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Not one among those who were, doubtless, the greatest among the great painters, not one, it seems, equals him—Rembrandt excepted—in profundity, and in force of sentiment; not one—Rubens excepted—in the torrent-like power of expressive movement; not one—Michael Angelo excepted—in capacity for transporting into painting that which seems to belong to the domain of abstract meditation and of the moral prophet. But perhaps there is sometimes lacking in him, that which is never lacking in any of them—the faculty of suppressing and of selecting. There is order in his brain, and even a kind of impressive calm beneath the apparent agitation, but it is not always in his heart. He feels too much, he wants to say too much; and if the ensemble is always living, it sometimes is too much alive, it reels, as if it could not bear the weight of silence. The romanticists construct organically, their point of departure is the inner impulse, and they spread forth their expressive surfaces with so much haste and violence that too often the movement appears confused and overloaded. The contemplation of the object intoxicates the individual to such an extent that the object becomes as living as the individual himself, but its lines waver and the core of the expression bursts forth alone, brilliant, hallucinating, and radiant with strength and love. Hugo abounds in holes, in empty places full of smoke and wind. Wagner is often loose and prolix, and his giant breast suffocates under the flowers he heaps up. The grandiose melody of Berlioz soars for a moment, its two great wings spreading, and then it falls headlong, in a crash of vulgar noises and deafening cries. Delacroix, who, most of all, retains mastery over his power, bounds out of his own rhythm at times, and gets out of breath in racing to regain it. Rodin, the last of all in point of time, has a colossal power of expressing the profound life of the object by the vibrations of its surface. But it is at the expense of his equilibrium and of his relations with those who surround him; there is not one monumental ensemble which holds together from top to bottom.
Not one among those who were, doubtless, the greatest among the great painters, not one, it seems, equals him—Rembrandt excepted—in profundity, and in force of sentiment; not one—Rubens excepted—in the torrent-like power of expressive movement; not one—Michael Angelo excepted—in capacity for transporting into painting that which seems to belong to the domain of abstract meditation and of the moral prophet. But perhaps there is sometimes lacking in him, that which is never lacking in any of them—the faculty of suppressing and of selecting. There is order in his brain, and even a kind of impressive calm beneath the apparent agitation, but it is not always in his heart. He feels too much, he wants to say too much; and if the ensemble is always living, it sometimes is too much alive, it reels, as if it could not bear the weight of silence. The romanticists construct organically, their point of departure is the inner impulse, and they spread forth their expressive surfaces with so much haste and violence that too often the movement appears confused and overloaded. The contemplation of the object intoxicates the individual to such an extent that the object becomes as living as the individual himself, but its lines waver and the core of the expression bursts forth alone, brilliant, hallucinating, and radiant with strength and love. Hugo abounds in holes, in empty places full of smoke and wind. Wagner is often loose and prolix, and his giant breast suffocates under the flowers he heaps up. The grandiose melody of Berlioz soars for a moment, its two great wings spreading, and then it falls headlong, in a crash of vulgar noises and deafening cries. Delacroix, who, most of all, retains mastery over his power, bounds out of his own rhythm at times, and gets out of breath in racing to regain it. Rodin, the last of all in point of time, has a colossal power of expressing the profound life of the object by the vibrations of its surface. But it is at the expense of his equilibrium and of his relations with those who surround him; there is not one monumental ensemble which holds together from top to bottom.
That is
the ransom, doubtless, of every too exceptionally expressive force, necessarily
as far from the great architectural calm as the reasons of the heart are
distant from reason. Since the painters of the coffins of Christian Egypt, the
Hindus, Rabelais, Tintoretto, and Shakespeare, no one has possessed, in the
same degree as the great romanticists, the power of expressing that which is
most irresistible and most intoxicating in the inner movement of life. The
process scarcely changes, but what renders it all-powerful and impossible to
imitate is that it is not a process but a way of seeing, a way of acting, a way
of living. The romantic painter, or sculptor, or poet finds in the object, with
a certitude like that of a thunderbolt, the summit of his expression. Then he
surrounds this summit with his creative fever, and, from every point, all
things are swept toward it. He is born within the object, he lifts it up, he
guides it from one side only, he breaks open its surface. He bursts forth to
meet the light, casting behind him into vagueness or the night everything
hostile, secondary, or merely indifferent. Hugo, whether he writes or draws,
carries his tyrannical desire to the point of diametrical oppositions: the
ruins on the promontories, the storm, the ocean, the mountain, everything that
is unmeasured and everything that is fateful is indicated and violently modeled
by the conflict of antitheses—of light and shadow. Raffet creates a straight
line of aigrettes in swift movement, walls of steel, long flowing manes, and a
thousand silent hoofs—the whole thing is a single block—and the rumble of
destiny is heard in the darkness. Baudelaire accumulates in the center of his
vision all the scattered sense impressions which a fanatical and consuming
sensibility has permitted him to gather up from a hundred thousand similar
objects. Constantin Guys lengthens the painted eyes of the courtesans,
accentuates the blood-red note of their mouths, weighs down their hard breasts,
makes their jewels heavier and more sonorous, masses higher on their necks the
coils of dark hair with its combs and its flowers— and at once the odor of love
fills the ballrooms and the shows, prowls the length of the hot streets,
enervates the summer evenings and the anxious waiting of the night. Barye
concentrates the whole spirit of attack and of defense in the big paws of his
wild beasts, in the bunches of muscles of their shoulders, and in the vibrant,
tight-strung planes of their thighs and of their backs. Daumier seizes the
heart of the drama, and ties tight around it all the expressive knots which a
grand and intuitive science of form in action reveals to him incessantly.
He
would suffice to define that aspiration, held in common by all the
romanticists, for concentrating the whole expression in some sudden projection
to which all the lines and all the lights flock from every side, enthusiastic
and obedient like so many units of energy moving toward a central force which
is to be manifested. Millet, at the same time, is attempting this, and
sometimes almost realizes it, when he lays down his brush for the pen or the
pencil. But the form, which he seeks to keep simple and naïve, defined by a few
bare planes, almost always remains empty. Later, at the other extremity of
romanticism, but with the same means. Carrière expresses not so much a desire
for the qualities of plastic art as he does his need for sentiment.
With
Daumier, on the contrary, the form, which an arabesque of light sculptures,
describes, and directs, by its gradations, its surface progressions, and its
flowing into depth, turns and twists, as full as a living bronze, knotting and
distending itself under the impulsion of effort, of desire, or of hunger, like
intertwined vine- and ivy-stems, which draw from the heart of the earth their
nourishment and their support. In considering him, one always thinks of several
of the masters who have best rendered the pathos of the human form in action.
This simple, direct man is the natural fruit of an intense European culture
which has not yet left its orbit, and all the old classics recognize themselves
in him. He is of the south and of the north. Born in Marseilles, where the
shadow and the sun sculpture mountains and shores into broad planes, as
expressive and as solid as a structure of bare bone, he lives in the Paris
street, in the seething center of everyday tragedy and comedy, which one
perceives as soon as one suspends one's automatic pace in order to let one's
glance rest for a moment on the scene. He lives in the Paris street. He
certainly knows Rembrandt, Rubens, Tintoretto, and Michael Angelo. But he does
not think of them when, with the living daylight, which Rembrandt used at will,
he illuminates men and women whose action is revealed by projecting volumes
which Michael Angelo would have recognized, and by tangles of limbs in which
Rubens and Tintoretto would have seen their power of making all the movements
of life find their echo in the continuity of lines and the receding of planes.
One
would say that he paints with burning clay. It is a sculpture of our drama in
which the bones and the muscles collect the entire spirit of the drama, whose
penumbra takes back little by little or suddenly the past or present incidents
which are not its real point of connection or its spiritual sense. A sublime
expression of sentiment arises from the plastic means exclusively, and if he is
as good as a saint is, it is because he is as strong as a hero. The drawn
shoulder and arm of that woman carrying a basket who is followed by the
toddling steps of the child that clutches at her with its little fist, express
the effort of a lever too weak to raise a heavy weight. But from the depths of
the centuries, pity wells up to accompany those passing figures. The enormous
swelling breast from which a little being is drinking, the head and the
muscular neck leaning over the soup which the iron spoon carries to the
outstretched lips, all express, doubtless, a double meal. But the tragedy of
hunger rumbles there like a storm. That powerful woman who presses between her
arms and her bosom those beautiful nude children expresses physical health and
strength in repose. But the spirit of revolt hovers over her in majesty. That
little ass crushed under the weight of that fat peasant, and that skeletonlike
horse which could carry no more weight than that of the thin knight, express
physical poverty and vulgarity crossing a desert of ashes. But the inner spirit
of man marches forth there to wrestle with God.
There
is the artist. And there is the work. It is useless to recount the paradox of
his career. Regarded as a caricaturist, he died very poor, very celebrated, and
wholly unknown. He was a caricaturist, and that is not a serious matter.
Delacroix was prudent enough to get himself elected—with difficulty—to the
Institute in order to go and dine in society and wear evening dress. And Corot
had the luck to be the son of prosperous tradespeople. But this man lived between
the barricade, his garret, and the editorial rooms of small radical papers. He
was content to possess the street and to conquer the future. They say he was
unconscious of it. I doubt that. The mark of a powerful man is to be aware of
his power. When one has that fine forehead, those piercing eyes, that
courageous mouth, and that face, full and broad like that of Rabelais, and when
one kneads the form as one pleases with that good thumb, one is not ignorant of
the fact that one is a king. And if one is silent about it, and if one even
reaches the point of allowing no one to imagine such a thing, it is because
there is a sufficient recompense in modeling life into a resemblance to
oneself. The whole dark stream of men obeyed his first call. He reigned over
the street, he felt himself the sole master of it, from the moment that he set
foot there. Nothing that moved in the street was foreign to him, and into this
formidable disorder he introduced the despotic order which all the movements
and the passions of the street organized in his mental life. The epic vision of
things is only a superb submission of sensation and of the mind to the living
strength of everything which the weaklings of sensation and the pontiffs of the
mind neglect as inferior to their abstract or mechanical life. He stopped each
time that an eloquent gesture pierced the confused uniformity of the crowd in
action. He knew the broad streets where the strong man of the fairs lifts iron
weights and harangues an attentive circle. At the hour when the workshops pour
their dramatic flood over the greasy pavement, he mingled with the passionate
groups forming around the street singer and the barrel organ, and joining in on
the last verses, in which popular idealism expresses its revolt or its hope. One
would see him in the first row, in the fairs of the quarter, when the drummer
beat his drum and the glorious barker made his speech. He loved those powerful
creatures who stir the soul of the people, simple as they are, and as he is
himself. The athlete folds his arm over his gigantic chest muscles, a peaceful
demigod of strength and righteousness. The man singing has the fateful
countenance of the first poets of heroic deeds in whose mouth the primitive
religions affirm their victory from their first cry. And that clown with the
painted face and the great living gesture has something about him resembling an
archangel opening and shutting the gates of paradise and of hell. . . It was in
a similar spirit that Michael Angelo traced the biblical symbols on the
ceilings of the Vatican. Daumier, if he lives in less torment, is probably as
grave, and if, in his raciness, he thunders in the language of the rough
neighborhoods, there is, each time that his bolt illuminates or strikes,
prophetic lightning which carries and announces the shock.
For he
is a man of justice, a man of truth. The law is a small matter to him, and the
law courts even less. He is a just man. He has the mighty gayety of such a one,
the irresistible strength, the indulgence, the measure, and the charity. Fines
and imprisonment renew his virulence. In his prints, to which a few poor hovels
in some corner, a few bare trunks on a bank, a sky where the wind blows, or a
strong suggestion of the country or of the city, give the grandeur of a fresco,
the blacks and the whites have the velvety and profound sonority whereby his
avenging pity takes the love of the living world as a pretext through which to
pour itself forth. Everywhere that a man is undeservedly vanquished, or a poor
person is humiliated, everywhere that a weak man cries for help, everywhere
that vulgarity and baseness triumph, he is there, by himself, to cover the one
who seeks protection, and alone to face the one who is not willing to
understand. He is present in the court room, where, with a magnificent laugh,
his whip lash flays the unjust judge and the lying lawyer. From the top
benches, he models with fierce strokes the faces, the knees, and the bellies of
the legislators. He brings cartridges to the wretched dwellings of the workmen
where the last visitor had spilled blood on the ground and brains on the wall.
He fires his rifle with the army of the miserable, from their heap of paving
stones. This simple man has in his heart all the innocent forces which, through
the insurrections of the serfs and of the Communes, through the cathedral, the
war of the Fronde, and the revolutionary days of 1789 and of 1830, opened to
the dregs of society the roads of the future. The Pharisee and the hypocrite
hide when he passes by, the bad rich man grinds his teeth, and the bad shepherd
goes white. And since, in his time, it is the middle class that reigns, he
lashes out at the middle class.
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