Bronze has a dusky splendor, a sharpness and precision not found in marble, which is due not so much to the artist’s intention as to the rigidity, color, and reflective character of the material.

Finally there is clay, the medium for modeling. “ Mod¬ eling and carving are different human actions, originating respectively in the boy making a mud pie and the boy whittling a stick ” 4 (Pl. 37) . In the latter the artist takes away from a given volume, subtracts until the result is reached, and the planes of the original block determine the limits of his design. In the former, he builds out from a slender framework called an armature (Fig. 73) with chunks of clay to form a volume, adds until the result is reached, unlimited by any bounding planes. In another respect modeling is the opposite of carving, for the material is soft, shapes easily, and affords possibilities of building up and tearing down. Thus in clay there is more freedom, more opportunity for quick momentary expression, but less for the grandly monumental. To become permanent

3 For an explanation of bronze-casting see H. Gardner, Art Through the Ages, N. Y., Harcourt, 1926, p. 115, note 6. For a dramatic account of the casting of a statue, see Benvenuto Cellini, Memoirs, Everyman’s Library, pp. 402 ff.

4 J. Thorp, Eric Gill, London, Cape, 1929, p. 6.

146 THEARTOFSCULPTURE

the clay must be fired, or cast in plaster or metal. The truest clay forms are those in which the feeling of the soft clay remains, hardened by fire into permanency (Pl. 37A).

Each medium, 5 thus, has its own peculiar character, limitations, advantages and disadvantages. And the qual¬ ity of the final work depends upon the judgment of the

artist in selecting the medium that will harmonize best with the idea that he wishes to express.

Because the character of the sculptor’s medium, taken as a whole, suggests strength, endurance, and monumentality, and because sculpture, like all the arts, is an art whose inherent quality does not conflict with the medium but harmonizes with it, suitable subject matter at the dis¬ posal of the sculptor is quite limited. Look at the sculpture that the world has produced, east and west, from the twentieth century to earliest times, and you discern an astonishing limitation in subject matter — overwhelmingly the human and the animal figure. Has this happened from mere chance or coincidence?

To answer this question, let us return to the purpose of the sculptor: “ making out of stone things seen in the mind.” He does not abandon the material. He makes it live. This is what Michelangelo meant when he said, “ Life moves within the stone.” The statue does not give you a copy of the appearance of the person represented, but a feeling of his reality, his life, in stone. It is this bal-

6 Medium is a general term for the material with which the artist creates form. For the writer it is words; for the builder, stone, wood, steel, brick, concrete; for the painter, pigment; for the weaver, threads; for the potter, clay; for the musician, tones.

Fig. 73. Arma¬ ture. Made of pip¬ ing, wire, and wood. (After A., Toft, Modelling and Sculpture , Phila., Lippincott, 1915)

Plate 37

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Plate 38

Porch of the Maidens. Erechtheum, Athens. The figures are compact and column-like so as to function architecturally in sup¬ porting the roof. How certain surfaces catch the light and present to the eye a charming rhythm of light and dark, and how har¬ moniously figure, building, and landscape unite. (Clarence Ken¬ nedy)

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 147

ance between life and stone that constitutes the art of sculpture — to transmute the block of stone into a concrete expression and still retain the feeling of the stone.

And still more, the sculptor not only makes the stone live but makes it present to the eye a pleasing mass, a mass made stable, balanced, rhythmic, and harmonious by line, and by light and dark. Just as in a building. The building may perform its function adequately. Yet only when its mass is organized into something that pleases the eye with its stability, balance, proportions, and harmony does it become a work of art.

Why, then, the use of the human or the animal figure? Though there have often existed secondary reasons for its use, such as the religious significance of Egyptian portraits, the personification of nature among the Greeks, commem¬ oration of great men among all peoples, still behind these reasons lie the artistic possibilities of the human figure. Why did Michelangelo say that the most beautiful thing in the world is the human figure? Because it is made up of closely related masses — head, trunk, and limbs — which can be composed into an indefinite number of designs. It can stand stiff and stern with a symmetrical balance, can turn into graceful curves, or can violently contort its parts and interweave them into a complex pattern, maintaining its balance either symmetrically or asymmetrically. This is the essence of the dance when the dancer captures for a moment or makes progressive what the sculptor makes permanent.

Thus the art of the sculptor involves three things. First, to understand the material, its limitations and its possi¬ bilities, a material which, with the exception of clay, is hard, enduring, and monumental; second, the use of the figure to convert this raw material into an interesting de-

148 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

sign with a significant meaning; and third, to relate the

design to the site it is to occupy.

All this, however, is theory. What do the statues them¬ selves say? Shall we go directly to them and see with our eyes what the sculptor intends us to see?

READING

Flaccus, L. W., The Spirit and Substance of Art, N. Y. Crofts,

m 1 -

Guillaume, P., and Munro, T., Primitive Negro Sculpture, N. Y., Harcourt, 1926.

Rindge, A., Sculpture, N. Y., Payson and Clark, 1929.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Experiment as far as possible in handling materials — stone, wood, metal, clay — for a realization of hardness, texture, plasticity.

2. Visit a stonecutter’s yard, if possible, and see the use of the hammer and chisel.

3. As actual carving in stone presents insurmountable ob¬ stacles, use soap or clay bricks, in order to realize, with the help of the imagination, what carving really means. The pam¬ phlet published by the National Small Sculpture Committee in connection with the annual Proctor and Gamble competi¬ tion offers many suggestions.

4. Select a simple subject. Model it in clay and carve it in soap. Compare the influence of the material and of the pro¬ cess upon your work while k is going on. Compare the fin¬ ished pieces.

5. Study posing the figure to see how many interesting de¬ signs you can work out with it. Much on this topic can be done in dancing and gymnasium classes. Select poses suitable for stone; for bronze.

THE COLUMBUS MEMORIAL

From the harbor of Palos in southwestern Spain, legend says, three ships sailed forth in 1492 on a mighty adven-

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 149

ture. It required courage and faith as well as the joy of daring to embark on that westward voyage.

Today, overlooking the same harbor, rises a monument to commemorate that setting forth (Pl. 39) . 6 Grandly im¬ pressive, it towers above the land and the sea. Its stern simplicity compels the observer to follow the long un¬ broken lines and the large uninterrupted areas of light and dark. There is no irrelevant detail to distract. What Columbus looked like does not matter. What does matter is his impelling courage and the will to adventure. The grandeur, the directness, and the dignity of this concep¬ tion harmonize with the grandeur, the directness, and dignity of the design.

Though built up of masonry, the statue gives the impres¬ sion of one colossal block of stone carved by giant chisel and hammer. The base is a simple geometric form, a truncated pyramid, out of which the figure and the cross grow as naturally as a plant thrusting itself up from the earth. There is no sharp dividing line between the figure and the base, but a skillful interplay of forms: the un¬ broken face of the base and cross, the narrow plinth on which the feet rest, and the embracing cloak. The base rests upon a platform with a triple step, and is broken near the bottom by a repetition of this triple-step motif. At its corner is an entrance to the room in its base, breaking the contour at that point and giving an angular profile like that of a setback skyscraper. How many people, do you think, would have thought of placing the entrance at the corner instead of in the center, so as to give variety to a symmetrical balance? Near the top of the base, where the

6 The Columbus Statue overlooks the harbor of Palos. Base, 30 ft. square; figure, 64 ft. high. Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, a contemporary American sculptor. 1929 A.D.

150 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

sternness of the unbroken masonry needs interruption, are four accents, four reliefs symbolizing the continents. The cloak envelops the figure and brings its parts into one large unity and with its flowing edge provides the bold diagonal that gives power to the design. Cover this diagonal and see the result.

All the parts of the statue, being broadly generalized, form large simplified areas of light and dark in much the same way as we saw in a Chapel (Fig. 3) . There the bold simplicity of the two volumes creates, when seen from any angle, an expression of strength and aspiration. Or, make the comparison with the Nebraska State Capitol (Pl. 24). Here again simple geometric volumes unite, by their shapes, proportions, lines, and light and shadow, into a lucid, coherent, rhythmic whole. So too in the Columbus. Its big simplified masses are like the impelling masses of the Chapel and of the Capitol.

To be sure the statue represents some one — Columbus. But not the individual Columbus except as the individual Columbus is an epitome of courage, faith, and daring. So that the statue symbolizes the faith and courage of any adventurer, as the Chapel and the Capitol symbolize the strength and aspiration of any people. In each case a con¬ vincing idea has found suitable form.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Carve in soap the chief masses and planes of this and the succeeding stone statues that we study. Be sure to show the important masses and planes only. Omit all detail. To do this satisfactorily it is necessary to have illustrations from several angles. (See Fig. 75 for a suggestion.)

2. Find statues which commemorate historical events. Study them as to (a) what the artist felt and thought about the subject; (b) design: mass, contour, light and dark; (c) re-

Plate 39

Columbus Memorial. Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. As in certain buildings (Pis. 2, 3, 24, for instance), grandly simple masses convey a grandly simple impression. (Mrs. Whitney)

Plate 40

Khafre, an Egyptian Pharaoh. A simple organization, with planes generally parallel to the sides of the block of stone, which creates an impression of repose and majestic dignity. (Metropolitan Museum)

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 151

lation of the design to the artist’s conception; (d) relation of the design to its setting.

KHAFRE, AN EGYPTIAN PHARAOH

Turn from Columbus to Khafre (Pls. 40 and 42) . 7 How much alike they are! There is the same simplicity, dignity, enduring monumentality. To be sure the Khafre is small in comparison, though it is of life size, and is cut from one block of stone.

Seated quietly, he turns neither to the right nor to the left. Figure and throne form a very compact unit with a simple contour to which everything is subor¬ dinated, and their surfaces closely fol¬ low the surfaces, or planes, of the orig¬ inal block of stone (Pl. 37B and Figs. 74 and 75) . You are constantly reminded of this block by the general squareness of the design. From a frontal point of view the only variant to a perfectly symmetrical balance is the different position of the hands, the right holding a handkerchief, the left resting flatly on the knee. The arms are so placed that their cylindrical shapes are brought into harmonious alignment with those of the legs. The head rests squarely on the broad shoulders and is connected

7 Khafre also called Cephren or Cheops. Sculptor unknown. Of diorite, about life size. About 2850 b.c. Cairo Museum.

Fig. 74. View of (Pl. 40).'

Front

Khafre

Pig- 75 - Organi¬ zation of Planes in Khafre (Pl. 40).

152 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

with the trunk by the folds of the headdress and by the

beard.

The volumes of which the entire statue is composed — the head with its enclosing headdress and hawk, the trunk, the arms, the legs, the throne — all are clearly revealed by largely unbroken masses of light and dark, because the planes that bound these volumes are highly simplified. Take one detail, for example, the upper part of the figure seen in profile. The spherical volumes of the head, the shoulders, the bird, and the rectangular volume of the throne, are fitted together with the precision of the archi¬ tectural members of a building. The volumes of the head and shoulders are united to the throne by the body of the hawk that stands upon the back and enfolds the head with outspread wings. The curved contour of the shoulder repeats that of the head, of the bird’s head, and of the under edge of the wing; and the contrasting straight lines and angles of the headdress and the upper line of the wing add virility. The clear, direct coordination of these parts recalls the same kind of harmonious unity that we saw in building, for example in Santa Maria in Cosmedin (Pl. 16A). Khafre is as architectural as the church; or, in other words, the church is as sculptural as Khafre.

Another element that assists the eye to travel through the design is the differentiation in texture between the smooth surfaces of the flesh, the headdress, and the throne, and the broken areas of the hawk’s plumage, the flaps of the head¬ dress, the kilt, and the decoration of the throne.

Here then is a statue that conveys to us by the organiza¬ tion only or by its mass a feeling of dignity and majesty. What is its subject? Why did the sculptor carve it? Only to compose his stone into an interesting design? We have

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 153

already called our statue by the name of an Egyptian king. That implies a portrait.

To understand the reason for such a portrait, let us re¬ call something of the spirit of Egypt as we met it in the Temple . Contrasts of geography are reflected in contrasts of building. A rich narrow valley is squeezed in the grasp of relentless deserts; rich decoration is held subordinate to overwhelming mass. Happiness, gayety, and wistful awe of the mysteries of life and death characterize the Egyptian. With a strong conviction of a life beyond death for which the body must be preserved, he laid great stress on tomb building and even provided a likeness of the body to take its place in case of its destruction. Hence the im¬ portance of the Great Pyramids, which are royal tombs (Fig. 2 ). The statue of Khafre was one of a row of statues in the vestibule of one of these pyramids (Pl. 4 2) . 8 The room is severely simple, and its impressiveness results partly from its proportions and partly from the great piers and roofing stones of beautifully cut red granite. Its only decoration is the row of portrait statues, as quiet, as aus¬ terely simple, as the room itself.

Here then was the original setting and the purpose of our statue: to stand in the vestibule as a decorative element and at the same time to present a likeness of the king. Does it look like Khafre? No one can say. Probably in a general way it does. He wears the usual dress of his time: a headdress of linen brought smoothly over the forehead, where was affixed a serpent (now broken off), the mark of royalty; an artificial ceremonial beard (also broken off), held by straps up over the head; and a plaited kilt. The hawk, enveloping the head, is the symbol of the sun god,

8 The Pyramid of Khafre (Cephren or Cheops) is the second of the three Great Pyramids. At Gizeh, near Cairo. About 2850 b.c.

154 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

for in flight it flies toward the sun. Now to the Egyptian

the pharaoh is half divine, the son of the sun, and hence

the presence of the hawk is indicative of his semidivine

station.

The conception of the unknown artist who carved the Khajre had regard partly for the appearance of Khajre, but largely for that for which he stood: a majesty and kingly feeling not granted other mortals. Just as in the Columbus Memorial it was the idea rather than the man that mattered most. The quiet pose, the simplified ex¬ pression of form, the clear simple relationships of the parts of the mass to each other and to the block of stone — all these factors contribute to an expression of calm and lofty dignity. It is this harmony between the form and the idea that gives the statue its quality.

It is carved from one of the hardest of stones, diorite. To attack a stone like this with hammer and bronze chisel meant patient, persistent effort which would force upon the sculptor a drastic kind of simplification and a terse ex¬ pression of form. Would not a feeling of monumentality and endurance inevitably result?

THE TOMB OF A PRINCE

With the simple organization and quiet gravity of Colum¬ bus and Khajre in mind, journey to Florence (Fig. 53) and make your way at once to the New Sacristy of the Church of San Lorenzo and without noticing the rest of the room, take your stand directly in front of Day (Pl. 41) . 9 What a difference! The half-reclining giant peers

9 Day, a figure from the Tomb of Giuliano de ’ Medici (PI. 43), son of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Michelangelo not only carved the figures, but designed the entire room (1524-33 a.d.), which was never completed. The portrait of Giuliano, in the niche, is highly generalized.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 155

out at you directly over his great shoulder. Thence your eye is carried backward and forward, in and out, by the spiraling limbs. It is the opposite pole from Khafre. There, was quietude and poise; here, restlessness and tumult. Both are obedient to the laws of stone-carving; yet the results are diametrically opposed.

In Khafre there is no crossing of the parts of the body. The planes are mostly parallel to the planes of the original block of stone (Fig. 75) ; are vertical, horizontal, at right angles. In Day these same volumes of the same human

figure cross and swing _

around each other, turn \ ^ _\

and bend; they seem to have gathered into them¬ selves the maximum ca¬ pacity of the human fig¬ ure for movement. Yet the movements are not haphazard or disorderly.

With both consonance and dissonance they move rhythmically about the imaginary axis of the figure (Fig. 76). The great sweep¬ ing plane of the back and flanks forms a base of strength and solidity, with a largely unbroken contour which bal¬ ances the jagged contour above. Compare in the profile view of Khafre the repetition of similar contours rather than the opposition of dissimilar. 10 Yet the restless Day, even as the quiet Khafre, occupies a space determined by the original block of stone, a rectangular mass which one easily feels as he looks at the figure from several points of view (Fig. 77).

Fig. 76. Organization of the Planes in Day (Pl. 41). The figure consists of three primary masses which spiral around the axis within the space de¬ termined by the block of stone. Com¬ pare Pl. 44.

10 Compare also in this connection Pis. 37 B and 44.

156 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

The head of Day is turned sharply to the right, so that it faces the spectator squarely over the shoulder. The right arm, turning in the opposite direction, encircles the body. The right leg, paralleling the right arm, moves to the left, while the left, swinging forward, cuts sharply across the upper right and then flows into harmonious unity with the lower part, a harmony that is emphasized by the lines of the drapery. In fact all the restlessness of the movement

that flings itself about the shoulders and rears itself in the sharply bent knee seems to find final rest in the quiescence of this harmonious grouping of the lower limbs.

The room in which the tomb stands, the New Sacristy, shows similarities to Saint Peter's (Pl. 23) : upward move¬ ment held in restraint. The dominant motifs are the rectangle and the curve, both linear and spatial. Shallow pro¬ jections and recessions catch the light and hold shadow and half-shadow, cre¬ ating a movement that is backward and forward as well as on the surface. Study for a moment the corner of the room. The pilasters and cornice form a sharply defined rectangle divided into a doorway and a niche. The parts move back¬ ward and forward; some are deep, some shallow. The series of rectangles plays up into the curve; the curved brackets carry the curve down in the rectangle of the door and break the angularity at that point; the garlands and discs repeat the curve inversely — every detail so relates to every other that the corner becomes a harmonious design in three dimensions. It is really abstract sculpture.

Fig. 77. Side View of Day (Pl. 41). Note the compactness of the figure and its subordination to the block of stone.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 157

The tomb not only fits into this design through its use of the same motifs, but also becomes a focal point in the room because of the enrichment of details and of the addition of figure sculpture.

The architectural framework of the tomb is rather quiet, with well-balanced verticals and horizontals and a slight use of the curve. In the upper part the strong shadow, the broken cornice, and stronger ornament balance the more powerful masses below. The sculp¬ ture forms a triangle, inclosing simi¬ lar triangles, happily combined with the architectural setting, for the diagonal lines give virility and con¬ trast (Fig. 78) . But the design is not on a two-dimensional surface, as the drawing might indicate. Like the corner at which we have been looking, the forms are three-dimen¬ sional masses that move backward and forward — within narrow limits, to be sure — and throw strong shadows that play so important a part in the design; as, for example, the horizontals made by the cornices, the masses of dark in the upper part of the niches and beneath the sarcophagus which contribute to the strength of the base.

Just what significance Michelangelo attached to these figures is not clear. To him, as we have already said, the human figure contains an infinite number of beautiful de¬ signs. These, however, are valuable not only as abstract designs but also for the expression of that inner life which makes the movements of the figure significant. Certain positions and movements express quietude, poise, serenity;

Fig. 78. Linear Pat¬ tern of the Tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici (Pl. 43).

158 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

others, restlessness, tragedy; some, profound thought or epic grandeur; others, facile gayety or lyric grace. It is the same principle that we have seen in Columbus and Khafre, that of fitting a form to an idea. With Michelangelo there is no quietude, no calm. His own restless soul reflected the restlessness and the conflicting forces of his day. “ Lay blame on the times,” he says in a letter, “ which are not favorable to art.” Day is a giant of conflict. Beyond this we cannot go. Why is it so? Because, though the block of stone still holds sway over the space that it occupies, the planes swing backward and forward through the mass, keeping the eye ever in motion. Is it not well that sur¬ rounding Day there are reposeful spaces?

THREE FIGURES FROM THE PARTHENON

In Khafre and Day we have seen two general types of stone sculpture: one, with its planes closely following the planes of the block of stone, quiet, static; the other, with its planes spiraling about the axis of the block, restless, dynamic (Figs. 75 and 76). Turning to the Three Figures of Pl. 45, 11 do we see any relationship with either of these two types? The figures are quiet and majestic, figures of stone — you do not forget that nor do they intend that you should — with all the feeling of the mass and texture of stone, yet with a vitality of their own; figures that give you not an illusion of the flesh and blood prototype, the model, but a suggestion of its potential grandeur, a feeling en-

11 From the sculpture of the east pediment, the subject of which was the Birth of Athena. These figures have never been identified satisfactorily. Three Fates, Three Attic Horae, Clouds, Sea in the Lap of the Earth, have been suggested. Of Pentelic marble, colossal in size. Though they may be the work of Pheidias, one of the great Greek sculptors of the fifth century b.c., this cannot be proved. About 438-32 b.c. Taken to England in 1801. British Museum, London.

Plate 41

Day, from the Tomb of Giuliano de’Medici. Michelangelo. A complex organization, with planes spiraling about the axis of the figure though still under the control of the block of stone, which creates an impression of restless¬ ness.

Plate 42

Vestibule to the Tomb (the Pyramid) of Khafre. The reposeful and majestic Khafre fits perfectly into this simple room.

Plate 43

The New Sacristy of San Lorenzo. The restless Day fits perfectly into this rest

less room.

Plate 44

An Unfinished Statue. Michelangelo. Notice how the space occupied by the figure is determined by the four-sided block of stone. The body is so turned that one arm is parallel to the front plane (compare PI. 37B) and the head, in the piece of stone still uncut, faces the side plane. Notice the chisel marks.

THEARTOFSCULPTURE 159

hanced by the quiet undulating rhythm that binds them together, a movement like that of a deep and quiet sea (Fig. 79 ) •

One, at the left, is erect and alert, and is turning ex¬ pectantly to the left; the second sits in a crouching posi¬ tion, bending over the reclining figure that rests upon it in complete relaxation. How the three flow together into a unity that seems so casual and yet so harmonious and inevitable! Serenity and harmony seem to be the words we keep repeating. Stone made beautifully serene and har¬ monious, suggesting a serene and harmonious life in the person represented; and, at the same time, fitting into its place in the corner of the pediment unostentatiously, as if it belonged there. To be sure this group is now in London, but in imagination let us see it in its original place on the temple.

Take the single figure at the left. It has neither the immobility of Khafre on the one hand, nor the restlessness of Michelangelo on the other. Though seated in a frontal position like Khafre, the figure shows a slight movement to the left to which every part of the body responds, one shoulder lowered, one leg thrust back, the head turned, the right arm raised, giving life and movement to the statue. In Khafre, we are practically unaware of this move¬ ment; in the Greek figure we are fully aware of it; in the Day, dramatically so. In the Greek, the easy movement throws the body into curves so that the eye is carried from one mass to another by an easy, flowing rhythm which pro¬ duces a feeling of tranquillity.

But what about the block of marble? Whether you look at the figure from the front or from the side, you feel a predominance of planes that parallel the planes of the original block (Fig. 75), that is, a four-sided organization.

160 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

Yet there is a movement, a tilting of the planes without crisscrossing (compare Fig. 76). They are simplified and broadly modeled; that of the chest, for example, presents a surface but lightly broken. This gives a broad quiet expanse of light which enhances the monumental effect. In the rest of the figure the drapery plays an important part. Let your eye be guided by its folds and see how closely its lines follow the surfaces. How insistently you feel the backward movement of the plane made by the back thrust of the right leg, because of the few strong lines

Fig. 79. Organizing Lines in the Figures from the Parthenon (Pl. 45).

radiating from the left knee! These lines, you will notice, are really shadow obtained by undercutting the marble deeply. Follow them through the group and see how they form a quiet rhythmic rise and fall (Fig. 79) that is pleas¬ urable in itself. It is an easy, continuous flow of line in which change of direction is made without abruptness and minor lines are kept subordinate. The fact that broadly treated planes dominate the lines of the garments and the lines in turn accent the planes is an important reason for their harmony; and harmony in the organizing of the

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 161

block of stone reflects a harmony of inner life in the figures represented in the stone.

What, you ask, do the figures represent? We do not know specifically, except that they are divine or semi¬ divine personages, who in the eye and mind of the Greek of the Parthenon age, like Agathocles, were serene, majestic, idealized humans. One purpose of these figures, then, was to give expression to this idea of a majestic humanity. In Greece man was the unit of life and among the citizens there was democracy. Even in the popular Greek religion

Fig. 80. Organization of the Planes in the Figures from the Parthenon

(Pl. 45).

of the Parthenon age man was the measure of all things/* so that the gods were visualized as like him. Thus the idea to be represented, a serene, balanced type of life, ac¬ cords with the design of the block of stone, a design that is peculiarly majestic yet reposeful in the flow of its planes, lines, and lights and darks.

But there is one more element to consider in our under¬ standing of these figures. And that is the original site. Khafre was a decorative element in an astonishingly simple room with overhead lighting, a situation into which it fitted with perfect harmony. These Greek figures belong to a decorative group that filled the pediment of the Par-

162 THE ARTOFSCULPTURE

thenon, in a diffused, out-of-doors light, a group that we saw was necessary to give broken light and shade and curved lines to balance the severity of the rectilinear char¬ acter of the building (Fig. 22 ). The sculptor in each case had the discerning eye to realize that there must be har¬ mony between the statue and its function.

A JAPANESE SAINT

What a brooding tranquillity in this figure seated on a high pedestal, meditatively resting his chin on his uplifted hand (Pl. 46) ! 12 The crossed leg might appear too informal to an Occidental; to the Oriental it is a pose of great dignity.

Let the eye wander where it will. It irresistibly follows the boldly cut lotus petals of the base and the crisp folds over the pedestal and legs into the large quiet surfaces of the upper part of the figure and thence is caught by the contrasting vivacious movement of the richly patterned halo. How delightful and easy this movement is, orderly yet forceful, giving the figure a feeling of tranquillity and power that seems to reflect an inner poise born of some great conquest!

What has the sculptor done to convey this impression even to a Westerner who understands but little of the meaning of the figure? From a base fringed with lotus petals rises a cone-shaped seat covered with a drapery and a cushion, on which the Saint is seated in a frontal position with no turn of the body to the right or to the left, like Khafre (Pl. 40) , but with considerable freedom of pose because of the crossed leg and the lifted hand, and also because of the bending of the figure as the head rests upon

12 Japanese Saint. Of wood. In a monastery, Chuguji, near Nara. Suiko period, 552-645 a.d.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 163

the hand. A strongly felt vertical axis falls from the point of the halo about which the figure is balanced. On the left the arm is in alignment with the leg. Together, whether seen from the front or the side, they present a unit, both of mass and of line. On the right is the opposing movement of the crossed leg and uplifted arm. Thus vivacious variety balances reposeful uniformity. The abrupt right angle made by the legs is softened by the curves and diagonals of the folds of the dress, which unite with the folds of the stuff thrown over the pedestal to bring the figure, cushion, and pedestal into one inseparable unity. Notice how, from the side view, the smaller curves are united by one sweeping fold from waist to ankle that repeats the sweeping line of the arm and leg.

You probably are thinking of the similar role that the drapery plays in the Parthenon figures (Pl. 45 ). There the garments are more naturalistic, look more like cloth. In the Japanese figure they are more conventional, with greater insistence upon a decorative pattern. Each, we feel, is exactly right in its own place. To interchange them would be ruinous.

The crisp cutting of this drapery as well as the rather loose contour of the figure do not suggest stone but wood. The features too show the same incisive carving. The lines of the brows, lids, nostrils, and mouth cut directly across the vertical axis with precise regularity, giving the face an impression of quiet symmetry and harmony. This impression results, then, not from an attempt to imitate natural appearance, but from an arrangement of natural features into an oval-framed pattern. All its lines are curves set forth by shadow, which harmonize with the curve motive of the entire design. For, looking at the figure as a whole, it resolves itself into rounding surfaces

164 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

and curved lines, a flow of both surface and line yet with

invigorating contrasts and stabilizing verticals.

Thus we have seen that the nature of the design har¬ monizes with the nature of the general impression that the statue gives us. What is its meaning? This we may learn from a Japanese Buddhist. According to Buddhist belief, a person pursues a long series of lives, each of which ad¬ vances or retreats, according to its rightness, to or from the “ attainment of wisdom,” which is Buddhahood. Now the last step to that “ enlightenment ” is the stage of the Bod- hisattva, who corresponds in a general way to the saint of Christianity. This particular Bodhisattva is called Mai- treya, a name based on the word “ to love.” He loves all living things tenderly, birds, animals, and flowers as well as man, and is not only compassionate toward their weak¬ nesses but actively working for their salvation, that is, for their attainment of Buddhahood. Through his long series of lives and his gradual conquests over himself he has won his own inner poise. Thus his character combines strength and tranquillity. In visualizing such a Saint, the Japanese artist felt that he was concerned not with a being that was like a human, as did the Greek, but with something mys¬ terious, something less easily understood. Therefore his tendency was to depart from naturalistic appearance and to use symbols to express his ideas. The figure has broad shoulders and a narrow waistline; the different parts of the body are modeled with no detail but with gently rounding broad surfaces; and the face, as we have already said, is conventionalized. Symbolic meaning we see in the base decorated with petals of the lotus, as we saw in the Taj Mahall, in the knob of wisdom on the head, and in the elongated ear lobes which have renounced the costly jewels that weighed them down.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 165

Thus when we see the Mai trey a with our Western eyes we see a figure whose form conveys to us the delight of a fine design. When we understand something of its inner meaning we then realize that here is not only carving of wood into a rhythmic design of great beauty, but also a noble design befitting a noble idea.

READING

Coomaraswamy, A., Buddha and the Gospel of Buddhism, N. Y., Putnam, 1916.

Okakura-Kakuzo, Ideals of the East, London, Murray, 1920. Taki, S., Japanese Fine Art, Tokyo, Fuzambo, 1931.

A BRONZE MAIDEN

In contrast to the Oriental figure with its emphasis on con¬ ventions and symbols, we turn to a statue whose form lies closer to natural appearance (Pl. 47) , 13 Its compact mass is dominated by a supple rhythm and its planes and con¬ tours flow with grace and charm. We do not know the purpose or the original placing of the statue. It seems to represent a girl removing her garments as she prepares for the bath. The left arm rests on a low pillar; the right holds the drapery, about to drop it; around the head is wound a scarf. This simple everyday incident gave the artist the opportunity of revealing the beauties of the human body.

For at least two reasons the Greek emphasized the human figure in his art. First, because, as we have seen, he visual¬ ized his gods as men and women, and much of his sculpture consisted of temple statues. In the second place, athletics played a great part in Greek life. The Greeks were an

13 Bronze Maiden. Height, 10 in. Greek, late fifth century b.c. Antiquarium, Munich. Parts of the statue are lost — the arms, a low pillar, and the drapery held in the hands.

166

THE ART OF SCULPTURE out-of-doors people who made the development of fine bodies an essential of education and of life. Every day in the gymnasium the youths boxed, wrestled, danced, and ran, naked, to the accompaniment of music while the elders watched and discussed philosophy and politics. Thus all the Greek people were trained to see the beauties inherent in the figure, and the artists in particular always had before them examples of how the body in its parts and as a whole reacted to different conditions. Thus they looked to nature as their teacher rather than to abstraction and symbols. This, however, is very different from saying that they copied nature.

The nude, then, to the Greek was a natural everyday commonplace; and in it he saw the most beautiful thing in nature, just as Michelangelo saw it, with infinite capacities for the organization of its parts into significant arrange¬ ments. So that whatever his subject matter — a god or an athlete, an expression of austerity, majesty, or simple charm — he could mold the body to an expression of it.

In the little Bronze Maiden, then, the figure is used be¬ cause of its capacity to express lyric charm. If the figure was a portrait or a commemorative statuette, probably such was the personality portrayed. Just how did the sculptor produce this result? The figure is swung on a great S-curve so that the surfaces of the volumes catch the light, giving, in our view, a rhythmic movement with four strong accents. This results from the pose of the figure. The weight is thrown on to the right side, leaving the left leg free, slightly thrown back and with the heel raised. The left arm rests firmly on the low shaft; the right freely holds the garment. This pose brings about a balance between the free and the weight-carrying parts and an easy balance to the entire figure (Fig. 81) . A statue so posed is like

Plate 45

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Plate 46

A Japanese Saint. The brooding repose of the figure is expressed through a conventionalized form (compare PL 72 for a similar attitude toward form in another medium). The crisp cutting, the less compact grouping of the parts and the irregular contours indicate wood carving. (Okakura-Kakuzo, ed., Japanese Temples and their Treasures. Department of Education, Japan)

Plate 47

A Maiden in Bronze. Grace, charm, and great unity in the easy rhythmic flow of masses and of contours, as one great rhythmic sweep incorporates all minor rhythms. The dark color and the high lights indicate bronze. (Clarence Kennedy)

Plate 48

A Victorious Charioteer. An expression of balance and self control. The compact mass with quiet contours varied by the outstretched arms, the dark color of the bronze and the crisp detail carry well in the out-of-doors.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 167

a sentence with chiasmic structure. In both there is a cross arrangement of the parts:

“ I cannot dig

to beg

I am ashamed.” 14

But easy curves intensify their charm if combined with straight lines. These are here afforded by the decided feel¬ ing for the vertical axis about which the parts are balanced, by the verticality of the right leg and of the low pillar on which the left arm rests, and by the ver¬ tical folds of drapery. Further contrasts we find in the surfaces. The folds of the headdress, the silver inlay of the eyes, the finely engraved mass of hair over the forehead and stray locks near the ears, the folds of the drapery — all these ani¬ mated surfaces emphasize and enhance the smooth-flowing surfaces of the body itself.

There are several ways in which this statue differs from the others that we have studied — in its sharper contours, darker color, much stronger accentua¬ tion of light at certain points, and sharper differentiation between the light and the dark; also, when the lost drapery is added, in a greater freedom of pose, as if

Fig. 81. Chias¬ mus in Sculpture. The right leg and the left arm carry the weight; the left leg and the right arm are free.

14 H. W. Fowler, Modern English Usage. Chiasmus is from a Greek word meaning to make the letter chi, which is like our X. In writing it means that the order of words or phrases in the second part of the sentence is the opposite of that in the first part.

168 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

not limited by an original block of stone. All these qual¬ ities are due to the bronze technique. Bronze is not brittle, like stone. It can be welded or soldered, and so polished and finished that the seam is invisible. In our Maiden, for example, the arms were made separate and soldered on. Thus the sculptor in bronze is working in a material that is not as limited as that of the stone-carver. The dark color of the metal against the light sharpens the silhouette. Metal has a strong reflective quality, causing concentrated high lights, and the artist must so design his figure that these lights will accent and harmonize, rather than obstruct and confuse. So in our Maiden, the four masses of light mark the controlling rhythm. How we would like to run our hands over this bronze and feel the rhythmic undula¬ tions of its surfaces and thus let our hands feel what our eyes see!

TWO COMMEMORATIVE STATUES

A Victorious Charioteer An Indian Warrior

This youth is a Charioteer (Pl. 48) , 15 and more than that, a victorious Charioteer. Yet he stands so restrained, so dignified, so impersonal. Our eyes observe it all, easily and clearly — the clean-cut contours of the compact mass; the fine curves of the head; the firmly erect yet easy pose; the contrasting outstretched arm; the crisp lights and darks; the strong straight folds at the base swinging into curves above the girdle, then wavering lightly as they rise over the shoulders. The simplicity of the statue seems so direct, the quiet strength so inevitable.

15 Charioteer. Greek. The figure is one of a chariot group, and was discov¬ ered (1896) at Delphi, in two pieces by a retaining wall covered with rubbish. Only fragments of the other figures have been found. Height, 6 ft. 480-50 b.c. Delphi Museum.

THEARTOFSCULPTURE 169

Upon the base runs the inscription, “ Polyzalos dedi¬ cated me. Prosper him, O glorious Apollo.” For the statue was dedicated to Apollo and stood near his temple at Delphi. At this shrine, in a wildly majestic gorge on the side of Mt. Parnassus, the Greek sought advice of the god of wisdom and held games and contests in his honor. Rich gifts filled the sanctuary and statues without number dotted the site. Fittingly the place became known as Bronze- crowned Delphi.

The Charioteer was one figure of a group consisting of a four- horse chariot, in which the victor Gelon, tyrant of Syracuse, stood with his Charioteer; possibly a Victory held a crown over the victor’s head. The group, stand¬ ing on a high terrace, could be seen for a long distance against the rugged cliffs and deep-blue sky or the low-lying clouds and rain. Now the most popu¬ lar sport of the Syracusans was chariot-racing; so popular, in fact, that a victorious charioteer was used to decorate their coins (Fig. 82). Hence it seems probable that Poly¬ zalos, brother of Gelon, dedicated this group to commemo¬ rate one of his brother’s victories in the race. The mo¬ ment represented is not the race itself, as on the coin, but when the chariot had stopped or was driving slowly around the arena after the race to receive the acclaims of the crowd.

Because of the site in the open, in a diffused light, it was essential that the statue carry clearly, that is, that it present a mass which the eye could grasp easily, compact enough to

Fig. 82. Coin of Syracuse Showing a Victorious Chari¬ oteer. Below the figure is a set of armor, the prize in the race.

170 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

make a strong silhouette, yet loose enough to let the light, air, rain, or blue sky play into it to bring it into harmony with its environment. Detail, because of the dark color of the bronze and the distance, must be strongly accented. These are just the characteristics of our Charioteer: a com¬ pact, almost cylindrical form, highly simplified contours,

with an effective variety in the out¬ stretched arms, and detail sharp and strong.

Let us look a little more closely. The figure stands erect with weight balanced firmly on both feet. The deeply cut folds of his dress, holding deep shadow and catching the light along the ridges, emphasize the erect¬ ness of the figure. There is a slight turn of the torso and head, giving movement and vitality to the figure. The dress above the girdle is again deeply cut, with sharp edges and a curvature suggestive of the turn of the body. Over the shoulder and arm the cloth falls into many small irregular folds not as deeply cut, giving more rapid and more delicate play of light and shade. To see this variety in the folds compara¬ tively, isolate each with a finder (Fig. 83). In the head also the sharp cutting of planes brings the features out clearly and emphasizes curves — in the brow and the nose, the lids, and the mouth — which repeat the curves of the brow, the fillet, and the contour of the head.

Is this a portrait, you ask? There is not enough indi¬ viduality about it to suggest more than a generalization. But that was exactly what the Greek desired. He was in-

Fig. 83. A Finder to Isolate Details for Com¬ parison.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 171

terested not so much in the individual as in the species. So here it is the species of the chariot-driver, calm, poised, with great capacity for alertness when called upon to be alert, all the body and mind under complete control. That is the characterization which the sculptor wanted to por¬ tray. And how has he done it? Taking suggestions from natural appearance, he has so organized the mass of the figure that its proportions, its quiet unbroken contours, its line, and its light and dark all harmoniously work together to express the quality of restraint and quiet balance that is his subject. Again it is form and idea, neither the one nor the other predominant but the two inextricably fused.

Now let us turn for comparison to another group, in a twentieth-century American city (Pl. 49) . 16 Although the artist’s conception of his subject is dramatic and his expres¬ sion one of tense energy rather than of restraint, never¬ theless the controlling principles have been the same. The statue stands in a large open space; on one side, the expanse of Lake Michigan stretching to the horizon; on the other, a solid line of huge buildings with a busy thoroughfare skirting its base. Standing now beneath clear blue skies, now almost enveloped in mist, snow, or smoke, whether seen against the open sky toward the lake or against the wall of windows and the moving fringe of traffic, the group presents a clear silhouette.

While the subject matter — a man and a horse, therefore two bodies, two heads, two arms, six legs, a tail — makes impossible as simple a mass contour as with the single figure, yet how clear and unified is the entire space sug-

16 An Indian Warrior. Ivan Mestrovic, a contemporary sculptor of Yugoslavia. The statue is one of a pair of mounted Indians made in Mestrovic s studio in Zagreb and cast there in a primitive way by the cire-perdue method (see p. 145 note 3). They were shipped in pieces and reassembled, 1 9 2 9 > Grant Park, Chicago, where they now stand.

172 THE ART OF SCULPTURE

gested! A rectangular volume controls the mass as sternly, though not as obviously, as the block of stone controls Day (Pl. 41) . At the same time the unity of the masses, from many points of view, is varied and coherent. From the side (Pl. 49) the rider holds himself closely and firmly to the horse and draws the bow with the full strength of his sinewy arms. The omission of the bow is effective — the

pose is perfectly intelligible without it and much more stimulating to the imagination — because it saves the group from distracting lines which would mar the unity of the design.

Note this unity in the sil¬ houette (Fig. 84). The two figures interlock compactly be¬ cause the square mass of the horse’s head and mane fit into the angle formed by the erect body and the outstretched arm of the Indian. The sil¬ houette fills a square whose vertical and horizontal lines are constantly repeated. What stability is given the group by the strong vertical that starts at the horse’s ear, follows a muscle in the neck, and is taken up by the firmly placed left foreleg! Then across the pattern of squares play the strong diagonals of the Indian's taut arms and legs, con¬ tinued and repeated by those of the horse, and by the strong curves of the horse’s flank and tail. To bring variety into the design, the contrast is stressed between the smooth and the animated surfaces. The broad areas of the body of the horse contrast with the broken areas of the mane, tail, and feathered headdress. The muscles too create a vivacious

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Fig. 84. Vertical, Horizon¬ tal, and Diagonal Lines of Or¬ ganization in the Indian War¬ rior (Pl. 49). Through these lines sweep great curves.

THE ART OF SCULPTURE 173

pattern. For this reason they seem exaggerated when seen at close range. But as with all detail in bronze, strong emphasis is necessary if it is to carry at a distance. Thus your eye is guided by these accented areas until you feel a rhythm that carries you throughout the group and holds you firmly there because of the strong contours of the dark mass.

Yet again we remember that the design is not a flat pat¬ tern but a group of volumes. The effective grouping is largely due to the fact that while the horse is in a direct frontal position, four-sided like Khafre (Pl. 40) , the rider, because he is pulling back upon the bowstring, presents his arms and torso in profile from the frontal view of the statue and in front view from the profile, thus creating a twisting movement similar to that of Day. This combination of two sculptural types creates the final impression. The dra¬ matic intensity of the Indian is balanced by the greater poise of the horse. Yet the two are so unified that the total effect is one of controlled intensity of life and action. And this is the meaning and purpose of the statue — to com¬ memorate the heroic days of the Middle West, when life was dramatic and tense but not uncontrolled.

READING

Casson, S., Some Modern Sculptors, London, Oxford Press,

1920.

Poulsen, F., Delphi, London, Gyldendal, 1928.

Part Six

THE ART OF SCULPTURE IN RELIEF

S culpture in relief lies between the three-dimensional and the two-dimensional arts and partakes of the char¬ acteristics of both. Like sculpture in the round, it has at least some mass, almost as much as the latter in high relief (Pl. 50B), and a practically negligible amount in low relief (Pls. 51-52) where, like a painting, it only sug¬ gests depth. But whether high or low, it is always attached to a background and like a painting is seen from one point of view only.

The Parthenon again will illustrate. Pl. 50B shows a metope (see Pl. 7 and Fig. 22) in which a struggling Cen¬ taur and Lapith 1 furnish vigorous movement within a square area. Yet the figures are so fitted into the square that the contours repeat, with variations, its four sides; and notwithstanding their vigorous action, they move from side to side only (not forward and backward) and present to the eye large areas of almost unbroken surface, which emphasizes the frontal plane and the plane of the background. These two planes, like two parallel sheets of glass, determine the space occupied by figures. Nothing projects in front of or behind them. So clearly and defi¬ nitely does the eye move from the front to the back that the mind easily grasps the suggestion of the space occupied by the figures and their orderly relationships within the space. Compare Pl. 50A. 2 The crowded figures, moving in all directions, suggest no definite space and no harmonious unity; and the eyes soon weary of looking at them.

In low relief the controlling front and back planes are

1 From the south side of the Parthenon. British Museum, London.

2 Roman Relief of the late third century a.d. Terme Museum, Rome.

Plate 49

An Indian Warrior. Ivan Mestrovic. Intense energy controlled by a simple organization: two compactly grouped figures of dark bronze with a vivacious broken silhouette held sternly within a square. (Art Institute of Chicago)

Plate 50

A. A Late Roman Relief. The figures are crowded confusedly into the space without organization (compare Pis. 50B and 51).

B. A Struggling Centaur and Lapith. Vigorous movement held sternly within a square and be¬ tween two parallel planes (compare PI. 49 and Fig. 84). The two figures are so posed in relation to each other and to the square space that they present large areas of unbroken sur¬ face parallel to the plane of the background and with the help of the shadow which the projections cast create an interesting pattern within the square. The ground was painted, probably red, thus emphasizing this pattern. (British Museum)

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Plate 52

Grave Relief. Eric Gill. There is the same clarity here as in PI. 51 due to the same practices in carving a relief from a slab of stone: two parallel planes of stone control the space, and movement is from side to side, not from front to back or vice versa (compare PI. 50A).

THE ART OF SCULPTURE IN RELIEF 175 very close together. In Pl. 51 3 see how convincingly you feel the horses one behind the other. The eye moves from a definite front plane by definite steps to a definite back plane and you have no difficulty in understanding the space, though your fingers, touching the stone, can find a depth of but an inch or so. Notice again that the figures are in profile and that the movement is from side to side. How clearly and how pleasantly there are presented to the eye several mounted youths of stone moving across the line of vision! And how beautifully harmonized are the ab¬ stract idea of movement and the concrete expres¬ sion of a cavalcade! Seen between the contrast¬ ingly static columns (Fig.

85), now it becomes rhythm only. You forget the youths. Then, be¬ cause you are a Greek, imaginatively, you remember them again. For this is the great Panathenaic Procession s the cavalcade in which Agathocles took part that August morn¬ ing. So the idea of rhythm and the idea of the procession and all that it means to a Greek are fused.

Look at the frieze a little more closely. The riders, three and four deep, gallop along easily and naturally. There appears to be ample space for them. Though there is great variety in the movements of both the horses and the men, they just fill the space from top to bottom, whether they are standing or mounted, giving a level line of heads at the top that produces a definitely felt rhythm. Such an arrangement, of course, is not based upon natural

3 A fragment from the Parthenon Frieze which ran around the top of the temple wall inside the colonnade. Of Pentelic marble, 40 in. high. British Museum, London.

Fig. 85. Parthenon Frieze Seen be¬ tween the Columns.

176 THE ART OF SCULPTURE IN RELIEF proportions. Perhaps the cavalcade is not as naturalistic as we first thought.

Let us look further. As everything is kept in profile, except for an occasional turning of a youth toward a front view, the broad expanse of the horses’ bodies provides large quiet areas in contrast to the breaking up of the space below by the legs. The horses’ bellies form another hori¬ zontal to parallel that of the heads; and the hoofs that touch the ground, another. Verticals are felt frequently,

falling from head to hand to hoof, while through the resulting angular pattern sweep great curves (Fig. 86).

You may say that nature, not the artist, provided this pattern. To be sure nature pro¬ vided the elements — heads, bodies, arms, legs — but it was the artist who organized them into something that our eyes delight to see just as our ears delight to hear the tones that some musician has organized into harmony. Compare this with any photograph of moving mounted horsemen taken in profile. Do you find that the figures organize into a pat¬ tern of repeated horizontals, verticals, and curves? Herein lies the difference between nature and art.

We see the same clarity of expression, due to the same handling of stone, in a relief by Eric Gill (Pl. 52) , 4 the artist who said that “ the sculptor’s job is making out of stone things seen in the mind.” Here again we find the

4 Gravestone. Of Portland stone, 4 ft. high. 1928 a.d.

Fig. 86. Line Organization of a Section of the Parthenon Frieze (Pl. 51).

THE ART OF SCULPTURE IN RELIEF 177 feeling of two definite planes, the front and the back, with movement from the central figure to the side and from the side to the center but never from front to back. See how skillfully these two directions of movement unite in the central figure. The head, the outstretched arms, and some of the lines of the drapery carry to the right, while most of the drapery lines and the sharply bent knee carry to the left. How clearly does a thin slab of stone, without losing its identity, convey to us what the artist sees, feels, and thinks!

READING

Brown, G. B., The Fine Arts, London, Murray, 1916.

A Short Guide to the Sculptures of the Parthenon, London,

British Museum, 1925.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Make a detailed study of the sculpture of the Parthenon as architectural design, showing why the sculpture in the round in the pediments, the high relief on the metopes, and the low relief of the frieze are each architecturally right in its own place.

2. Find photographs of processions of mounted horsemen to compare with Pl. 54 A.

3. Adapt the suggestion given under sculpture in the round (p. 150) to sculpture in relief.

4. As the examples in this chapter are confined to stone relief, it would be well to compare with them examples in bronze and to note the same differences that we found between stone and bronze sculpture in the round. The doors of the Baptistery in Florence (Pl. 21) offer a good point of departure. Find also examples in wood.

Part Seven

THE ART OF PAINTING

S hould any one ask you which of the arts you enjoyed the most, would you answer music and painting? The majority of people probably would; music, they say, be¬ cause of its rhythm and painting because of its color. Yet many paintings of the highest quality, such as the Chinese (Pls. 59 and 7 2 ), have been painted in monochrome, that is, with one color only: black, white, and the intermedi¬ ate grays. Color, in fact, is but one element or means of expression in the hands of the painter.

Other means are line, and light and dark. He has no mass to organize, as the builder and the sculptor have; only a flat surface — wall, canvas, wood, silk, paper — that has two dimensions, height and width. But a painter can create an illusion of depth which often seems very real. In Pl. 7 1 , for example, you walk a long way before you reach

the farthest house and the poplar tree.

With these means, then — line, light and dark, and color — he creates forms and space, and organizes them into a coherent design, all on a flat surface. Is not painting then more limited than the other arts? On the contrary, it is much more flexible, with capacity for greater range of subject matter and of expression. A painter can success¬ fully represent or suggest movement that goes on indefi¬ nitely, like wind in the bamboo (Pl. 59) and flowing water (Pls. 7 2 and 73) ; a builder or sculptor can only represent, successfully, arrested movement. For the painter this is both an advantage and a disadvantage. For while it gives him a much wider range of expression and appeal, at the same time there is danger of its degrading into mere copying of nature.

THE ART OF PAINTING 179

To continue our comparison of painting with architec¬ ture and sculpture, does painting impose upon the artist a definite site and a definite function? It would seem as if these limitations hardly existed when we wander past miles of museum walls covered with paintings. But here also we must recall the fact that many pictures, like statues, have been torn from their original homes and are now in an artificial setting. Their stories have been both roman¬ tic and tragic, stories not only of the older pictures but of such recent work as that of Cezanne or Van Gogh. Great altarpieces have been taken apart and tossed aside when a whim of style banished them, one part finding its way to one collection in one city and another into a museum in another city. Most have been repainted or revarnished. They have suffered from dampness, lain forgotten in cellars and attics collecting dust and grime; they have been scoured with destructive cleansers, made over to serve a new master, inscribed with well-known signatures to trap a collector. Series of frescoes have been whitewashed — fortunately, for whitewash is an excellent preservative — but when later discovered beneath it, have been ruined by the “ restoration ” of a tenth-rate painter. Many a paint¬ ing has passed from hand to hand until with a sudden turn in popularity it finds a resting-place in a wrong environ¬ ment, in company with other works of art suffering from the same fate. But when we have traced the life story back to its beginning, again we often find that a definite func¬ tion and especially a definite location limited the artist and that the picture is successful not in spite of that limitation, but because of the harmony between the limitation and what the artist wished to express.

Once more to make a comparison, painting like all the arts is a craft and subject to the principles of the craft. It

180 THE ART OF PAINTING

is one of the oldest in the world. The earliest cave paint¬ ings were made before man learned to build for himself. Yet from the time of these to this very day, in all the con¬ tinents of the globe, the painter has created form with the same means — lines, light and dark, and color on a flat surface; sometimes with one only, as with line; or with varying combinations.

Line. It sounds like a commonplace. Yet how many kinds of line there are and how many things you can do with it! Of itself it may be delicate or virile, firm or wavering, broken or unbroken, flowing or angular. This may be the result partly of the instrument. A very delicate and sensitive line can be made with the silver point, a silver pencil that must be used on specially prepared paper; or by a fine brush; or by pen and ink. Then there is heavier ink, there are pencils of all grades of hardness and softness, brushes of all widths and pliability, the bold red and black chalk, and the brush of the Oriental, which has a possible range from the most delicate hair line to that of the greatest strength. Again, line, whatever its quality, may be straight, curved, or zigzag; horizontal, vertical, cutting across on a diagonal. Each has a significance. The vertical suggests uplift, majesty; the horizontal, repose, quietude; the diagonal, movement, so that it is very dy¬ namic; the curve also suggests movement, but a movement of suavity or grace. Whatever its direction, the line may be interrupted in its movement, visible here, lost there, picked up farther on; or it may be strongly felt but quite invisible. It may combine with other lines in an infinite number of ways.

Light and dark differentiate the parts of the design more clearly than can line alone. Compare the drawing of Botti¬ celli (Pl. 58) with the Persian Miniature (Pl. 64) as an

THE ART OF PAINTING 181

illustration. In the latter the figures stand out more em¬ phatically because each is an area of color. Some colors are much darker than others. For example, yellow is light; blue, intermediate; and red, dark. Or the tints and shades of one hue alone produce an effect of light and dark, as we see in many textiles and wall papers. When there is natural illumination of the objects in the picture, from the sun or from any artificial source of light, then we have light and shadow that give an effect of roundness and depth (Pl. 67).

Color is one of the most effective and varied means of expression. Its power is partly physiological. We are all familiar with the feeling of cheerfulness aroused by yellow; that of quietude, by blue; and that of excitement, by red. Because of this physical response, as well as from associa¬ tion of color with nature — such as the white and yellow of light and of the sun, the blue of the sky, the green of foliage, the reds and yellows of fire — colors have taken on meaning. Yellow, for example, symbolizes the sun god; blue, heavenly love, truth, and fidelity; red, ardent love, fervor, and passion. The power of color is also partly due to its inherent characteristics. Some colors are warm, like red and yellow; some are cool, like the blue and the blue- green. Some appear to advance, like red; some retreat, like blue (see page 90). So it is the problem of the painter to study each color both in itself and in its relation to the other colors, and then to decide which harmonies, which contrasts, which discords, will convey most exactly the feeling that he wishes to express.

We have been talking of the elements with which the painter works — line, light and dark, and color on a flat surface. But back of this we may go and ask where he gets his colors and how he fixes them permanently on the flat

THE ART OF PAINTING

182

surface. It is only recently that the painter has been able to purchase color put up in tubes and pans ready for use. Heretofore he bought the raw pigment — the Italian paint¬ ers at the apothecary’s shop — and ground and mixed it for himself. Pigments come from earth, from vegetable and mineral products, or are made artificially. The earth supplies some reds, yellow, browns, in soil stained by iron, from which the color is obtained by grinding and washing. Copper is one source for greens and blues. Lapis lazuli produces, by a long, tedious process, a much-treasured ultramarine blue. Scarlet or vermilion is secured from cinnabar, an ore, or made artificially. Blacks are based upon carbon, obtained by burning twigs, bone, fats, and other substances. Thus many forms of nature as well as man’s ingenuity are called upon to provide the raw ma¬ terials of color.

Having obtained his pigments in dry powdered form, how is the painter able to render them sufficiently fluid to be handled with his brushes and at the same time to adhere to the surface permanently? That is our second question. There are several ways, quite different both in method and in effect. Those that we shall discuss are fresco, tempera, oil, and water color.

Fresco is very old and almost universal. Its name most appropriately suggests the process: a fresco, the original Italian form, meaning “ on the fresh ” (plaster), that is, painting on moist plaster with color mixed with water. The color does not sink deep into the plaster but remains close to the surface, of which it becomes a part by chemi¬ cal action, permanent and inseparable, surviving with the wall, and destroyed with the wall.

Let us watch Michelangelo paint a figure in fresco on

Plate 53

Madonna and Child. Detail from an unfinished Adoration of the Magi. Leonardo da Vinci. The figure of the Madonna is sketched on the white ground; that of the Child is modelled in light and shade and is ready for the local color. Yet notice that all the grace and charm of the Madonna that Leonardo wished to express is already complete in the preliminary work. To him it may well have been complete.

Plate 54

Head of the Delphic Sibyl. Michelangelo. Great simplification of form;

free bold brushwork. Fresco.

Plate 55

Head of a Lady. Florentine, artist uncertain. Fine brushstrokes, sharp con tours, generally flat and decorative. Tempera.

Plate 56

A. Cyclamen, Detail. Charles Demuth. The white paper B. Sunflowers, Detail. Vincent van Gogh. Short vigorous left untouched by the paint forms the petals of the flowers brushstrokes of thick pigment give a vibrating texture to the about which are built up, in water color, the leaves and stems. surface. Direct oil.

(Art Institute of Chicago)

THE ART OF PAINTING 183

the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel . 1 It is very early in the morning. The chapel with its lofty scaffolding resounds with rapid steps and cheery voices, for yesterday word came that today the master would begin the Delphic Sibyl (Pl. 54), starting with the head; and by the time he ap¬ pears everything must be ready for him to take up his brushes. From his drawings the apprentices know the exact location of this head and already have laid the final coat of fine plaster about an inch thick so that it will dry just enough to stand the master’s test — a slight impress of his finger. Some of the younger boys are mixing the colors; others are climbing the scaffolding with brushes and pots of freshly mixed paint. The oldest has the mas¬ ter’s drawing of the head, the main lines of which he is tracing on the moist wall. All is ready as the master appears at the door. Climbing the scaffolding, he looks about him with a critical eye, tests the plaster, tries a bit of color. Comparing the tracing with the drawing, he makes a few changes. For painting on wet plaster is done so swiftly and so surely that it must be carefully thought out in advance and a preliminary drawing made in detail. Then, dipping his brushes into the pots, with broad bold strokes he models the features, the folds of the headdress, the hair. He must be sure of himself, for once the color has been laid on it can be neither removed nor changed; and he goes over any part of the work twice only if the plaster is still wet. Hour after hour he works, sometimes sprinkling the surface if it appears to be drying too quickly. He has but a limited number of hues, for not all colors can withstand the effects of the lime. Finally the day’s work is done. The head is finished, a good day’s work,

1 Delphic Sibyl. Vatican City. 1508-12 a.d.

184 THE ART OF PAINTING

for the figure is to be of colossal size. Along the joining of the neck and the dress he leaves a mark where an incon¬ spicuous joining of plaster can be made for the next day’s work.

When he sees the work dry, the next day, he may wish to make a few changes. He may add a detail or darken a shadow a secco, that is, “ on the dry ” (plaster) with paint mixed with gum or egg. But he knows that it will look hard, lack the freedom of the true fresco, and also be likely to peel off. Hence rarely did such a craftsman as Michelangelo resort to retouching. His work must stand as he did it first. Hence the difficulty of the tech¬ nique. Yet how he gloried in it! For it was the mark of the real master to work successfully in fresco. Its require¬ ment of rapid work results in a large boldness, directness, and spontaneity; and its restrictions of color, in a softened and rather even tonality, so that in the hands of a genuine artist it is one of the most successful wall decorations, especially since it can be carried out on a large scale. Since it is of the same material and texture as the wall, one might say it really is the wall, made pleasing by having its surface broken into harmonious and contrasting masses.

Tempera (Pls. 55 2 and 65) means painting on a wooden panel with color mixed with some material to make it adhere firmly, such as gum, honey, or egg, diluted with water. To a panel of seasoned wood is glued linen over which are applied coat after coat of gesso (plaster of Paris mixed with glue or size). Each coat is smoothed and pol¬ ished until the final surface has a finish like ivory. The design may be drawn first on paper and then transferred, as in fresco, or directly upon the gesso. If the background

2 Florentine School, about 1460 a.d. Poldi Pezzoli Museum, Milan. Color reproduction, Medici Society of America, Boston.

THE ART OF PAINTING 185

or any details are to be gold, this is put in first and bur¬ nished. Then begins the underpainting, that is, the lights and darks are painted in a green or brown (Pl. 53) . 3 Over this are laid many coats of local color — the blue of the sky, the greens of the trees, the reds, blues, yellows, and greens of garments, the flesh-colors. The paint is applied in fine, close brush strokes, and dries so quickly that it is impossible to fuse the strokes or to alter them. Deep tones and dark shadows are difficult to secure because they must be built up by many coats and by hatching — that is, by close parallel strokes. Finally it is varnished, except on the gold parts, and put in the sun to dry. It is obvious that tempera cannot be used on large-scale paintings, as can fresco. Yet it is very decorative, for the small clean- cut brush strokes create precise, rather sharp contours. The forms are slightly modeled, with no deep shadows and no violent contrasts, creating a rather flat pattern and a smooth enamel-like surface. The color is more limpid than intense. The light, penetrating the translucent coats, is reflected by the gesso and underpainting, creating the impression of depth and luminosity that harmonizes so well with the gold. Tempera is a precise, painstaking method, with great capacity for the expression of re¬ strained feeling.

The disadvantages of tempera — the tedium of execu¬ tion, too quick drying, difficulty in blending colors and in fusing light and dark — led painters to experiment with some more flexible vehicle in which to mix the pigment, something that would dry hard, but not too quickly, would blend and fuse, and would protect the painting from harm¬ ful effects of moisture. Out of this experimentation has

3 Leonardo da Vinci was commissioned to paint this altarpiece in 1480 a.d. but never carried it beyond the underpainting. Entire panel, about 6 ft square. Uffizi, Florence.

186

THE ART OF PAINTING grown the oil technique. Though there are many kinds of oil painting, they may be roughly classified as indirect and direct. The indirect is closer to the tempera, for its initial stages are the same. The design is worked out in detail and the figures are modeled in light and dark in an underpainting of brown, red, or green, usually opaque, which forms a solid ground. Over this are superposed many thin layers of local color made by mixing the pig¬ ment with oil until it is quite fluid. Some of these layers are transparent or translucent ( glazes) ; and the light, pene¬ trating them and reflected by the solid ground, produces an effect of inner radiance. Others are opaque. Thus the surface carries contrasting effects. With each coat the pic¬ ture is thoroughly dried and bleached in the sunshine so as to extract all superfluous oil, which in time would yellow the painting. 4

In direct painting the surface alone carries the effect, for the pigment is mostly opaque. There is little or no underpainting and the composition is sketched in lightly. The color is not added after the light and dark, as in the indirect method, but along with it. The brush stroke is important, for much of the effect depends upon surface beauty. The paint may be very thin, showing the texture of the canvas, or thick enough to cover it solidly, or so thick and rough that it catches the light and casts shadow as in a low relief. In the Sunflowers by Van Gogh, for example (Pl. 56A) , 5 the pigment is so thick that it creates a vibrating surface which combined with the intensity of the yellow produces a powerfully emotional effect. In

4 Early works of Titian illustrate this method; fifteenth century Flemish paintings are among the best examples. See H. Gardner, Art Through the Ages , N. Y., Harcourt, 1926, Chap. XX.

6 Vincent Van Gogh, a Hollander, 1853-90 A.D., lived chiefly in France. Small color reproduction, Artext Prints, Westport, Conn.; large, The Arts Publishing Corporation, 232 East 54th St., N. Y.

Plate 57

Monkey Pursued by a Hare and a Frog. Toba Sojo. A maximum of life and spontaneity expressed with the

slightest means, line alone.

Plate 58

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THE ART OF PAINTING 187

addition, the heavy pigment suggests the coarse texture of the plant, so that the reality of the Sunflowers is felt more keenly because of this surface quality. How Van Gogh, merely by the way he uses his pigment, glorifies the flowers of the sun!

Thus the oil technique offers the painter a wide range of possibilities and, especially in the indirect method, a freedom in handling that is suitable for a quick impres¬ sion. The process has inherent in its very nature a capacity for force, impetuosity, or vagueness in contrast to the clear- cut, restrained, and painstaking tempera.

In water color painting the pigment is mixed with water, as in fresco, and applied to paper. The paint may be trans¬ parent, allowing the white ground of the paper to show through, or the paper may be left uncovered in patches to furnish the light (Pl. 56A) . 6 The paper may be tinted, thus giving a dominant hue to the picture, or it may be very rough, causing some of the liquid pigment to sink into the hollows and leave the projections white, thus securing a vibrating, almost sparkling surface when the artist needs such an effect. One wash, like a shadow, may be carried over another, though very little repainting is possible. For water color, like fresco, depends for its effect upon its freshness and spontaneity. A faint pencil sketch is usually made as a guide to the brush. The color is then washed over the paper, suggesting what is represented but giving little detail. Perhaps in no other medium can the painter gain such an effect of exquisitely delicate tones, and of ephemeral types of expression. The pigment may also be opaque, or body color, as it is sometimes called. The colors are mixed with opaque white, which furnishes the

6 Charles Demuth, a contemporary American painter. Birch-Bartlett Collection, Art Institute of Chicago.

188 THE ART OF PAINTING

light instead of the white paper. Sometimes the trans¬ parent and the opaque colors are used side by side to ob¬ tain a vibrating surface, just as transparent and opaque layers are used in oil painting; as translucent and half¬ opaque streakings are used in Gothic glass; varying tones of a single hue in the ground of Persian carpets; the play¬ ing of a theme by several differently pitched instruments in a symphony.

Each of these methods of placing the lines, lights and darks, and colors on the flat surface — fresco, tempera, in¬ direct and direct oil, water color — is a craft in itself, with its own advantages and limitations. By each method paintings of the highest quality have been produced. But quality, which is the mark of a great painting and without which no painting is great, is not dependent upon crafts¬ manship alone. For hand in hand with craftsmanship go sensitive vision, emotion, imagination, and intelligence.

READING ON THE TECHNIQUE OF PAINTING

Blake, V., Art and Craft of Drawing, London, Oxford Uni¬ versity Press, 1927.

Holmes, C. J., Notes on the Science of Picture-Making, Lon¬ don, Chatto, 1920.

Laurie, A. P., Materials of the Painter’s Craft, London, Foulis, 1910.

Speed, H., Science and Practice of Oil Painting, London, Chap¬ man and Hall, 1924.

SUGGESTIONS

1. Line. Find drawings or paintings to illustrate different kinds of line: delicate or strong, broken or unbroken, firm or wavering. Note in each case the instrument used. Experi¬ ment in making different kinds of line with pencil, pen, brush, charcoal, crayon.

2. Line direction and combination. Find examples of drawings or paintings to illustrate a predominance of vertical,

THE ART OF PAINTING 189

horizontal, straight, curved, or diagonal line; and varying com¬ binations of these. R. Pearson, How to Look at Modern Pic¬ tures, N. Y., Dial Press, 1925, will prove helpful here.

3. Light and dark and light and shade. Make drawings or paintings to illustrate the difference. Textiles may be used for the former. See C. Pearce, Composition, N. Y., Scribner, 1927; J. Littlejohns, How to Enjoy Pictures, London, Black, 1927.

4. Color. For many suggestions on understanding color, see W. Sargent, The Use and Enjoyment of Color, N. Y., Scrib¬ ner, 1923; and A. H. Munsell, A Color Notation, Boston, Munsell Color Co., 1919.

5. Find examples of fresco, tempera, oil, and water color. Find originals if possible or the best prints obtainable to illus¬ trate differences in effect. Experiment in the actual use of these techniques. Select simple, perhaps abstract, composi¬ tions and carry them out in as many ways as possible. Fresco and tempera offer the greatest obstacles but these are not entirely insurmountable.

SOME MASTERS OF LINE

A Hare Pursuing a Monkey An Illustration of Dante Bamboo in the Wind

To use line alone! What can one accomplish with this slender means? Look at Pl. 57. What an epitome of ferocity in the Hare! Aroused to righteous indignation, he pursues a whimpering Monkey with a zeal that is equaled by that of the frog who croaks in anger at some injury to his dignity. 7 The picture is a spontaneous ex¬ pression of a living reality (not an imitation of what is represented to the eye) by means of line alone. This line is now strong and assertive, now so delicate that the brush seems to have touched the paper but lightly. Though

7 The meaning, though uncertain, appears to be a satire on certain practices of the Buddhist priests and pilgrims. It was painted by Toba Sojo, who, as the name implies, was a Buddhist bishop of Toba, a city south of Kyoto, Japan. He lived 1053-1140 a.d.

190 THE ART OF PAINTING

broken, it creates a form, as in the Hare, as powerful as it is terse and stimulating to the imagination in aiding the eye. In the landscape too, a wavy line suggests a hilly country, and a few delicately graded strokes suggest a bunch of grass. By means of line alone everything takes its place in relation to everything else and the mind is so free from distraction by details and by an illusion of nature that it is ready to grasp the significance of the forms.

A similar accomplishment we see in a drawing by Botti¬ celli (Pl. 58) 8 to illustrate a passage in Dante’s Divine Comedy (Purgatory xxv-vi). Dante and his two friends are skirting a narrow ledge bordering the flames; Dante stops in the center to converse; at the left the friends move away. A few delicate lines suggest precipitous cliffs above and below; between, flames leap, writhe, and lightly vanish into the air as the line sweeps upward, now heavy, now light, now lost, again caught and tossed upward. The im¬ pression of these lines — a swirling, rhythmic movement — is the essence of fire. To create a form which suggests the essence both of the flames and of the confining cliffs, was the purpose of Botticelli — not to give an illusion of their appearance.

Depth too is suggested rather than presented to the eye. The fact that the figures are drawn in front of or in the flames hints at their places in space, while the lightness of the lines in the upper cliffs, in comparison with the strength of the lines in the flames, gives a definite feeling of distance. This suggestion instead of illusion of depth keeps the surface comparatively flat and thus contributes to a decora-

8 Sandro Botticelli, an Italian painter, 1444-1510 a d. The set of drawings from which PI. 61B is taken were made in silver point and pen and ink, about 1 492-97, for a finely written copy of Dante which was never completed.

THE ART OF PAINTING 191

tive effect. The uniform ground is broken by line alone (compare Pls. 60-62) into three horizontal bands. The strong central band of darting flame is given ample space; both above and below the lightly broken areas of cliffs and the delicate quality of their contours set off the con¬ trasting strength and movement of the fire. At the sides the curving lines terminate naturally and unobtrusively parallel to the outer edge. Within the band the flames envelop the figures, here encircling a head or radiating from it, there flowing into the curve of a leg or an arm. The figures of Dante and his friends connect the flame band with the band of the cliffs below; the irregular line of the flame tips connects it with that above. Thus all ele¬ ments tie together into a decorative pattern. This was one of Botticelli’s objectives. For the drawing was to be an illustration for a written book, where decorative beauty in harmony with the text was essential.

To find other great masters of line, let us return to the Far East — to China. Chinese painting, with brush and Chinese ink, is a technique peculiar to the East. The ink is a black pigment, sometimes glossy and sometimes dull, made from soot and molded into cakes. When the painter needs some pigment he moistens his cake and rubs it on a stone until he has a semiliquid. The brushes are made of the hair of various animals — rabbit, deer, fox, squirrel, rat’s nose — and are of varying length, pliability, and strength. By understanding thoroughly how to use his brushes and his pigment, the artist can obtain a range of tones from richest black to softest gray. The pigment is applied to paper or silk attached to a frame by rice mucilage and sized. The artist paints directly upon it, sometimes with a preliminary sketch for a guide and sometimes with a slight sketch placed beneath. Seated on the floor, usually,

192 THE ART OF PAINTING

with his work spread out before him and his brush held vertically in his fist, he paints with his entire arm, guiding its movement by the shoulder as well as by the wrist. He must have his design thoroughly in mind and be very sure of his hand, for once he has placed a stroke on the silk it has become indelible and repainting would mean ruin. Such technique requires long years of training, at least ten or fifteen years for any skill at all.

Skill, however, to the mind of the Oriental is not more important than the attitude of the artist to his work. His whole being must be permeated with the spirit of what he is painting. If it is a tiger, every stroke must reveal the ferocity of that animal. To paint a tiger you must be a tiger. This, to be sure, is more or less true of all artists. Significant works of art are such because the artist has him¬ self lived his own creation. But few peoples have so in¬ sistently emphasized the principle as have the Orientals. The following story illustrates this:

It is related of Chinanpin, the great Chinese painter, that an art student having applied to him for instruction, he painted an orchid plant and told the student to copy it. The student did so to his own satisfaction, but the master told him he was far away from what was most essential. Again and again, during several months, the orchid was reproduced, each time an improvement on the previous effort, but never meet¬ ing with the master’s approval. Finally Chinanpin explained as follows: The long, blade-like leaves of the orchid may droop toward the earth but they all long to point to the sky, and this tendency is called cloud-longing in art. When, therefore, the tip of the long slender leaf is reached by the brush the artist must feel that the same is longing to point to the clouds. Thus, painted, the true spirit and living force of the plant are preserved. 9

9 Bowie, On the Laws of Japanese Painting , p. 36.

THE ART OF PAINTING 193

The Oriental technique is wonderfully fitted to convey this sensitive feeling. Take, for an example, a painting of Bamboo (Pl. 59) . 10 The plant is alive, tossing in the wind. The jointed stalk is firm but flexible and the pointed leaves rustle merrily as the wind sweeps in from the left. Each leaf has been painted by one stroke of the brush, broad at the base and tapering to a fine point at the tip. Some of the leaves are near us. These are the darkest, with crisp edges. Others, farther away, are less distinct. The place of each is suggested in space by a gradation in the tone of the ink.

The plant fills the left side and top of the space, leaving an unoccupied area on the right which contains the bal¬ ancing inscription. This writing is done with the same materials as the painting, producing the same quality and gradation of the brush stroke, thus bringing the same kind of harmony into the painting that Botticelli’s drawing does into the book. And just as Botticelli’s drawing gave us an impression of the essence of fire, so this Chinese paint¬ ing gives us not so much a picture of the bamboo as a feeling of it. How little detail is shown either in the stalk or in the leaves! Yet how alive is the plant and with what refreshing gusts the wind sweeps across the paper!

READING

Binyon, R. L., Flight of the Dragon, London, Murray, 1922.

-Painting in the Far East, N. Y., Longmans, 1923.

Bowie, H. P., On the Laws of Japanese Painting, San Fran¬ cisco, Elder, 1911.

Taki, S., Three Essays on Oriental Painting, London, Qua- ritch, 1910.

10 The inscription includes the signature of the artist, “Wu Chen Chung- kuei of Chia-hsing writes and paints.” The seals express the approval of those who have judged the quality of the painting. Yuan dynasty (1271-1367 a.d.). Boston Museum.

194

THE ART OF PAINTING

SOME MASTERS OF LINE AND COLOR

An Egyptian Tomb Painting The Harlequin A Persian Miniature A Madonna of Siena

The cliffs overlooking the valley of the Nile (Fig. 24) seem to be dotted with dark patches, which on close inspec¬ tion prove to be openings into rock-cut chambers. Let us go into one of them (Pl. 60) . n What a charming, viva¬ cious room! An unexpected surprise. The gayest color, chiefly red and blue, with some green and yellow, against the plastered wall; an orderly arrangement of these masses of color in more or less horizontal bands with a bright blue and red border at the top and gay zigzags across the ceiling. A second look shows that many of these color masses are figures which are formed by line, as in Pl. 61; but the areas formed by the lines are filled with color producing light and dark, which is really difference of color. 12

Look at them a little more closely. Notwithstanding the curious method of drawing the figures, there is a liveliness and a feeling of reality about them. A banquet is taking place on the opposite wall (Pl. 61, not visible in Pl. 60) . In the upper zone a group of girls are enjoying gifts of fruit and flowers while a little maid adjusts their earrings. The fat blind harper thrums away at the strings, while below a flute-player and a harpist furnish music for the dancer whose supple body moves to the rhythm. Just out of

11 The Tomb of Nakht and Tawi, in the western cliffs of the Nile at Thebes (Fig. 24). About 1425 b.c. Reproductions in color, including details of Pis. 60 and 61, in N. deG. Davies, The Tomb of Nakht at Thebes, N. Y., Metro¬ politan Museum, 1917. A few of the color plates of this volume can be pur¬ chased from the museum. (See also color prints of similar paintings obtainable from the Metropolitan Museum and from the Oriental Institute of the Uni¬ versity of Chicago).

12 One needs to keep in mind that often what appears to be light and dark in black and white reproductions is really but a color difference in the original.

Plate 59

Bamboo in the Wind. Chinese. The reality of the plant life is expressed with a few skillful brushstrokes. (Boston Museum)

Plate 6o

The Tomb of Nakht and Tawi. Egypt. The gay color, the pattern of the figures against the plaster wall, and the zonal arrangement are very decora¬ tive. (Metropolitan Museum)

THE ART OF PAINTING 195

range of our illustration are a man and a woman seated, looking at the scene, while a pet cat beneath her mistress’s chair is devouring a fish, her part of the feast. The entire scene is vivacious and convincingly real.

Can this really be a tomb? Those who know say that it is a room in the tomb of the scribe Nakht and his wife Tawi, a singer in the temple of Amon, as were all ladies of rank. These were average Egyptians socially, intellectu¬ ally, economically. Hence their tomb would be much more elaborate than that of a peasant, and equally less pretentious than that of a king.

But why is such a scene found in a tomb? Through all social classes in Egypt ran a vivid belief in a future life that lay in the Far West. “ To the West! To the West! the land of pleasant life where all that thou lovest is, the fair West who opens her arms to thee that thou mayest rest.” For this life the body must be preserved and must be provided not only with necessities and comforts but also with pastimes and luxuries. This could be done if the processes of procuring food, and also scenes of hunting and feasting, were painted in the tomb and magic said over them. The result was that on the walls of the tombs the Egyptian spread a vivid picture of the everyday life that he wished to carry with him into the West. Thus the paintings served a definite function as well as a decorative purpose.

The tomb was chiseled out of the solid limestone cliff and, when the wall was uneven, covered with mud and plaster to give a sufficiently smooth surface for painting. The Egyptian painter was a craftsman who worked very much as did his fellow craftsmen, painting what his patron ordered from the traditional subjects that every one used, but with freedom in detail to make his work vivacious and

196 THE ART OF PAINTING

convincing, if he was really an artist, rather than dull and stereotyped. He had no shop from which he could buy his pigments already prepared. His blues and greens he secured from copper, yellows he found in the earth, soil stained by iron; red, from cinnabar or soils; black, from burned vegetable or animal matter. From the reeds that grew so plentifully along the banks of the Nile he made his brushes; and from the Acacia tree he obtained the gum arabic with which he mixed his pigment so that it would adhere to the wall. This painting is not true fresco, but painting on a dry wall, either stone or plaster. Hence some binding material must be used, as in tempera paint¬ ing. For this he sometimes used egg or glue instead of gum arabic. This method of getting color on the wall was the very thing that the Italian painters like Michelangelo avoided — and rightly so. For the dampness of Italy would soon loosen the binding medium and make the color flake off, while the perfect dryness of the Egyptian climate made the method very practical.

On the end wall of the room (Pl. 6o) the formality of the scheme is due to the fact that here at the door — not a real door but one in facsimile — the spirit comes to receive the offerings brought by the kneeling figures and heaped up in a great pile beneath — bread, wine, meat, fruits, lotus. The entire wall space forms a beautiful scheme of decoration harmonizing in its symmetrical balance and its quiet rhythm with the ceremonial that it represents. On the side walls there is more freedom. Here Nakht and Tawi, large in size because of their social rank, are pouring oil of incense over the offering which they are making to the sun god, a scene indicative of their piety. Round about, the slaves are harrowing, threshing, storing the grain, and preparing the meat. On this wall is represented

THE ART OF PAINTING 197

the provision of food both for sustenance and for sacrifice, while on the opposite is the provision of pleasure, the Ban¬ quet Scene with music and dancing.

The entire scheme of decoration is one of horizontal zones, four, broken in places by the large figures. This zonal arrangement is partly decorative but is also the Egyptian way of expressing depth on a flat surface. The four kneeling figures beside the door, for instance, one above the other, convey to the mind of the Egyptian the idea of one being behind the other, all on one level; the door itself, shown above the pile of offerings, suggests to him the fact that it is behind them. Notice how each figure stands out clearly by itself, with very little over¬ lapping. All are essentially in profile. No one faces you exactly. Part of the body may, but never the head.

Look again at the group of girls in the upper zone. They are wearing thin orange-yellow dresses, broad collar neck¬ laces of beads, bracelets, and large earrings. Their wigs — all Egyptians of rank wore wigs — are held by bright bands. Some have wound lotus blossoms in their wigs; others hold and smell them. You soon notice, in these fig¬ ures as well as in the standing musicians below, a great similarity — a lack of such differences as always occur in a group of people — and a peculiar method of drawing the figure. The Egyptian, though observant of nature, ap¬ pears to have little concern about what the figure really looked like to the eye. He had worked out a way of draw¬ ing it that illustrated what he thought and knew about it. It consisted of a trunk whose most conspicuous view was the front, showing both shoulders and arms; of legs whose function of carrying the body was most clearly expressed in profile; and of a head whose most arresting aspect was the profile except for the eye, whose front view he saw and

198 THE ART OF PAINTING

remembered best. Thus he selected the most emphatic aspect of each part of the body and put them all together to form a pattern that meant the human figure. Every one used this pattern but with infinite variations in detail. He could make the pattern stand, sit, run, do anything that the human figure can do. So after we become somewhat accustomed to this pattern, we can enjoy it as much as a more naturalistic appearance. An impromptu dance of Street Boys, for example (Fig. 87 ), who are happy over a

favor bestowed by the king upon some friend, shows what spontaneity can be given a figure drawn in this conven¬ tional way. This little scene also illustrates the expression of depth. Three of the boys are above the lower four, each on a line to indicate something for him to stand upon. What the painter means is that all seven form a group together upon one level. But not knowing how to do this, he naively puts three above, so that all seven are clearly seen. Occasionally we find the Egyptian painter approximating a consistent profile; cor¬ rect, we say, according to what the eye sees. The harper in the upper zone in Pl. 61 and the little maid are ex¬ amples. But he preferred to use the conventional pattern.

That such a conventional method of drawing the figure can lead to something stereotyped and dead we can also

Fig. 87. An Impromptu Street Dance. (Metropolitan Museum)

' THE ART OF PAINTING 199

see in the Banquet Scene. The three seated men in the middle zone, exactly alike, are copied mechanically from a stock pattern with no vitality, while the girls above and the musicians below, though drawn in the same conven¬ tional way, are full of life.

For comparison, let us look at Picasso’s Harlequin (Pl. 62 ) . 13 Are there any similarities between the Egyptian and the twentieth-century painting? A Harlequin, in his costume of entertainer at the comedy, turns pensively from the table at which he is sitting. Is that your first impression? Or does your eye see first a rectangular area of strongly contrasted light and dark masses, through which it is guided by strong rhythms? The painting is just like a building in the exact way in which these masses fit to¬ gether to construct a balanced, coherent whole. Though each part is clearly defined, still no part exists for itself or could be moved or taken away, any more than columns could be taken away from the Parthenon or an arch from Chartres.

The means which Picasso used to secure this coherence are the same as those of the Egyptian — line, and areas of light and dark which are areas of light and dark color. As there is no illumination, there is no shadow, and no at¬ tempt at producing an illusion of depth. Everything is kept flat. The light and dark masses are sharply separated, and are contrastingly broken and unbroken. The main masses are the head and the ruff, largely unbroken; the costume, broken by the checker pattern; the table, un¬ broken except for the match box; the ground behind the figure, unbroken except for the vivacious panel at the top.

13 Pablo Picasso, a painter of Spanish birth (1881 —), usually associated with the French school. The Harlequin is from the collection of the late John Quinn of New York. A reproduction in color will be found in the Encyclo¬ paedia Britannica, 13th ed., in the article “Painting.”

200 THE ART OF PAINTING

But it is not a matter only of light and dark color masses, broken or unbroken. Fundamental motifs control their shapes. Just as a musician interweaves melodies (tone motifs) with variations into a composition, so Picasso inter¬ weaves shape motifs (unit shapes) with variations into this painting — the circle and the triangle. The circle he

suggests in the head, the ear, the flowers, the table, the match box; the triangle, in the ruffs in rapid repetition, in the angle of the arm and the body and of the arm and the table, in the checker pat¬ tern, and in the large masses of unbroken ground behind the figure. It is the play and interplay of these motifs that help guide the eye so rhyth¬ mically: the circle with its swing and the triangle with its point.

Color too is a guide to the eye. Blue, black, and white are concentrated in the fig¬ ure; green, red, and yellow in the ground and the table. Yet yellow-red plays into the figure, in the hands and the red lips, and a bluish tone suffuses the green of the ground. So too the textures unite and oppose: the rough pigment of the broken upper ground, the table, the ruffs, and the hands over against the smoother texture in the plain ground and the dress.

These masses of light and dark color are united not only by their interlocking shapes, by their harmonies, contrasts,

Fig. 88. Organizing Curves in the Harlequin (Pl. 62). Horizon¬ tals are found in the background; verticals and horizontals in the checker pattern of the dress.

THE ART OF PAINTING 201

and interweavings, but also by the great sweeping lines of organization (Fig. 88) . See how, beginning near the upper right corner, a curve sweeps down through the figure and swings strongly to the lower right corner, where the line of the table exactly repeats the line of the figure. From the opposite upper corner a similar curve runs behind the head, is caught and turned by the ruff and shoulder, carried on by the elbow on the table, picked up by the point of the white ruff, the thumb and fingers of the hand in the lower left corner. The curved line domi¬ nates, yet is varied by the suggested horizontals of the back¬ ground and by the verticals and horizontals in the checker pattern and in the uplifted arm.

The balance of these masses and colors is both from side to side and from above and below. Draw a central verti¬ cal axis and you will see that the figure and table are largely on your right. Cover the ruff and the hand on your left, that is, the Harlequin's right hand, and you will see the necessity of a light mass at that point. Although the figure is placed to the right, a strong movement carries toward the left because the figure is turned in that direc¬ tion and because the sharp triangle made by the arm and the table points in that direction. Thus movement is a determining factor in maintaining the balance. So too in the balance between the upper and lower parts. The ground at the top broken by the dashing floral pattern balances the lower part of the panel with its strong con¬ trasts and big sweeps of line. Cover the upper part and see how much of the vitality of the painting is lost, how the balance is upset, and how necessary as an accent is the red four-petaled flower.

There are many similarities between the Harlequin and the Egyptian Tomb Painting: no definite source of illu-

202 THE ART OF PAINTING

mination; no use of light and shadow, no presenting to the eye an illusion of depth; elimination of detail; simpli¬ fication of all forms; large areas of unbroken color. Dis¬ similar, on the other hand, is the attitude toward the figure, notwithstanding the fact that both simplify. The Egyp¬ tian used a simplified form because this form was a con¬ vention handed down to him. Picasso used a simplified form because he chose to. And the simplification is his own. It is a terse expression of form that includes and sug¬ gests an underlying understanding of the figure, of its organization, its capacity for movement, the interrelation of its parts, its existence in space. In the Harlequin, how one feels the weight thrown on the right arm, the hunched- up right shoulder, the lowered left, the inward thrust of the left arm! At the same time, the relationship between the parts of the figure, and that between the figure and the table and the ground, were of equal concern to Picasso. To maintain these relationships clearly he did not hesitate to distort. The top of the table and the match box are more circular than elliptical, to maintain the circle motif and to proportion the light mass at that point. The Har¬ lequin’s left hand is large, so as to afford a large enough proportion of warm color in the midst of the cool blue and white, and to bring the white of the wrist ruff away from that of the neck ruff, and into a definite relation to the light of the table and of the right hand. All through the canvas will be found these variations from natural appearance and proportion for the sake of the unity of parts. In fact, one feels that it was this relationship of parts, all the little subtleties and niceties of organization, that motivated Picasso rather than any interest in a Har¬ lequin. The latter was an excuse for the former. There¬ fore the stronger emphasis lies on the form rather than upon the idea that the form expresses.

THE ART OF PAINTING 20S

Yet one more similarity. How beautifully decorative are both the Egyptian painting and the Picasso! Put the Harlequin in a building of the skyscraper type where there are large unbroken areas. How its dominant architec¬ tural quality would harmonize!

To emphasize the clear-cut decorative quality of the Picasso, turn for a moment to Renoir’s La Tasse de Choco- lat (The Cup of Chocolate) (Pl. 63 ) , 14 Though similar in composition, how different in effect! The canvas vi¬ brates and sparkles with color. The pigment is laid on thick and rough, with short strokes. There are no clearly perceptible lines, only vague contours. A mass of blue (the lady’s dress) contrasts with a mass of rose (the sofa). How these hues echo and reecho in broken masses! The blue, in the cup and vase, now lost in the reds, greens, and whites of the flowers, now reappearing in lighter tone in the ground. Likewise the rose, as it plays against the blue, in the nosegay at the breast, for example. It is color rather than line that guides the eye through the canvas. Every¬ where are the play and interplay of color, harmonious and contrasting, like melodies in a musical composition, full of grace and charm. Compare one detail, the ruffs at the throat and the wrists. In the Renoir they are indefinite, drenched in light and air; in Picasso they are flat pattern sharply defined by line. Each is right in its own place, for each is one harmonious element in the total unity of the picture.

The Egyptian Tomb Paintings and the Harlequin are examples of the use of line and color on a large scale in comparison with what we shall now look at — a Persian Miniature.

14 Pierre Auguste Renoir, a French painter, 1841-1919 a.d. The Cup of Chocolate was painted in 1879. N. Y., Durand-Ruel Gallery. Color reproduc¬ tion, Art News , May 14, 1927, Supplement.

204 THE ART OF PAINTING

On the mountainous plateau east of the valley of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers lies the land of Persia. In the dry season the fields are arid and parched, but with the coming of the rains they become carpets of green and vivid colors which vie in intensity with the blue of the immense sky-dome, clear as crystal. Sheep and picturesque shep¬ herds dot every green hillside . 15

The towns are as full of color as the hillsides after the rain. Brilliantly colored shining tiles cover the mosques and fountains. Gay wares enliven the tiny shops in the narrow streets. At the end of the day the men crowd the little coffee shop and while smoking their long pipes and drinking tiny cups of thick black coffee, listen for hours to the story-teller, who dramatically relates the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, or, best of all, the old stories of their own race, such as the romances of the hunter king Bahram Gur. Always it is a tale of love or adventure, imaginative, colorful, and told with many gesticulations, and with the singing of musical passages to the accompaniment of a guitar.

But it is not the people alone who love these stories. The kings of old so delighted in them that they employed the greatest artists to write them into books and paint pic¬ tures to illustrate them. This was before the days of the printing press, when writing the text was as fine an art as painting the picture to illustrate it. Open one of the royal Persian books (Pl. 78 ). The flowers of the hillsides and

16 For illustrated articles on Persia, some with color plates, see the National Geographic Magazine, April, 1921; April, 1922; December, 1927. For general background, the Arabian Nights. Color reproductions of Persian painting are available in the Metropolitan Museum Colorprints, Near Eastern Miniatures, one of which, “Laila and Majnun in Love at School,” is from the same book as the “Bahram Gur in the Turquoise Pavilion.” Lawrence Binyon, Poems of Nizami, London, Studio, 1928, has summaries of the stories and excellent color plates. [See also the British Museum Postcard Sets (in color), “Persian Paint¬ ing” (C7), and “Persian and Indian Painting” (C9).]

THE ART OF PAINTING 205

the blue of the sky have found their way into its pages, intense, clear, sparkling. Here is the great painting of Persia, small but exquisite. Sensitively placed on a gold- flecked page of pale-blue paper (Pl. 64 ) opposite a similar page containing a panel of writing, the little picture stands out like a cluster of jewels in a perfect setting. The in¬ tense reds, blues, greens, yellows, and white are areas of clear color untouched by any shadow but enriched by a wealth of minute delicate detail and a lavish glistening of gold. Bright and vivacious, its whole atmosphere suggests romantic adventure.

Such was the experience of the hunter king Bahrain Gur with the seven princesses. Seeing seven portraits of seven princesses from different lands, he falls in love with them all, and sends his ambassadors to the king of each of the seven lands, asking the hand of the princess in marriage. All seven accept. Each princess he houses in a pavilion tiled in a different color and each one he visits one day a week.

It is the turquoise pavilion, which he visits on Wednes¬ day, that we see in Pl. 64. 16 The pavilion is incrusted with gayly colored tiles with geometric patterns or arabesques through which, in the panel above the entrance, runs the inscription, “ The foundation of this turquoise dome they have laid and have made a place to entertain the lovers together.” Within, Bahram Gur and the Princess are seated in Oriental fashion on a rug, enjoying a cooling drink from the bottle and cups on the small rug in front of them. In the foreground are musicians and attendants and to the left is a garden with a plane tree and a blossom¬ ing fruit tree.

16 See A Book of Persian Romances, p. 255, note 9, of which this painting is an illustration.

206 THE ART OF PAINTING

The color scheme is based upon blue. Hence the blue of the gold-flecked margin. About this hue is built a de¬ sign of contrasting and harmonious color. Everything is kept flat; depth is suggested, not presented to the eye. The rug and the floor tiles seem hung on the wall, though the figures are seated upon them. Yet is not the idea perfectly lucid? Everything is in clear silhouette, as in the Egyptian Tomb Paintings (Pls. 60 - 61 ), with very little overlap¬ ping. As there is no illumination there is no shadow, and no attempt to make the figure appear round except as the

And to what an extent they do! What reality there is in the various figures! And at the same time what quality of line! Unfalteringly it incorporates all detail into a forceful yet delicately drawn contour and then, as if in an exuberance that must find expression, runs off into rapid zigzag (Fig. 89 ). Charming and irresistible as are the rhythm of line and the jewel-like color, still it is the balanced unity of all elements that contributes most to our pleasure in the little picture. This balance produces a liveliness because of its asymmetry. Compare with it the end wall of the Egyptian Tomb (Pl. 60 ) where, quite ir¬ respective of size, the formality of the symmetrical balance produces the opposite effect of quietude. In the Persian painting the pavilion alone is symmetrical but is relieved from monotony by the variety in the figure groups. Yet see how the pavilion is adjusted to the panel as a whole. The figure of Bahram Gur is exactly on the central axis of the picture and forms an accent because of the dark and

contours suggest volume.

Fig. 89. Sustained and Rapid Movement in Persian Figures (Pl. 64).

Plate 6i

A Banquet. Detail of PL 60 (though not visible). There is a fine sweep of line in these figures which, in spite of the conventional way in which they are drawn, are convincingly real. (Metropolitan Museum)

Plate 62

Harlequin. Picasso. As flat and decorative as the Egyptian tomb paintings. The parts are clearly and sharply contrasted by line, and by light and dark color. (John Quinn Collection)

Plate 63

La Tasse de Chocolat (The Cup of Chocolate). Renoir. In contrast to PI. 62 the painting has a vibrant effect. Light and air envelop the figures, blurring the contours and causing colors and forms to melt into each other. (Durand-Ruel)

Plate 64

Bahram Gur in the Turquoise Pavilion. A Persian miniature. Like PI. 62, though on a small scale, the picture is a flat decorative pattern based upon line and clear intense color. (Metropolitan Museum)

THE ART OF PAINTING 207

light, that is, the strong color of his dress and the white of his large turban. The candlestick and the low table also mark the axis, not with mechanical precision but with slight deviation. The figure of the king is further em¬ phasized by the lines and color areas that create movement toward it from the figures in the foreground. How irre¬ sistibly the darks of the harpist and her instrument guide the eye up to the figure of the king and unite the two groups! Thus Bahram Gar performs two functions in the design: one, as lateral accent in the symmetrical balance of the pavilion alone, and the other as a central accent in the asymmetrical balance of the picture as a whole.

That so strong an element in the composition as the pavilion should be set in one corner, means that equally strong elements must offset it. These are furnished by the more unbroken areas of the tiled foreground, the two standing figures, and the fence and trees against an un¬ broken sky. Cover the part of the picture at the left of the pavilion and see what a difference there is. Thus the seemingly informal, gayly narrative character of the paint¬ ing is a matter of a very subtle balance that controls the lines, the color, and the movement.

It is a difficult technique, the painting of these little pictures, one requiring long training and infinite time. The paper was most carefully selected — the Orientals have always been great connoisseurs of fine paper — and polished with a crystal egg until it was glossy and then rubbed with white of egg or soap to give a good surface for writing and for drawing. The colors were mixed with water and some binding medium such as glue, gum, or sugar. It is opacity of the pigment that differentiates this kind of water color, known as gouache, from the more

208 THE ART OF PAINTING

usual transparent treatment (Pl. 56 B), where the color of the paper is left to form the high lights or show through the transparent washes.

Let us look at one more master of line and color, an Italian. Should an Oriental who knew nothing of Euro¬ pean civilization and the Christian religion stand before this little panel (Pl. 65 ) , 17 I think that he would muse along something in this fashion: “ Here is exquisite feel¬ ing directed toward the two figures in the center and here is exquisite decorative beauty as the deep blues, scarlets, and violets harmonize, contrast, and interweave with the shimmering gold that envelops them with its radiance. Once within the frame I am in another world just as I am when I look at our pictures of Buddha. Wherever I look, these masses of color, the gleaming gold, the lines, and the clear-cut patterning all insist upon my coming back to the large seated figure with a child upon her lap; and always with that same tender feeling. Whoever she is, she inspires the feeling.” Is the Oriental right? Let us go to Siena to answer the question.

Directly south of Florence, about twenty-five miles as the crow flies, among the rolling olive- and vine-covered hills of Tuscany, lies Siena high up on her triple hill (Figs. 90 and 91 ) . A strong wall with fortresslike gates encircles the hills, winding over their lower irregular slopes. At its base are fountains, orchards, and gardens. Thence the city begins to push itself up the slopes. The red-tiled houses become thicker, jumbled together, and even straddle the narrow winding streets, so eager do they seem to press close to the crest where the three hills meet. Here is the heart of the

17 Madonna, Ambrogio Lorenzetti, a Sienese painter whose dates are un¬ certain. He died about 1346 a.d. The size of the panel, which is less than 2 ft. high, suggests that it may have been an altarpiece in a small private chapel. It was painted about 1335 and is now in the Siena Museum.

THE ART OF PAINTING

209

city, above which soars still higher into the sky, as if defiant of all Tuscany, the slender bell tower of the town hall and the striking striped dome and tower of the cathe¬ dral. In the great days of Siena there were many more

210 THE ART OF PAINTING

towers, strongholds of the militant nobles, so that the skyline

of the hill city must have been boldly ominous.

In the Middle Ages the larger cities of Italy were inde¬ pendent republics, called communes, and included the outlying villages and often the larger towns. Great rivalry, largely over trade matters, brought the communes of Siena and Florence into bitter warfare. Though Florence was ultimately the victor, Siena at first maintained her inde¬ pendence, chiefly, so the chronicler says, because of her

Fig. 91. Siena from the Foot of the Hill. On the left rises the bell-tower of the Town Hall; on the right, the mass of the Cathedral.

faith in “ the Gracious Virgin, Queen of Heaven.” 18 So the love of the Sienese for the Virgin was kin to that of the people of Chartres; and its expression in a painting in¬ spired in them a definite emotion, just as the name of Abraham Lincoln does in an American.

The feeling of our Oriental visitor, then, is right. Everything tends to emphasize the feeling of tender adora¬ tion and the exaltation of the central figure. No one needs to know about the story of Siena or of the Christian re-

18 Read the story of the siege of Siena and the battle of Montaperti in E. G. Gardner, Story of Siena (London, Dent, 1902).

THE ART OF PAINTING 211

ligion to feel that. The heart of the feeling is the heart of the design. The Sienese thought of the Virgin as won¬ derfully majestic. So the painter represents her large and majestic, clothed in a blue mantle, for blue is symbolic of her heavenly love. She is seated on a throne in the center against a glow of gold whose rays reach out to the saints and angels, so that the dark silhouette of her figure makes a strong accent against the gold. The contours of this silhouette are kept simple and un¬ broken. Notwithstanding the fact that she holds the Child on her lap, the two are so compactly grouped that no part of the Child's figure ex¬ tends beyond the contours of the Vir¬ gin's robe. Thus a conspicuous mass of strongly contrasted dark and light forms our focal point, about which all the elements are balanced.

See how everything subordinates itself to this balance about an ac¬ cent. Take the line first (Fig. 92 ).

The figures are so placed that they form a great sweeping curve around the central group and send reverse curves toward the lower corners. The kneel¬ ing figures and the carpet provide diagonals, broken in places so as to avoid overemphasis; the standing figures, the crosiers, and the sides of the frame give the stabilizing verticals; the halos and robes of the angels provide the rhythmic curves that swing in and out of the golden rays. Notice how the curves of the top of the frame are one with the lines of the painting. All these lines move inward toward the top and concentrate upon the heads of the cen¬ tral group.

Fig. 92. Line Organi¬ zation of the Madonna of Siena (Pl. 65).

212 THE ART OF PAINTING

But it is not only the lines that move toward this point of concentration. Look at the lights and darks (Fig. 93 ) . Turn the print upside down or cover it with thin paper to see this more clearly. The darkest areas are the Madonna and the kneeling figures. The floor and carpet partake of both dark and intermediate light, for too much of the dark would overbalance the lower part. The intermediate light, or gray, and a little dark play up into the standing figures.

Then everything lightens as it rises to meet the highest light behind the dark central figure.

What appears in the print as light and dark, however, is only difference of color that is clear and glowing. The intense scarlet in the robes of the kneeling bishops and the intense blue of the Madonna’s robe (the darkest tones in Fig. 93 ) repeat, in small areas, through the carpet and the throne; lighter blues, violets, reds, whites, and gold interweave through all the figures; and the gold ground behind the Madonna furnishes the lightest note. What a rhythmic movement, then, of light and dark color and gold to the focal point!

In order to harmonize the lines and colors so as to gain unity and emphasis, Ambrogio had to think out carefully how to compose the figures and objects, how to place each one so that it would perform its function in the design as a whole. We have already noted the strongly emphasized central figure. About it the compact fringe of figures circles not too closely, thus leaving the two in the center somewhat isolated and hence, again, strongly accented.

Fig. 93. Light and Dark Organization of the Madonna of Siena (Pl. 65).

THE ART OF PAINTING 213

The bishops kneel, not only because this is an attitude of humility and adoration but because the kneeling figures, by contrast, make the central figure more majestic. Try changing the poses, making the figures in the foreground stand, and see the difference. And finally the entire group is sensitively proportioned and organized to fit the panel, the curving top of the frame and the encircling angels in¬ extricably one. Thus we see Ambrogio using every ele¬ ment at his disposal for the creation of a rhythmic move¬ ment to a point of interest. That in itself would make a moving design. But combined with that moving design is a moving idea — the exaltation of a majestic personage that grows out of the most profound feelings of a Sienese. The combination, the inextricable unity of the two, creates a work of art of the highest significance.

This Madonna with its exquisite surface of sparkling color and gold, its decorative loveliness and tender feel¬ ing, is an excellent example of the tempera technique, as is indicated by the fine brush strokes, the definite contours, and the freedom from deep shadows. Though it is gener¬ ally flat, still the steps of the throne carry the eye inward; the kneeling bishops and the lower part of the Virgin's figure present some illusion of depth. Here then we see that the painter, if he wishes, need not stay on the surface of the canvas but may present to the eye an illusion of space and organize his figures in that space. How he does it, we shall see in our next chapter.

READING

Abbott, E., Great Painters, N. Y., Harcourt, 1927.

Capart, J., Lectures on Egyptian Art, Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1928.

Munro, T., Great Pictures of Europe, N. Y., Brentano, 1930.

214 THE ART OF PAINTING

Ross, E. D. (ed.), Persian Art, London, Luzac, 1930. Schevill, F., Siena, N. Y., Scribner, 1909.

SOME MASTERS OF SPACE

The Death of Saint Francis The Last Supper The Miracle of Saint Mark The Unmerciful Servant

The Village Road

The Death of Samt Francis (Pl. 66) . 19 Impressions crowd hard on each other: massive monumental forms in actual space; men of great dignity, real in their grief; profound calm; a harmony that seems natural and inevitable. How clearly and easily eye and mind grasp the situation! The

scene takes place in an open secluded spot be¬ tween two buildings.

Fig. 94. Ground Plan.of the Death of There are no onlookers, Saint rrancis (Pl. 00).

no landscape with irrele¬ vant details, to detract from the immediate situation. Above, the soul of the Saint in the form of his earthly body is carried to heaven by angels. Only one of the group has caught this vision; all the others are preoccupied in their grief. 20

Two groups quietly and solidly flank the two sides while the group in the center kneeling and bending over the bier creates a strong movement toward the head of the Saint, the focal point. The symmetrical balance of the sides be¬ comes asymmetrical in the center, thus infusing virility into the monumental dignity. This monumentality is

19 Giotto, a Florentine painter, 1276-1336 a.d. This painting, a large fresco in a chapel in the Franciscan Church of Santa Croce , Florence, was painted about 1325, lay covered by whitewash for centuries, and when discovered in 1841 was almost ruined by repainting.

20 For Saint Francis, see P. Sabatier, Life of Saint Francis of Assisi, N. Y., Scribner, 1927; and The Little Flowers of Saint Francis, Everyman’s Library.

Plate 65

Madonna. Ambrogio Lorenzetti. Tender in feeling and beautifully dec¬ orative with its intense color, gold ground, and generally flat surface with strong rhythms.

Plate 66

Death of Saint Francis. Giotto. A quietly profound feeling harmonizes with a quietly monumental design. There is sufficient consistent depth for all the figures so that the rhythms move in depth as well as on the surface.

215

THE ART OF PAINTING partly due to the scale of the figures (com¬ pare Pls. 67 and 69).

Yet there is a natural¬ ness about the pic¬ ture. Compare it with the Harlequin (Pl. 62) and the Egyptian Banquet (Pl. 61) , in which it is left to your imagi¬ nation to think of the figure as a mass ex¬ isting in space, if you wish. In the Giotto how each figure ap¬ pears to take its place easily as a mass in space! There is room for each. You feel that you could walk in around the group.

Each is presented to the eye so convinc¬ ingly in relation to the others and to the buildings that you can make a ground plan of the group

Fig. 95. Some of the Important Organiz¬ ing Lines in the Death of Saint Francis. A, horizontal; B, vertical; C, the emphatic horizontals and verticals combined with the emphatic curves and diagonals.

(Fig. 94). In other words, Giotto has been looking at people and things and has painted them as they appeared to his eyes. Does this mean, however, that he placed upon the wall an illusion of what his eyes saw? Not at all. On

216 THE ART OF PAINTING

the contrary, his eyes saw the scene as a form made up of forms; his emotions and intelligence grasped the significance of these forms, and organized them into a unity. In order to understand this unity, shall we study it as we have the preceding pictures — analyze it just as we analyze a sentence, a musical composition, or a drama?

Our impressions of the paintings are the result of or¬ ganization, through the means of line, light and dark, and

color, with the additional ele¬ ment of space. Let us study the line first. The impression of quietude and dignity is a result of the emphasis that Giotto has placed on the line of repose, the horizontal, with contrasting lines to give oppo¬ sition and movement: the ver¬ tical, the diagonal, and the curve. See how he repeats the horizontal and the vertical (Fig. 95). But the result is too static. Compare the facade design of the Parthenon (Fig. 21), where the gen¬ eral problem is the same: diagonals and curves are needed. These Giotto concentrates largely in the center, though he repeats them in the sides. Thus the effect of the line organization is consistent with the emotional feeling. Each determines the other. You will notice that these organiz¬ ing lines are felt when not seen. They repeat, break, and continue, guiding the eye to the point of emphasis and bringing unity into the design. There is as much coher¬ ence in the group about the head of the Saint (Fig. 96), for

Fig. 96. Detail of the Death of Saint Francis showing how organ¬ izing lines determine the position of the figure. These lines are not actually seen as continuous lines but are strongly felt.

217

THE ART OF PAINTING

instance, as there is in a well-formed sen¬ tence or paragraph.

However much the organizing lines ap¬ pear to be on the sur¬ face, as Figs. 95 and 96 imply, they create depth and movement as well. Return to the ground plan (Fig. 94). The entire space occupied is shallow, inclosed, like a relief, between two parallel planes — the frontal plane and the background (Fig. 97) . Within this space the movement is not only from side to side, but also from the back to the head of the Saint and from the front to the same place, which is the focal point. Each figure and object is so placed as a definite element of the rhyth¬ mic movement in space that no figure or object or detail could

Fig. 97. Depth Organization of the Death of Saint Francis. The figures have the bulk of geometric masses, two or three figures often forming one mass ( A ), and are so placed as to secure a rhythmic movement about the center of interest ( B ). This movement is generally from side to side even in the center where it bends backward and forward (note the three quarters positions here), and is concentrated within the shallow space determined by the front and back parallel planes (C).

218

THE ART OF PAINTING

be altered without dis¬ turbing the rhythm and the harmony.

Another way to guide the eye through a picture to the focal point is to repeat unit shapes, as we saw in Picasso’s use of the triangle and the circle (Pl. 6s) . Giotto, in creating his forms, constantly repeats, with variations, a triangular shape of curving lines; a spirited pattern made of hand, arm, and fingers; and an oval pattern made by the heads (Fig. 98); and he thereby gains the same effect of rhyth¬ mic movement, con¬ trast, and unity as the

Fig. 98. Unit Shapes (Motifs) in the musician does by the

Death of Saint Francis. Visual motifs, re- repetition and COn- peated, delight the eye just as aural motifs, _ . .

trast of several melo- dies (Fig. 99).

Of light and dark and color we must speak with caution (it is better not to try to deal with the color) because of the repainting. 21 In the original state the contrasts would

the ear.

1

4

t> ^

21 See note 19, p. 214.

Plate 67

Miracle of Saint Mark. Tintoretto. A highly dramatic subject expressed by a highly dramatic design with strong movement in depth. Light and dark and color are the chief organizing means.

Plate 68

A. Flight into Egypt. Giotto. The figures unite with the hills architecturally; that is, every figure and object, every detail in its position and movement takes its place with the nicety of the supporting col¬ umns or walls of a building. Try chang¬ ing a detail and the balance is upset. At the same time the group moves for¬ ward, as a unit, urgently.

B. Flight into Egypt. Follower of Giotto. Here the same com¬ position produces a different effect. The group moves, if at all, with uncertainty. The figures and back¬ ground seem to form two separate units. The terse statement of essentials in A has given way to a loose discursive descrip¬ tion especially in the landscape.

THE ART OF PAINTING 219

not be strong because of the fresco technique. The large area of dark at the top — now much too dark — unbroken except in the center, emphasizes horizontality by its pro¬ portions, and contrasts in its quietude with the vivaciously broken area below. The lightest parts appear to be the large areas of the flanking figures, and the halo and open space about the head of the Saint which are accented by the darker figure behind. The dark mass of the banner is needed as a strong accent to balance the rapid movement from the right toward the center of interest far to the left. A little use is made of light and shadow to express the mass of the figure, but very little, for the light is diffused, not concentrated as in Pls. 67 and 70. Line, after all, is Giotto’s chief means for constructing form. 22

Convincing evidence of the power and significance of Giotto’s painting results from a comparison of A and B in Pl. 68. In A the figures and hills tie together into strong simple unities. In the center, the pyramid made by Mary and the Child fits into the pyramidal mass of the hills behind, keeping the central group isolated and accented. The other figures and objects create balancing units. Yet there is a strong movement of the entire mass to the right, a forward urge, in keeping with the subject matter, that is held firmly by the backward glance of Joseph and of the Angel and by the stability of the central group. 23 How every detail contributes to the lucidity of the organization, so that a moving design clothes the event with significance! Turn to B. The composition is the same, with minor ex¬ ceptions. Yet the figures are far from being welded into a coherent unity with emphasis where needed. Mary and

22 Critics from the time of Vasari to the present have remarked on Giotto’s great ability in the use of line. See the famous story of his O in Vasari’s Life of Giotto.

23 See the same devices to halt movement in the Parthenon Frieze (PI. 51 A).

220 THE ART OF PAINTING

the Child are just part of a group. The entire design is

loose and weak, as if it were falling to pieces.

A comparison of Leonardo’s Last Supper (Pl. 69) 24 with the Death of Saint Francis will illumine both paintings. In both we have a dramatic moment: in the Giotto, one of profound quiet; in Leonardo, one of intense excitement in balance with perfect repose. In each painting the artist conveys the impression by means of a form fitting the idea.

In the Last Supper we see the twelve disciples grouped about the reposeful Christ in a reposeful room. The dis¬ ciples, in their reactions to the amazing statement, “ One of you will betray me,” fall naturalistically into groups of three, each group closely knit within itself and at the same time definitely united with the neighboring group. None press too closely to the central figure, thus keep¬ ing it isolated and emphasized as is the Madonna (Pl. 69) . The room is spacious, with paneled walls and cof¬ fered ceiling, and with three windows opening on a quiet landscape.

In organizing this material into a unity, Leonardo has made important use of line (Fig. 99). Long unbroken horizontals in the table are repeated, broken, in the win¬ dows and the ceiling. Vertical lines, repeated by means of the paneling and the windows, give balance. The di¬ agonals of the receding room all lead to the focal point, the head of Christ. In this quiet framework the figures furnish

24 Leonardo da Vinci, a Florentine painter (1452-1519 a.d.). On the end wall of the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan. About 1495-98 a.d. Painted in tempera, with oil varnish, on a badly prepared wall, it collected damp and grime, and began to flake soon after it was completed; in 1652, a door was cut through; in the eighteenth century, repaintings occurred; about 1800, when the monks vacated the monastery, the refectory was used to store hay and the painting was seriously injured; in 1908 there began a scientific cleaning, the removal of repaintings, ventilation of the wall to prevent damp¬ ness, and binding firmly what remained of Leonardo’s work. A large color reproduction is published by the Medici Society of America, Boston, Mass.

THE ART OF PAINTING 221

great sweeping curves that move in from the sides toward the focal point, inclosing in their sweep many short subor¬ dinate curves, all of which meet the outstretched hands of Christ . These waves of inward movement are not exactly alike in line or in intensity. For example, at the right of Christ (the spectator’s right) the uplifted hand and finger which make a strong indication of verticality check the on- rushing movement before it can reach the central figure; just as the rapid movement of the cavalcade in the Parthe¬ non Frieze was checked by the fig¬ ure of the marshall (Pl. 51) . These curves are concen¬ trated within the narrow rectangle bounded by the table edge and by the upper line of the heads, which are on an approximate level. Outside this rectangle there is but one curve, that over the window and just above the head of Christ — another means of empha¬ sis upon the center of interest.

In his use of light and dark Leonardo opposes quiet areas of largely unbroken light to the broken animated areas of the central rectangle. The lightest part is seen through the windows. Why at this point? Because the lightest spot in a room is an accent. Here, placed directly above the head of Christ, it provides another accent upon the center of interest. The darkest parts are the panels, the space beneath the table, and small irregular areas among

Fig. 99. Death of Saint Francis. The heads (indicated by the solid areas) deter¬ mine a rhythmic movement that radiates from the head of the Saint. (Kathleen Blackshear)

222 THE ART OF PAINTING

the figures. 25 Intermediate tones are found on the walls, the ceiling, the table, and through the groups. This light and dark is a matter of natural illumination from the left. Falling upon the right wall, it varies what would otherwise be a too monotonous balance of the side walls. The figures are modeled in strong light and shade. Compare these with Giotto’s, where shadow plays but a small part and a diffused light reveals each standing forth clearly. Further¬ more, the strongest light, which is the out-of-doors light

of the landscape,

draws the figure of Christ, the archi¬ tecture, and the landscape — all re¬ poseful elements — into a rhythmic unity in deep space.

The use of space

Fig. ioo. Line Organization of the Last Supper

(Pl. 69).

constitutes an important difference between Giotto’s and Leonardo’s designs. Although Leonardo’s figures are con¬ centrated close to the front, as Giotto’s are, they fit pro¬ portionately into the room. In the Giotto the portals are far too small for the people. But Giotto is speak¬ ing to your imagination, suggesting buildings, and you may, if you wish, increase their size in your mind; and by keeping his figures large he gains an effect of gran¬ deur and monumentality. Leonardo, on the other hand, presents directly to your eyes the normal adjustment of the figure to the space. The room recedes naturalistically, giving a feeling of continuing the actual room in which you

25 One must analyze this painting with caution, as the Giotto, because of its ruined condition. (See note p. 220.)

THE ART OF PAINTING 223

are standing as you look at the picture (Fig. 100) . This feeling, together with the additional impression of depth in the landscape, keeps the eye moving back and forth in the line of vision — that is, at right angles to the plane of the picture — as well as from side to side. In the Giotto the movement is concen¬ trated into a nar¬ row, sternly defined space.

In making these comparisons let us note that neither painting is better than the other. They show different ways

of handling the painter’s means.

Both are of superior quality because the artist has kept his basic design clear,

consistent, and forceful, has eliminated or suppressed irrelevant detail, and with the dynamic of his feelings and intelligence to guide his hand has created a form which is in harmony with the idea that he wished to express. 26

To use again our method of contrast to emphasize char¬ acteristics, let us look at Tintoretto’s Miracle of Saint Mark

Fig. ioi. Refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan.

26 The life of Leonardo, his primary concern with science, his age and his relation to it, are of unusual interest. There are many books on the subject, reference to which will be found in those listed at the end of this chapter. For Leonardo’s famous letter of self-recommendation to the Duke of Milan and for contemporary writers’ descriptions of methods and incidents connected with the painting of the Last Supper, see O. Siren, Leonardo da Vinci (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1916); also Vasari’s Life of Leonardo.

224 THE ART OF PAINTING

(Pl. 67) . 27 Here are powerful movement in deep space, dramatic energy, vivid contrasts of light and dark, rich color. They surge through the picture and dominate it. A group of men and women bend excitedly over a quiet, naked figure on the ground. The people are massed high on the sides, all bending toward that form. Down from above sweeps a figure, cutting in its movement a bold arabesque against the sky. Whatever the subject may be, here is a highly dramatic situation — and a highly dramatic design. Briefly, this is the incident. A Christian slave of a pagan Venetian, because of his persistence in worshiping at the shrine of Saint Mark, had been brought to trial and condemned to martyrdom. As the executioner lifted his sledge to crash it upon the head of the victim, Saint Mark swooped down, split the hammer into pieces, and broke the binding cords.

To create a design that would fittingly express so dra¬ matic an incident, Tintoretto massed strong lights and darks and rich color into what we might almost call a noisy design. Strong illumination, from the observer’s right, flecks the strongly massed darks on this side, in the figures of the judge and of the soldiers. This dark mass then swings backward towards the left around the pros¬ trate slave, the highest light and center of interest, and more and more broken by the light, fills the left side. Be¬ hind these darks and broken darks and framed in by them on all sides is a light quiet area of sky and buildings across which sweeps the dark silhouette of the Saint.

Compare with the Giotto. The one is a design of large quiet areas and reposeful movement; the other, one of broken spotty areas and tumultuous movement: the one has strong quiet rhythms on the surface and in shallow

27 Tintoretto, a Venetian painter, 1518-92 a.d. The picture, painted about 1548 a.d., is in the Confraternity of Saint Mark, Venice*.

THE ART OF PAINTING 225

depth; the other, deep depth rhythms that surge backward and forward in space; the one has diffused illumination and little shadow; the other has a consistent source of strong illumination and hence dark shadows; in the one, clearly differentiated areas of color are marked off by clean-cut lines; in the other, masses of color melt by blurred contours and gradations of tone into a golden glow that ties them into a unity; in the one, the balance is subtly asymmetrical; in the other, notwithstanding the complexity of the groups, far more symmetrical.

We have seen how Giotto used his means to obtain his objective. Let us see how Tintoretto used the same means in a different way to secure a different objective. In the Miracle of Saint Mark the outstanding elements of design are light and dark and color. The light and dark areas are partly shadow masses and partly color masses. The darks on the right and on the figure of Saint Mark contain much intense red, which is dark; while the lightest areas are in¬ tense yellow, which is light. The crowd of people, in their costumes, furnish yellows, blues, and reds, thus breaking the mass into a lively pattern by color as well as by light and shadow. The light of the background is blue and blue-green. Playing through these color masses is a golden light dominating the light areas and controlling the dark, for it bursts through the dark masses now as a high light on armor, now in a turban, a face, or an arm. This golden tone binds into a harmony all the contrasting hues and lights and shadows, producing a dominating tonality that is quite different in its rich effect from that of the Giotto.

This difference is due partly to the difference in subject matter and in the intent of the artist and partly to a differ¬ ence in techniques: fresco in the Giotto, and indirect oil in the Tintoretto, in which the golden tone is the result of

226 THE ART OF PAINTING

the yellow underpainting left exposed in places or show¬ ing through transparent glazes.

Another comparison to bring out the specific quality of the Tintoretto might be made with the Last Supper (Pl. 69) . Here too is a dramatic subject, yet expressed in a much more restrained tone. For though the figures are excited, a much larger part of the design is given over to the quieting architectural framework; the contrasts are less sharp, and the rhythms are more sustained. In comparison, the Tintoretto is agitated, grandiloquent.

How, on closer analysis, has Tintoretto secured this effect? The figures of Saint Mark, the executioner, and the slave form a great S-curve across the canvas from top to bottom, along which the eye is guided not so much by line as by light and dark. While this curve is a surface pattern it is also an S-curve in depth. Beginning with the feet of Saint Mark, it swings backward in the figure, because of the shadow and of the light about the head; then forward along his down-stretched arm to the turban of the execu¬ tioner; back slightly in this figure; then forward into the light mass of the slave’s body. Thus is set up this backward and forward movement in depth, which, at the same time, harmonizes with the movement on the surface. In a similar way another curve sweeps across the canvas from side to side: down from the judge to the soldiers, around the cen¬ tral group, and up on the other side. But like the other S-curve, it moves forward and backward as well as down and up. Organization in space is what one feels most compellingly.

There is one other line of movement, however, that hinges upon the turning of the executioner away from the scene of action toward the judge. This movement is not only necessary to the subject matter but vital artistically.

Plate 69

Last Supper. Leonardo da Vinci. A striking contrast of quiet and dramatic elements: a reposeful central figure in a quiet

architectural framework is opposed to twelve highly excited persons.

Plate 70

Parable of the Unmerciful Servant. Rembrandt. Effective directness results from the simple organization of light and dark masses in space.

THE ART OF PAINTING 227

For the figures are almost all bending toward the slave, so that a contrasting movement is necessary for balance. This is provided by the strong diagonal that runs from the lower left corner through the body of the slave, the movement of the executioner, the dark silhouettes of the three figures in the middle distance, to the judge — a di¬ agonal that is not so much seen as suggested by the light and dark and color masses.

Such strong movement, such agitated rhythms, need stabilizing by more static lines. There is very little of the horizontal — compare the liberal use of this line in the Leonardo — chiefly in the background, where is the great¬ est amount of quietude, and in the horizontal emphasis in the proportions of the frame; but there is considerable use of the vertical in the architecture and in the groups massed at the sides.

From whatever angle we view the picture, we see and feel highly dramatic action expressed in terms of highly dramatic design. It is precisely what we would expect of Tintoretto, that vehement, impetuous painter; and of Venice, just as Ambrogio’s Madonna is the natural expres¬ sion of Siena. Tintoretto was the son of a silk-dyer. Hence his name, which means “ the little dyer.” Of passionate nature, he wisely chose subjects that lent themselves to dra¬ matic treatment. His home, Venice, was a half-Eastern city, for its ships were constantly sailing to eastern Mediter¬ ranean ports and bringing the colorful products of the East to the shops of Venice. Then, too, Venice’s own geo¬ graphic setting was colorful: sparkling water, golden mists, many-hued buildings. Hence the intensity of color, the vivacious contrasts possible in the oil technique, afforded a kind of expression that accorded with the gayety, the love of pageantry, the sumptuousness, of this city of the Adri-

228 THE ART OF PAINTING

atic. Tempera and fresco might well express the cooler, more intellectual Florentine. Not so with the Venetian. His patron saint was Saint Mark, whose winged lion over¬ looked the Grand Canal and whose colorful Byzantine church was the center of the city’s religious life. So when Tintoretto was commissioned to decorate a Venetian in¬ terior with scenes from the life of this saint, the result was predestined — sumptuous stuffs, gorgeous pageantry, dra¬ matic movement, rich color.

In the Miracle of Saint Mark a certain use of light and dark, color, and space produces a vivid, exciting form. In the Unmerciful Servant (Pl. 70) , 28 on the other hand, a dif¬ ferent use of the same means produces a form of restraint and imaginative appeal. Out of the warm brown ground a light or half-light emerges, indicating a figure. Red- browns, yellow-browns, yellows, a little grayed blue — these few hues flow one into another, producing a pecu¬ liarly harmonious effect. In the Tintoretto the rich masses of varied warm color stand out sharply against the golden tone and the cool blue. Light binds them together with dramatic appeal. In the Rembrandt the forms quietly melt one into another and into the ground; and a mysteri¬ ous enveloping darkness binds them together — another kind of dramatic appeal.

Although the figures nearly fill the canvas, there is a feeling of almost infinite spaciousness surrounding them. The broad quiet areas of the ground are not flat dead surfaces but give the impression of great space filled with atmosphere, in which each figure takes its place exactly in reference to the others. You feel definitely that the central figure on the right, for example, is nearer you than the one

28 Rembrandt van Rijn, a Dutch painter, 1606-69 a.d. Wallace Collection, London. Painted about 1650.

THE ART OF PAINTING 229

behind it, because of the comparative strength of the light.

Light and dark, then, and the subtle gradations from light to dark of a few closely related hues — these are the means that Rembrandt has used. It is neither natural lighting nor a consistent artificial illumination, but a use of light and dark that is original and personal with this painter. Line — that is, sharply distinguished line as we have seen it in Picasso (Pl. 62), in Giotto (Pl. 66), in Ambrogio Lorenzetti (Pl. 65) —we do not find. Yet Rembrandt was a superb master of line when he chose to use it as his etchings show. And we search in vain for a wide range of color such as we found in the Tintoretto and in Ambrogio. The means of expression are meager. Look at the picture again. Had you noticed that the figures are but three-quarters length? Does it make any differ¬ ence?

The subject seems to be the parable of the Unmerciful Servant (Matthew 18:23-34). On the right is a compact group of three persons, the servant between two bailiffs. He is nervously fingering his cap as he bends forward to hear the judgment of the master. On the left the dignified, imposing figure of the master at a table with books and papers occupies half the canvas, balancing the three on the right and connected with them by the direction of his gaze and by his outstretched hand, a movement repeated by the hand of the servant. To neutralize the strong movement toward the right, the master’s other hand turns toward the left edge of the canvas; the light masses of the sleeves, books, and papers hold the attention and balance the strong light on the right. Cover the light mass of even the papers alone and you will find that the picture becomes unbalanced.

230 THE ART OF PAINTING

The types of people and the costumes are of Holland. Yet Rembrandt has interpreted the incident on a uni¬ versally human plane. Because he says so little explicitly and leaves so much to the imagination he has given the parable a significance that carries as far beyond Holland as the Death of Saint Francis carries beyond Italy.

To turn from Rembrandt to the Village Road of Cezanne (Pl. 71) 29 is to turn from mysterious shadow and forms

emerging from and melting into dark, to blazing sunshine and forms clearly defined in light. Objects do not blur and melt within its radiance. Rather they solidify because of it, become sharply defined as geometric solids, even the masses of foliage. The road in the foreground filled with sun¬ shine carries you at once, defi¬ nitely, step by step to the red house and the poplar tree far back in deep space (Fig. 102). Try to stay on the plane of the canvas. How impossible it is! The insistent impression is of depth, of space in which the forms stand, each exactly in its own place and related to all the other forms with the precision of the columns in the Parthenon. This architectural quality dominates the Harlequin as well (Pl. 66) , though its forms are essen¬ tially flat on the surface of the canvas, however much they suggest depth to the imagination. In Cezanne the surface

29 Paul Cezanne, a French painter, 1829-1906 a.d. The Village Road is in Hamburg. Small color print, Artext Prints; large, the Arts Publishing Corpo¬ ration, N. Y.

Fig. 102. Depth Organiza¬ tion of the Village Road. Two great planes move rapidly into the distance at right angles to the plane of the canvas and control the design by incor¬ porating all objects in the picture into their sweep. Com¬ pare the controlling planes of Fig. 97 which are parallel to the plane of the wall.

Plate 71

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Plate 72

Nine Dragon Scroll, Detail. Chinese. The forms are almost abstract, consisting of conventional symbols for waves. Tb appeal is to the imagination and the emphasis upon inner meaning — powerful rhythmic movement. (Boston Museum)

THE ART OF PAINTING 231

is utterly gone and the unity is a unity in deep space. The planes move rapidly back into the distance (Fig. 102) at an angle to the picture plane. Compare the planes in Giotto, which run parallel to that of the wall, rather close together, thus producing but shallow space (Fig. 97).

In Cezanne you see and feel space as definitely as you do upon entering Santa Sophia (Pl. 11). In this church all movement is to the dome; so in the Cezanne all movement is to the red house and the poplar. A powerful rhythm di¬ rectly into space reveals itself in the onrushing road, re¬ peated by the roadside grass and the walls. Great curves unite the road, trees, walls, and buildings into a simple, compelling line of direction which recalls again the organi¬ zation of Santa Sophia, with its domes and answering domes, moving to the culmination point. Yet notice how this movement is halted by the insistent verticals in the chimneys, the poplar, the corner of the wall at the left, and the zigzags of the roofs, while the proportions of the frame emphasize the horizontal.

This deep space organization has been expressed largely by color. The surfaces are not as restless as are Renoir’s (Pl. 63), but are quiet and meet with sharp precision. For example, at the left, if you should look at the actual corner of the actual wall you probably would not see so precise a blue shadow to mark the edge where two surfaces meet. Yet how it does define that corner! Why are the tops of the chimneys red? While they may be red on this house, probably Cezanne made them red because the movement inward here is very strong and needs not only the break in the wall and the chimneys to restrain it for a moment but also the additional help of a little red, a color which ad¬ vances and thus helps to neutralize a retreating rhythm.

232 THE ART OF PAINTING

So, too, the red house. Is the house really red? It may be. But again, the rhythm to the focal point has been so power¬ ful that a forward movement is needed for balance. For the balance in such a picture is not only from right to left but also from front to back.

READING

Abbot, E. R., The Great Painters, N. Y., Harcourt, 1927. Barnes, A., The Art in Painting, N. Y., Harcourt, 1925. Cheney, S. W., Primer of Modern Art, N. Y., Boni, 1930.

Fry, R. E., Vision and Design, “ Giotto,” N. Y., Brentano, n. d.

- Cezanne, N. Y., Macmillan, 1927.

Gronau, G., Leonardo da Vinci, N. Y., Dutton, 1902. Mather, F. J., Jr., History of Italian Painting, N. Y. Holt, ! 923 -

Merejkowski, D., Romance of Leonardo da Vinci, N. Y., Mod¬ ern Library, 1928.

Munro, T., Great Pictures of Europe, N. Y., Brentano, 1930. Phillipps, E. M., Tintoretto, London, Methuen, 1911. Taylor, R. A., Leonardo the Florentine, N. Y., Harper, 1928. Van Loon, H., Life and Times of Rembrandt van Rijn, N. Y., Liveright, 1930.

WATER AND ROCKS

Northeaster Nine Dragon Scroll

Water and rocks. Two interpretations: one (Pl. 7 2) Eastern, 30 the other (Pl. 73) Western. 31 Let us look at them not to determine whether one is better than the other but to see how varied art expression can be.

In one Winslow Homer shows us the Maine coast before

30 Nine Dragon Scroll (detail), Chinese, Sung dynasty, 960-1280 a.d. Boston Museum.

31 Northeaster, Winslow Homer, an American painter, 1836-1910 a.d. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

THE ART OF PAINTING 233

a nor’easter, when the waters heave and crash into gigantic breakers against the immovable rocks. The spray dashes against our faces as the great waves thunder defiance at the granite headlands only to slide wearily into the foamy backwash. Two conflicting forces: mighty movement, mighty immobility.

To express this significance the painter has stressed cer¬ tain elements. Quietude is emphasized by the horizontal: in the proportions of the panel (can you imagine this panel higher than wide?), in the horizon, in the crest of the breaking waves and the rocks at the right. The most arrest¬ ing movement is the diagonal sweep of both water and rock from the upper left side to the lower right, and in the strongly contrasting light and dark masses in this sweep: the dark immovable rock, the light of the breaking water, and the half-light of the mist.

These three masses are balanced by a similar motif on the right on a smaller scale and by the expanse of sky and sea. Balance too there is between the quietude of sky and rock and the turmoil of the water. The dancing movement in the backwash lightens the awful power of the sea and of the relentless cliffs and provides a transitional movement between quietude and turmoil.

As you turn to the Chinese painting, the first impression is that the forms do not look but feel like water and rocks. The appeal has not been to the eye primarily, but by way of the eye to the imagination, with emphasis not on natural appearance but upon the essence of the inner life. The shapes have been reduced to symbols with just enough of natural appearance to make them intelligible. In the case of the water, the essence is movement. With what force it rushes over the cliffs between the motionless rocks and re¬ coils upon itself in a single forceful sweep before it breaks

234 THE ART OF PAINTING

into undulating crested waves, which speed on and half vanish in mists! Movement reduced to its very essence! What rhythm in the sweep and swirl and in the rapid ragged crests! How they play and interplay as the waves race forward in long undulations toward the inevitable crash!

Through the breaking waves and the enveloping mists appear the scaly coils of dragons clinging to the rocks with ferocious claws. To one unacquainted with Eastern thought, the presence of these monsters may be foreboding. Not so to the Oriental, who understands the beneficence of the all-pervading life force that they symbolize.

How did the Oriental accomplish this result? His tech¬ nical method we have already described in looking at the Bamboo (Pl. 61). Yet this does not wholly explain. It was rather his attitude toward nature. Instead of following what his eyes saw, he evolved what we may call an alphabet of art forms. Trees, water, rocks, mountains, the plum tree, chrysanthemums — for each of these and for every variety of each he had a formula, just as we have formulas for language, that is, letters and words. When we wish to write or speak we put these together into sentences and paragraphs without thinking about the formulas them¬ selves. So the Chinese painter, having the formulas for certain kinds of rocks and for moving water, combined these formulas into a design whose purpose was not to ex¬ press the appearance of the rocks and water but the inner feeling of nature.

The actual painting of such a picture might be very rapid, though the preparation was long, as a story of Wu Tao-tzu illustrates. When Wu Tao-tzu was court painter, he was sent by the emperor to paint a certain river land¬ scape of which the emperor was very fond. After spend-

Plate 73

Northeaster. Winslow Homer. The forms are more naturalistic. The appeal is to the eye and the em¬ phasis upon natural appearance with a hint of inner meaning. (Metropolitan Museum)

Plate 74

Man with the Glove. Titian. Simplicity and restraint in the use of light and dark, and color, quiet proportions and balance produce an impression of simple elegance and distinction.

Plate 75

Saint Jerome as Cardinal. El Greco. Dynamic contrasts of light and dark, line, and color with vigorous emphasis give an impression of a vigorous per¬ sonality. (Mr. Lehman)

Plate 76

Infanta Marguerita. Velasquez. A charming form to express a charming personality. Every detail — color, textures, deft brushstrokes, the contrasting chair — contribute to the unity of expression: a charming little girl in a con¬ ventional setting.

THE ART OF PAINTING 235

ing some time in this country he returned to the palace and when asked about his sketches replied, “ I have it all in my heart.” Then, retiring to one of the halls of the palace, “ in a single day he threw off a hundred miles of landscape.” This story reveals two characteristics of Oriental painters. First, the long mental preparation, the looking and brood ing over the subject, the feeling of himself into it until every fiber was permeated with its inner life, its signifi¬ cance. Second, the perfect control over the formulas of art expression. So when the mind and spirit had completed their preparation, the actual painting might be compara¬ tively swift.

In another tale, Wu once visited a monastery where he was rudely treated. So he drew upon the walls a picture of a donkey. That night all the furnishings were knocked to pieces. Finally, after the priests had humbly apologized for their rude behavior, Wu erased the drawing and there was no more trouble. Such stories suggest the quality that we find in Chinese paintings — a reality of inner sig¬ nificance, expressed in terms of symbolic form, the art language.

Thus in Winslow Homer and in the Chinese we see two different approaches to a similar idea. In this expression the Western painter emphasizes natural appearance and suggests inner meaning; while the Eastern stresses inner meaning and hints at natural appearance. Each has been thoroughly consistent.

READING

For explanations and illustrations of the formulas in Ori¬ ental painting see H. P. Bowie, On the Laws of Japanese Paint¬ ing, San Francisco, Elder, 1911. For stories of Chinese paint¬ ers see H. A. Giles, Introduction to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art, London, Quaritch, 1918, from which the stories

236 THE ART OF PAINTING

quoted above are taken; also A. Waley, Introduction to the Study of Chinese Painting, London, Benn, 1923. It would be valuable to read Chinese poetry in this connection, for it has much the same simplified form and imaginative character. See L. A. Cramner-Byng, Lute of Jade, N. Y., Dutton, 1923; A. Waley, iyo Chinese Poems, N. Y., Knopf, 1919.

THREE PORTRAITS

The Man with the Glove Saint Jerome as Cardinal

The Infanta Marguerita

In portrait-painting a special problem confronts the artist, for a portrait has a definite purpose — to represent the per¬ son portrayed. “ Represent,” we say; which is quite differ¬ ent from taking a photograph, however artistic that may be. Just what, then, does “represent” mean? Let us go di¬ rectly to our examples to answer this question.

First we shall look at The Man with the Glove (Pl. 74) , 32 Though there may be doubt as to the identity of this youth — he is thought to be a young nobleman of Genoa — there is no question of his aristocracy, of his fearlessness and daring. Aristocracy is revealed in the quiet ease and reserve; fearlessness and daring, in the virility of the pose, the erectness of the head, and in the keen look of the wide-open eyes. The quiet elegance of the dress, the so¬ briety of the color, and the restrained simplicity of the design are largely responsible for the effective characteriza¬ tion.

The design is organized chiefly in light and dark, and color. Three triangular masses of light are sensitively placed in an almost square area: the face and the linen shirt front, the hand with the pointing finger, and the hand with the gloves. The eye is easily guided from one to another,

32 Titian, a Venetian painter, 1477-1576 a.d. The Man with the Glove, painted a little after 151 o, is in the Louvre, Paris.

THE ART OF PAINTING 237

especially by the narrow V of the linen, whose sharpness is happily softened by the line of the chain and the pendant.

These light and dark masses are interestingly balanced. This is more clearly seen if the print is turned upside down. The largest area of light, made by the face and the shirt front, forms a diagonally moving mass left of the central axis of the area. This is balanced partly by the mass of the gloved hand, together with the half-light in the corner, and partly by the movement toward the right of the head, and of the thumb and pointing finger of the other hand. You may think of the face and the two hands as the corners of a triangle repeating the triangle motif of the shirt front and many triangles that can be found all through the can¬ vas. Contrasting with this virile angularity is the broad sweep of the shoulders and the arms. Note the curve of the head and especially of the ruffles at the throat and wrists, whose rapid movement offers so pleasing a contrast to the broad quiet surfaces of the coat and the ground.

But this organization of light and dark is not a surface pattern. The figure exists in ample space. The darks are by no means a flat, unbroken area. The coat and hair are differentiated from the ground, by color, so subtly that the figure stands out from it plastically and at the same time is beautifully harmonized with it. The light areas of the head and the hands are strongly modeled in light and shadow, but softly fused. You feel light and shade disclos¬ ing rounding surfaces. Line (not strongly felt), light and dark, and color combine with extraordinary simplicity. Every detail contributes to this end, so that the canvas is filled with a feeling of harmony.

To return to our question: What does “represent” mean? Titian’s problem was twofold: in the first place, to understand the personality of his sitter — a quiet, forceful

238 THE ART OF PAINTING

aristocrat with eagerness to do and daring to become; and in the second place, to express this personality in paint. A controlling principle seemed to be the elegance and dis¬ tinction of simplicity, with a few sharp contrasts. It is not so much the expression in the face that makes the portrait so distinctive. Every detail — the pose, the costume, the background, the subtle unobtrusive relation of the figure to the background, the color, the relation and balance of the lights and darks within the space defined by the frame — all these work together harmoniously to create a per¬ fectly unified impression, which is the representation.

Turning to the El Greco (Pl. 75) 33 we are immedi¬ ately in another atmosphere, one of startling dramatic in¬ tensity. The figure, though seated, rises majestically to¬ ward the top of the space, forming a sharp triangle against the unbroken ground. Interest centers on the light masses of the head and the beard, and of the hands and the book, masses of silver and white set off by the brilliant red and the powerful folds of the cardinal’s cape, the intense green of the velvet tablecloth, and the darker green ground. One feels almost immediately the harmony between an arresting design and an intense personality. Saint Jerome is here given a typically Spanish interpretation, a Spanish Church Father. The Spaniard, partly by natural temperament and partly through centuries of struggle against the infidel Mohammedans who had intrenched themselves in the Spanish peninsula, was fanatical and bigoted in religious matters. Such a character is emphasized by the determined way in which the left hand rests upon the open book, by the vigorous bend of the right wrist, and by the feeling of

33 El Greco, meaning the Greek (Domenico Theotocopuli), 1545-1614 a.d. Born in Crete, he settled in Toledo, Spain. Saint Jerome as Cardinal was painted between 1604 and 1614. Collection of Philip Lehman, N.Y.

THE ART OF PAINTING 239

finality with which the thumb points to a marginal refer¬ ence. These movements but repeat the determination and intolerance in the grim mouth and the piercing eyes. Here is a relentless upholder of the sanctioned authority of the Church.

This strongly emphatic characterization is due partly to the appearance of the Saint but largely to the highly indi¬ vidual way in which El Greco has used his elements — his line, light and dark, and color. Everywhere are strong contrasts, exaggerations, and vigorous brush work. Lights and darks meet with cutting edges, making line an im¬ portant element. Compare this with the Titian, in which the lights and darks are fused so gradually that line is sub¬ merged. In the El Greco the edges form a sharp zigzag on the right, almost lightning-like in its effect: the point of the collar, the break of the cape at the elbow, the meeting of the white sleeve and the red cape, the corner of the table and of the book — all united in the great sweep of the cape at the right. On the left the play is more upon the curve — in the collar, the folds of the cape and of the sleeve, at the wrist, in the hand. The emphasis upon verticality is strong: in the elongated proportions of the face, the nose, in the beard, in the row of buttons. The paint is put on the canvas in bold strokes which stand out clearly instead of being fused and blended as in the Titian, strokes which contribute to the intensity of feeling. Color too plays its part in the total impression. In the Titian the color is quiet, restrained, harmonious, for that effect was Titian’s objective. In the El Greco the reds, greens, and whites, sharply contrasting both in hue and in light and dark, con¬ tribute to the effect of dramatic intensity which it was the purpose of El Greco to express.

To bring out the quality of this head more clearly, com-

240 THE ART OF PAINTING

pare it with the head of the Delphic Sibyl (Pl. 54). Make allowance, of course, for the difference of technique. How vigorous is the Michelangelo! Yet not electrically so. Its proportions are very different from the El Greco: its breadth of surface, its unbroken sweep of line, its emphasis upon repeated horizontals — in the forehead, the brows, the eyes, the mouth, the chin — balanced by the vertical axis so strongly accented by the point in the headdress. Every detail is a contributing element to a virile serenity and a consistent unity. Just as consistent is the unity of the El Greco. But how different! A unity of broken sur¬ faces, agitated irregular lines, strong contrasts of color — a unity of elements that all contribute toward an expression of inner fire. The spirit of the Michelangelo is the spirit of Santa Sophia, of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The spirit of El Greco is that of Chartres, of the love music of Tristan and Isolde. Each is specific and individual. Yet through the individual glows the larger concept of the universal spirit of life.

In The Infanta Marguerita of Spain (Pl. 76) 34 still an¬ other personality emerges. Here is a very attractive little girl in an overelaborate dress. A general atmosphere of conventionality, felt especially in the stiff pose and the un¬ childlike dress and ornaments, reflects the rigid social con¬ tentions of the Spanish court. These conventions were limitations placed upon the artist. But see what he did with them. Out of the dress he has made a gay dancing pat¬ tern of black against ivory, with soft rose in the bows and ruching, the flowers in the hand, and the hair bow. The outstretched hand connects the figure, which is placed slightly to the right, with the balancing chair which acts

34 Diego Velasquez, a Spanish painter, 1599-1660 a.d. The Infanta Marguerita, painted about 1655, is in the Louvre, Paris.

THE ART OF PAINTING 241

as a foil to set off the petite gay figure by its scale, by the severity of its lines, and by its quietly rich velvet uphol¬ stery of a darker tone of rose. How much more effective the portrait is because of the chair! Velasquez knew ex¬ actly why he put it in. He didn’t just happen to do it. The dark background gives an impression not of a flat curtain hung behind the figures, but of a space filled with light and air which envelop the child and the chair. The light is reflected by the silky hair smoothly drawn over the forehead, and filters in and out of the ringlets of soft tex¬ ture. The round face with the large dark eyes is very deli¬ cately modeled by light, light-filled shadows, and color. Everywhere throughout the canvas are brush strokes that are not conspicuously vigorous, like those in the El Greco, but which, on close inspection, look hasty and careless. Stand back, however, and everything takes its place with just the right texture, just the right amount of light, just the right place in depth. What Velasquez saw, he painted — not details, but essentials only.

In all three portraits we can see quite clearly the prin¬ ciple of fitting a form to an idea. The idea is the charac¬ terization. The form is a result of a design that will not only adequately express the idea but will also enhance it by contributing its own abstract power of expression. For example, see how fitting in each case is the color used; how fitting is the way in which color unites with line and light and dark to emphasize the restrained simplicity of the Titian, the dynamic intensity of the El Greco, and the childlike charm of the Velasquez.

READING

Gronau, G., Titian, N. Y., Scribner, 1904.

Peers, E. A., Spain, N. Y., Dodd, Mead, 1930.

242 THE ART OF PAINTING

Rutter, F., El Greco, N. Y., Scribner, 1927.

Stevenson, R. A. M., Velasquez, London, Bell, 1912.

SUGGESTION

Make a preliminary study for a portrait. Select a person whom you know. (a) What is the character to be repre¬ sented? Upon what is the emphasis to be placed? (b) What form will you use to express the character: shape, size, and proportions of the canvas or panel; relation of the figure to the canvas and to the background; organization of line, light and dark, and color?

Plate 77

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A. Roman Capitals. Carved in stone on Trajan’s column, in Rome. Finely propor¬ tioned and spaced they have a dignified architectural quality.

B. Half Uncials. Written with a pen held horizontally. From the Book of Kells which contains some of the most beautiful writing of the Middle Ages.

C. Japanese Characters. Made with the brush which sweeps freely from thick to thin line.

Plate 78

Khamsah (Complete Works) of Nizami. The writing, illustration, spacing, binding —all elements contribute to harmonious

unity. (Metropolitan Museum)

Plate 79

Outside of the Cover of the Nizami (PI. 78). B. Medieval Book cover of gold set with jewels, and (Metropolitan Museum) carved ivory.

Plate 8o

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Breviary of the Duke of Burgundy. The columns of writing, varied by the initials, the straight bars contrasting to but united with the delicate curving ivy pattern, the strong accent of the miniature — each of these elements takes its place in relation to the whole; no one obtrudes.

Part Eight

THE ART OF THE BOOK

S o commonplace is the book today that we little realize how recently books have been in great demand or even within the purchasing power of average folk. The printing press, cheap paper, education: these three agencies have made the book today one of the most far-reaching forces in our world.

For perhaps six thousand years man has been writing. From the days when crude picture-writing began to take on the form of letters and words, before 3000 b.c., until about 1450 a.d., when printing began to replace writing by hand in Europe, books were all manuscripts , that is, written by hand, as the word denotes, and illustrated by hand. Often they were bound in covers of carved ivory, or of gold with enamels and jewels (Pl. 79B) d Such books were costly, the rare possession of the few. For the many, the function of conveying ideas was met by songs and ballads, by wall paintings (Pl. 66), carvings (Pl. 19), mosaics (Pls. 11, 14, 15) , windows (Pl. 18 and see page

9 °) •

Conveyance of ideas, however, though the function of a book, is not alone a criterion of its quality as a work of art. Is a book most satisfactory when its content alone is satis¬ fying? Even if it is legible and easy to handle? Is there any difference in desirability between the two letters in Fig. 103, which are identical in content? Form as well as content and harmony between form and content are in¬ escapable in a book of quality.

To give a book form calls into play a considerable

1 A medieval binding of gold with jewels and carved ivory. Tenth cen¬ tury a.d. Cluny Museum, Paris.

244 THE ART OF THE BOOK

number of the arts, whether the book be handwritten oi printed. The materials, the writing or the type, the illustra¬ tion, the binding — each plays its part. Of materials for the text, the best known are papyrus, parchment, vellum , and paper. Papyrus is the oldest. The Egyptian made it from the papyrus reeds that grew abundantly along the Nile by splitting the reed into thin strips, laying these

strips in two layers at right angles, and pound¬ ing them together into a single sheet. Then he dried it in the sun and polished it with ivory or shell until it was smooth enough for writing. But papyrus was rather diffi¬ cult to procure, especially outside Egypt. So, ac-

of Pergamon in Asia

pecially of sheep, goats, and calves, and the mate¬ rial was named after him pergamentum, or parchment. Vellum is a very fine skin, chiefly that of newborn calves. By the tenth century a new material for writing had come into Europe from the Orient, a material made from the pulp of fibers — linen or cotton rags. It seems to have been the Arabs who learned the idea from Chinese prisoners in central Asia. This new material soon supplanted parchment and vellum, and by an ironical turn received its name, paper, from papyrus, the material which parchment in its turn had supplanted.

Minor developed the idea of using animal skins, es¬

cording to legend, a king

Fig. 103. A Letter. The same content expressed in two forms.

( 4 ^=3

Reed • Pen

A

Quitl • Pen

FI

1* f

F^v

1 /

C

V

D 1

Horizontal

Nit?

Strokes

THE ART OF THE BOOK 245

Writing fulfills man’s need of recording and conveying ideas and thus has always had a definite use. At the same time its form has often lifted it to the plane of an art, that is, callig¬ raphy. How dif¬ ferent in differ¬ ent parts of the world are the forms of letters!

And how depend¬ ent each form has been upon the materials with which the writing is done: Japanese characters made with a brush on silk or paper (Pl.

77C) ; Roman capitals carved with a chisel in stone (Pl. 77A) ; 2 letters made with a turkey quill, held horizon¬ tally or obliquely, on vellum or paper (Pl. 77B 3 and Fig. 104).

Generally speaking, there are two kinds of writing, for¬ mal and cursive. The formal, before the days of the print-

CD btupxe »Ntb ♦ Strokes

t- 2 , Thin. tine of the pen made bj the edge of the nib

2-3 W?ide tine of the pen made by the width of the nib

4-5 Graduated, ctxt-ve changing f-om the thin to the wide tine

Fig. 104. Pens and Their Strokes. (Ernst Detterer)

2 Carved on the base of the Column of Trajan , Rome. 4^ in. high. About

I 14 A.D.

3 From the Book of Kells, from the monastery of Kells in Ireland. About 700 a.d. Trinity College, Dublin.

A*D-

L~

500

500

4oo- 800 1-

FORMAL-WRITING

SQUARE CAPS * KWST1C CAPITALS * UNCIALS

L-

500

CURSIVE • WR1T1NG-

QVmVe becomes

[H*H H H h K • K]

»■

4oo-

Soo

800-

1X00

Kali: uncials

stnalt roman

TZ

.w^otfoc

t 4 oo Wh.'c

l4oo small roman i4oo Jtalics

VI

vsl

TL

THE ART OF THE BOOK 247

ing press, was used for inscriptions, often carved in stone, for books, and for many documents, but has now been re¬ placed by printing. The cursive has always been and still is the everyday handwriting, the running hand, which the word cursive means. That this evolved from formal writ¬ ing, because of the materials and the instruments used, and because of the need of rapidity, we can see in the evolution of the form of almost any of our letters, H for example (Fig. 104) . 4 The chisel predestines the straight line; the pen, quill, or brush, the curve.

For thousands of years, then, books were written by hand (Fig. 105) , many of them the world’s finest books. When the German bookmakers began to stamp the letters with type, they left spaces for the elaborate initials and decorations to be added by hand after the printing was done (compare Pls. 80 and 81) . When printing was first introduced into Italy from Germany, it was scorned by book-lovers, who still demanded for their libraries volumes made entirely by hand. The Duke of Urbino is said to have had a library in which “ every book ... is of fault¬ less beauty, written by hand on parchment, and adorned

4 To see the same kind of an evolution in Egyptian writing, see J. H. Breasted, Ancient Times, Boston, Ginn, 1916, p. 44.

Fig. 105. Book-hands. The letters which we use today both in writing and in printing are derived from the capital letters of the Romans (Pl. 77A). I. Though written with a pen these large letters are close kin to those of Pl. 77A. II. These letters are better adapted to the pen and are more com¬ pactly spaced. III. Uncials (from the Latin word meaning inch-high) have a still more rounded form. Compare the A and U with those in I. IV. Half-uncials (Pl. 77B) are a development, in smaller size, of the uncial. Note how the pen tends to connect the letters. V. The small roman is a further development of the half-uncial. Compare the “n” with that in IV. VI. Gothic (sometimes called Old English) is the roman made angular and heavy. In Italy and Spain it retained the round form (VII). VIII shows a smaller, lighter form of V; and IX, a slanting more cursive form with a tendency to connect the letters. (Ernst Detterer)

248

THE ART OF THE B

tut ttriUTibi tttf at Utaia tilts rtpj&ta frntt at ipQijs falutaribus Cdtas ifta- ijdrta tp onuu i prihm i ofctpro qui rtauatur in altari-tltuautuit torara t

the extreme usefulness of the works printed in the famous city of Venice, especially of those which are from the excellent workshop of Master Nicolas Jenson, the Frenchman. Z

The whole duty of Typography, as of Calli¬ graphy, is to communicate to the imagina¬ tion, without loss by the way, the thought or image intended to be communicated by the

done puro di Dio e felicita di natu- ra, benehe spesso provenga da lunga esercitazione e abitudine, che le piu 4- difficili cose agevola a segno che in

ver a difference in design which sets it distinctly apart from all sans serifs of similar appearance,for a new idea has been embodied in this type. It has not been developed from a pro¬ totype. It has assumed a similarity to the sans serif letters

Fig. 106. Type Face. i. Gothic type of the Forty-Two Line (the so-called Gutenberg) Bible (Pl. 8i), about 1450 a.d. See Fig. 105, VI.

2. Roman type of Nicolas Jenson of Venice, 1470 a.d. See Fig. 105, VIII. 3. Type of William Gaslon, London, 1720 a.d. 4. Type of Gianbattista Bodoni, Parma, 1818 a.d. In com¬ paring 3 and 4 with 2, notice that the difference is a matter partly of spacing, partly of thin and thick strokes (the thin stroke is particularly em¬ phasized in the Bodoni), and partly of the ter¬ minal strokes of the letters called serifs. 5. Futura type, modern German, marked by the absence of serifs and by a uniform width in the strokes. Notice the blackness and strength of 1 as contrasted with 2, 3, and 4; and the blackness and boldness of 5. Which of the five is the easiest to read? (Ernst Detterer)

OOK

with miniatures. There is not a single printed book in the collection. The Duke would have been ashamed to own any such.” 5 How surprised this duke would be, could he spend half an hour in one of our fine libraries! Printing, then, at the outset, was but a labor-saving device.

It was not long, however, before some of the printers realized that the printed book, the entirely printed book, could possess a quality compar¬ able to that of the hand-made book.

5 F. P. Lippmann, Drawings by Sandro Botti¬ celli for Dante's Divine Comedy , Berlin, 1896, p. 14

THE ART OF THE BOOK 249

At first the type face was copied directly from the written letter— gothic, roman, italic. But in writing there is a dash, a life, with many small variations and flourishes. The quill, as it moves from letter to letter, naturally makes beginning and finishing strokes called serifs, which seem to finish the letter and to carry the eye more easily from letter to letter. In metal type the serifs are more pre¬ cise and uniform than in handwriting. Sometimes they have been abandoned altogether, as in the modern futura type of Fig. 106.

In addition to serifs, thin and thick strokes furnished the typesetters a problem. In writing, the strokes of the pen naturally vary according to the way the instrument is held and the direction of its movement. In type, there is no reason for this differentiation and its use is a matter of giving variety to the form of the letter, and it is also im¬ portant in distinguishing type faces (Fig. 106) . Thus the type-designers came to the realization that letters of metal used mechanically call for a different form from those written by hand, although they are the same A,B,C,D.

The book is not, however, a matter of letters alone, whether written or printed, but of letters grouped into words and words into sentences and paragraphs which create a pleasing form if placed with pleasing proportions and spacing in relation both to each other and to the entire page.

The book has had various forms. There is the long scroll of the Egyptian, Greek, and Roman (Figs. 107 and 108), one long page with a stick at each end for handling it and rolling it up. Sometimes the writing was continu¬ ous the long way and sometimes was broken into columns so as to prevent so much rolling and unrolling. This prac¬ tice led to the idea of cutting the scroll into sheets the width

250 THE ART OF THE BOOK

of the columns and sewing them together along one edge.

Thus evolved the codex, the present form of the book. 6

Whatever the form of the book and however clear and beautiful the writ¬ ing may be, there has always been a tendency to enliven and enrich the page with embellishment and to eluci¬ date the contents with illustrations: initial letters, borders, engravings, paintings. Then the question rises: Do the initials and borders embellish? Does the text explain the illustration? Does the illustration illustrate? Does it take its place as one contributing element in the design of the book as a whole, like well-designed sculpture or ornament of any kind in a building, or does it exist for itself? These questions we shall consider in the examples that we shall look at.

Finally, there is the bind¬ ing of the book, obviously a protective measure. Its char¬ acter depends on the material of which the book is made and on the way it is to be used. While a Japanese book

of thin rice paper, which I0 ®- Roman Youth Reading a

^ * Scroll. (After Clark)

naturally lies flat, needs but

a light paper cover to prevent soilure, a medieval Eu¬ ropean book of thick vellum, which tends to curl, must

6 It may prove interesting to find other forms of the book, such as the Babylonian clay tablets, Roman double-hinged tablets, or those of the Far East.

Fig 107. Scroll Form of the Book. In reading one hand unrolls while the other rolls (Fig. 108).

THE ART OF THE BOOK 251

be held firmly by stout boards tied or clasped together. The unsightly appearance of the boards and their large unbroken spaces led the bookmakers to concentrate decoration here and, in the case of finely decorated and illustrated books, to make the outside worthy of the inside (Pl. 79) . This was particularly true of religious books, the Bible and Books of Prayer in the Christian churches and the Korans in the Mohammedan mosques. The great enemy of the wood-covered book, however, is the bookworm, which invades not only the cover but the pages as well. This disadvantage led to a search for some other stout material, which was found in cardboard.

At first this too had its own disadvantage, for it led to the destruction of many fine books. For, as paper was not as plentiful as it is today, old books were in demand to make cardboard, in the layers of which have been found pages of some fine lost books. With the extension of the use of paper lighter and more flexible material such as leather, textiles, and papers have supplanted the stouter stuffs.

In binding a book another consideration confronts the maker: How is the book to be used? How stored? Roman scrolls were kept in boxes or on shelves (Fig. 109) . In this matter of storing the codex obviously has an advantage over the scroll. Many of the fine religious books with jeweled covers had but little handling, for they were kept on a lectern, used only in the service, and considered as

Fig. 109. Roman Methods of Storing Scrolls. The tabs contain the titles. (After Clark)

252 THE ART OF THE BOOK

precious as the vessels on the altar. Early books were bulky and not well enough sewed to stand on end. They were laid on their sides on shelves or in cupboards (Pl. 81A), and often had metal corners and pieces to protect the sides. The preciousness of books often led to chaining them

(Fig. no). Still in some old library, as at Merton College in Oxford, you can see volumes with their chains, or at least the holes in the stout cases for the fastenings. 7 Finally, the advance in methods of sew¬ ing the leaves and bind¬ ing them securely between their protective coverings led to the practical present- day method of placing the title on the back and stack¬ ing the books vertically.

Fig. no. Method of Storing Books in the Middle Ages. Bound in stout READING

covers and straps they were frequently

chained to their cases. See also Pl. 82. HERBERT, J. A., Illuminated (After Clark) Manuscripts, N. Y., Put¬

nam, 1911.

Ivins, W. M., Jr., A Guide to an Exhibition of the Arts of the Book, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum, 1924.

Johnston, E., Writing, and Illuminating and Lettering, Lon- don, Pitman, 13th ed., 1923.

Morison, S., Type Design of the Past and Present, London, The Fleuron, 1926.

Pollard, A. W., Fine Books, N. Y., Putnam, 1912.

7 See J. W. Clark, Care of Books (Cambridge University Press, 1909), for many illustrations of books kept flat in presses, and chained to shelves.

THE ART OF THE BOOK 253

Many inexpensive illustrations, both in color and plain, can be secured in the British Museum Postcard Sets.

SUGGESTIONS

The field of the book offers many opportunities for the play of judgment and taste, and for creative endeavor.

1. Study books from the point of view of unity of design in the entire book.

2. Make a collection of different kinds of type face, noting in each case its use and your opinion of its suitability for this use.

3. Illustration. Find examples (a) where the illustration harmonizes with the letterpress and takes its place as one ele¬ ment in the whole; (b) where the illustration is more em¬ phatic than the text, or does not harmonize with it.

4. Design a complete book. Select a piece of literature and determine the complete design from the beginning: size, writ¬ ing or type, page layout, illustration, title-page, binding, cover design. Material gathered for Art Appreciation courses, or in fact for any course, may well serve as content. For sugges¬ tions see L. L. Winslow, Elementary Industrial Arts, N. Y., Macmillan, 1922, Chap. I.

A BOOK OF PERSIAN ROMANCES

This book is an ornament on the page of time.

The merit of the book is suited to the quality of reader.

For each small detail of it the artist has procured limpid gold. . . .

In wisdom the book is deeper than the pearl of pure water.

It is the perfect verse of an intimate friend.

Sometimes the tongue of the love-lorn lover speaks;

A.t other times a charming word from the lips of the beloved is unveiled;

It scatters sweetness over the memory of Khusrau and Shirin.

It describes the story of Laila and Majnun as a pearl of pure water. . . .

254 THE ART OF THE BOOK

Beyond measure and great is the amount Of the beautiful writing on its rose leaves. . . .

May these beautiful pages and their unparalled script Grant light to the pupil of the eye of the writer;

And with it sweet virtues and comfort.

The veil is raised from his face, in hope

That from the Asaf of the time he may obtain a glance and may gain

From that glance everlasting joy.

By the gift of God may the prosperity of his fortune be ever¬ lasting;

And may the prayers from the lips of the people be accepted. 8

Thus speaks the artist in words of gilded leather, clear against the blue panels of the inside cover. It is not only a poetic table of contents and introduction but also an ex¬ pression of the artist’s own feeling of the lofty quality of his work. And we enthusiastically share his feeling as we open the book and see the writing, the illustration, and the binding all brought together into an orderly balanced har¬ mony (Pl. 78) . The quiet spaciousness of the margins, re¬ lieved by flecks of gold, sets off the beauty of the writing, the flashes of intense color and gold in the miniatures, and the intricate richness of the cover.

The book contains the five romantic poems of Nizami, a famous Persian poet. 9 Of these is the Bedouin love story of Laila and Majnun, illustrated in Pl. 78, the Romeo and Juliet of Persia; and the romances of the hunter king, Bahram Gur (Pl. 64). Each poem is written on a differ-

8 A. V. W. Jackson, Catalogue of Persian Manuscripts, N. Y., Columbia University Press, 1914, p. 59.

9 Nizami lived 1140-1203 a.d. The book page measures i2f in. by 8f in., and was written 1524-25 a.d. Metropolitan Museum, N. Y. A similar Nizami, in the British Museum, is published with fine color reproductions by The Studio, London.

THE ART OF THE BOOK 255

ent-colored paper — light cream, yellow, pale blue, pink, dark cream — and each is introduced by a chapter heading of intricate design which harmonizes in hue with the hue of the paper on which the poem is written.

Throughout the book, the materials and craftsmanship are of the finest quality, and every detail has had the most scrupulous care not only in itself but also in its relation to the whole. The paper is heavy and of unusual texture, the writing — in this land where writing was one of the fine arts — of the highest quality. In the concluding lines is the modest statement that the work was “ finished with God’s help by the hand of the poor and obscure Sultan Muhammed Nur,” who, we well know, was one of the most famous calligraphers of the day.

Opposite the writing is the illustration, sometimes with a few lines of text. It forms a panel of the same width as the text, though of different height, thus observing har¬ mony of margin together with variety. These illustrations (Pl. 64) are vivacious and sparkling in color: clear, intense red, blue, green, yellow, gold. Because there is no shadow the flat areas of color have a particularly decorative quality.

The binding of the book, when closed, gives an impres¬ sion of quiet richness and elegance — brown leather, em¬ bossed and gilded (Pl. 79A). The field, which consists of a landscape scene with a decorative tree, deer, birds, mon¬ keys, and conventional cloud forms, is framed by a broad border containing alternately large and small panels. As you pull out the flap and open the book, you are surprised and delighted. For the inside of the cover, though de¬ signed to harmonize with the outside in its general com¬ position, flashes with color. Here the gilded cut-leather medallion on a blue ground is surrounded by a deep-red field; and in the borders by green and blue panels, through

256 THE ART OF THE BOOK

which run, in gold letters, the inscriptions quoted at the opening of the chapter. This color harmonizes with the color of the miniature, carrying out the same note of gayety.

Such intensity of color and richness of detail are possible without being gaudy if given space and if proportioned to the whole. Just as the rich detail of the interior of Santa Sophia demanded not only the scale of the building to re¬ lieve it but also a strong emphasis on the major elements of the design, so in the Persian Romances, the strong accents of color and the elaborate detail are relieved by the con¬ trastingly quiet broad margins, which are unbroken except for the flecks of gold. All the parts are clearly defined, pro¬ portioned, and balanced. Appearance and atmosphere harmoniously reflect the gayety of spirit of the romantic tales. Content, too, is part of the larger whole. Can you think of a form that would better fit the content?

SOME PRINTED BOOKS

About i 500 a.d., in the Piazza Manin in the heart of Venice (Fig. 90) , not far from San Marco and its great library, you would pass a house on which was this notice:

Whoever you are, you are earnestly requested by Aldus to state your business briefly and take your departure promptly. Then you can be of service even as was Hercules to the weary Atlas. For this is a place of work for all who enter.

To waste time chattering was not for Aldus Manutius. Too large a task it was to which he had set himself. Not many years before there had come into Italy from the north a new idea, the possibilities of which grasped the imagination of the keen-witted Italians — the idea of mov¬ able type, which made printing practicable. The basic idea in printing, that is, stamping a number of impressions from

'Ifgimn IJjuiMnyrbHH !p

5 #ftufQimnnAi 8 iuirtP' Tj

nralf tnitoiUnisijfmmrHi OCcf ijra'nirMfl uortP iplrpuldj rurrjpa iwtac fqjii Ml tent ri UlKt Ju^ifaSS Utorprasa

Whi n iriUI 0 b> 9 • I

—' rdjp n: wrynas. nnS&tii

aipn . _ urf-rvon rnWiii

b 9 uom W tttea piKni. mnur QnirrtrrramRriS

3 OURB qui b? MTS nit—» , "inter refill r !icr*'m(Vuqta p? trto tiife tr famW/ei= weufrcuGtsa#

THE ART OF THE BOOK 257

one form, was not novel. The Chinese had used such a device long, long before. In Europe block books already existed, in which letters, together with the illus¬ tration, were cut in the woodblock (Fig. m), and the impressions from these blocks bound together into book form.

But the idea of cutting letters separately so that they could be moved about to make words and sentences and the idea of casting the let¬ ters in metal — these two ideas originated in northern Europe about 1450, and books printed with movable type be¬ gan to appear about this time. The novelty of the method is apparent by its specific mention (the first printed book and Schoffer of Mainz lation:

^ffturGgii refrl mere tnranlmfrB mvy&nr?

Fig. hi. A Page from a Block-Book, the Biblia Pauperum (Bible of the Poor). Center, Christ Rising from the Tomb; left, Samson and the City-Gates; right, Jonah and the Whale. Printed, prob¬ ably in Holland, about 1450 a.d. Brit¬ ish Museum, London.

in the colophon 10 of a Psalter which is dated) printed by Fust (Fig. 112), which reads in trans-

The present book of Psalms, adorned with beautiful capitals and clearly divided with rubrics has been thus fashioned by an ingenious invention of printing and stamping and was dili-

10 A colophon consists of a few lines at the end of a book which give the title, perhaps the name of the writer or illuminator, the place of writing, and the date — information now placed on the title-page. Today a colophon is a sort of publisher’s trademark.

258 THE ART OF THE BOOK

gently brought to completion, to the glory of God, by Johann Fust, a citizen of Mainz, and Peter Schoffer of Gernsheim in the year of our Lord 1457 on the vigil of the Feast of the Assumption [August 29].

These earliest printed books, such as the Forty-Two Line Bible (Pl. 81) 11 bear a far greater resemblance to

ne IJalmoq totegAmuftatt rapitaliu fcroat9 liubrirattontbuftp fufbdmttr btfliridua, JlDinuraotu artifirafa itnpmmDt ar raradm'^anbi* abfip ralamialla rgarariinr fir rffigiatua,® ab mtr- biamtri inbuGue c& ofummarua^fr UofjrmftjG lGutmagurinu'Gt {Drtrft ^tfpffrc tr gtrnfffpint, ftotio Oni CgJtUrfio-rrtt'luij-JnaigfiaUfiuptois,

Fig. 112. Colophon of the Psalter of Fust and Schoffer.

medieval manuscripts than to printed books. Let us turn for a moment to one of these manuscripts. Pl. 80 shows a page from a Breviary , 12 in which the writing, in the gothic hand (Fig. 105), is in two columns. The capitals, some in red, and the gold initial give a vibrant effect to the col¬ umns, while the miniature provides a strong accent of red

11 A page from a Bible so called because there are forty-two lines in a column. Printed at Mainz, 1456 a.d. It is sometimes called the Gutenberg Bible because it may have been printed by Johannes Gutenberg, who is credited by some with the invention of movable type. A color reproduction of a page in the New York Public Library can be found in the Encyclopaedia Britannica 14th ed., article “Printing.”

12 Called the Burgundy Breviary because it contains the arms of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy and of his duchess, Margaret of Bavaria. French, early fifteenth century a.d. British Museum. For a color reproduction see J. A. Herbert, Illuminated Manuscripts , N. Y., Putnam, 1911, Frontispiece; and British Museum Postcard B 277.

THE ART OF THE BOOK 259

and blue, like the accenting glass at Chartres. The figures against the checkered ground make a decorative pattern whose charm and grace find an echo in the charm and grace and in the color and gold of the ivy borders that bind all parts together. There is a unity in the writing, the borders, the illustration, and the initial — a unity of spirit and of form.

Most of these beautiful handwritten books of the Middle Ages were made by the monks in the monasteries (Pl. 82) . 13 As there was no store where a book could be bought, it was ordered of the monastery. Six months to a year was not too much time to allow, for the book was all written by hand, decorated and bound by hand.

As we compare the Forty-Two Line Bible with the Breviary, we see more resemblance than difference. The printed letters, to be sure, reveal a certain precision and regularity not found in handwritten letters, though their shapes are the same. The material is the same, expensive vellum, and the guide lines are ruled as for writing. The text was printed to save time and labor, and space was left for the initials and decorative borders to be added by hand. In general, the conception of the book has not changed. There was still, as in the manuscript, no title- page. Any information as to title, author, printer, or date was placed in the colophon. These early books are called incunabula y books “ in the cradle.” Yet how beautifully they are printed! There is a fine quality in the strong, angular gothic type, in the blackness of the ink, and in the splendid massing on the page.

13 From a French manuscript written in 1456 a.d. by the secretary of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy. National Library, Paris. For the place of the monastery in the Middle Ages and the attitude of the monks toward their work, see H. Gardner, Art Through the Ages, N. Y., Harcourt, 1926. Chap. XIII, and the references there given.

260 THE ART OF THE BOOK

In Italy, at the time of this invention of movable type, the recovery of ancient literature — the writings of Homer, Plato, Sophocles, Virgil, Ovid — was the passion of the day. To rescue these treasures, to preserve them, and to increase their use — that is, to make cheaper editions than those written by hand — was the ambition of Aldus. And not-

Fig. 113. An Early Print Shop in Venice. (After Ongania, Early Venetian Printing Illustrated)

withstanding the opposition of nobles like the Duke of Urbino, the curiosity and eagerness of the age decided the success of the printing-press. It was an arduous task to which Aldus put himself. He wrote:

I have made a vow to devote my life to the public service and God is my witness that such is my most ardent desire. To a life of ease and quiet I have preferred one of restless labor. Man is not born for pleasure which is unworthy of the truly generous mind but for honorable labor. Let us leave to the vile herd the existence of brutes. Cato has compared the life of man to the tool of iron: use it well, it shines, cease to use it and it rusts. 14

14 W. Roberts, Printers ’ Marks, London, Bell, 1893, p. 218.

THE ART OF THE BOOK 261

With this spirit, why was the task arduous? Because the necessary materials for printing could not be purchased and the methods of the craft were unknown. If Aldus was to succeed, he must be a pioneer. He designed and cast his own type, made his own ink, taught his helpers as he was learning himself through experience (Fig. 113). He could obtain paper from a mill at Fabriano in central Italy. In fact the possibility of securing good paper, cheap in com¬ parison with the cost of vellum or parchment, was a vital factor in the development of bookmaking.

Thus we do not wonder at the sign on Aldus’ door. And is not his famous printer’s mark (Fig. 114) sig¬ nificant — that dolphin and anchor to which were added the words Festina lente (Make haste slowly )? And the Fig. 114. Anchor and

result? From the Aldine Press came Dolphin. Aldus print¬ ers mark.

books which were cheap, compared

with the manuscripts, as well as beautiful — as beautiful

as any ever made.

Although the Greek and Latin classics occupied Aldus chiefly, still he printed Italian works also. One of these we may take as an illustration (Fig. 115), a romance of the day, the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (The Strife of Love in a Dream of Poliphilus) . Here is beautiful organization of beautiful elements. A complete break has been made with the manuscript. Every part of this book is adapted to the process of printing. The illustration and text form a unit that is so placed on the page that it leaves amply satisfying margins, and every element keeps its place in one plane, the plane of the page. The unity re¬ sults from both the harmony and the contrast of three

262 THE ART OF THE BOOK

parts: the woodcut / 5 a paragraph printed in capitals, and a paragraph which begins with one line of capitals and then, with the help of the initial, makes an easy transition to lower-case letters. 16 The illustration, being linear, partakes

of the nature of the type. It is the charming variety among similar ele¬ ments that gives character to the unity. Cover the initial and see how the ele¬ ments fall apart. The L and its floral ornament together form a compact square which makes a break in the rectangle of the paragraph and creates an accent at that point. The patterning of the sur¬ face of this square echoes the patterning in the illus¬ tration above and serves the printed page as does a small area of one hue, green for example (see page 90), when it helps balance a larger area of the same hue.

In Florence, some of the most charming examples of early printing are the pamphlets of romances, plays, and religious tracts. Fig. 116, for example, reproduces the first page of a

15 A woodcut is printed from a block of wood on which the design is drawn and then all the surface cut away, with knife and chisel, except the lines of the design, which are left standing in relief. The block is then inked and an im¬ pression made in which only the lines are visible, the parts cut away being represented by empty spaces.

16 A term applied to small, in distinction from capital letters.

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Fig. 115. Page from the Hypneroto- machia Poliphili. Printed by Aldus in Venice, 1499 a.d.

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Forty-two Line Bible. Though the text is printed and the letters, therefore, more regular, the general appearance of the page is similar to that of PI. 8o.

Plate 82

Monk in Scriptorium (Writing-room). Around him are scrolls, and books with stout covers and straps. (J. C. Couderc, Les Enluminures des Manuscripts du Moyen Age de la Bibliotheque Nationale. Paris, Editions de la Gazette des Beaux-Arts)

CPROEMIO DISER ALEXANDRO BRACCIO AL preftantiflimo 8C excellentiffimogiouane Lorezo di Pier fra cefco de Medici fopra la tradu&ione duna byftoria di due a/ manti compofta dalla felice memoria di Papa Pio .»♦

THE ART OF THE BOOK 263

romance in which, as in the Hypnerotomachia, there is a charming unity of illustration and type and a pleasing rela¬ tion of this unity to the page. In the woodcut there is a par¬ ticularly fine sweep of line and a consciously balanced deco¬ rative effect (cf. Fig. m) . The two figures are accented, each by an arch, but the group has variety because the youth stands forward and is larger; the lady stands toward the back and is smaller. The entire ef¬ fect is from the use of line alone, without hatch¬ ing for shadow — a maxi¬ mum of expression with a slight means. Its strong border and the initial B furnish major accents; the first line set in capi¬ tals, a minor one. In few books is there a finer bal¬ ance of all parts and a closer unity than in early Italian printed books.

Perhaps no kind of il¬ lustration has been more satisfactory than the woodcut, because the character of this medium is closely related to that type and therefore peculiarly har¬ monious. For the design of the woodcut stands in relief just as the type face stands in relief, so that the two can be printed together; and has a crispness of line which is har¬ monious with the crisp linear quality of type.

I Encbe molti fteno li exempli Lorezo mio excel I lentiflimo i pequali facilmente in altri bo potu | tocomprehendcre quanto fieno ualide&gran di leforze damore 8£ molte arte habbi riuoltet doue linccndii fuoi fitraftano & fatmofi mani/ fcfti.-nientedimaco alcbuna cofa non ba potuto piu ueramente monftrarmi laTua potentia:cbe lo expenmento the bo fafioin meftefforconciofia cofa cbe nclla mia deride eta

a

Fig. 116. Title Page of the Story of Two Lovers. Florence, xvth century. (Metropolitan Museum)

264 THE ART OF THE BOOK

Somehow one feels, in turning the pages of these books, how eagerly these early printers were using the medium of printing as something precious, something to be used not alone for the conveyance of ideas, but for the creation of a form which should enhance the ideas conveyed. Litera¬ ture, like music, is a language and implies an audience. A musical composition does not exist, except for the com¬ poser, without the interpreter. So the piece of literature does not exist, except for the writer, without its inter¬ preter, the bookmaker. The great bookmakers have always taken the author’s work that is the content and created a form that will interpret it, just as the violinist or pianist interprets the composer’s work. This implies that there must be harmony between the form and the content.

Today when the world is flooded with books as never before, the principles of the ages, in spite of much medi¬ ocrity, still hold. Let us look at three books of unusual quality. In the Moby Dick (Fig. 117) there is a largeness that permeates the entire design and bespeaks a largeness of spirit in the content of the book. In the illustration, how effective is the scale of the figures in relation to the houses! It is this scale even more than the vigorous stride that con¬ veys the impression of adventure, of conquest over circum¬ stances. But it is not the illustration alone that gives this impression. All the elements of the page contribute and are linked into as close a unity as we found in the Hypnero- tomachia (Fig. 115), and by the use of the same principles. The woodcut, the capitals of the chapter title, the initial N, and the fine large type, the comparative size of the capi¬ tals and the lower-case letters — each is a contributing ele¬ ment. See how they are related and united! How the vigorous N serves as the needed accent in the lower half

CHAPTER XIII WHEELBARROW

EXT morning, Monday, after disposing of the em¬ balmed head to a barber, for a block, I settled my own and comrade’s bill; using, however, my com¬ rade’s money. The grinning landlord, as well as the boarders, seemed amazingly tickled at the sudden friendship which had sprung up between me and Queequeg—especially as Peter Coffin’s cock and bull stories about him had previously so much alarmed me concerning the very person whom I now corn- pan ied with.

< 3 - 86 -£>

Fig. 117. Page from Moby Dick by Herman Melville. Illustrated by Rock¬ well Kent. Printed at the Lakeside Press, Chicago, 1930. (Lakeside Press)

JOSEPH CONRAD : THE MAN

BY

Elbridge L. Adams

A BURIAL IN KENT

BY

John Sheridan Zelie

Together with some Bibliographical Notes

NEW YORK

William Edwin Rudge 1925

Fig. 118. Title Page and First Page of Joseph Conrad: The Man by E. L.

New York, 1925. (Printing

JOSEPH CONRAD : THE MAN

Ever since I came upon “The Nigger o! the Narcissus” in tranquil ante-bellum days I had been under the spell of Conrad’s art. “Typhoon,” “Lord Jim” and “Chance” were read with in¬ creasing beguilement, and then “Nostromo,” that most astonishing creation of the imagination. One felt that here, indeed, was a magician who could conjure up the very spirit of some Eastern river and make one smell the rank stifling jungle or feel the motion of the ship as it drives before the hurricane. Nothing quite like these stories was to be found in the entire range of English litera¬ ture. One was prepared to agree with Galsworthy that such writing “is probably the only writing of the last twelve years [he was referring to 1896- 1908] that will enrich the English language to any great extent.” But what sort of man, one won-

3

Adams. Designed by Bruce Rogers at the Printing House of William Rudge, House of William Rudge)

AND FOD SAID LETTHE WATERS UNDER THE HEAVEN BE FATH¬ ERED TOGETHER UNTO ONE PLACE AND LET THE DRY LAND APPEAR AND IT WAS SO + AND FOD CALLED THE DRY LAND EARTH AND THE FATHERINF TOFETHER OF THE WATERS CALLED HE SEAS AND FOD SAW THAT IT WAS FOOD

Fig. 119 . Genesis: The First Chapter. Woodcuts by Paul Nash. Printed

at Nonesuch Press, Soho, London, 1924. (Nonesuch Press)

270 THE ART OF THE BOOK

of the page! Cover it and see how the unity vanishes. See also how effectively the diagonal bar of the N is broken by white lines. Make this bar solid black and see if it does not jump out of the page toward you.

In the Joseph Conrad: The Man (Fig. 118) the same principles are evident. It is again the beauty of the page organization, vigorous yet tranquil. Look at the headpiece. On each side of the blazing disc of the sun are birds and palm trees symmetrically balanced. The motifs used to form them combine to form dolphins which swing the movement to the right, while reverse curves guide a countermovement to the left. Every detail relates to Con¬ rad’s writing and at the same time is a harmonious element in the page design. The diagonals of the slanting capitals in the title continue the movement of the dolphins and of the waves above and thus serve as a transition to the initial and thence to the body of the printing. The same motifs combine in the title-page, with the beautifully differenti¬ ated and beautifully spaced letters and words to produce the same mood. Thus results harmony, for every element contributes to the larger whole.

In the Genesis (Fig. 119) it is perhaps the boldness of the design that impresses one primarily. There is a monumental quality in every part: in the letterpress, the illustration, the page layout, the binding. The elemen¬ tal simplicity and grandeur of the design interpret the epic grandeur of Genesis. What elements contribute to an ex¬ pression of this spirit? The type face is all in capitals that have a stern simplicity, for they have no serifs. A letter- press in such severe type, to be effective, requires great spaciousness. Hence the unusually wide margins. A similar quality in the woodcut and a similar placement on

THE ART OF THE BOOK 271

the page bring unity and harmony between the two pages. And again a similar quality greets you as you close the book and see its cover of black paper of a velvety texture and devoid of ornament except for the gold lettering at the top and bottom of the sides and on the back.

Part Nine

THE ART OF WEAVING

D id you ever try to imagine what our world would be without the weaver? Take away the products of this craftsman — the coverings of our floors and of our furni¬ ture, our hangings, our blankets, our woven clothing. It is difficult to imagine a world without textiles. Go where you will and you find them. And you ask why this is so? As we saw in the case of buildings, the craft rises out of a definite human need, primarily the need of pro¬ tective coverings.

But it is not only this need that makes the art so vital. What pleasure the color and texture of fabrics bring into everyday life! Soft colorful hangings or a warm note in carpet and upholstery can transform a cold room into a place of charm. The gay hues of present-day clothing make our drab cities much more stimulating. What delight in the texture of smooth satin, soft velvet, warm wool, cool muslin! What rhythm, balance, harmony, there is in a fine textile, just as in a fine painting or a fine building! It may be a silk woven by a complicated power-driven loom or a damask made by the hands of a patient weaver of the East, a lustrous velvet, a boldly designed rug that helps protect the hogan of the Navajo from the winter wind, a great tapestry large enough to cover a wall or a Dacca muslin of India so delicate that if it is wet and spread on the grass it looks like dew. Infinite in variety though textiles may be, still it is their rhythm, balance, and harmony that bring them into the plane of art.

And further still, with some peoples there is often a meaning, a symbolism, in their textile designs that springs from their deepest feelings. The Persian carpet provides

THE ART OF WEAVING 273

the Persian, imaginatively, with a garden, his chief joy, when winter deprives him of his real garden. The Navajo weaves into his rugs designs that are symbols of the har¬ vest and as much a supplication for rain and good crops as are his prayers. Thus the art of weaving is a great art. That it is vital and universal is seen by the many allusions, both literal and figurative, in all literature, to spinning, weaving, the loom, the warp, the weft.

The craft goes back to prehistoric days, thousands of years ago. During this long time, the great majority of textiles have been made with infinite patience, by hand. It is only within the last one hundred and fifty years that the machine has entered. As in early printing, the machine at first was merely a labor-saving device. By an ironical twist of meaning the word manufacture 3 from the Latin words “ to make by hand,” now denotes the making by machinery. The infinite delightful variations and irregu¬ larities of hand weaving, so charming in Persian rugs, for example, have been imitated in machine-made rugs, often with grotesque effect. To do this is obviously a disrespect for the craft. Those irregularities represent the human element. In the machine there is no human element. Its very nature demands a regularity, a precision. When faith¬ ful to its own principles, that is, when the designs are adapted to the machine idea of weaving rather than to the hand idea, then the machine has a capacity for creating fabrics of high quality. No one would want to do away with the machine. With all the unfortunate results to society of its discovery and application, at the same time it is one of the greatest agencies to make life easier for man in this modern complex civilization. The problem is to make the machine man’s servant and not his master. The handmade textile requires time and leisure, the machine-

274 THE ART OF WEAVING

made fulfills present-day demands for quantity and rapid¬ ity. Either process may or may not produce a beautiful textile.

Whether by hand or by machinery, weaving means mak¬ ing a fabric by interlacing threads. Before seeing how we can manipulate these threads, shall we stop to consider where we can get them? Threads are to the weaver what clay is to the potter, pigment to the painter, words to the writer, or tones to the musician — a medium of ex¬ pression. Nature provides the raw material for the most important threads in animal fibers, such as wool, hair, silk; and in vegetable fibers, such as flax, cotton, hemp. Im¬ portant from the mineral realm are the precious metals, gold and silver. This raw material the craftsman must pro¬ cure or raise, clean, spin into thread, dye. Each step in preparation of material is a vital process, demanding as thoughtful care as the weaving itself.

With his material prepared, how does the weaver pro¬ duce a textile? To a loom he attaches longitudinal threads, the warp. Through these he interlaces a transverse thread, the weft, or woof. These three are the fundamentals: loom, warp, weft (Fig. 120). The warp reaches the entire length of the fabric and must be strong and pliable, for it is the ground upon which the artist works, as is the panel or canvas to the painter, or the block of stone to the sculp¬ tor. The weft is the versatile instrument, with which he can do many things. It is sometimes called filling, for the weaver literally fills the space left unoccupied by the warp.

Let us see what some of these things are. Shall we first make a plain cloth with a simple weave? On our loom we have strung the warp threads and are now ready to work with the weft, which is attached to a shuttle. Imme¬ diately we see a problem. In interlacing the weft we go

275

THE ART OF WEAVING

over one warp thread and under the next, entirely across the loom; and then we return over and under the alternate warp threads (Fig. 121). This is a tedious process. Hence, many ages ago the weaver worked out the problem of making a shed through which he could shoot his weft at a single throw. By vari¬ ous devices he at¬ tached the even- numbered warp threads so that on a vertical loom he could bring them all forward and shoot the weft be¬ hind them but in front of the odd- numbered warp strings. For the second throw he would bring all the odd-num¬ bered warp threads forward so that the weft would run be¬ hind these and in front of the even-

Model of a Loom. The warp is strung on loom strings instead of loom bars (com¬ pare Fig. 129) in order to give the warp threads greater play and to relieve them of strain during the weaving. A, loom bars; B, loom strings; C, binding strings which hold the loom strings to the loom bars; D, warp; E, weft; F, spindle which carries the weft; G, rod to which alter¬ nate warp threads are attached and which, when brought forward, forms a shed through which the spindle has just shot a weft thread (for the sake of clearness the rod to which the other threads are attached is not shown); H, weave sword, a piece of polished wood to push the weft up against the part of the fabric already woven. (After Crawford, Peruvian Textiles, N. Y., American Museum of Natural History)

numbered ones. To make a plain cloth means to inter¬ weave the weft on this over-one-under-one principle en¬ tirely across the width of the fabric, so that in the finished

Fig. 121. Plain Cloth Weave.

276 THE ART OF WEAVING

textile both warp and weft show. Muslins and linen

handkerchiefs are good examples of this weave.

Let us next try a weave where one weft does not run the

entire width of the loom, although it is woven on the over-one-under-one principle. An illustration of this is tapestry (Fig. 1 22). Here the pur¬ pose of having several weft threads, each with its own shuttle, is to intro¬ duce several colors. Each weft thread is used only so far as its color is needed and is then broken off or left hanging on the back ( floated, as the weaver says) until needed again. Thus the back of a varicolored tapestry is rough-looking (Pl. 84). In order to pick up and drop the different weft threads the weaver sits behind his loom and has a mirror in front of it in which he can see the face of his fabric (Fig. 123) . Another characteristic of tapestry is the fact that the weft is combed down tight and entirely covers the warp, making a firm fabric with a rep, that is, a ribbed surface. The fact that the weft thread stops when the color stops in the design is likely to leave slits in the fabric. Sometimes these slits are left, as in Pl. 87; some¬ times they are sewed together, as in Pl. 88 ; sometimes the weft threads interlock, thus avoid¬ ing slits, as in Pl. 86 and Fig. 132.

In the twill and satin weaves, the weft runs the entire width of the warp, but instead of the over-one-under-one principle, the thread may run over-one-under-six or over-

Fig. 122. Tapestry Weave in Three Colors.

THE ART OF WEAVING 277

five-under-one, thus exposing longer strands of the warp or the weft (Figs. 124 and 125) . This exposure is of advan¬ tage in making silk fabrics, where a smooth texture can be obtained by leaving uninterrupted a smooth fiber. Com¬ bining a satin weave with a plain cloth weave — that is, to weave part of the fabric in the satin weave and part in a plain cloth weave, thus creating parts that con¬ trast in texture — pro¬ duces what is known as a damask (Pls. 83 and 88B) . The fabric is re¬ versible, the part that is satin weave on the face being plain or twill cloth on the back and vice versa. This weave is used in linen damask.

One method of enrich¬ ing any weave is to bro¬ cade it (Pl. 88) . This implies the use of an ad¬ ditional weft not essen¬ tial to the body of the fabric but inserted as a part of the weaving proc¬ ess, where needed, thus obtaining additional color and texture. Where gold and silver are used in weaving it is usually by brocading. These additional threads are floated or cut on the back, as in tapestry.

Pile fabric is made by an additional weft. Pile weaving recommends itself for carpets because the hard usage to which floor coverings are subjected calls for something dur-

Fig. 123. Loom for a Large Tapestry. (Muntz)

si i

g 2 S ■ ■ £ ?vi ■ ■ ■ ir* ess S * S ” « •«««•',

124. Twill Each weft

278 THE ART OF WEAVING

able. That is the great advantage of pile. It can at the

same time stand hard wear and protect the woven ground.

What do we mean by pile? The loom is strung with a warp that is tough and pliable and usually a band is first woven of plain or tapestry weave. Then the weaver twists short bits of thread, usually woolen, about the warp threads (Fig. 126), going across the width of the loom and using the colors which his design calls for. This is called knotting. The knotted threads stand up at right angles to the warp and weft and form the pile. When the weaver has gone across the loom with a row of knotting he puts in one or more rows of weft and then combs both the pile and the weft down firmly. Though his fingers work with amazing rapidity, the carpet grows slowly. For in fine carpets it takes from fifty to one hundred or even several hundred knots to make a square inch. After he has woven a considerable amount he trims the uneven ends of the pile with his shears, leaving them short or long. In a pile surface the pattern will not be clear-cut in its outlines as in other weaves because of the movement of the pile; and the longer the pile, the more irregular will be the contours of the pattern.

Fig.

Weave thread passes over one and under six warp threads in such a way as to give a diagonal rib (rep).

Fig. 125. Satin Weave. The weft threads pass over one and under six but not so as to form a diag¬ onal pattern.

Figs. 121, 122, 124, 125: From N. A. Reath, Weaves of Hand-Loom Fabrics (1927) by permission of the Pennsylvania Museum of Art.

Plate 83

Face (A, top ) and Back (B, bottom) of a Fragment of Bro¬ caded Damask. On the back the light and dark are reversed and the brocading threads floated. (Art Institute of Chicago)

Plate 84

Face (A, top) and Back (B, bottom) of Sewed Tapestry. A firm weave with the rep showing clearly. The figure (a bishop) is well simplified to meet the demands of the medium. (Art Institute of Chicago)

THE ART OF WEAVING 279

Another pile fabric is velvet. In this weave extra warps or wefts, in addition to those needed for the foundation weave, are looped at right angles to the surface and left as loops or cut (Fig. 127), in either case produc¬ ing a pile, as the knot¬ ting does in carpet.

With the weaving process in mind shall we ask the question:

How does the process affect the design? The very fact of a shuttle passing over and under warp threads at right angles imposes a defi¬ nite limitation. How different this is from the freedom with which pigment is applied to a surface by means of a brush! (Fig. 128) . In weaving you are making the surface and decorating it at the same time and the character of the decorative pattern must harmonize with the method of making. In the actual doing you cannot forget warp and weft at right angles,

Fig. 126. Two Methods of Knotting. In A both ends of the knots, which form the pile, come between two warp threads; in B the ends are evenly distributed, one for each space. The drawing is greatly en¬ larged, for in good carpets there are from fifty to several hundred knots to the square inch. (After Tattersall)

Rod over which is looped to form pile.

threads

Fig. 127. Velvet Weave. (After Reath)

creating a flat surface. Geometric patterns are effective. When the forms of nature are the basis of the design they are highly simplified.

The character of the design must needs harmonize with the weight and texture of the fabric. A pattern that is suit-

280 THE ART OF WEAVING

able for a heavy woolen rug is by no means suitable for a soft silk damask. Purpose also controls the design. If the fabric is to lie flat on the floor or hang flat on the wall, its pattern should recognize that function. If it is to hang in folds, its design should permit the breaking of the pattern,

and the strong play of light and dark with no unpleasant effect. In any case the art of the weaver does not attempt to imitate the art of the painter but depends for its effects upon the contrast, rhythm, and har¬ mony of color masses, and upon texture.

READING

Hooper, Luther, Hand-Loom Weav¬ ing, New York, Macmillan, 1920. Reath, N. A., The Weaves of Hand- Loom Fabrics, Phila., Pennsylvania Museum, 1927.

Tattersall, C. E. G., Notes on Car¬ pet-Knotting, London, Victoria and Albert Museum, 1920.

SUGGESTIONS

1. It is difficult to understand tex¬ tiles without actual examples to handle and to examine. Make a collection to illustrate at least such important weaves as plain cloth, twill and satin, damask, brocading, tapestry, velvet, pile carpet. Have two pieces of each, to show both sides; or fold over a part; or mount in a mat so that both sides can be seen.

2. Have samples of cotton, wool, silk, velvet, pile carpet of various textures, tapestry, etc., to handle for texture. Feel with the eyes closed so as to concentrate on the sensation of touch.

3. Visit Oriental rug stores or departments, where it is often possible to see knotting done.

A

_ 5

Fig. 128. Bird Motif in Textile and Pottery De¬ sign. A, from a Peruvian textile showing the form adapted to weaving; B, from Amerindian pottery, showing the free sweep of brush work.

THE ART OF WEAVING 281

4. Unquestionably the best way to understand weaving is to do it. Small looms are easily procurable, (a) String the loom and weave a plain cloth to get the feeling of warp and weft; (b) one weave like the satin, which is one over and several under, or vice versa; (c) one weave where there are several weft threads, one for each color as in tapestry, and where the weft threads are combed down to cover the warp. Many sugges¬ tions, as well as illustrations, of the technique of weaving will be found in the books listed below.

5. Find designs, in fabrics or illustrations of fabrics, which you think are good textile designs and also some which you think are not. In each case explain the reason for your opinion.

6. Make original designs for different kinds of textiles: a soft silk, a pile carpet, a linen damask, a tapestry. In each case distinguish, in the character of the design, between the textures. Select motives from geometric, floral, bird, and ani¬ mal forms, or from any suitable motives taken from everyday life. Actually weave the design; one unit if it is a repeat pat¬ tern, or one detail.

TAPESTRIES OF PERU

Before the Spanish conquests in South America there lived in the highlands and along the shores of what is now Peru peoples of primitive culture who made everyday things of high artistic quality, especially pottery and textiles. We have, as yet, far too little knowledge of these people. But we do know that the women, with the simplest kind of a loom (Fig. 129), with wool from their llamas, vi¬ cunas, and alpacas, with cotton and a few vegetable dyes, wove ponchos, decorative bands for clothing and saddles, pouches, and other articles that today are unsur¬ passed in the quality of their craftsmanship and of their design.

Let the pieces reproduced in Pl. 85 serve as examples.

282 THE ART OF WEAVING

In the lower piece 1 the motif of the central band appears to be an S-shape but is really made up of straight lines. This figure is regularly repeated, yet how free from mo¬ notony! See the infi¬ nite variety of detail within the motif. Three bands form the body of a strange crea¬ ture in three colors, rarely repeated in the same sequence. The head is sometimes light and sometimes dark. In the narrow border is another motif of steps and spirals. Here the small slits in the weave

— for this is slit tapestry

— accent the blocklike broken ground and the spirals repeat the spirals of the central motif. At regular intervals the spiral is strongly ac¬ cented by a white ground, which marks an insistent rhythm, while the intermediate spirals, hardly perceptible in

the reproduction without the color, give a vibrating, elu¬ sive character to the ground in contrast to the quiet un-

Fig. 129. Small Peruvian Loom. The warp is strung on bars and the weaving of slit tapestry begun but not yet beaten down by the smooth stick already inserted be¬ tween the warp threads for the purpose. Notice that three colors are being used and hence three shuttles; the two along the side are for the selvage. (American Mu¬ seum of Natural History)

1 Width, 6 in. The warp and white areas are cotton; the rest, fine vicuna wool. 75 to 105 weft threads to the square inch. Both pieces are in the Boston Museum.

THE ART OF WEAVING 283

broken ground of the central band. These harmonies, variations, and contrasts of color, pattern, and rhythm pro¬ duce a distinctly pleasing form.

The curious creature in the central band seems to be a composite of various forms, bird and animal, and possibly conveyed a definite meaning symbolically, as do many of the motifs in primitive art, though that meaning is often quite unintelligible to us. Form alone, then, is the source of our pleasure. How delightful and ingenious it is! For the ex¬ pression is terse yet inclusive of essentials. In the bird form, for example, which is frequently y used, so patternlike has the fig¬ ure become that two birds are

interlocked to form a striking Fig I30 Peruvian TextiIe

motif (Fig. 130) . In the upper with Interchangeable Bird Mo- i r ti o i tif. Turn the drawing upside

example of Pl. 85 the animal down and the same b ? d form figure has been seen as an angu- appears in dark. (After a lar geometric pattern sensitively J? the Metro P° litan placed within a diamond shape.

Here too the slit-tapestry weave and subtle variations of color produce an elusive vibration of surface that is par¬ ticularly pleasing.

The majority of these Peruvian textiles are tapestry weave and many are incredibly fine. Weaving was an almost universal craft among the women, who could spin the cotton into a warp that was smooth and even enough to form an even rep and at the same time strong enough to carry the wool weft and withstand the beating of the weft to make a firm weave. So fine a thread was spun for the weft that examples have been found which contain nearly three hundred and eighty weft threads to the inch.

284

THE ART OF WEAVING

READING

Means, P. A., Ancient Civilizations of the Andes, N. Y., Scrib¬ ner, 1931.

-Peruvian Textiles, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum, 1930.

SUGGESTION

Study the designs in Peruvian textiles, especially those de¬ rived from bird and animal life. From the bird and animal life of your own environment create textile designs in the style of the Peruvian.

SILK FABRICS

Is there any textile more charming than silk? To the touch so soothing, to the eye so lustrous. Now so soft that it hangs in long unbroken folds. Now so heavy and rich that it breaks into masses of high lights and deep shadows. In few textiles are there such possibilities of rich effects, so that silk has always been highly prized wherever known.

The derivation of the word leads us to the source of its discovery, China. Seres was the name given the Chinese by the Greeks and Romans. Sericum was a garment of silk, whence is derived the word for silk in all the European languages. To the Romans serica were considered a great luxury, for they were enormously costly, even for the wealthy Romans of the days of the luxurious clubs. Their ideas about the fabric and about the people who made it were equally hazy. The patterns were so unfamiliar and puzzling that the Roman weavers appear to have unraveled the fabrics and rewoven them with Western designs.

Silk is one of the fibers produced by insects for nests or webs or protective covering during the change from worm to moth. Its strength and brilliance are the qualities that make it so valuable. To expose such a fiber as much as is

THE ART OF WEAVING 285

practical, so that it can reveal its possibilities, is the reason why silks are usually woven in the twill or satin weave (Figs. 124 and 125). Most of the silk used in weaving comes from the mulberry silk-moth, which was discovered in China many centuries ago. Just how, we do not know. The Chinese themselves have legends about it; of the em¬ press who, they say, invented the loom and who cared for the precious silkw T orms herself and gave directions to the gardeners about the cultivation of the mulberry trees.

The Chinese, with their natural conservatism and their geographic isolation, probably made the finest silks for many centuries before they discovered how lucrative was traffic in this fabric with the lands in the West, lucrative even though it entailed months of caravan travel across deserts or hazardous sailing over unknown seas. 2

With the Chinese and also with the Japanese the designs of silk fabrics have always been traditional and full of meaning. As an example we may look at a Japanese Obi or broad sash, which is worn over the kimono (Pl. 88A) . 3 On a restrained gray-green ground a repeat pattern is made of bamboo tops in grays and ivory, each leaf outlined in gold. These tops alternate in direction with each row and make an insistent rhythm over against wavering pine branches brocaded in gold. There is distinction in this re¬ strained harmony and refined elegance. The design is the same in principle as in a musical composition in which the sustained rhythm of a melody rings in a cello out over a wavering pattern in the violins. Thus color and rhythm charm the observer. A delightful pattern the weaver has seen in the pine and the bamboo. This alone may suffice for our enjoyment. Not so for the Japanese. To him the

2 In this connection the travels of Marco Polo will be found interesting.

3 Eighteenth or nineteenth century a.d. Art Institute of Chicago.

286 THE ART OF WEAVING

pine and the bamboo, because they are evergreen, are sym¬ bols of long life. Did we not see him planting these trees in his garden? Here, then, meaning attaches itself to de¬ sign. And when a Japanese sends such an Ob' as a gift to a bride or as a votive offering to a temple, he is sending a gift which is doubly significant because form is infused with meaning.

The same principle of rhythmic design we see in an Italian Brocaded Damask (Pl. 88B) , 4 in which a pattern of buff, brocaded in silver, is woven against a ground of green. This pattern is made up of pairs of parrots and gazelles balanced with striking symmetry about heart- shaped palmettes. The birds and the animals form alter¬ nating rows, with floral motifs filling the intervening spaces so that the ground is filled but not crowded. The large areas of the figures furnish the strongly accented rhythm, the broken palmettes the wavering movement, and the two are held together by the green ground. Though the fig¬ ures are flat patterns they are infused with a surprising amount of reality — the grace of the gazelle and the asper¬ ity of the parrot. Yet no compromise has been made with the requirements of textile design. Even the terminal of the gazelle’s leg has become an arabesque and the bird’s plumage a geometric pattern. Almost inevitably the birds, animals, and palmettes interlock, with the help of scatter¬ ing arabesques, to fill the space!

SUGGESTION

Color reproductions of fine silks, damasks, and brocaded fabrics can be found in the Encyclopedia Britannica, 14th ed., in the article “ Textiles and in the Near Eastern Textiles of the Metropolitan Museum Colorprints. In these study particu¬ larly the color schemes and the designs from the point of view

4 Sicilian, twelfth century a.d. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

Plate 85

■Wm

' 1 : • If'j

Two Pieces of Slit Tapestry. Above: an elusive vibrating ground with strong accents in the animal motif alternating in light and dark. Below: an unusually fine tight weave with strong rhythmic movement through unit shapes and color. In both pieces the adaptation of the figure to the require¬ ments of weaving is particularly sensitive. (Boston Museum)

Plate 86

Navajo Blanket. A powerful directness results from a few simple geometric motifs used boldly on a large scale with strong contrasts — an expression of primitive life. (Metropolitan Museum)

Plate 87

Persian Animal Carpet. A subtle richness results from the intricate interweaving and contrasting of numerous motifs both geometric and naturalistic, from the soft texture, and from the abundant yet sternly controlled detail — an expression of a wealthy luxuriant court. (Metropolitan Museum)

Plate 88

A, top. Detail of a Japanese Gold Bro¬ caded Obi. (Art In¬ stitute of Chicago)

B. Detail of an Ital¬ ian Silver Brocaded Damask. (Metro¬ politan Museum)

Both these designs are well adapted to silk weaving and with the brocadings of gold and silver con¬ vey an impression of elegance.

THE ART OF WEAVING 287

of suitability of motif to weaving and the influence of the process on the pattern.

A PERSIAN CARPET

We have already visited Persia and looked at the fine books of the wealthy shahs (Pl. 82) . Books were one of the most aristocratic of the arts of Persia. Carpets, on the other hand, belong to all the people. They are found alike in the palace of the shah, the tent of the nomad, and the home of the merchant. Almost every one has a share in the craft — in the raising of the sheep, the shearing, the spin¬ ning, the dyeing, or the weaving.

Conditions of life foster a need for rugs. The moun¬ tainous plateau of Persia is subject to great contrasts of climate and the Persian builds his house to secure as much comfort and pleasure as he can in view of these contrasts. In the torrid summer, stone, stucco, and glazed tile pro¬ tect against heat and glare. Into this house of cool, hard surfaces the soft texture of the carpet on the floor, wall, or chest brings a happy contrast, especially as the Persian house has but little furniture. In the cold rains and snow of winter both the stone palace and the shepherd’s hut need warm coverings — a need met by firmly woven rugs. Pile weaving appears to have origi¬ nated in the need of the nomad shepherd to find a warm, serviceable covering for the floor and walls of his tent- house.

Besides this protective purpose, carpets were used as gifts, dowries, or indemnities. In the home or on the desert the prayer rug served as a sanctuary. The wealth of the family might consist of carpets, or of great skill in dyeing or weav¬ ing, which father would transmit to son, generation after generation.

288 THE ART OF WEAVING

Not only did everyday life in Persia require carpets, but also the land provided the materials for making them. Persia is a great sheep-raising country and has developed shepherds with extraordinary skill in producing just the quality of wools required. Clear springs furnish running water for the washing of the wool, and the tropical sun¬ shine, heat, and light for drying and bleaching. Nature provides the colors beyond the white and black of the sheep’s wool and the warm neutral of the camel’s hair: blue from the indigo plant; red from madder root or the dead bodies of insects living on the oak trees; yellow from Per¬ sian berries. The silk that was used for the sumptuous carpets of the shahs came originally from China and was introduced thence into Persia, which was on the great trade route between eastern and western Asia. Though silk, linen, and cotton are used in these carpets, wool is the most important material.

As Persian rugs, both large and small, come from all classes of life, so the impressions that they create vary. Those of the shepherd which he uses in his tent or on his saddle are smaller, of tougher texture, bolder design, and stronger contrasts of color. Those of the palace and mosque, often large enough to cover floors and walls, are of softer texture, more delicate and subtle in color and in design. These great royal carpets were woven by court weavers. A court or a mosque had, as part of the estab¬ lishment, highly skilled weavers who were among the great of the day, as were the calligraphers and miniature-paint¬ ers. They were given all the time they needed and all the materials, no matter how costly. The shahs were enor¬ mously wealthy and seemed to take delight in spending enormous sums on fine carpets and fine books.

Such a Persian Carpet is the animal rug reproduced in

THE ART OF WEAVING 289

Pl. 87. 5 Color, movement, and texture — that is what one sees and feels. Deep somber hues with light accents are so massed that you are aware of rhythms of both line and color guiding the eye through the carpet. See how the eye moves over the central rectangle and thence into the bor¬ ders, which emphasize the proportions of the carpet, keep the movement within the area, and definitely mark it off from its environment. The texture is firm and fine — four hundred and eighty-four knots to the square inch — mak¬ ing possible a delicacy of decorative motif impossible in a coarser weave.

What are the large elements of the design that are re¬ sponsible for this rhythmic movement? There is first a central rectangular field of rich warm red with five strong accents in the five pairs of fighting lions and gazelles, the lions yellow, the gazelles black spotted in white. From these accents a more rapid and more delicate movement glides through the field, guided by the other animals, by the light peonies with silver threads, and by the spiraling stems.

This movement of line and color is held as a unit by the second element— the group of borders. First a light nar¬ row band which holds the red ground of the inner field firmly by the strong contrast of the ground color yet harmo¬ nizes with it because it uses the same hues. The broad bor¬ der has a deep-blue ground through which runs rapidly, very rapidly in comparison with the more suave movement of the central field, two running motifs: one, strong and bold, of the red of the inner field; the other, light and delicate, like the spiraling stems. Both enclose a light peony which serves

6 Of wool. 10 ft. 10 in. by 5 ft. 10 in. From the royal tomb-mosque at Ardebil, in northwestern Persia. About 1520-30 a.d. Metropolitan Museum, New York. An excellent color reproduction of a detail is published in postcard form by the Metropolitan Museum.

290 THE ART OF WEAVING

as an accent, a stable point about which the movement glides. The outer finishing border has a red ground con¬ trasting with the blue of the broad border and recalling the central field, and a quiet floral motif, thus quietly and harmoniously but definitely terminating the design. You notice that the color in the ground is not a perfectly uni¬ form tone but varies just a little, producing a vibrating quality like that of Gothic Glass (see page 90) .

The motifs with which this design is carried out are partly geometric and abstract and partly from the world of nature — plants and animals. While there is a surpris¬ ingly realistic feeling about them, at the same time they are perfectly flat patterns, each playing its part in the com¬ position to fill the space without crowding and without overlapping, and united in the big rhythmic movement partly by their relative position and partly by the slender stems that swing through the rectangle. Look closely at any detail and you will find that although it is repeated again and again, there is a great deal of subtle variation in form, or spacing, or color, that does not interfere with the rhythmic movement of the design, but which adds enor¬ mously to its interest and vivacity.

READING

Bode, W., and Kuehnel, E., Antique Rugs from the Near East, N. Y., Weyhe, 1922.

Dimand, M. S., Handbook of Mohammedan Decorative Arts, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum, 1930.

Encyclopaedia Britannica (14th ed.), “ Rugs and Carpets.” Pope, A. U., An Introduction to Persian Art, London, Davies, i 93 °-

SUGGESTIONS

1. Lay a piece of tracing paper over the reproduction or, better, over a photograph or the postcard detail and trace the

THE ART OF WEAVING 291

spiraling movement in the central field. Note just what part the animals, flowers, and stems play in guiding the eye through the field. Do the same for the movement in the borders.

2. Find examples of handmade pile carpets or rugs at home, in stores, in museums. Make sketches of the big basic parts of the design. What colors are used? How are they repeated, harmonized, and contrasted? What motifs are used? Are they the same in the field and in the border? What is the texture? Do you think that the texture and the motifs harmonize?

A NAVAJO BLANKET

As you stand on the brink of the Grand Canyon, on a clear afternoon, at Navajo Point, you see at your feet the gigantic gorge of the Colorado filled with pinnacles all blue and rose, with violet shadows already filling the lower gulches. Far down within the chasm below winds, like a tiny thread, the river that carved it. To the east, the canon of the Little Colorado makes a snakelike crack in the level pla¬ teau. Beyond stretch miles and miles of flat country over which hangs a golden mist that blurs half-visible masses of turquoise-blue, mauve, rose, green — a living opal. Far to the northwest rise the dim blue peaks of the sacred mountains. This is the land of the Navajo and Hopi In¬ dians (Fig. 131).

It is a bold land, in scale and in ruggedness, in contrasts of burning heat and biting cold, a land of desert aridity and floods from an occasional cloudburst, of barren soil that is rich wherever rain or a spring gives it the needed moisture. It is not a land where life consists of little pleasantries and sentimentality, but where necessities are wrung by hard effort from a forceful, stubborn nature. Yet it is a land of great natural beauty. The vastness of earth repeats the immensity of the dome of the sky. Profound calm envelops the land. By day the dry air, stimulating

292

THE ART OF WEAVING

even in the heat, quivers with brilliant color; by night the sparkling stars reach down to touch the earth.

The Navajo felt all this. Listen to one of his songs:

On the trail marked with pollen may I walk,

With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk,

With dew about my feet may I walk,

With beauty may I walk,

With beauty before me may I walk,

With beauty behind me may I walk,

With beauty above me may I walk,

With beauty all around me, may I walk,

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk, In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk,

It is finished in beauty. 6

Is it not inevitable that so forceful a nature should domi¬ nate the Navajo’s thought, belief, and expression? That his designs should be boldly vigorous? And that in them he should be expressing what is most vital in his life? That

6 Matthews, W. Navaho Myths , Prayers and Songs, Berkeley, University Press, 1907. (See the inscription in Fig. 61, p. 104.)

THE ART OF WEAVING 293

in red he should see the sunshine; in white, the early morn¬ ing light; in blue, the cloudless south; and in black, the storm clouds of the north? A common motif in his pottery and textiles, for example, is the step pattern (Pl. 86), usually interpreted as a rain-cloud symbol. And when, in this step pattern, he uses black and red, he seems to be using these colors not only for their contrast, but because of their meaning: sunshine and rain bring harvests. While some of his decorative motifs may be used for their form only, it seems probable that many are as symbolic, as sig¬ nificant in meaning, as are his songs and his dances.

For towns you will search in vain, because the Navajo is a nomad. His songs suggest that his real home is the wide out-of-doors. Yet, in a protected place near a spring you will find a winter hogan, a hut of logs and mud to serve as a storage place for his corn, and as a warm sleeping-place in bad weather. Perhaps it is near a shelving cliff to shelter the flocks, for the Navajos are shepherds. In summer this hogan lies deserted when the family moves from place to place to find the sparse pasturage, carrying all their house¬ hold belongings with them. In the lee of an overhanging rock they make a home, or in a light summer hogan. 7 One of the hut poles will serve as one side of a very simple loom of logs. Seated on the ground before it, the Navajo woman — for most of the weavers are women — during the long summer days will weave the tight coverings to protect the family against the winter winds of the high plateau. The sheep furnish the wool, black, white, and gray. Add a few vegetable dyes for some of the wool, and the material is complete for many of their rugs.

Look at a group of Navajo blankets and rugs. It is their bold simplicity that first catches the eye. Their austere

7 See p. 310, note 6.

294 THE ART OF WEAVING

power was born of a clean air, a rugged out-of-door life in a land of brilliant color. Everywhere are straight lines and angles. Not a curve in sight. And sharp meeting of con¬ trasting color; black, white, red. What the eye sees and the effect that this produces are at almost an opposite pole from those of the royal Persian Animal Carpet (Pl. 87), where everything suggests the easy luxury of a wealthy

court. In the Navajo Blanket of Pl. 86 8 a step border of black and white frames the inner field of vibrating rose, which is divided into three parts, each containing a double zigzag pat-

Fig- 132- interlocked tern mac j e Q f the step motif. Notice Tapestry Weave. ...

(Crawford, Peruvian how the central division is wider, the

Textiles, N. Y., American ste p pattern larger; and how the large tory ) zigzags terminate m groups of small

rapid zigzags, with fragments of the same motif in the field. As the step or terrace figure sym¬ bolizes the rain clouds and the zigzag the lightning, we may see here not only a design of barbaric dignity and boldness in harmony with the life that it serves; a useful protection because of its firm tight weave; motifs suited to tapestry weaving; superb color — not only these qualities may we see, but an inner meaning, as potent a supplication for rain-bringing storms as the ceremonial chants. In one of the legends we read, “ I wish good and beautiful black clouds, good and beautiful thunderstorms, good and beau¬ tiful gentle showers.”

In order to give the blanket a firmness to stand hard usage and to protect adequately, the Navajo uses the tapes¬ try weave, not slit or sewed, but interlocked (Fig. 132). Look closely at a Navajo rug and see how the line separat-

8 Nineteenth century. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

THE ART OF WEAVING 295

ing two colors, sharp though it looks, is really wavering as the black penetrates the red or white for one warp thread. The loom is most primitive. Two upright poles with an upper and lower beam between form a frame to which the warp beams are lashed. The weaver squats in front of the loom on a rug or an animal skin and when the work is completed beyond the reach of her arms loosens the top lashes, lowers the upper warp beam, and winds the woven section around the lower beam.

READING

Hewett, E. L., Ancient Life in the American Southwest, N. Y., Bobbs-Merrill, 1931.

James, G. W., Indian Blankets, Chicago, McClurg, 1914. Matthews, W., Navaho Legends, Boston, Houghton, 1897.

SUGGESTIONS

1. It is quite possible to weave some of the Navajo patterns on a small loom and to carry them out in the interlocked tapes¬ try weave. The books listed above will give illustrations of the important motifs.

2. Design an original blanket or rug, using the terrace, zig¬ zag, diamond, or cross motif.

Part Ten

THE ART OF POTTERY

W hat a familiar figure is the potter with his clay and his potter’s wheel! Every age and every land have known him. Literature frequently alludes to the potter’s wheel and to clay in the potter’s hands. Sometimes his ves¬ sels are only useful containers. Or they may not only serve their purpose but at the same time delight us with shape, texture, and color, as do the wares of Persia.

Can you not see the old Persian craftsman bending over his wheel? A green turban is wound about his head. This color means that he has made the sacred pilgrimage to Mecca, the holy city of the Mohammedans, a hazardous journey by caravan across wide deserts — the event of a lifetime. Thus he is marked as a man of importance among his friends. But for more reasons than that. Because of his great skill in making the richly colored vessels so loved by the Persians, not only is he in the employ of the shah, but also, like his friends the carpet-weaver and the callig¬ rapher, he is one of the notable men of the land.

He may well be intent upon his work, for a message has lately come from the shah. A ewer is to be made as a gift to a prince who, a courier has reported, will pay the shah a visit some weeks hence. The ewer is to be of the finest shape and color, the shah has said, and is to carry an inscrip¬ tion that will convey his felicitations to the prince. So the potter is bending over his clay thoughtfully. Many a ves¬ sel he has made for the shah, but this one for the prince must surpass them all. A mass of clay he places in the center of the wheel and thoughtfully he turns the disk. His fingers feel a shape forming. A little pressure, here inward, there outward. How the soft clay responds to the

THE ART OF POTTERY 297

slightest touch! He stops and looks. No, it is not quite right. Shape and proportions are his greatest concern. Yet, this is to be a ewer. Will it stand firmly, hold a sufficient quantity of liquid, and pour easily? Are its outlines pleas¬ ing, and will the surfaces display to best advantage the rich color with which he intends to cover them? Is the handle strong, easy for the hand to grasp and at the same time har¬ monious with the shape and contour of the body?

The shape is now finished but is not ready for the glaze, because the clay is too coarse to provide a good surface. The potter coats it thinly with fine white clay, on which he paints a floral design in black, together with the inscription, and then covers all the surface with a thick transparent blue glaze to reveal the decoration beneath and to set off the shape of the ewer. This blue is his secret, which he has worked out after many experiments. How will it look after it is fired? Eagerly he removes it from the kiln and looks with delight at its somber richness, at an intensity of color that he had hardly hoped for, as the rounding, slightly irregular surfaces catch and reflect the light. Yet even this is not enough for the prince, the old potter thinks. Again he calls upon his skill to add a final subtle touch. Another glaze he makes of copper, which he paints very lightly over the ewer. A gentle firing and again he holds the vessel to the light. At first it looks just the same. Then, with a slight movement of his hand, there appears a flash of in¬ tense coppery red and gold. With the slightest movement it disappears and only the blue remains. Now it reappears. How surprised and delighted the prince will be, says the potter to himself, when he discovers unexpectedly these fugitive flashes. The ewer is finished. With low obeisance he places it on the carpet before the shah. “ May the work of a humble servant be pleasing to your Majesty,”

298 THE ART OF POTTERY

What do we mean when we say that such a ewer is an example of pottery, or of the ceramic art, as it is called, from the Greek word for earthenware? It is the art of clay: clay shaped and subjected to heat. It may be sun-dried in hot dry countries or baked by fire — fired, as we say. With the exception of flat pieces such as tiles, it brings us very close to sculpture and architecture, the three-dimensional arts. For most of the potter’s wares, though small in com¬ parison, are like statues or buildings in that they depend for their effect upon shape, proportions, and organization of mass.

In pottery there are four fundamental processes: the preparation of the clay; the shaping; the decorating; the firing. The preparation requires cleaning and kneading, or wedging, to remove foreign materials and to secure a smooth texture. The shaping can be done in several ways. A mass of clay can be shaped by hand. Or it can be rolled into coils with which the vessel can be built up. Or it can be pressed or, if thin enough, poured into molds. This last is the present-day method for quantity production, for a large number of pieces can be made from one mold. The great method, however, by which the finest wares have been made, a method discovered early by different people sepa¬ rately in different lands, is the use of the potter’s wheel. By this device the potter can turn the mass of clay by mechanical means and have his hands free to shape it (Fig. 133) . He then lets it dry until it is leather-hard, re¬ places it on the wheel, and with his tools turns it, that is, smoothes and refines the shape, molds the lip, the base, and adds the handles.

The shape is then ready for the third step, the decorating and glazing. An important use of pottery is to hold liquids. Yet clay is porous. A primitive method of making the ves-

Plate 89

A. Persian Jar. Here is a sculptural quality in the unity of the masses. (Metropolitan Museum)

B. Persian Dish. The motifs of decoration are particularly fitting to pottery and to the spe¬ cific shape. (British Museum)

Plate go

A. Pitcher from Bo¬ khara. (Art Institute of Chicago)

B. Italian Majolica Vase. (Victoria and Albert Museum)

Though the Italian vase shows great skill tech¬ nically it lacks the fine unity seen in Pis. 89, 90A, and 91, particu¬ larly in the upper part where the contours are jerky and disconnected and the decoration too obtrusive.

THE ART OF POTTERY 299

sel impervious was to rub some waxy substance into the surface. But early the potter learned a more permanent method, glazing, that is, coating the vessel with melted glass, or glaze. At the same time he saw that with glaze he could also hide a rough clay base, secure texture, and by adding pigment to the molten glaze, obtain his most pow¬ erful decorative element, color. The glaze may be painted or sprayed on. Or if the vessel is not too large, it may be dipped into the glaze. Some kinds of clay when fired at a high tem¬ perature become vitreous like porcelain, and hence impervious, and if they are glazed it is for decorative purposes only. Glazing, though perhaps the most important, is not the only kind of decoration used by potters. A design may be molded in low relief, or incised, or painted. These methods of decoration are often com¬ bined with glazing: painting beneath a transparent glaze; painting over a glaze; relief covered with glaze. To make both the clay shape and the decoration or glaze permanent is the purpose of the firing. Sometimes one firing is suffi¬ cient. Or several firings may be necessary. Or one heavy firing and then a light one, as in the case of the Persian ewer.

Ceramic wares depend for their effect largely, as we have said, upon shape, proportions, and color. The maker of the Pitcher in Fig. 134A felt this. The firm contours have a quality which they impart to the entire vessel. The base is finely proportioned to lend a feeling of strength and the

Fig. 133. Potter’s Wheel.

300 THE ART OF POTTERY

handle is an integral part of the whole, its contour joining that of the body and the lip in an unbroken line. Compare it with the Pitcher in Fig. 134B, whose wavering fantastic contours weaken the sense of structure. One feels as if it were falling to pieces. Slight irregularity in contour

may have a pleasing effect if it is controlled by lines that emphasize the structure, as in Pl. 90A, where the lip and the base with their firm unbroken lines accent and finish the design with a clear directness.

By no means least important in pottery design is the relation be¬ tween the function of the vessel and the design. Will the vessel adequately do what it is made to do? And does its appearance — its shape, its propor¬ tions, the relation of its parts, its decoration — harmonize with that function? For, as in a building, when a work of art has a definite purpose, much of our pleasure in it comes from a feeling of harmony between its appearance and its purpose.

Let us visit the shops of some of the world’s great potters and see how they have solved the problems involved and produced vessels that have delighted many people. As we have begun our travels in Persia, shall we stay a little longer to visit a potter at Rhages (Ray, Rayy, Rai, Raiy) ?

Contours of Two Pitchers.

A PERSIAN JAR

Rhages, the site of whose ruins is a few miles south of Teheran, was one of the old capitals of Persia and once an important ceramic center. In the Rhages Jar of Pl. 89, 1 we

1 Height, 5^ in. Twelfth to thirteenth century a.d. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

THE ART OF POTTERY 301

see a low broad shape with a sculptural compactness that determines and is determined by an ellipse (Fig. 135). The animal handles are true clay forms so adjusted to the function of a handle that it is difficult to tell where the animal ends and the handle begins — an excellent ex¬ ample of the sensitive adjustment of form and function. You feel with equal conviction the idea of animal and the idea of handle. Furthermore, they are so placed that they not only serve adequately to lift the jar but also serve

to fill the space made by the .

tapering shape and thus to pro- ^ duce the organizing contour, just as Giotto’s figures are grouped so as to produce a sweeping line of \\ organization (Fig. 96) .

By comparison with a less suc¬ cessful design (Pl. 90B) we may realize better the unity and har¬ mony in the Persian jar. In the

Medici Vase the handles are disjointed excrescences rather than integral parts. The inner as well as the outer con¬ tour is jerky. The masks obscure rather than elucidate the unity between the body and the neck. Contrast with this the simplified contour and clear expression of parts in the Persian jar. In the Medici Vase, again, the ornament overloads the vessel, conceals the structural form, and seems to exist for itself rather than as one ele¬ ment within a unified design. In the Rhages Jar, on the contrary, the decoration accents the structural parts and unifies them into clear whole, without obtruding itself.

Let us look at this a little more closely. As with much of the Persian pottery, the jar is covered, because of the coarse clay, with a slip, here ivory white, which furnishes a

Fig. 135. Organizing Lines of a Persian Jar (Pl. 89A).

302 THE ART OF POTTERY

ground for the painting in blue, turquoise-green, purple, brown, and brick-red. The narrow bands of Arabic letters and arabesques accent the two main parts of the jar, the body and the neck, and their relative proportions. In the broad band between, dumpy mounted figures, freely painted, fill the space as they gallop around the jar and add another horizontal movement that emphasizes the low broad shape. Below, arabesques parallel to the band of letters seem to indicate the direction of the surface toward the base. At the top a row of brush strokes accents the lip and finishes the design as a frame does a picture. The handles, we have already said, function equally for utility and for design. They are so placed that they unite the body, the neck, and the lip; and their surfaces, broken by the dark arabesque-like motifs, have about the same move¬ ment of light and dark as the body. Thus, structurally, part relates to part, clearly and harmoniously; and decora¬ tion insistently stresses these relationships.

The free, sketchy character of the painting may at first seem puzzling. Consider, however, the irregularities of the clay shape, and the fact that pottery, with the exception of some flat pieces, has curving surfaces. When figures are used, most of them are seen foreshortened. Under these circumstances may it not be more effective merely to sug¬ gest the figure to the eye and to the imagination than to express it more naturalistically where the foreshortening is disturbing? In the Rhages Jar the horsemen appear equally well, both as decorative masses and as horsemen, whether seen directly in front or foreshortened. And how refreshing is their spontaneity! These galloping riders are real, and undoubtedly they delighted the Persian because they recalled to him his favorite pastime.

An excellent example of suitable ceramic design both

THE ART OF POTTERY 303

as to form and color is found in a piece from Rhages or pos¬ sibly from Rakka, another important ceramic center of Persia. Here we have a shallow platelike dish (Pl. 89B) 2 the inside of which is nearly filled with a harpy figure, that is half bird and half woman, combined with spiraling mo¬ tifs to maintain the balance and to fill the area. Turn the dish as you will and see how beautifully the figure fills the space. What movement in those sweeping lines, now in unison with the outer contour, now in opposition to it! The border, contrastingly, presents a more rapid move¬ ment, like the border on the Persian Animal Carpet (Pl. 91). Here the eye is carried both by the six strong accents and by the rapid minor accents of diagonal strokes of alternating color. Thus each of the two parts of the dish has a decoration that suits it in scale; the interior, one of larger mass and bolder rhythm; the border, one with smaller scale and more rapid movement. How effective are these insistent straight strokes in a design all curves!

A simple color harmony controls the design; blue, green, and manganese (a purplish brown) on an ivory ground. In the border the strong accent consists of a green disc surrounded by blue and the straight strokes of alternating manganese and blue. The central figure employs the same hues, partly in larger areas and partly in small accents to carry the rhythm. The figure is incised so that the color fills the incisions, producing dark lines. How delightfully the eye is caught by the larger masses of green in the center, enticed into the border by the accenting discs, and then lured back by the spirals which again bring it to the central mass!

2 Diameter 16.75 i n - Eleventh or twelfth century. British Museum, Lon¬ don. An excellent color reproduction is found in the British Museum Postcard Set, C 14, “Islamic Pottery of the Near East.”

304

THE ART OF POTTERY

SUGGESTIONS

1. The British Museum Postcard Set referred to on p. 303, footnote 2, contains fifteen excellent color reproductions, with a brief description of Near East pottery. Additional repro¬ ductions in color are found in the Metropolitan Museum Colorprints, Near Eastern Ceramics, and in the Encyclopedia Britannica, 13th ed., “ Ceramics,” or 14th ed., “ Potteries and Porcelains.” Secure as many examples as possible and study both the shapes and the decoration, and the relation between the two.

2. A study of handles. Find examples where handles seem an integral part of the design and where they are excrescences. See suggestions under “ A Greek Cup.”

A PITCHER FROM BOKHARA

Northeast of Persia in Turkestan lies the province of Bokhara, a mountainous land that is bitterly cold in win¬ ter, in turn deluged with rain or buried in snow; in sum¬ mer intensely hot, parched, and dusty. These extremes produce a vigor in the people that finds expression in their arts; in the particularly firm weave of their rugs, for ex¬ ample, which serve at the tent door as a protection against the biting winds. A Pitcher from this land (Pl. 90A) 3 shows this characteristic strength in its shape, proportions, decoration, and color contrasts. It consists of three parts clearly distinguished and closely united — body, neck, handle. The body is nearly spherical and the neck of similar proportions, for its height and its diameter are nearly equal. Three incised lines clearly separate the two parts, while the unbroken contour unites them. The slight flare of the lip brings the contour of the neck into har¬ mony with the curve of the body and forms a finish, like a border on a rug, as does the inconspicuous base of equal

3 Height, about 10 in. Seventeenth century a.d. Art Institute of Chicago.

THE ART OF POTTERY 305

diameter. The handle is proportioned similarly to the other two masses. Its contour repeats the contour of the body and it is so attached that it unites the two parts firmly and also functions easily for the hand in pouring. Every detail of the shape, proportions, and contour tends to a clear enunciation of the parts, and at the same time ensures their indissoluble, satisfying unity.

Is this true of the decoration also? Perhaps its most strik¬ ing characteristic is the bold vigor that results partly from its character and partly from its strong contrasts. This vigor of decoration harmonizes with the vigor of shape and proportions. The strongest part of the decoration is on the strongest mass, the body. The motif is taken from the pomegranate plant. Root, leaves, and flowers form a curving pattern that repeats the curve of surface and of contour with a countercurve in the leaves that not only balances the strong movement but also repeats the shape of the handle. There is no attempt to give a naturalistic appearance of the plant but only to see in it a flat pattern that is peculiarly adaptable to the curving surface that it decorates. The ornament on the neck is equally fitting, for the vertical lines accent the shape, while the curves emphasize, by inverse curve, both the lip above and the body below. The repetition of this motif, on a small scale, near the handle is another happy way of bringing unity between the two parts. The light brush strokes on the handle serve to break the plain surface and are not em¬ phatic enough to overaccent. These decorative motifs stand out clear and strong because of the color. The pitcher has a yellow slip and a yellow-orange glaze, against which the decoration on the neck and handle is painted in black. The pomegranate is outlined in the same black and the areas are filled with green, blue, and red.

306

THE ART OF POTTERY

A GREEK CUP

Contrasting with the Bokhara Pitcher of sturdy vigor is a Greek Cup of slender grace (Pl. 91 A) . 4 Its outline is clear-cut and its colors, coppery red and black, give it a quality of distinction.

The ordinary beverage of the Greek was water and wine mixed. Hence a vessel in great demand was the mixing- howl with a wide flaring rim, large enough for pouring the liquids in, for mixing them, and for dipping in ladles, pitchers, and cups. The commonest shape of cup was the cylix, a shallow, saucer-like vessel with two handles, set on a stem (PI. 91 A) . The Greek drank from it, holding it either by the stem or by the handle, and hung it up by the handle. The cup consists of four parts — body, handles, stem, and base — which flow one into another, in contrast to the Bokhara Pitcher, in which the parts are clearly sepa- ‘ rated though harmoniously united. From the body the handles seem to grow by some inevitable law and their con¬ tours merge so imperceptibly into that of the body that the entire contour of the cup is a continuous curve of unusual quality. The proportions are as pleasing as the contours. The base is wide enough for stability, in proportion to the width of the body, and the stem thick enough as the sup¬ porting member, high enough for pleasing proportions, and at the same time well adjusted to the hand holding it. The entire cup is potted with thin walls so that it will be light in weight, even when filled.

From its decoration, this cup is known as red-figured ware because the figures are reserved in red-ochre color, while the ground is filled in solid with black glaze. This red ochre was added to the cup after it was shaped on the

4 Fifth century b.c. Metropolitan Museum, New York.

Plate 91

A, top. Greek Cylix (Cup). The parts flow one into another with an unbroken contour. (Metropolitan Museum) B, center. Greek Cylix. The copper-red figures form flat decorative masses against a velvety-black ground. C, bottom. Hopi Jar. Bold in shape and decoration. (Bureau of Ethnology, Smith¬ sonian Institution)

Plate 92

A, left. Chinese Flower Pot. A simple vigorous shape covered with a rich

glaze of many-toned violet. (Art Institute of Chicago)

B, right. Modern Jar. As simple and rugged as A. The contrasting textures

are effective. (Metropolitan Museum)

C, Modern Decorative Piece. Of the nature of relief, in contrast to the three-dimensional quality of A and B, with strong rhythms from side to side. (Metropolitan Museum)

THE ART OF POTTERY 307

wheel, turned, and dried. For though the color of the clay had a reddish tint, it did not have the depth of tone to contrast well with the black. The design was sketched in with a blunt instrument, then the contours and details were painted in black, and finally the ground was covered with black glaze. Then the cup was fired.

The decoration of a cylix was usually confined to the broad undersurface of the body and to a small circle in the center of the inside. With the exception of the borders the decorative motifs were chiefly scenes from everyday life or from the Greek myths, and thus employed human fig¬ ures. Yet this was so done that the first and last effect re¬ mained one of decorative fitness. The subject, however, did not become purely abstract decoration. For the Greek, life centered about himself — man. “ Man is the measure of all things.” His gods were very human. His buildings and his sculpture, as we have seen, have to do with the same subjects and represent the very fiber of his life.

The Theseus Cup in Pl. 91B 5 is an illustration. The¬ seus, one of the Greek heroes, is seen in two of his labors, hobbling the fire-breathing bull of Marathon and wres¬ tling with the tyrant Cercyon, who put to death every stranger who could not vanquish him in a wrestling match. Notice how the figures and objects are so composed that they easily fill the space. Each, no matter what the natural proportions, rises to the rim. Flat, with very little detail and with no use of light and shade, they are reduced to a pattern in one plane silhouetted against the strongly con¬ trasted black ground. The two trees, part of this pattern, suggest a woody country. The rest of the environment is left to the imagination. For the potter does not forget that he is decorating a flat clay surface, breaking up its broad

6 Fifth century b.c. Louvre, Paris.

I

308 THE ART OF POTTERY

expanses into a lively pattern. Instead of moving about the cup, as the riders do in the Rhages Jar (Pl. 89A), the figures are balanced on two sides of the tree and so posed that the organizing line is a sweeping curve that repeats inversely the contour of the cup (Fig. 136) and the curved plane of its body, thus bringing harmony between the shape and the decoration.

The potters’ quarter in Athens (Fig. 16), called the Ceramicus, must have been a busy part of the city. It was

a large section lying both inside and outside the Dipylon Gate. The cups, pitchers, bowls, jars, and other objects that the potters made were not only for home use but for export to all lands about the Mediterranean Sea. This was one of the most important industries in Athens, and its products were not primarily or¬ naments, decorative though they were, but were the ordi¬ nary utensils of everyday use. There must have been many potteries in the Ceramicus, among which there appeared to be commercial rivalry. One of these was run by a man named Euphronios, who signed the vessels that came from his shop “ Euphronios made me.” The Theseus Cup at which we have been looking probably came from his shop. A rival shop was that of Euthymides, who, on one jar be¬ side the usual signature, added, “ as never Euphronios did.”

Thus in looking at Greek pottery we are looking at the common objects of everyday life, articles of a far-reaching trade. This is a democratic art in distinction to Persian pottery, which was made under aristocratic patronage. Quality in everyday objects of trade is determined by pub-

Fig. 136. Organizing Lines of a Greek Cup (Pl. 91B).

THE ART OF POTTERY 309

lie demand. So when a democratic art reaches as lofty a plane as does Greek pottery, it is a clear index to an artistic spirit that infused the entire fabric of its civilization. On the same principle the beautiful way in which the Japanese ties a winter covering about his shrubs (Fig. 69) reveals an artistic spirit permeating his entire life.

SUGGESTIONS AND READING

1. A study of proportions. Find illustrations of several Greek cylixes and analyze the proportions of body, stem, and base. Examples are given in Shapes of Greek Vases, N. Y., Metropolitan Museum.

2. The influence of function upon shape. Greek pottery offers excellent examples of a strong influence. See H. Gard¬ ner, Art Through the Ages, N. Y., Harcourt, 1926, Figs. 56-61; and Shapes of Greek Vases.

3. Find illustrations of Greek myths on Greek pottery.

4. For an interesting account of the Greek potter, his craft, and his place in Greek society, see E. Pottier, Douris and the Painters of Greek Vases, N. Y., Dutton, 1916. A general ref¬ erence book is E. Buschor, Greek Vase-Painting, London, Chatto, 1921.

A HOPI JAR

Should you go into the National Museum in Washington and look at the bowls and jars from Arizona, especially those from Sityakti, you would probably see in them simple, rather uneven shapes, warm color — yellow, red, brown, black — and a bold decoration. What looks like a geo¬ metric band with striking contrasts of line and color en¬ circles the body or covers the shoulder (Pl. 91C), em¬ phasizing the low broad proportions; or a puzzling figure (does it suggest a bird?) boldly decorates the inner surface of a shallow bowl (Fig. 137). Were the potters who made these vessels as vigorous a people as the bowls and jars imply? They were the Hopi of the Painted Desert.

310 THE ART OF POTTERY

Above the undulating floor of this desert plateau rise flat-topped spurs of rock on which are perched the towns of the Hopi Indians (Fig. 131). Unlike their wide- ranging neighbors, the Navajo, the Hopi have settled homes because they are primarily farmers. This Peaceful People (the meaning of Hopi ) built their homes high on the mesas as a protection against warlike tribes. Like bar¬ ren cubes of stone set compactly together, they seem at a

distance to be a normal growth of the barren rocky headland. No trees soften their masses or su£- gest refreshing shade. Austere they stand in the blazing heat of summer and the cold of winter. Come nearer and they remind you of an apartment house three or four

Fig. 137. Design upon stories high but spread out over the the Shoulder of a Hopi Jar ground, large enough to house the

, perhaps three or four hundred people. And always, in the midst, an open¬ ing in the ground, with a ladder protruding, the entrance to the kiva, the underground council chamber and place for the secret parts of their religious ceremonies. 6

At the foot of the mesa lie the gardens, perhaps some trees if a spring is near. These gardens they had to protect as best they could from raiding tribes intent upon captur¬ ing their corn, beans, and melons. This desert land is rich if water can be found. But even with a minimum amount the Hopi have always been skilful farmers — dry farmers, depending upon deep planting and thorough cultivation

whole population

6 Models of Navajo hogans and of Hopi villages, houses, and ceremonials can be found in such museums as the American Museum of Natural History in New York and the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. Photographs can be obtained from the museums.

THE ART OF POTTERY 311

to mature crops from seeds that have been adapted to this environment after centuries of experiment.

In such a land, the vital needs of the community, water and crops, are reflected in religious practices. All mani¬ festations of nature are deified — clouds, lightning, sun, dawn, fire, animals, insects — and have magic power. As innumerable as the deities are the festivals, religious dramas enacted largely by the dance, through all of which runs the eternal quest for rain.

An evidence of a settled rather than a nomad life among primitive people is pottery. With nomad tribes something less fragile must serve for everyday use. As the women among the Navajo were the weavers, so among the Hopi the women were the potters, the makers of the necessary vessels for everyday and ceremonial use. The clay, which was found near each mesa, was not shaped on the wheel but rolled into coils about eight inches long. With these the potter built up her jar, flattening a piece of clay into a disc for the bottom, or starting at once with the coiling, perhaps using a basket as a mold until the shape was well started. When she had completed the shape she smoothed away the traces of the coils with a gourd and then polished the jar both inside and outside with smooth stones. Vessels made by coiling tend to be heavy with thick walls. So it is surprising how thinly potted are the bowls and jars of these Hopi women who shaped and decorated their vessels with the most primitive implements and fired them in the open with the most meager fuel, so used as to extract all its potentiality.

The Hopi Jar in Pl. 91C has a broad shallow shape with a continuous, unbroken surface and contour, and with no base to enable it to stand firmly. Upon the broad shoulder, the strong part of the jar, is concentrated a bold design

312 THE ART OF POTTERY

(Fig. 137) which at first appears to be a mass of unintel¬ ligible shapes yet is held sternly within two concentric bands, and is strikingly decorative. The strong black band is broken abruptly at one point. This break, a convention found in all Hopi art, is known as the lifeline, which like a gate offers a means of escape for the spirit and if closed would mean the death of the maker or bad luck for the clan. About the neck are triangular dentations — seven on one side and three on the other — conventionalized feath¬ ers, which may indicate that the jar was used to bring

ceremonial water from the sacred spring. The complicated design consists of terraced rain cloud, feather, and other motifs (not understood) , and an unusually naturalistic bird form.

No doubt the bird represents some mythical character, for Hopi _ legend is full of birdlike beings.

Fig. 138. Man-Eagle De- & &

sign on a Hopi Bowl. (After Chief among these was Man-

Fewkes) Eagle (Fig. 138), a creature who

swooped down from his home in the heart of the sky and carried off women and maidens to devour. Finally the war god Youth, whose bride Man-Eagle had kidnapped, pene¬ trated the monster’s abode with the help of Spider Woman and Mole, and not only recovered his bride but converted Man-Eagle into a beneficent being.

To us, who cannot enter fully into all this life meaning, the enjoyment of the jar comes from what our eyes see — rich color and bold patterning, placed sensitively on the strong part of the shape, enhancing its structural form, and a feeling of stern dignity that carries us into the stimulating air and broad reaches of space and a life of bold vigor.

THE ART OF POTTERY 313

Such a jar is at home in the barren interior of the stone Hopi house or in the ceremonies of the stone village. In our crowded cities it seems suffocated.

READING

Hodge, F. W., Handbook of American Indians, Washington,

Bureau of American Ethnology, 1910.

Hough, W., The Hopi Indians, Torch Press, Cedar Rapids,

1 9 1 5 -

CHINA AND TODAY

As you look at a collection of Chinese Sung pottery, what do you see? A sweeping glance reveals two characteristics: simple shape and one-color glaze. In general there is a feeling of restraint and sobriety. To be sure there is great variety of shape, color, and texture. Here is the singu¬ larly delicate Ting bowl, potted thin, covered with an ivory-white glaze. If there is any decoration beyond the glaze it is inconspicuous incising or low relief. Or here is a small vase of a rare imperial ware, simple, elegant in its proportions, as thin as an eggshell and covered with a misty blue glaze. Or here is a Chun Flower Pot (Pl. 92A) . 7 What dignity and grandeur! The simplicity of the shape, the sturdy proportions, the powerful contours, the thickly potted walls, and the thick glaze of blues and violets — every part of the pot contributes to a unity of effect. There is always sobriety and distinction in these Sung wares, which are dependent upon the shape of the mass, its pro¬ portions, and its contours, all of which are brought out by a uniformly colored surface.

7 Chinese Flower Pot. Chiin ware of the Sung dynasty (960-1280 a.d.). Height, 10 in. Note the finely designed carved wood base which sets off the pot. Buckingham Collection, Art Institute of Chicago. Color reproduc¬ tion of a pair of these Chiin flower pots, in Encyclopaedia Britannica, 13th ed., article “Ceramics,” PI. II. See also Encyclopaedia Britannica, 14th ed., article “Potteries and Porcelains,” for color plates of many Chinese wares.

314 THE ART OF POTTERY

Technically the Chinese rank among the master potters. To secure a vessel that is hard and impervious without the help of glaze is one objective of the potter. This the Chinese discovered in porcelain. True porcelain is made of kaolin, a fine white clay so called from the hills near a Chinese pottery where it was found. It is mixed with stone that contains glass, and fired at a high temperature, which transforms the mixture into a fabric that is not only hard and impervious but also translucent and resonant. Glaze is used not for practical purposes, but as one element in creating a fine form.

In our Chun Flower Pot the broad shape and the wide lip are necessary for a flower pot. How firmly it stands! It is potted thick, is heavy. You can see its heaviness with your eyes; you feel its weight, though you do not lift it; its roundness, though you do not touch it. These feelings are conveyed by the proportions, by the movement of the surfaces and of the contours. The height of the neck is the same as the height of the body but the addition of the foot gives a slight accent on the vertical. The diameter of the lip is the same as the diameter of the body. Note the rhythmic variation in the diameters of the parts; from the narrow foot, to the wide body, to the intermediate neck, to the wide lip. Similar rhythms of surface and of contours strengthen each other.

The color, the only decoration, emphasizes the shape, the proportions, and the contours. Over a base of gray runs a thick glaze of rich violet and blue-violet, with many streakings, bubbles, and tiny pinholes which give depth and vibration to the color like the streakings and bubbles in the windows of Chartres. This single hue brings the parts into a close unity and its richness sets off the pot sharply against its environment. It is this complete unity

THE ART OF POTTERY 315

and harmony of all the elements that constitute the art in Sung pottery — sensitively felt shapes of great simplicity and dignity; thin or thick potting according to shape and function; great restraint in decoration, chiefly a glaze of one hue, which is delicate or rich as is consistent with shape and function.

Our knowledge of the finest Chinese wares has come to us rather recently. But their influence is seen in the work of many of our best potters today. It is not that they copy the Chinese. Rather, they see that the operation of certain practices produces the finest results. Pottery, they realize, is like sculpture in the round, and even like a building, in that its success depends upon the organization of a mass into a form which pleases the eye with its proportions, bal¬ ance, harmony, and at the same time serves the function that it was created to serve.

A jar recently exhibited in New York (Pl. 92 B) 8 re¬ veals an affinity with the Chinese. Its sturdy shape and proportions give it rugged vigor. The potting is thick. Like the Chun Flower Pot, it looks its weight, just as the delicate Ting ware looks its lightness. The decoration is a matter of bold contrasts of surface texture, an extraor¬ dinary smoothness opposed to incision and crackling. Two bands emphasize the two main parts of the jar, the body and the neck. The more powerful, with its incisive angu¬ larity, is on the larger body; the more suave, all curving, on the smaller neck. Yet see how the triangles incorporate the curve in the wavy lines of their sides, and how they inclose three irregularly curved motifs which repeat a like motif above.

8 Brown Stoneware , a fabric which is fired at high temperature and has a body of intense hardness. Designed by fimile Lenoble, a contemporary French potter. Exhibited at the International Exhibit of Ceramic Art, Metro¬ politan Museum, N. Y., 1928-29.

316 THE ART OF POTTERY

Another piece with a cream glaze, crackled (PL 92C) , 9 illustrates a tendency toward purely decorative ceramics with no other function except to provide a pleasing mass of color and texture. Out from a solid base rise flat cres¬ cent masses with great rhythmic sweeps of unbroken line, interwoven with the circular motif of the body of the fish. These forms recede in definite shallow planes like a relief carved in stone, so that there is a slight movement in depth in addition to the strong movement from side to side. With its vigorous rhythm and its architectural character, how decorative it is when placed against a ground and in a spaciousness where these qualities can display themselves!

READING

Illustrations of the technical process — wedging, throwing, coiling, turning, firing, glazing — will be found in:

Binns, C. F., The Potter’s Craft, N. Y., Van Nostrand, 1910. Cox, G., Pottery for Artisans, Craftsmen, and Teachers, N. Y., Macmillan, 1914.

Richter, G. M. A., The Craft of the Athenian Potter, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1923.

Winslow, L. L., Elementary Industrial Arts, N. Y., Macmillan, 1922.

SUGGESTIONS

1. The best understanding, as in weaving, comes through actual making. Construct simple shapes on the wheel and also by coiling. Keep in mind the purpose of the vessel, the relation of the form to the purpose, and the relation of the decoration to the form. Experiment on thin and thick pot¬ ting, their relation to the form and its use.

2. Find ten or a dozen pieces of pottery whose use is known.

9 Cream Stoneware, Crackled. From the Manufacture Nationale de Sevres, France. Exhibited as the jar in PI. 92B. (See the illustrated catalogue of this exhibit, published by the Metropolitan Museum, N. Y., October, 1928, for other examples of contemporary potters.)

THE ART OF POTTERY 317

Show how their use has determined any elements in their design. Find examples where use and design harmonize and where they do not.

3. Find examples of porcelain; of glazed pottery with no other decoration; of painted decoration; of incised; of relief.

Part Eleven

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

W e are all potential artists — almost all of us. There are but few who seem entirely wanting in capacity for understanding or creating; many have considerable ability; a few become great artists. It is a matter of de¬ gree. Art and the way of art exist for most of us — not only exist but permeate all life, today as well as yesterday. Today life is most complex and its activities and contacts, however much they differ in number and breadth with the individual, are varied and pressing. With this immediate present we are concerned primarily.

A current opinion, far too common, holds that art is a luxury, a monopoly of wealth, a matter of museums, some¬ thing to be indulged in only in one’s leisure, and quite in¬ essential to and divorced from one’s daily activities. How far from the truth! It is true that to understand a great painting one must look at it long and contemplatively; that to understand a sonata one must hear it, undistractedly, many times. Few poems reveal all their beauty and mean¬ ing in one reading. /Real understanding requires concen¬ tration of eye or ear, feelings, and intelligence. Granted, however, that great art is relatively rare and requires con¬ templation and leisure for its true appreciation, still art and a way of art permeate the world in which we live.

But what, you ask, has a Skyscraper or a Navajo Blanket or Leonardo’s The Last Supper to do with my everyday life, my humdrum seven days a week? To be sure, our study of some of the arts has been restricted to the work of great masters, often of foreign lands, and far-away ages. But in them all, as we begin “ to see what we know how to look for,” we begin to discern certain qualities and char-

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE 319

acteristics so constantly recurrent that we conclude that they are the result of some fundamental, universal prin¬ ciples. What words have we used constantly in our discus¬ sion, whether it be of buildings or statutes or paintings, of books or textiles or pottery? Unity, variety, harmony, rhythm, balance, contrast, proportion, emphasis. What words do we use in discussing music, the dance, literature? Are they not the same? Are there not, then, some guides to point out the way to art in everyday life?

Let us be specific. The way we look at things may or may not be an art. Recalling our discussion in the first chapter of seeing as the artist sees, consider the view framed by your own window — a yard, a street, a lake bordered by woods, a group of roofs. Can you apply to it the words we have just mentioned? Is it lacking in contrasting lines and masses, or colors? Would you shift the position of some objects, imaginatively, or by shifting your own position can you obtain a better balance? Everything in the view has a form. 1 When we look at these forms as artists, we re¬ form them. Is this not what we have seen the artist doing in all his works that we have studied? We have found him nowhere imitating what he sees, but everywhere taking the forms that he sees as his raw material and out of them creating new forms that are more beautiful, more real and significant than the originals. Sometimes the new form is close to the original; sometimes far removed, as we saw in our chapter on “ Water and Rocks.” To see everything as form or a group of forms and with imaginative insight to re-form these forms into something which has harmony, unity with variety, balance, rhythm — this is to see the world as an artist. Thus everything we see, from the small objects about our rooms to skyscrapers and mountains, we

1 See p. 5, footnote i.

320 ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

see, if we are artists, as forms and unities of forms which give us a far greater sense of their reality and significance than any exact copy of their appearance can give. To see significant aspects of commonplace things (Fig. 69) 2 is to transform what is mediocre, if not ugly, into something that is lovely and worth our while.

She had a sensitivity that was very wide, eager and free . . . it lighted on small things and showed that perhaps they were not small after all. It brought buried things to light and made one wonder what need there had been to bury them. 3

Do not the same principles hold in what we hear? In our music? As I sit writing on my porch some one on the road below is whistling a melody. He repeats it again and again. The monotony becomes irritating. Ah! He changes the key. This change brings in a pleasing variety. The whistler is the potential artist creating through the medium of tones a form for his melody. I listen for him to create a still more complex form, perhaps by the addi- tion of another melody. In imagination I hear him inter¬ weave and contrast these two melodies (each a form) and unite them into a harmonious form which is the entire song. Just as the weaver of the Navajo Blanket selected two motifs, the step and the zigzag, which he varied and united into the harmonious form which is the work of art. Thus the whistler and I are two potential artists working together: one an artist in understanding because the ear can hear forms; the other an artist in creating because he can use forms. The eye too, to a limited extent, reinforces the ear in the comprehension of a musical form if one looks

2 See Walt Whitman’s description of a ride on a Brooklyn ferry and in a Broadway street car quoted by William James in Talks to Teachers, “On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings,” N. Y., Holt, 1901.

3 V. Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, N. Y., Harcourt, 1929, p. 161.

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE 321

at the score. 4 The pattern which a simple folk-melody makes on the printed page contrasts in appearance as well as in sound with that of a theme which consists of a group of melodies in much the same way in which the simple boldness of the Navajo Blanket contrasts with the complex richness of the royal Persian Carpet.

To see and to hear as an artist is a necessary foundation stone for doing things in an art way — creative activity. For this too most of us have some capacity, if it is not left latent. Let us consider a few of our daily activities. Can we be creative artists in their pursuance? Can we make out of them works of art? We might select four, almost at random: writing letters, furnishing our rooms, selecting our clothes, and using our leisure.

Can letter-writing be an art? Are not some letters more pleasing than others? Why? Probably for at least two reasons. First, because the letter presents to the eye a pleasing form (see Fig. 103) . The writing is legible and is thoughtfully spaced with ample margins; and page fol¬ lows page in a logical, harmonious way. The effect of the form is an enhancement of the content. A pleasing form alone arouses in the recipient an emotional response. But how much greater the response if, in the second place, the content too has a pleasing form! To write a letter, in fact any kind of literature, one starts with an idea, which he expresses through the medium of words. Words are to the writer what stone is to the builder or sculptor, tone to the musician, pigment to the painter, or clay to the potter. By means of words he creates a form for the conveyance of his idea. The better the form, the more forceful the ex¬ pression, provided the idea is worth expressing. He may

4 See T. W. Surette and D. G. Mason, Appreciation of Music N. Y., Gray, 1924, vol. 1, p. 32.

322 ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

elaborate the idea, add other ideas for emphasis or contrast, just as the musician contrasts his melodies (musical ideas) or Leonardo, the figure of Christ (an idea of repose) with those of the disciples (an idea of agitation) .

In any kind of literature as well as in the letter, the visual form of the printed words bears a direct relation to the form of the content, just as does the visual score to the audible form of the music. The grouping of words into paragraphs and the separation of paragraphs by space de¬ vices is a simple illustration of how the eye assists the mind to grasp a break in the thought. 5 Many poems by Carl Sandburg 6 will afford a more complex illustration in which the grouping of the printed words on the page cre¬ ates as definite a pattern of light and dark as do the light and dark colors in the Sienese Madonna (Fig. 93). In both cases the purpose and result are the same: a form pre¬ sented to the eye reinforces the idea presented to the mind. Thus we see that the fundamental principles of music and painting (we might carry the comparison further) are the fundamental principles of letter-writing also — in fact of any kind of writing, from the simple memorandum to a complete story or drama.

To turn to our second activity, do we find these prin¬ ciples at work in the furnishing of our rooms? Every one lives in an abode. Does he enjoy it or dislike it? Does it have a feeling of “ rightness ” about it? Or is he indiffer¬ ent to it? To which of the two types illustrated in Pl. 28 does your room belong? Is it overloaded with furnishings that are largely useless, and irritating in their demand of

6 Compare a page of a modern book with a classical manuscript in which all the letters are capitals and follow each other with no punctuation and no paragraphing.

6 See E. Rickert, New Methods for the Study of Literature , Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1927, Chapter VII.

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE 323

time for their care? Or is it reposeful and harmonious, a place in which one really likes to live?

Interior architecture, as we saw in our chapter on “ Some Interiors,” is a complex art with many branches, involving the purpose of the room; its space design by the placement and proportions of walls, ceiling, and openings — the per¬ manent elements; and the furnishings and people — the changeable elements. Its ultimate character is dependent upon not one but all of these elements; working in accord, if harmony results; at cross purposes, if discord results.

For many of us our room is already built. It may be furnished or partly so. If it is ugly to start with, is our objective hopeless? By no means. The room may be small and disproportionately low; a door and windows break three sides and leave the fourth a long monotonous wall surface. Let us consult, imaginatively, our sense of bal¬ ance. If the room is too small, a quiet, inconspicuous, lightly broken wall treatment of retreating color will add a feeling of spaciousness; while an advancing color and a wall paper of strongly contrasted light and dark would make the room appear even smaller. If it is too low, an emphasis upon verticality (as in the hangings and other furnishings) and a suppression of horizontality (as in the avoidance of horizontal moldings and borders) will in¬ crease the appearance of height. The Parthenon (Pl. 7) is long and low, but the insistent verticals of the fluted columns create a balance and a feeling of “ rightness.” Chartres (Pl. 17) is very vertical, hardly held in restraint by horizontals. Here too is “ rightness.” Both are “ right.” Behind the design lie the purpose and the people with their ideas and feelings. Balance for the Greek was different from balance for the Gothic. One must not be dogmatic. Each must determine for himself what constitutes balance

324 ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

in his own room. But balance there must be; without it

everything collapses.

What then of the monotonous wall space? It may be needed to balance the broken walls of the other sides, just as the reposeful spaces about Day (Pl. 43) were needed to balance the intense restlessness of the figure. If, on the other hand, the wall still remains monotonous and over¬ balances with its unbroken space, the furnishings (perhaps a picture or hanging) can be used to break the large area and establish a balance.

In the furnishings, the first question is that of function: what is there in the room that has no use in function or design? What can be eliminated without sacrificing effi¬ cient use and pleasing appearance? Having reduced the furnishings to the necessary minimum with a modicum for that which delights by indulging the personal tastes of the owner (for too much impersonality is as bad as none), one may then consider each piece, first as a form and then as related to the other forms and to the form of the room as a unit. A good chair, for instance, looks its use. The sup¬ porting parts are proportioned to the weight; the back and arms are related to the seat so as to insure comfort. The materials fittingly harmonize and contrast. The uphol¬ stery, in pattern, color, and texture, depends upon the material of the frame: massive wood, woven reed, light metal. The construction of a good chair is dependent upon the same guiding principles as the University Chapel (Pl. 3). In both it is a matter of materials, the way in which they are used, and the purpose for which they are used, subject to the creative sensitivity of the artist who can proportion and balance, contrast and unify. In the Chapel the thick stone walls, the great windows, the relative open and solid stone areas of the tower, the relative proportions

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE 325

of all parts — every detail presents itself to our eyes as a contributing element to the unified and harmonious whole; and the visual impression of strength and aspiration dignifies every event which takes place in the building. It is true that the Chapel gains in majesty and power through its size. A fine chair, though small in comparison, is as architectural in principle and may appeal to some as strongly as the Chapel.

To return to our room, though the chair may be fine of itself, does it belong in the room? Have you not seen a chair look ugly in one place and “ just fit in another? Study that chair, not in itself but in its relation to its sur¬ roundings, and you will probably find the explanation. Its form or some details of its form — its materials, their color or texture, its shape, size, or proportions — clash too disso- nantly or harmonize too mildly with the table, for example, or with the room as a whole. Our objective, the harmony of the whole, is a stern master. Yet by it every piece of furnishing in a good room — furniture, hangings, wall decoration, rugs, pictures, ornaments, lighting fixtures — is measured. Each is a form of a definite material — wood, stucco, tile, metal, textiles, glass — subject to its own guid¬ ing principles of material, function, and design, and each is also a contributing element to the whole.

If we can make of our rooms works of art, can we not do the same with ourselves in our personal appearance? Just as we began with what was given us, in making a work of art out of our room, so in the matter of ourselves we begin with what nature has given us. It may or may not be beau¬ tiful. We re-formed the ugly room into an attractive one by infusing into it, by means of the furnishings, qualities of balance, proportion, unity, and harmony in accordance with our own personal interpretations of those qualities.

326 ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

In the same way the physical self is re-formed by clothing into something attractive or unattractive in proportion as the garments are selected to secure these qualities. Have you watched people on the street with this observation in mind? How often does a tall gaunt person wear garments that accent verticality! And the stout person, those which emphasize horizontality! A pale type — pale complexion, light eyes and hair — often selects a pale uncontrasted color when it should have a color that in hue and intensity brings in the needed contrasting strength. Some types need brown; some, blue. Not the prevailing style but suit¬ ability to myself. My physical self and my personality (ideas to be expressed) are the basic forms to be re-formed and hence set forth in their essential qualities, not obliter¬ ated. Each article of clothing is partly a form in itself and largely a contributing element to the whole. How attrac¬ tive is a hat in a shop window! How ugly on me!

One more activity we mentioned for discussion — the way in which we use our leisure. Here too can we see the way of art? It depends upon whether we see life itself as an art — a balanced, unified, harmonious whole. If we do, then we know that variety is essential for this harmony.

After all, there is not only variety, but also unity. The diver¬ sity of the Many is balanced by the stability of the One. That is why life must always be a dance, for that is what a dance is: perpetual slightly varied movements which are yet always held true to the shape of the whole. 7

The great wall of the Egyptian Temple is more unified when broken by carving and color. The rapid zigzag motif of the Navajo Blanket brings in so refreshing a contrast to the more austere step pattern that the unity of the entire design is greater. In Leonardo’s Last Sapper the reposeful

7 H. Ellis, The Dance of Life , Boston, Houghton, 1923, p. viii.

ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE 327

room and die poiseful central figure would be uninterest¬ ing were they not set over against and united with the rest¬ less, moving masses of the disciples. Is there a work of art which does not illustrate this principle of variety in unity? If life, then, is a work of art, may we not see in leisure a vitalizing vanety to the main business of life? May we not look upon leisure as a form and ask whether the character of the form is such that it exists partly for itself and partly for the intensification which its contrasts bring to the larger whole? The pattern of life may be like that of the Navajo Blanket: simple and forceful; or like that of the royal Per¬ sian Carpet: complex and rich. It is a difference not of value but of kind. One thing, however, is certain: neither the Navajo Blanket, nor the Persian Carpet, nor any kind of life is a work of art without wisely placed, balanced variety. As for life, the activities of our leisure time form one of the chief sources of this variety.

There is a tendency, in these days of specialization, to pigeonhole our activities — work, play, religion, civics, art — and when engaged in one, to banish all others to their tight compartments. An illustration of the possibility of breaking down these partitions is the late Prof. A. A. Michelson, one of the world’s great physicists, who, when asked why he persisted in his attempt to measure the velocity of light even more precisely when the present measurement was an acknowledged absolute, said that it amused him. A profound scholar, relentless in his de¬ mands for accuracy, found “ amusement ” in his work. Fittingly he has been called the “ scientist-artist.”

If we conclude that it is possible to look at everything with the artist’s vision and to pursue all activities in ac¬ cordance with art principles, let us restate what is involved. Life is the raw material of the artist, as it is of every one’s

328 ART IN EVERYDAY LIFE

living. The artist, in the first place, as he looks out upon the world, sees things, people, and incidents as forms and grasps their significance, both outward and inward, and the significant aspects of commonplace things, in propor¬ tion as he has within himself the capacity to perceive and feel such significance. In the second place, he creates an appropriate form in appropriate material for a convincing expression of this significance. In the third place, he is a craftsman grounded in the technique of his craft. Some of these activities he pursues consciously, some subcon¬ sciously. No one of them is a priori, nor are they to be isolated. Each acts on and is inextricably fused with the others. They do not account entirely for the artist. Other forces are at work — social, economic, religious, geo¬ graphic. But these three are distinguishable and essential wherever we find great art. There is, it is true, a difference in degree between profound, imaginative, universal art and the art of our daily activities — but not in kind. We are all potential artists.

READING

Best-Maugard, A., A Method for Creative Design, N. Y., Knopf, 1926.

Buermeyer, L., The Aesthetic Experience, Merion, Penn., Barnes Foundation, 1929.

Dimnet, E., The Art of Thinking, N. Y., Simon and Shuster, i 93 °-

Ellis, H., The Dance of Life, Boston, Houghton, 1923. Goldstein, H. I., and V., Art in Everyday Life, N. Y., Mac¬ millan, 1926.

Lethaby, W. R., Form in Civilization, London, Oxford Press, 1922.

Mearns, H., Creative Youth, Doubleday-Doran, 1929. Spalding, W. R., Music: An Art and a Language, N. Y., Schmidt, 1920.

INDEX

The diacritical marks used are those found in Webster’s New International Dictionary.

Abstract, building, 143; design, 157; form, 105; idea, 175; sculpture, 156

Accent, 19, 24, 41, 100, 103, 150, 168, 201, 207, 211, 262 ff., 289, 301, 303, 314

Acropolis (a-krdp'-o-lls), 32 note Adobe (a-do'-be), Indian, 13, 14 Alabaster, 68

Alphabet of art forms, 234 Altar, 36, 38, 68, 72 American Colonial. See Craigie House; Powel House. Amphitheater, 26 note, 27 Apse, 70, 72, 86, 97, 98, 100 Arabesque, 205, 224, 286, 302 Arcade, 25

Arch, pointed, 75, 81, 84, 96; round, 30, 65, 66, 81

Arch system, 27, 28 ff., 56, 84 Architecture, 14; interior, 116, 323 Armature, 145, 146 Automobiles, 5, 14, 135 Axis, 18, 49, 81, 109, 128 f., 155

Background, 67, 141, 217, 225, 227, 238, 241

Bahram (bah'-ram) Gur (goor), 204 ff., 254

Balance, 7, 81, 82, 85, 90, 142 f., 157, 162, 166, 173, 201, 211, 229, 232, 233, 237, 240, 254, 263, 272, 308, 319, 323 ff., 326; asymmetrical, 126, 128, 147, 206, 214; symmetrical, 18, 115, 147, 151, 196, 206, 207, 214, 225, 270, 286

Bamboo in the Wind, 178, 193, 234 Banquet Scene, Egypt, 194 ff., 215 Baptistery (b&p'-tls-trl), Florence, 94, 95; doors, 95 Barrel vault, 57 f.

Basilica (bd-sll'-f-ka), plan, 70 Baths of Caracalla (k2.r-a-k£l'-a), 52, 56, 69, 71, 95; plan, 55 Beethoven (ba'-to-v6n), Ludwig (llid'- vlg) von, 240

Berries, 288

Bible, Forty-two Line, 258, 259 Binding, 243, 244, 250, 254, 255, 270 Bird-form, 280, 283, 286; Hopi, 312 Birth of Athena (a-the'-nd), 158 note Bodhisattva (bo-di-sat'-va), 164 f. Body color, 187

Bokhara (bo-ka'-ra) pitcher, 304 ff. Book covers, 243 Book-hands, 247 note Book of Kells, 245 note Border, 194, 250, 282, 290, 294 Botticelli (bo-ti-chel'-li), Sandro, 180.

190 f., 193 Brass, 145

Breviary (bre'-vi-a-ri), Burgundy, 258, 259

Brick, 26 note, 27, 30, 57, 60 note, 61, 146 note

Bridge, 12, 20, 114 Brocade, 277

Bronze, 2, 66, 95, 121, 145 Bronze-casting, 145, 168 Bronze-crowned Delphi (dgl'-fi), 169 Brunelleschi (broo-nel-les'-kl), 94 note, 95 ff.

Brush, 180, 247

Brush strokes, 185, 186, 193, 213, 241, 302

Brush work, 239

Buddhists (bood'-Ists), 164, 189 note Buffalo and Maize, 104 Building systems, 28, 38, 50, 56ff., 65 f., 85 f.

Buttresses, 85

Byzantine (bl-z&n'-tln or biz'-dn-trn) art, 61 note

Cahokia (ka-ho'-kf-a) Power Plant, 113, 114

Calendar (Chartres), 83 California, gardens, 129 Calligraphy, 245, 288 Capitol, Washington, 136 ff.

Carbon, 182, 196 Carpets, 188

330

INDEX

Carving, 145 Carvings, 51, 82 ff.

Cathedral of Florence. See Santa Maria del Fiore.

Cedar, 48 Cement, 27, 66, 67 Cenotaph, 108

Centaur (sen'-tor) and Lapith (13/- pith), 174

Center of interest. See Focal point. Centering, 28

Ceramic (se-ram'-ik) art, 298 Ceramicus (se-r3-mi'-kus), 308 Cezanne (sa-zan), Paul, 179; Village Road 230 ff.

Chalk, 180

Chapel, University of Chicago, 11, 21, 150, 324 f.

Characterization, 7, 171, 239 Charioteer, 168 ff.

Chartres (shar'-tr’) Cathedral, 15, 37, 40, 74 ff., 94, 95, 96, 105, 115, 129, 143, 199, 240, 259, 314, 323; fa¬ cade, 81, 82; plan, 86; windows, 86 ff.

Chiasmus (ki-3z'-mus) in sculpture, 167

Chicago Plan Commission, 133 Chicago Tribune Tower, Saarinen (sar'-i-nen) design, 23 note Chinese painting, 178, 191 ff., 232 ff.;

pottery, 314 ff.

Chippendale, 119 Chisel, 247_

Chun (choon) flower pot, 313 ff. Church of San Lorenzo, 154, 156 Church of Santa Croce (kro'-che), 214 note

Cinnabar, 196

Circles, 64, 65, 97, 98, 200, 218 Cire-perdue (ser'-par-du') method, 171 note

Clay, 145, 146 note, 274, 298 f., 321;

modeling, 145 f.

Clerestory (kler'-sto-ri), 73, 74. Cloister of Saint Paul’s, 68, 71, 72 Clubhouses, Roman, 52, 55 Codex (ko'-dex), 250 Coffering, 59, 68, 220 Coherence, 100, 172, 178, 199, 216 Coiling, 311 Coins, 27, 169

Colonial Home. See Craigie House;

Powel House.

Colonnade, 35, 37, 48

Colophon (k51'-S-fSn), 257, 258 Color, 41, 44, 47, 61, 66, 68, 75 f., 86, 87 ff., 92, 112, 200, 202, 203, 206, 208, 212, 224 ff., 228, 231, 238 f., 240, 254 ff., 280, 288, 289 f., 294, 296 ff., 299, 302 f., 305, 306, 309, 313 f., 323, 326

Colosseum (kSl-o-se'-um), 26 ff., 44, 54, 56, 58, 71, 72, 84, 95, 99, 102; plan, 29

Columbus Memorial (Whitney), 149, ^ 150, 154, 158

Column of Trajan (tra'-jan), 245 note Columns, 38, 40, 49 ff., 56, 63; en¬ gaged, 31; free-standing, 31 Concrete, 20, 21, 26 note, 27, 57 Cone, 4

Consistency, 24, 43, 116 f., 235, 240 Contest of Athena and Poseidon (po- si'-don), 41

Contour, 12, 24, 43, 60, 101, 167, 171, 173, 299, 300, 305, 306, 313 Contrast, 12, 58, 86, 88, 90, 98, 118, 125, 172, 200, 224, 227, 238, 239, 261, 277, 280, 282 f., 289, 294, 315, 319 324 326

Convention, 126 f., 163, 197, 202, 240, 312

Coordination, 74, 152 Copper, 297 Core, 145

Cornice, 25, 30, 31, 42 Cotton, 53, 244 Course, 38

Craigie (krag'-i) House, 15, 113 ff., 125, 127, 129, 130; plan, 115 Cramps, 26 note, 38 Cross, Greek, 97, 109; Latin, 81 Crown, 65

Cube, 65, 66, 98, 310 Cup, Greek, 306, 307 Cursive writing, 245 ff.

Curved line, 6, 21, 29, 40, 56, 57, 60, 84, 91, 95, 98, 99, 111, 119, 156, 157, 159, 163, 166, 170, 176, 180, 201, 216, 226, 231, 237, 270, 303, 306

Cylinder, 3, 6, 10, 11, 25, 98, 114 Cylix (si'-liks). See Cup, Greek

Daily News Building, Chicago, 17 ff., 104; Plan 18

Damask, 118, 120, 277, 286 Dance, 147, 198, 293, 311 Dante (dan'-te; It. dan-ta), 190 f.

INDEX

331

Dark. See also Light and dark.

Day, (Michelangelo), 154 ff., 172, 173, 324

Death of Saint Francis (Giotto), 214 ff., 222, 229, 230, 231 Decoration, 83, 112, 116 note, 301, 305, 307

Delphic (d&l'-fik) Sibyl (sib'-il), 183, 240

Demuth (de-muth'), Charles, 187 Depth, 5 note, 10, 174, 190, 198 Design, 13 Details, 6, 7, 39, 51 Diagonal line, 12 note, 40, 57, 115, 150, 157, 163, 172, 180, 215-16, 227, 270, 278

Dimensions, three, 141, 156, 157, 298; two, 174, 178

Diorite, 144, 151 note, 154 Dipylon (dip'-i-lon) Gate, 35, 308 Discord, 14, 323 Distortion, 202

Divine Comedy, drawings (Botticelli), 190 f.

Dome, 3, 5, 64, 65, 92 f., 94 ff., 106 ff., 110, 291

Dome on pendentives, 65 Donatello (don-a-tgl'-lo), 95 Dowels, 38 Dragons, 234

Drapery, 90, 156, 160, 163, 165, 167, 177

Drum, 97 note, 102 Duomo (dwo'-mo), II. See Santa Maria del Fiore.

Dyes, vegetable, 293

Earth colors, 196 Egg, 184, 196, 207

Egypt; Map, 44; Tomb painting, 194 ff., 201, 203, 206, 215 Egyptian Temple. See Pylon Temple. El Greco. See Theotocopuli.

Elgin (el'-gin) marbles, 32 note Ellipse, 301

Emphasis, 73, 100, 102, 126, 210, 219, 256, 319, 326

Entablature (en-t&b'-la-twre), 42 Essence, 190, 193 Exaggerations, 239 Expression, 145, 157, 178, 181, 321, 328

Facade, 40, 45, 46, 47, 49 Fenestration, 25

Fibers, 274

Figure, human, 67, 81 ff., 84, 143, 146, 147, 165, 198, 307 Filling, 274 Finder, 170

Firing, 297 ff., 307, 314

Flavian (fla'-vi-an) Amphitheater.

See Colosseum.

Flight into Egypt, 219 Floated, 276 Florence 92 93

Focal point,’64, 73, 110, 133, 136, 157, 220 f.

Foreshortening, 302 Form, 5 f., 74, 112, 180, 202, 216, 220, 223, 228, 233, 241, 243, 245, 256, 264, 301, 319 ff., 324, 326, 327, 328 Formula, 234, 235 Fountain, 18, 63, 129 French style, 119 Fresco, 179, 182 ff., 196, 225, 228 Function, 10, 14, 19, 21, 27, 49, 84, 89, 104, 243, 300, 301, 324 Furniture, 118 ff., 121 f., 324 ff.

Gable, 38, 40, 41 note, 74 Garden, California, 129 f.; Craigie House, 116, 125; Italian, 127 ff.; Japanese, 121, 125 ff., 130, 309; Taj Mahall, 107 ff.

Genesis, 268 ff.

Geometric, 11, 51, 98, 143, 150, 217, 230, 279, 283, 286, 309. See Circle; Cone; Cube; Cylinder; Flemi- sphere; Pyramid; Rectangle; Sphere; Square; Triangle.

Gesso (jSs'-o), 184 Gill (gil), Eric (Gravestone), 176 Giotto (jot'-to), 94 note; Death of Saint Francis, 214 ff., 222, 225, 229, 230, 231, 301; Flight into Egypt, 219

Glass, 21 note, 24, 67, 76, 84; Gothic, 78 ff., 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 188, 290,

. 314

Glassworking, 87 f.

Glazes, 186, 226, 297, 298 f., 305, 306, 307, 313, 314; glazing, 299 Glue, 196, 207 Goat (Chartres), 83 Gogh, Vincent van (Sunflowers), 186f. Gold, 36, 61, 66, 91 Gothic style, 95, 96 Gouache (g-wash), 207 Gravel, 29

332

INDEX

Gravestone (Eric Gill), 176 Groin vaulting, 58

Gropius (gro'-pl-ws), Walter, designs, 21 note

Guilds, 79, 87, 89 Gum, 184, 207 Gum arabic, 196

Gutenberg (goo'-t£n-berg) Bible. See Bible, Forty-two Line.

Halo, 162, 163, 211, 219 Hare Pursuing a Monkey, 189 Harlequin (har'-le-kwin), (Picasso), 199 ff., 215, 230

Harmony, 6, 7, 12 ff., 21, 61, 84, 87, 97, 99, 154, 159, 163, 193, 225, 237, 238, 243, 254, 270, 272, 280, 301, 308, 319, 323 ff.

Harpy figure, 303 Hatching, 185

Heberton (he'-ber-tdn) House, 130 Hemisphere, 65 High lights, 168, 208, 225 Hippodrome, 63

Hogan (ho'-gdn), 272, 293, 310 note Homer, Winslow (Northeaster), 232, 23S

Honey, 184

Hopi (ho'-pe) jar, 309 ff.

Horizontal line, 19, 20, 21, 25, 40, 71, 72, 81, 90, 95, 99, 111, 114,115, 157, 172, 176, 180, 201, 216, 219, 231, 240 323

Hue, 181, 183, 203, 262, 314, 326 Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (hip'-ne- ro-to-ma'-ki-d pol-i-fe'-le), 261 ff.

Ideal, Greek, 39

Illusion, 5 note, 178, 190

Incising, 299

Inconsistency, 95

Incunabula (m-ku-nS.b'-u-ld), 250

Indian Warrior (Mestrovic), 171 ff.

Indigo plant, 288

Infanta (in-fan'-td) Marguerita (mar- ger-e'-td) (Velasquez), 240 f.

Ink, 180, 191, 193, 259 Inlay, marble, 73, 112; silver, 48; wood, 120

Inscriptions, 51, 71, 112, 193, 297 Interior decoration, 44 note; 116, 325 Interpretation, 264, 325 Iron, 8, 26, 42, 89

Irregularity, 4, 43, 72, 273, 300, 302, 315

Istanbul (Is'-tan-bul) (Constantino¬ ple), 59 ff.

Ivory, 36, 144, 243

Japanese Garden, 125 ff., 130 Japanese House, 120 ff.

Japanese painting, 189 ff.

Japanese Saint, 162 ff.

Jewels, 80, 86, 88, 108, 243 Joseph Conrad (Adams), 266 ff., 270 July (Chartres), 79, 83 Justinian (jus-tin'-i-dn), 60 note, 62 ff.

Kaolin (ka'-o-lin), 314 Karnak (kar'-nak), 49 note Keystone, 28, 29

Khafre (kaf'-ra), 151 ff., 158 ff., 173 Kings and Queens of Judah (Char¬ tres), 83, 84

Kiva (ke'-vd) (Hopi), 310

Knotting, 278, 279

Koran (ko'-ran), 108, 112, 251

Lacquer, 121 Lantern, 94 note, 96, 100 Lapis lazuli, 182 /

Last Supper (Leonardo), 220 ff., 22d y 318, 322, 326 Law-givers, 103 Lead, 38, 60 note, 61, 88 Leather, 2, 251, 255 Leisure, 38, 55, 273, 326, 327 Leonardo da Vinci (la-o-nar'-do da ven'-che), 185, 220 ff., 226, 318, 322, 326

Lifeline in Hopi art, 312 Light, 9, 10, 12, 228, 230, 241 Light and dark, 12, 17, 33, 40, 41, 68, 90, 111, 147, 180, 199, 212, 216, 218, 233, 236 ff., 322

Light and shadow, 10-11, 12, 31, 33, 74

Lime, 29, 183

Limestone, 76 note, 96, 144, 195 Line, 12, 17, 21, 31, 40, 51, 57, 64, 67, 75, 76, 90, 114, 127, 150, 157, 160, 161, 178, 180, 189 ff., 194, 199, 201, 203, 206, 211 f., 216, 219, 220, 229, 239, 263, 289, 308. See Curved, Diagonal, Horizontal, Vertical. Linen, 184

Lintel, 28, 38, 50, 51, 56; system, 28 Longfellow House. See Craigie House. Loom, 274 ff., 282, 295 Lorenzetti (lor-en-zet'-te), Ambrogio

INDEX

333

(&m-br6'-j5) (Madonna), 208 if., 227, 229, 322 Lotus, 162, 164, 197 Lumber, 22 Lustre, 118

Luxor (luk'-sor; ldok'-sor), 49 note

Machine Age, 43 Machinery, 22, 273 Madder root, 288

Madonna (Lorenzetti), 208 ff., 227, 322

Maiden, Bronze, 165 ff.

Maitreya (mi-tra'-yd), 164 f.

Man with the Glove (Titian), 236 ff. Man-Eagle (Hopi), 312 Manufacture, 22, 273 Manuscripts, 243, 258 Maps: Athens, 33; Egypt, 44; Istan¬ bul (Constantinople), 60; Italy, 209; Navajo and Hopi reservations, 292; Rome, 54

Marble, 2, 26 note, 38, 53, 63, 66, 108, 144, 158 note, 175 note Margin, 206, 254, 256, 270, 321 Mass, 9, 12, 17, 33, 40, 94, 143, 147, 169, 171, 172, 174, 298, 313 Materials. See Alabaster; Alloys; Berries; Brass; Brick; Bronze; Carbon; Cedar; Cement; Chalk; Cinnabar; Clay; Concrete; Copper; Cotton; Diorite; Dyes; Earth; Egg; Enamels; Fibers; Glass; Glue; Gold; Gravel; Gum; Gum arabic; Honey; Indigo; Ink; In¬ lay; Iron; Ivory; Jewels; Lacquer; Lapis lazuli; Lead; Leather; Lime; Limestone; Linen; Lumber; Mad¬ der root; Marble; Metal; Min¬ erals; Mucilage; Oil; Paint; Paper; Pigment; Piping; Plaster; Plaster of Paris; Porphyry; Reed; Rice (paper); Rock; Sand; Sand¬ stone; Silver; Size; Skins; Soap; Soot; Steel; Stone; Stucco; Sugar; Threads; Tile; Timber; Tin; Tones; Travertine; Tufa; Varnish; Wax; Wire; Wood; Wool; Words Medallion, 80, 255; window, 89, 90 Medici (m5d'-I-che) Vase, 301 f. Medium, 145, 146, 321 Melody, 2, 320, 321, 322 Mestrovid (mgs'-tro-vlch), Ivan, 171 ff.

Metal, 44, 61, 66, 87, 168, 324, 325

Metope (met'-o-pe), 41, 42, 174 Michelangelo (ml'-kel-an'-je-lo), 97 ff., 146, 147, 154 ff., 182 ff., 240, 324 Michelson (mi'-kel-son), A. A., 327 Minarets, 60 note, 109, 111, 112 Minerals, 22 Miniatures, 254, 258 Miracle of Saint Mark (Tintoretto), 223 ff., 229 Moby Dick, 264 f.

Modeling, painting, 183,185,186, 237, 241; sculpture, 145, 160, 164 Moldings, 94 Monochrome, 178 Monotony, 44, 51, 320, 323, 324 Mosaic, 60 note, 61, 66, 67, 68, 73 Mosque, 32 note, 60 note, 61 Motif, 100, 149, 156, 157, 200, 202, 218, 237, 282, 289, 290, 293, 294, 302, 305, 316

Movement, 4, 17, 19, 24, 66, 155, 156, 175, 234, 286, 289, 303, 316 Mucilage, 191

Music, 1 f., 7, 47 f., 63, 64, 76, 166, 188, 194, 207,240, 264, 285, 318, 322

Navajo (nav'-a-ho) blanket, 294, 318, 320 f., 326 f.

Nave, 70, 72 ff., 96 Nebraska State Capitol, 14, 41,101 ff., 143, 150; plan, 105 New Sacristy, 154, 156 Nine Dragon Scroll (Chinese), 232 ff. Northeaster (Homer), 232 Nude, Greek, 166

Obelisks, 45, 46 ff.

Obi (o'-be), Japanese, 285, 286 Oil painting, 182, 186 ff., 225, 227 Organization, 114, 166, 201, 216, 220, 231, 236 f., 298, 301, 315 Originality, 39, 109 Ornament, 40, 41

Painting, direct, 186; indirect, 225 Palmette, 286

Panathenaic (p&n-3,th-e-na'-ik) Pro¬ cession 41.

Paneling, 118, 119, 120, 220, 221 Pantheon (pan'-the-Sn), 94 Paper, 118, 207, 244, 250, 255 Papyrus (pa-pi'-r^s), 244 Parchment, 244

Parthenon (par'-the-nSn), 13, 14,

32 ff., 63, 82, 83, 102, 111, 115, 142,

334

INDEX

158 ff., 174, 199, 216, 230, 323; frieze, 40, 41, 175 ff., 219 note, 221; plan, 37 Patio, 130

Pattern, 6, 40, 41, 126, 201, 218, 240, 278, 280, 285, 312 Pediment, 38, 41, 42 Pen, 245, 247; strokes, 245 Pendentives, 67, 81, 82 Persian Animal Carpet, 288, 294, 303, 321, 327; Jar, 301; Miniature, 180, 204; Romances, 205, 253 ff. Personality, 5, 15, 17, 34, 76, 109, 112, 166, 238, 240_

Peruvian (pe-roo'-vi-dn) textiles, 280, 281 ff.

Pharaoh, 46 f., 49, 51, 62, 154 Pheidias (fi'-di-as), 158 note Picasso (pe-kas'-so), Pablo (Harle¬ quin), 199 ff., 218, 229, 230 Piers, 29, 30, 31, 65 Pigment, 146 note, 182, 185, 186, 187, 191, 196, 200, 207, 274, 279 Pilaster (pi-las'-ter), 98, 99 Pile, 277 ff., 287 Piping, 146 Pitcher, 299 f., 304 ff.

Plain cloth weave, 277 Plane, 24, 151, 152, 159, 160, 175, 177, 217, 307, 316 Plaster, 121, 182 ff., 195 Plaster of Paris, 184 Plinth, 149 Porcelain, 299, 314 Porphyry, 144

Portrait, 153, 166, 170, 236 ff.

Potter’s wheel, 296 f., 299 Pottery, 298 ff.

Powel House, 117 ff., 127 Principles, 141, 179, 319, 320, 322, 325 Printing, 248 ff.

Profile, 175, 176, 197 Proportion, 10, 11, 24, 40, 73, 86, 90, 103, 131, 147, 171, 213, 222, 239, 249, 256, 298, 304 ff., 309, 313, 315, 319, 324-25

"PcQlf'PT* ^ S 7

Purpose, 9, 10, 31, 38, 324. See Function.

Pylon (pi'-lon) Temple, Egypt, 44 ff., 153, 326

Pyramid, 101, 109, 110, 149, 219; form, 10

Quill, 245, 247, 249

Rai (ra), Ray. See Rhages. Ramesseum (ram-e-se'-wm), 50 note Rectangle, 66, 156, 221 Red-figured ware, 306 Reed, 196, 244, 324 Relief, 51, 104, 141, 150, 174 ff., 186 Religion, 38, 39, 49, 62, 67, 76, 84, 107, 147, 153, 161, 164

Rembrandt van Rijn (rem'-brant van rin), 228 ff.

Renoir (ren'-war), 203, 231 Rep, 276

Repetition, 51, 71, 115, 149, 155, 200, 305

Rhages (ra'-jes) jar, 300 ff., 308 Rhythm, 4, 12, 17 ff., 20, 24, 25, 31, 40, 61, 66, 68, 72, 100, 101, 159, 168, 173, 175, 199, 212, 231, 234, 272, 280, 282, 285, 286, 289-90, 314, 316 Rib vaulting, 85; ribs, 84 f., 96, 100 Rice (paper), 121, 122, 250 Rock, 30

Roofing, 28, 56, 57, 65, 85 Roofing stones, 48, 50 Royal Portal (Chartres), 83, 84 Rugs, Persian, 287 ff., 304

Saint Francis. See Death of Saint Francis.

Saint Jerome as Cardinal (El Greco), 238 ff.

Saint Paul’s Without the Walls, 68 ff. Saint Peter’s, 97 ff., 105, 106, 107,109, 110, 114, 133, 156; plan, 98 Sand, 125

Sandburg, Carl, 322 Sandstone, 144; red, 108 Santa Maria del Fiore (san-ta ma-re'-a del fi-o'-re), 92, 95; plan, 96 Santa Maria in Cosmedin (cos'-ma- dm), 72, 73, 152

Santa Sophia (so-fe'-a) 60 ff., 84, 90 ff., 96, 105, 114, 231, 240, 256; plan, 64

Sarcophagus, 157 Satin weave, 276 ff.

Scale, 23, 53, 56, 57, 63, 256, 264 Screens, 120, 121, 125 Scroll (Chinese), 232 ff.; book, 249 ff. Serica (sar'-i-ko). See Silk fabrics. Serifs (ser'-lfs), 248, 249 Setting, climatic, 10, 41; geographic, 10, 52, 74 ff., 105, 127 ff.

Shed, 275 Shuttle, 276, 279

INDEX

335

Sienese (se-en-ez') Madonna. See Lorenzetti.

Signature, guild, 80, 87 Silhouette, 5 note, 68, 101, 121, 170, 171, 172, 211, 224, 307 Silk fabrics, 53, 122, 284 ff.

Silver, 48, 66, 108, 180 Silver point, 180 Simplification, 154, 170, 279 Sistine (sis'-ten) Chapel, 183 Site, 69, 141, 143, 148, 161 Size, 184 Skins 244

Skyscraper, 4, 7, 10, 15, 18, 20, 21 ff., 43, 44, 51, 114, 115, 149, 231, 318 Slip, 301 Soap, 207

Solidity, 50, 98, 103 Soot, 191

Space, 53, 56, 61, 64, 75, 90, 171, 190, 213, 216, 222, 224, 226, 230 ff., 307 Sphere, 11, 98

Spiraling, 155, 158, 289, 303 Spire, 74, 75, 76 note, 81, 96 Square, 63, 66, 74, 110, 172 Stability, 4, 30, 31, 56, 85, 103, 142, 143, 219 Stairway, 116

Steel, 12, 20 f., 22, 51, 114, 146 note Step pattern, 293, 294, 320, 326 Stone, 12, 21, 27-28, 50-51, 84-85, 126-27, 129, 141, 144, 146-47, 151, 155, 158, 177, 321 •

Stone-carving, 154 Stoneware, 315 note, 316 note Story of Two Lovers, 263 Street Boys, Egypt, 198 Strength, 12, 18, 168, 326 Stucco, 2, 118, 127, 130 Subject matter, 67, 104, 141, 146, 166, 171, 219

Subordination, 110, 153, 156, 211 Sugar, 207

Sunflowers (Van Gogh), 186 f.

Swiss Chalet (sha-la'), 13, 14, 16 Symbolism, 90, 108, 110, 153,164, 181, 233, 272 f., 293, 294

Tactile sensation, 2 Taj Mahall (taj md-hal'), 15, 106 ff., 125, 133, 164; plan, 106 Tapestry, 276, 281 ff.

Tasse de Chocolat (sho'-kS-la) (Re¬ noir), 203

Technical processes. See Bronze¬

casting; Chinese painting; Cire- perdue; Clay modeling; Fresco; Glassworking; Glazing; Gouache; Inlay; Mosaic; Oil painting; Pot¬ tery; Stone-carving; Tempera; Water color; Weaving; Wood¬ carving; Woodcut

Telephone Building (New York), 23 Tempera (tem'-pa-ra) painting, 182, 184 ff., 228

Temple. See Pylon Temple; Par¬ thenon.

Terrace figure. See Step pattern. Tesserae (tes'-er-e), 66, 67 Textiles, 272 ff., 325 Texture, 2, 12, 66, 88, 112, 127, 131, 152, 184, 187, 241, 255, 271, 272, 277, 280, 288, 289, 299, 313, 315, 316, 324

Theodora (the-o-do'-rd), 62 ff.; mosaic, 67

Theotocopuli (the-o-to-ko'-pu-le), Do¬ menico (do-ma'-ne-ko) (Saint Jerome as Cardinal), 238 ff., 241 Theseus (the'-sus; the'-se-us) Cup, 307, 308

Threads, 146 note, 274 Three Figures (Parthenon), 158 ff. Thrust, 13, 142, 160 Tile, 24, 29, 121, 127, 130, 205, 207, 208

Timber, 28 Tin, 53

Tintoretto (tm-to-ret'-to) (Miracle of Saint Mark), 223 ff., 229 Titian (tlsh'-an), 186 note; Man with the Glove, 236 ff., 239, 241 Tivoli (tlv'-d-li). See Villa d’Este. Tomb of Giuliano (joo-li-an'-o) de Medici (de med'-i-che). See Day.

Tomb of Nakht (nakt) and Tawi (ta'-we), 194 ff., 201, 203, 206, 215 Tonality, 88, 184, 225 Tones, 146 note, 176, 188, 193, 225, 274

Tower, 74, 81, 82, 92, 94, 101, 102, 324

Transept, 86,

Travertine, 26 note, 29, 30, 71 Triangle, 157, 200, 201, 218, 237, 238, 315

Triglyph (tri'-glif), 41, 42 Tufa, 26 note Tulip wood, 120

336

INDEX

Twill weave, 276, 278 Type, 244 Type-face, 248 ff.

Underpainting, 186, 226 Unit shapes, 200, 218 Unity, 4, 6, 14, 31, 71, 73, 98, 103,109, 114, 122, 125, 129, 130-31, 156, 159, 172, 203, 216, 219, 240, 259, 263, 301, 305, 313, 319, 326 Unmerciful Servant (Rembrandt), 228 ff.

Variations, 4, 24, 283

Variety, 18, 24, 58, 71, 73, 100, 170, 172, 175, 200, 262, 263, 282, 319, 320, 327

Varnish, 185

Vassall-Craigie-Longfellow House. See Craigie House.

Vaults. See Barrel vault; Groin vault; Rib vaulting.

Velasquez (va-las'-keth), Diego (de- a'-gd) (Infanta Marguerita), 240 f.

Vellum, 244

Velvet, 2, 272, 279

Vertical line, 12, 19, 20, 21, 25, 40, 73, 81, 90, 91, 95, 99, 100, 102,103, 111, 114, 115, 157, 172, 176, 180, 201, 216, 221, 231, 239, 323

Villa d’Este (vil'-la d’es'-te), 127 ff.; plan, 128

Village Road (Cezanne), 230 ff.

Virgin. See Madonna.

Volume, 9 note, 10 ff., 31, 51, 53, 60, 103, 107, 141, 150, 152, 155; rec¬

tangular, 11, 12, 17, 24, 33, 57, 61, 65, 68, 72, 74, 101, 114, 152, 172

Wagner (vag'-ner) (Tristan and Isolde) (tris'-tan and l-sol'-da), 240 Warp, 274 Washington, 135 ff.

Water color painting, 182, 187 f.

Wax, 67, 145 Weave sword, 275 Weaving, 274 ff.

Wedging, 298 Weft, 274

White House (Washington), 137, 138 Whitney, Gertrude V., 149 note Window, 16, 19, 61, 65, 66, 68, 79 ff., 86 ff., 103, 112, 243, 324 Window of the Virgin (Chartres), 42, 89 f.

Winter Horsetail, 24 Wire, 146

Wood, 120, 121, 144, 146 note Wood block, 257 Wood-carving, 144 Woodcut, 262 ff., 270 Woof. See Warp.

Wool, 288

Words, 146 note, 274, 321 Wright, Frank Lloyd, 21 Writing, 245 ff.

Young Girl (painting), 6, 7; (photo¬ graph), 6

Zigzag, 194, 206, 239, 294, 320, 326 Zodiac (Chartres), 83 Zoning law, 23, 135

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