Some may possibly say, that photography, casting, and stenography are
mechanical processes, and that we ought to leave mechanism out of the
question, and accordingly limit our comparisons to man's work. Let us,
therefore, select works by artists conspicuous for minute fidelity.
There is a canvas in the Louvre by Denner. This artist worked
microscopically, taking four years to finish a portrait. Nothing in his
heads is overlooked--the finest lines and wrinkles, the faintly mottled
surface of the cheeks, the black specks scattered over the nose, the
bluish flush of imperceptible veins meandering under the skin, nor the
reflection of objects in the vicinity on the eye. We are struck with
astonishment. This head is a perfect illusion; it seems to project
out of the frame. Such success and such patience are unparalleled.
Substantially, however, a broad sketch by Van Dyck is a hundredfold
more powerful. Beside, neither in painting nor in any other art are
prizes awarded to deceptions.
A second and stronger proof, that exact imitation is not the end of
art, is to be found in this fact, that certain arts are purposely
inexact. There is sculpture, for instance. A statue is generally
of one color, either of bronze or of marble; and again, the eyes
are without eyeballs. It is just this uniformity of tint, and this
modification of moral expression, which completes its beauty. Examine
corresponding works, in which imitation is pushed to extremity. The
churches of Naples and Spain contain draped statues, colored; saints in
actual monastic garb, with yellow earthy skins, suitable to ascetics,
and bleeding hands and wounded sides characteristic of the martyred.
Alongside of these appear madonnas, in royal robes, in festive dresses,
and in bright silks, crowned with diadems, wearing precious necklaces,
brilliant ribbons, and magnificent laces, and with rosy complexions,
glittering eyes, and eyeballs formed of carbuncles. By this excess
of literal imitation, the artist gives no pleasure, but repugnance,
often disgust, and sometimes horror.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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