An Apostasy
To speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth may Mr. Whistler’s Lecture on Art, by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Fortnightly Review, June 1888. justly be required of the average witness; it cannot be expected, it should not be exacted, of any critical writer or lecturer on any form of art....
... And it appears to one at least of those unfortunate “outsiders” for whose judgment or whose “meddling” Mr. Whistler has so imperial and Olympian a contempt....
Let us begin at the end, as all reasonable people always do: we shall find that Mr. Whistler concedes to Greek art a place beside Japanese. Now this, on his own showing, will never do; it crosses, it contravenes, it nullifies, it pulverizes his theory or his principle REFLECTION:
“If” indeed!
of artistic limitation. If Japanese art is right in confining itself to what can be “broidered upon the fan”—and the gist of the whole argument is in favour of this assumption—then the sculpture which appeals, indeed, first of all to our perception of beauty, to the delight of the eye, to the wonder and the worship of the instinct or the sense, but which in every possible instance appeals also to far other intuitions and far other sympathies than these, is as absolutely wrong, as demonstrably inferior, as any picture or as any carving which may be so degenerate and so debased as to concern itself with a story or a subject. Assuredly Phidias thought of other things than “arrangements”[34] [34]REFLECTION:
Because the Bard is blind, shall the Painter cease to see?
in marble—as certainly as Æschylus thought of other things than “arrangements” in metre. Nor, I am sorely afraid, can the adored Velasquez be promoted to a seat “at the foot of Fusi-yama.” Japanese art is not merely the incomparable achievement of certain harmonies in colour; it is the negation, the immolation, the annihilation of everything else. By the code which accepts as the highest of models and of masterpieces the cups and fans and screens with which “the poor world” REFLECTION:
“Cups and fans and screens,” and Hamilton vases, and figurines of Tanagra, and other “waterflies.”
has been as grievously “pestered” of late years as ever it was in Shakespeare’s time “with such waterflies”—“diminutives of nature”—as excited the scorn of his moralizing cynic, Velasquez is as unquestionably condemned as is Raphael or Titian. It is true that this miraculous power of hand (?)[35] [35]REFLECTION:
Quite hopeless!
makes beautiful for us the deformity of dwarfs, and dignifies the degradation of princes; but that is not the question. It is true, again, that Mr. Whistler’s own merest “arrangements” in colour are lovely and effective;[36] [36]REFLECTION:
Whereby it would seem that, for the Bard, the lovely is not necessarily “effective.”
but his portraits, to speak of these alone, are liable to the damning and intolerable imputation of possessing not merely other qualities than these, but qualities which actually appeal—I blush to remember and I shudder to record it—which actually appeal to the intelligence[37] [37]REFLECTION:
The “lovely,” therefore, confessedly does not appeal to the intelligence, emotions, mind, and heart of the Bard even when aided by the “effective.”
and the emotions, to the mind and heart of the spectator. It would be quite useless for Mr. Whistler to protest—if haply he should be so disposed—that he never meant to put study of character and revelation of intellect into his portrait of Mr. Carlyle, or intense pathos of significance and tender depth of expression into the portrait of his own venerable mother. The scandalous fact remains, that he has done so; and in so doing has explicitly violated and implicitly abjured the creed and the canons, the counsels and the catechism of Japan....
And when Mr. Whistler informs us that “there never was an artistic period,” we must reply that the statement, so far as it is true, is the flattest of all possible truisms; for no mortal ever maintained that there ever was a period in which all men were either good artists or good judges of art. But when we pass from the positive to the comparative degree of historic or retrospective criticism, we must ask whether the lecturer means to say that there have not been times when the general standard of taste and judgment, REFLECTION:
Of course I do mean this thing—though most imprudent was the saying of it!—for this Art truth the Poet resents with the people.—June 1888.
reason and perception, was so much higher than at other times and such periods may justly and accurately be defined as artistic. If he does mean to say this, he is beyond answer and beneath confutation; in other words, he is where an artist of Mr. Whistler’s genius and a writer of Mr. Whistler’s talents can by no possibility find himself. If he does not mean to say this, what he means to say is exactly as well worth saying, as valuable and as important a piece of information, as the news that Queen Anne is no more, or that two and two are not generally supposed to make five.
But if the light and glittering bark of this brilliant amateur in the art of letters is not invariably steered with equal dexterity of hand between the Scylla and Charybdis of paradox and platitude, it is impossible that in its course it should not once and again touch upon some point worth notice, if not exploration. Even that miserable animal the “unattached writer” may gratefully and respectfully recognize his accurate apprehension and his felicitous application of well-nigh the most hackneyed verse in all the range of Shakespeare’s—which yet is almost invariably misconstrued and misapplied—“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;” and this, as the poet goes on to explain, is that all, with one consent, prefer worthless but showy novelties to precious but familiar possessions. “This one chord that vibrates with all,” says Mr. Whistler, who proceeds to cite artistic examples of the lamentable fact, “this one unspoken sympathy that pervades humanity, is—Vulgarity.” But the consequence which he proceeds to indicate and to deplore is calculated to strike his readers with a sense of mild if hilarious astonishment. It is that men of sound judgment and pure taste, quick feelings and clear perceptions, most unfortunately and most inexplicably begin to make their voices “heard in the land.” Porson, as all the world knows, observed of the Germans of his day that “in Greek” they were “sadly to seek.” It is no discredit to Mr. Whistler if this is his case also; but then he would do well to eschew the use of a Greek term lying so far out of the common way as the word “æsthete.” REFLECTION:
Je reviens donc de Pontoise!
Not merely the only accurate meaning, but the only possible meaning, of that word is nothing more, but nothing less, than this—an intelligent, appreciative, quick-witted person; in a word, as the lexicon has it, “one who perceives.” The man who is no æsthete stands confessed, by the logic of language and the necessity of the case, as a thick-witted, tasteless, senseless, and impenetrable blockhead. I do not wish to insult Mr. Whistler, but I feel bound to avow my impression that there is no man now living who less deserves the honour of enrolment in such ranks as these—of a seat in the synagogue of the anæsthetic....
... Such abuse of language is possible only to the drivelling desperation of venomous or fangless duncery: it is in higher and graver matters, of wider bearing and of deeper import, that we find it necessary to dispute the apparently serious propositions or assertions of Mr. Whistler. How far the witty tongue may be thrust into the smiling cheek when the lecturer pauses to take breath between these remarkably brief paragraphs it would be certainly indecorous and possibly superfluous to inquire. But his theorem is unquestionably calculated to provoke the loudest and the heartiest mirth that ever acclaimed the advent of Momus or Erycina. For it is this—that [38]”Art [38]REFLECTION:
Is not, then, the funeral hymn a gladness to the singer, if the verse be beautiful?
Certainly the funeral monument, to be worthy the Nation’s sorrow buried beneath it, must first be a joy to the sculptor who designed it.
The Bard’s reasoning is of the People. His Tragedy is theirs. As one of them, the man may weep—yet will the artist rejoice—for to him is not “A thing of beauty a joy for ever”?
and Joy go together,” and that[39] tragic art is not art at all.... [39]At what point of my “O’clock” does Mr. Swinburne find this last—his own inconsequence?
... The laughing Muse of the lecturer, “quam Jocus circumvolat,” must have glanced round in expectation of the general appeal, “After that let us take breath.” And having done so, they must have remembered that they were not in a serious world; that they were in the fairyland of fans, REFLECTION:
Before the marvels of centuries, silence, the only tribute of the outsider, is by him refused—and the dignity of ignorance lost in speech.
in the paradise of pipkins, in the limbo of blue china, screens, pots, plates, jars, joss-houses, REFLECTION:
If an æsthete, the Bard is no collector!
and all the fortuitous frippery of Fusi-yama.
It is a cruel but an inevitable Nemesis which reduces even a man of real genius, keen-witted and sharp-sighted, to the level of the critic Jobson, to the level of the dotard and the dunce, when paradox is discoloured by personality and merriment is distorted by malevolence.(!) No man who really knows the qualities of Mr. Whistler’s best work will imagine that he really believes the highest expression of his art to be realized in reproduction of the grin and glare, the smirk and leer, of Japanese womanhood as represented in its professional types of beauty; but to all appearance he would fain persuade us that he does.
In the latter of the two portraits to which I have already referred there is an expression of living character.... This, however, is an exception to the general rule of Mr. Whistler’s way of work: an exception, it may be alleged, which proves the rule. A single infraction of the moral code, a single breach of artistic law, suffices to vitiate the position of the preacher. And this is no slight escapade, or casual aberration; it is a full and frank defiance, a deliberate and elaborate denial, hurled right in the face of Japanese jocosity, flung straight in the teeth of the theory which condemns high art, under penalty of being considered intelligent, to remain eternally on the grin.
If it be objected that to treat this theorem gravely is “to consider too curiously” the tropes and the phrases of a jester of genius, I have only to answer that it very probably may be so, but that the excuse for such error must be sought in the existence of the genius. A man of genius is scarcely at liberty to choose whether he shall or shall not be considered as a serious figure—one to be acknowledged and respected as an equal or a superior, not applauded and dismissed as a tumbler or a clown. And if the better part of Mr. Whistler’s work as an artist is to be accepted as the work of a serious and intelligent creature, it would seem incongruous and preposterous to dismiss the more characteristic points of his theory as a lecturer with the chuckle or the shrug of mere amusement or amazement. Moreover, if considered as a joke, a mere joke, and nothing but a joke, this gospel of the grin has hardly matter or meaning enough in it to support so elaborate a structure of paradoxical rhetoric. It must be taken, therefore, as something serious in the main; and if so taken, and read by the light reflected from Mr. Whistler’s more characteristically brilliant canvases, it may not improbably recall a certain phrase of Molière’s which at once passed into a proverb—“Vous êtes orfèvre, M. Josse.” That worthy tradesman, it will be remembered, was of opinion that nothing could be so well calculated to restore a drooping young lady to mental and physical health as the present of a handsome set of jewels. REFLECTION:
A keen commercial summing up—excused by the “Great Emperor!”
Mr. Whistler’s opinion that there is nothing like leather—of a jovial and Japanese design—savours somewhat of the Oriental cordwainer.