The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 1, April 1894
General
The yellow book, an illustrated quarterly. Vol. 1, April 1894
English literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Great Britain -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
curve of the chin, the nervous trick of biting the moustache--aye and
the hectic spot of red on either cheek--will be made spiflicate, as the
puppets were spiflicated by Don Quixote. Yes, even now Demos begins to
discern. The same spirit that has revived rouge, smote his mouth as it
grinned at the wondrous painter of mist and river, and now sends him
sprawling for the pearls that Meredith dived for in the deep waters of
romance.
Indeed the revival of cosmetics must needs be so splendid an influence,
conjuring boons innumerable, that one inclines almost to mutter against
that inexorable law by which Artifice must perish from time to time.
That such branches of painting as the staining of glass or the
illuminating of manuscripts should fall into disuse seems in comparison,
so likely; these were esoteric arts; they died with the monastic
spirit. But personal appearance is art's very basis. The painting of the
face is the first kind of painting man can have known. To make beautiful
things--is it not an impulse laid upon few? But to make oneself
beautiful is an universal instinct. Strange that the resultant art could
ever perish! So fascinating an art too! So various in its materials from
stimmis, psimythium and fuligo to bismuth and arsenic, so simple in that
its ground and its subject-matter are one, so marvellous in that its
very subject-matter becomes lovely when an artist has selected it! For
surely this is no idle nor fantastic saying. To deny that "making-up" is
an art, on the pretext that the finished work of its exponents depends
for beauty and excellence upon the ground chosen for the work, is
absurd. At the touch of a true artist, the plainest face turns comely.
As subject-matter the face is no more than suggestive, as ground, merely
a loom round which the beatus artifex may spin the threads of any golden
fabric:
"Quae nunc nomen habent operosi signa Maronis
Pondus iners quondam duraque massa fuit.
Multa viros nescire decet; pars maxima rerum
Offendat, si non interiora tegas,"
and, as Ovid would seem to suggest, by pigments any tone may be set
aglow on a woman's cheek, from enamel the features take any form.
Insomuch that surely the advocates of soup-kitchens and free-libraries
and other devices for giving people what providence did not mean them to
receive, should send out pamphlets in the praise of self-embellishment.
For it will place Beauty within easy reach of many who could not
otherwise hope to attain it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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