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vii Chloë’s Naïve

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ix @1923.84.172

25 45°53'3.67'S

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Lafayette

They marveled at the digital canvas and virtual reality tools, embracing these technological marvels to push the boundaries of creative expression. Adapting their time-honored techniques to new mediums, they brought the past into the future, breathing new life into masterpieces that once existed only in static forms. Van Gogh’s iconic Starry Night was no longer confined to a canvas; it transformed into a breathtaking immersive VR experience, allowing viewers to step into his swirling skies and feel the vibrancy of his colors enveloping them. The brushstrokes, once an interpretation of his turbulent emotions, became an all-encompassing reality where the stars moved and shimmered, pulsating with the energy he had so vividly captured. Each stroke took on a new dimension, as if guiding the observer through Van Gogh's mind, revealing the passion and despair that had shaped his art. As users traversed the dynamic nightscape, they could reach out and feel the movement of the cosmos, engaging in an interactive ballet of light and shadow. Picasso’s abstract compositions, with their fragmented forms and bold colors, took on entirely new dimensions in the digital realm. No longer limited to two-dimensional canvases, his works evolved into interactive, three-dimensional sculptures that invited viewers to manipulate shapes and perspectives in real time. These living artworks embodied Picasso’s vision of constant reinvention, creating an experience where art became not only something to observe but something to engage with. His cubist forms, once criticized for their departure from tradition, found a new home in a medium that celebrated distortion, transformation, and reimagination. Digital sculpting tools allowed audiences to step inside Picasso’s kaleidoscopic world, shifting viewpoints and reconstructing his deconstructed subjects, making every experience unique. Through augmented reality applications, spectators could overlay his creations onto their surroundings, bringing a modern-day connection to his radical artistic philosophy. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, saw his dreams and inventions leap from the pages of his notebooks into tangible reality. His detailed sketches of flying machines, war devices, and anatomical studies, which had once been mere musings of his unparalleled mind, were brought to life through 3D printing and advanced digital modeling. These creations were meticulously reconstructed, tested, and displayed, proving the extraordinary foresight and genius of da Vinci’s imagination. His ability to blend art and science seamlessly resonated in the digital world, where his inventions inspired engineers, artists, and dreamers alike. The digital realm not only recreated his works but expanded their relevance, bridging centuries to connect his ideas with modern innovation. His visionary sketches, once bound by ink and parchment, became blueprints for a future he had envisioned centuries ago. As virtual engineers experimented with his concepts, they discovered that many of his designs, far ahead of their time, could indeed function in modern-day environments. This revival reinforced the timeless nature of his genius, proving that creativity and curiosity transcend the ages. Art history texts, once merely chronicling the linear evolution of creative endeavors, transformed into dynamic narratives. They began to include the story of how classical works transcended their traditional boundaries, evolving into digital masterpieces that invited interaction, exploration, and reinterpretation. Museums and galleries adapted, offering immersive exhibits where visitors could walk through paintings, engage with sculptures, and experience the creative processes of history’s greatest artists firsthand. The dusty halls of academia gave way to vibrant, interactive spaces where learning was no longer passive but an active and deeply personal journey into the heart of art. Digital storytelling breathed new life into historical accounts, allowing students and art enthusiasts to step into the very moments of artistic revolution, standing beside the masters as they created their immortal works. Interactive AI guides narrated these journeys, personalizing experiences based on individual engagement, making every visit a new adventure into art's endless potential. The fusion of traditional techniques with cutting-edge technology created an entirely new art form, one that honored the legacies of masters while boldly reimagining the possibilities of creative expression. This wasn’t merely about preservation, it was about transformation. Van Gogh’s emotional intensity, Picasso’s radical abstraction, and da Vinci’s boundless curiosity all found new expressions in this digital renaissance. Their influence expanded, touching new generations of creators who combined the best of the old and the new, forging a path into uncharted territories of human creativity. In this vibrant intersection of art and technology, the creative spirit thrived. Digital canvases and virtual tools offered limitless potential, enabling artists to explore ideas that had once been unimaginable. The swirling skies of Starry Night could now be navigated; Picasso’s cubism became a playground of shapes and perspectives; da Vinci’s sketches became real, functional objects of wonder. Artists who once worked with traditional brushes and chisels embraced new tools, sculpting digital landscapes, painting with pixels, and breathing motion into still images. The boundaries between artistic disciplines blurred, giving rise to a new era where creativity was not confined by medium but propelled by innovation. Virtual reality allowed artists to stand inside their works, experiencing them from within before sharing them with the world. Art was no longer confined to just museums, galleries, or pages in a book. It had transcended into an experiential domain where time, space, and imagination converged, giving birth to new masterpieces that existed beyond the limits of the tangible world. This was more than an evolution—it was a revolution, a digital renaissance that would shape the way humanity perceived and interacted with art for generations to come.

Eines Abends, als ich mit meinem Auto an einer Tankstelle wartete, um einen guten Freund abzuholen, war ich auf eine Weise in Gedanken versunken, dass ich die Umgebung kaum wahrnahm. Die Nacht war schon ziemlich fortgeschritten, und die Tankstelle war fast leer. Es war eine dieser ruhigen Nächte, in denen man den Wind und die Geräusche der Stadt in der Ferne hört. Während ich auf die Ankunft meines Freundes wartete, blickte ich kurz auf mein Handy und überlegte, wie der Tag verlaufen war. Doch plötzlich klopfte jemand an mein Autofenster. Ich zuckte zusammen und drehte mich um. Ein junger Mann stand da – schmutzige, zerknitterte Kleidung, unrasierter Gesichtsausdruck, und seine Augen wirkten müde, als hätte er schon zu viele schwere Tage hinter sich. „Hey, hast du vielleicht einen Dollar für mich?“, fragte er mit einer Stimme, die irgendwo zwischen Verzweiflung und Hoffnung klang. Für einen Moment war ich unsicher, wie ich reagieren sollte. Ich sah auf mein Portemonnaie, das in der Mittelkonsole lag, und sagte dann: „Es tut mir leid, aber ich habe kein Bargeld dabei.“ Der Mann nickte mit einem resignierten Blick und schaute dann auf den Boden. „Ich komme gerade aus dem Knast“, sagte er nach einer kurzen Pause, „und ich brauche dringend einen Bus, um nach Hause zu kommen.“ Seine Worte klangen wie eine Erklärung, die er schon unzählige Male wiederholt hatte. Ich spürte, dass er in einer misslichen Lage war, aber dennoch wusste ich, dass ich ihm nicht helfen konnte. „Es tut mir leid“, wiederholte ich, „ich kann wirklich nichts tun.“ Der Mann blickte mich kurz an, drehte sich dann jedoch ohne ein weiteres Wort um. Ich beobachtete ihn, wie er sich entfernte, als hätte er schon zu oft diese Ablehnung erlebt. Gerade als ich dachte, das Gespräch sei vorbei und mein Kopf wieder bei meinem Freund war, hörte ich hinter mir Schritte. Ich drehte mich instinktiv um und sah einen anderen Mann auf mich zukommen. Dieser war deutlich größer als der erste, mit muskulösen Armen und einem ernsten, fast bedrohlichen Gesichtsausdruck. Er trug eine schwarze Jacke und eine Kappe, die sein Gesicht im Dunkeln schattierte. Als er näher kam, blickte er mich scharf an und fragte mit einer tiefen Stimme: „Yo, was machst du hier?“ Ich war etwas überrascht von seiner direkten Art, aber bevor ich antworten konnte, hatte der Mann den ersten Kerl bereits aus den Augen verloren und blickte nun wieder zu mir. Der erste Mann hatte sich schnell umgedreht und war fortgerannt, als hätte er Angst. Der größere Mann schaute mir dann tief in die Augen und sagte mit einer Stimme, die keinerlei Widerspruch duldete: „Ich habe dir gerade das Leben gerettet.“ Ich war vollkommen perplex und wusste nicht, wie ich reagieren sollte. „Wie meinen Sie das?“, fragte ich ungläubig. „Der Typ da“, sagte der Mann, während er in die Richtung zeigte, in der der erste Mann verschwunden war, „wollte dich ausrauben. Ich habe das gesehen und ihm einfach gesagt, er soll verschwinden.“ Der Ton, in dem er sprach, war ruhig, aber bestimmt. Er wirkte fast, als wäre diese Art von Situation für ihn nichts Neues. Ich stand da, immer noch ein wenig benommen von der plötzlichen Wendung der Ereignisse, und versuchte, seine Worte zu verarbeiten. In diesem Moment war ich mir nicht sicher, ob ich ihm danken sollte oder ob ich einfach nur auf den Moment warten sollte, um mehr zu verstehen. Doch bevor ich irgendetwas sagen konnte, drehte sich der größere Mann um, machte einen Schritt zurück und begann einfach zu gehen, ohne sich noch einmal umzudrehen. Es war, als ob er das Gespräch und seine Tat für erledigt hielt. Ich blieb einfach da stehen und starrte ihm nach. Der Moment war so surreal, dass ich es fast nicht fassen konnte. Hatte dieser Fremde mir wirklich das Leben gerettet? Hätte der andere Mann wirklich versucht, mich zu überfallen, wenn der größere Mann nicht eingemischt hätte? Ich wusste es nicht, aber etwas in mir spürte, dass ich gerade in einem Moment gewesen war, der mein Leben auf subtile Weise beeinflussen würde. Kurze Zeit später fuhr mein Freund vor, und ich stieg in sein Auto. Während wir zum Ziel fuhren, war ich immer noch mit den Gedanken bei der Begegnung an der Tankstelle. Es war seltsam, wie sich die Dinge manchmal einfach so schnell ändern können, ohne dass man es merkt. Hätte ich mich nicht zufällig umgedreht, wäre ich vielleicht in eine Situation geraten, aus der ich mich nicht leicht hätte befreien können. Der zweite Mann, dieser unbekannte Retter, hatte es geschafft, ohne dass ich jemals wirklich etwas von ihm wusste. Es war ein geheimnisvoller Moment, der mich mehr zum Nachdenken brachte, als ich mir jemals erträumt hätte. Ich hatte das Gefühl, als wäre mir etwas viel Größeres passiert, als es den Anschein hatte, und vielleicht würde ich nie wirklich erfahren, warum dieser Fremde mir geholfen hatte. Doch ich wusste, dass es Momente im Leben gibt, die für immer bei einem bleiben, auch wenn sie nur in Bruchteilen von Sekunden existierten.

His visionary sketches, once bound by ink and parchment, became blueprints for a future he had envisioned centuries ago. As virtual engineers experimented with his concepts, they discovered that many of his designs, far ahead of their time, could indeed function in modern-day environments. This revival reinforced the timeless nature of his genius, proving that creativity and curiosity transcend the ages. Art history texts, once merely chronicling the linear evolution of creative endeavors, transformed into dynamic narratives. They began to include the story of how classical works transcended their traditional boundaries, evolving into digital masterpieces that invited interaction, exploration, and reinterpretation. Museums and galleries adapted, offering immersive exhibits where visitors could walk through paintings, engage with sculptures, and experience the creative processes of history’s greatest artists firsthand. The dusty halls of academia gave way to vibrant, interactive spaces where learning was no longer passive but an active and deeply personal journey into the heart of art. Digital storytelling breathed new life into historical accounts, allowing students and art enthusiasts to step into the very moments of artistic revolution, standing beside the masters as they created their immortal works. Interactive AI guides narrated these journeys, personalizing experiences based on individual engagement, making every visit a new adventure into art's endless potential. The fusion of traditional techniques with cutting-edge technology created an entirely new art form, one that honored the legacies of masters while boldly reimagining the possibilities of creative expression. This wasn’t merely about preservation, it was about transformation. Van Gogh’s emotional intensity, Picasso’s radical abstraction, and da Vinci’s boundless curiosity all found new expressions in this digital renaissance. Their influence expanded, touching new generations of creators who combined the best of the old and the new, forging a path into uncharted territories of human creativity. In this vibrant intersection of art and technology, the creative spirit thrived. Digital canvases and virtual tools offered limitless potential, enabling artists to explore ideas that had once been unimaginable. The swirling skies of Starry Night could now be navigated; Picasso’s cubism became a playground of shapes and perspectives; da Vinci’s sketches became real, functional objects of wonder. Artists who once worked with traditional brushes and chisels embraced new tools, sculpting digital landscapes, painting with pixels, and breathing motion into still images. The boundaries between artistic disciplines blurred, giving rise to a new era where creativity was not confined by medium but propelled by innovation. Virtual reality allowed artists to stand inside their works, experiencing them from within before sharing them with the world. Art was no longer confined to just museums, galleries, or pages in a book. It had transcended into an experiential domain where time, space, and imagination converged, giving birth to new masterpieces that existed beyond the limits of the tangible world. This was more than an evolution—it was a revolution, a digital renaissance that would shape the way humanity perceived and interacted with art for generations to come. They marveled at the digital canvas and virtual reality tools, embracing these technological marvels to push the boundaries of creative expression. Adapting their time-honored techniques to new mediums, they brought the past into the future, breathing new life into masterpieces that once existed only in static forms. Van Gogh’s iconic Starry Night was no longer confined to a canvas; it transformed into a breathtaking immersive VR experience, allowing viewers to step into his swirling skies and feel the vibrancy of his colors enveloping them. The brushstrokes, once an interpretation of his turbulent emotions, became an all-encompassing reality where the stars moved and shimmered, pulsating with the energy he had so vividly captured. Each stroke took on a new dimension, as if guiding the observer through Van Gogh's mind, revealing the passion and despair that had shaped his art. As users traversed the dynamic nightscape, they could reach out and feel the movement of the cosmos, engaging in an interactive ballet of light and shadow. Picasso’s abstract compositions, with their fragmented forms and bold colors, took on entirely new dimensions in the digital realm. No longer limited to two-dimensional canvases, his works evolved into interactive, three-dimensional sculptures that invited viewers to manipulate shapes and perspectives in real time. These living artworks embodied Picasso’s vision of constant reinvention, creating an experience where art became not only something to observe but something to engage with. His cubist forms, once criticized for their departure from tradition, found a new home in a medium that celebrated distortion, transformation, and reimagination. Digital sculpting tools allowed audiences to step inside Picasso’s kaleidoscopic world, shifting viewpoints and reconstructing his deconstructed subjects, making every experience unique. Through augmented reality applications, spectators could overlay his creations onto their surroundings, bringing a modern-day connection to his radical artistic philosophy. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, saw his dreams and inventions leap from the pages of his notebooks into tangible reality. His detailed sketches of flying machines, war devices, and anatomical studies, which had once been mere musings of his unparalleled mind, were brought to life through 3D printing and advanced digital modeling. These creations were meticulously reconstructed, tested, and displayed, proving the extraordinary foresight and genius of da Vinci’s imagination. His ability to blend art and science seamlessly resonated in the digital world, where his inventions inspired engineers, artists, and dreamers alike. The digital realm not only recreated his works but expanded their relevance, bridging centuries to connect his ideas with modern innovation.

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Μίαν ώραν σχεδόν μακράν της πόλεως κείται έν χωρίον που ονομάζεται Βαλάιμ (1). Η τοποθεσία του επί λόφου είναι γραφικωτάτη, και όταν από το άνωθεν μονοπάτι εξέρχεται κανείς από το χωριό, επιβλέπει διά μιας όλην την κοιλάδα. Μία καλή ξενοδόχος, χαρίεσσα και πρόθυμος διά την ηλικίαν της, δίδει κρασί, ζύθον, καφέ· και το καλύτερον από όλα δύο φιλύραι, που διά των απλωμένων κλώνων των καλύπτουν την μικράν προ της εκκλησίας πλατείαν, η οποία γύρω περικλείεται δι' οικιών, σιταποθηκών και καλυβών. Τόσον προσφιλή, τόσον οικείον δεν ηύρα εύκολα άλλον τόπον και εκεί διατάσσω και μου φέρουν από το ξενοδοχείον το τραπεζάκι μου και την καρέκλαν μου, πίνω τον καφέ μου εκεί και αναγινώσκω τον Όμηρόν μου. Όταν για πρώτη φοράς τυχαίως ένα απομεσήμερο ήλθα υπό τας φιλύρας, ηύρα τον τόπον ολότελα έρημον. Όλοι ήσαν εις τους αγρούς, μόνον έν παιδίον τεσσάρων περίπου χρόνων εκάθητο κατά γης και εκράτει έν άλλο παιδάκι, περίπου έξ μηνών, προ αυτού μεταξύ των ποδών του καθήμενον· και το έσφιγγε με τα δύο χέρια εις το στήθος του, ώστε εχρησίμευεν εις αυτό ως είδος καρέκλας, και με όλην την ζωηρότητα που εκύτταζε γύρω γύρω με τα μαύρα του μάτια εκάθητο πολύ ήσυχα. Τούτο το θέαμα μ' εγοήτευσεν· εκάθησα επί ενός αρότρου, που έκειτο απέναντι, και με πολλήν ευχαρίστησιν εζωγράφιζα την στάσιν των μικρών αδελφών, επρόσθεσα και τον πλησίον φράκτην, την θύραν μιας σιταποθήκης και μερικούς σπασμένους τροχούς αμάξης, όλα όπως εύρίσκοντο το ένα πίσω από τ' άλλο. και μετά παρέλευσιν μιας ώρας ηύρα ότι είχα κάμει εικόνα καλά διαταγμένην και πολύ ενδιαφέρουσαν, χωρίς το ελάχιστον εκ μέρους μου να προσθέσω. Τούτο με ενίσχυσεν εις την πρόθεσίν μου, να προσκολληθώ του λοιπού μόνον εις την φύσιν. Αυτή μόνη είνε απείρως πλουσία, και αυτή μόνη σχηματίζει τον μεγάλον καλλιτέχνην. Δύναταί τις υπέρ των κανόνων πολλά να είπη, σχεδόν ό,τι δύναται να είπη προς έπαινον της κοινωνίας. Ο μορφούμενος κατ' αυτούς ουδέποτε θα παραγάγη κάτι άνοστον και κακόν, ως ο μορφούμενος διά των νόμων και της ευπορίας ουδέποτε δύναται να γείνη οχληρός γείτων, ουδέποτε εξαιρετικός κακούργος· αλλ' όμως κάθε κανών, και ας λέγουν ό,τι θέλουν, θα καταστρέψη το αληθές της φύσεως αίσθημα και την αληθή αυτής έκφρασιν! Συ θα πης: τούτο είναι υπερβολικόν· ο κανών περιορίζει μόνον και αποκόπτει τας παραφυάδας κτλ. — Καλέ φίλε, να σου κάμω μίαν παραβολήν: Συμβαίνει το αυτό όπως και με τον έρωτα. Μία νεαρά καρδία αφιερώνεται εντελώς εις μίαν κόρην, διατρίβει όλας τας ώρας της ημέρας πλησίον της, καταναλίσκει όλας του τας δυνάμεις, όλην του την περιουσίαν, διά να της εκφράζη κάθε στιγμήν ότι αφοσιούται ολόκληρος εις αυτήν. Και τότε έρχεται ένας καλός νοικοκύρης, άνθρωπος εις δημοσίαν θέσιν ευρισκόμενος και του λέγει: Ευγενέστατε νεανία! το να αγαπά κανείς είνε ανθρώπινον, μόνον πρέπει να αγαπάτε ανθρωπίνως! Κανονίσατε τας ώρας σας, αφιερώσατε τας μεν δι' εργασίαν, τας δε της αναπαύσεως εις την ερωμένην σας. Λογίσατε την περιουσίαν σας, και ό,τι σας περισσεύει από τας ανάγκας σας, τούτο δεν σας εμποδίζω να το κάμετε δώρον, μόνον όχι τόσον συχνά: λόγου χάριν εις τα γενέθλιά της, εις την εορτήν του ονόματός της κλπ. Αν ακολουθήση τούτο ο άνθρωπος, τότε θ' αποβή χρήσιμος νέος, και εγώ αυτός θα εσυμβούλευα κάθε ηγεμόνα να τον κάμη σύμβουλον του κράτους· αλλ' ο έρως του πάει, και αν είναι καλλιτέχνης, πάει και η τέχνη του. Ω φίλοι μου! διατί ο χείμαρρος της μεγαλοφυίας τόσον σπανίως υπερχειλίζει, τόσον σπανίως μετά μεγάλων κυμάτων και μεγάλου βρόντου εισορμά και ταράσσει την έκθαμβον ψυχήν σας; — Αγαπητοί φίλοι εκεί εις τας δύο όχθας κατοικούν οι ήσυχοι και φρόνιμοι κύριοι, που αι επαύλεις των, αι πρασιαί των λαλέδων και οι αγροί των λαχάνων θα ηφανίζοντο, και που επομένως ηξεύρουν να προλαμβάνουν εγκαίρως τον μέλλοντα επαπειλούντα κίνδυνον με προχώματα και αυλάκια.

As the digital revolution unfolded, artists and creators marveled at the possibilities offered by the digital canvas and virtual reality tools, eagerly adapting their time-honored techniques to these innovative mediums. The boundaries of traditional art forms began to blur, giving rise to an era where the past met the future in ways previously unimaginable. In this new age, Van Gogh’s iconic "Starry Night," with its swirling skies and vibrant colors, was no longer confined to a canvas. It was then reimagined as an immersive virtual reality experience, allowing viewers to step inside the painting. They could walk among the stars and feel the emotional depth and intensity that Van Gogh poured into his work, as the night sky moved and then shimmered around them. The digital recreation added depth to the original, truly offering new perspectives on the artist’s vision and inviting viewers to explore the textures. Leonardo da Vinci, the quintessential Renaissance man, saw his dreams and inventions leap from the pages of his notebooks into reality. His sketches of flying machines, war devices, and anatomical studies were brought to life through the power of 3D printing and digital modeling. No longer mere ideas or conceptual drawings, these inventions were meticulously recreated and even tested, proving the extraordinary foresight and innovation of da Vinci’s mind. The combination of

It was not, however, till the first century of the Christian Era that any one seems to have thought of using glass to fill windows. In Egypt naturally the climate made it unnecessary, and even in Italy, where it can be cold enough in winter, civilization had evolved a style of architecture independent of glass. Nevertheless it was introduced in Rome under the first emperors. Caligula had his palace windows glazed, and Seneca mentions it as one of the luxuries which had been introduced into life in his time, but which did not really add to a philosopher's happiness. Its introduction was, however, very gradual, and even two centuries later its use was still quoted as evidence of excessive luxuriousness. Remains of these Roman windows have been found at Pompeii and elsewhere. At Pompeii they are in the form of small panes of glass held, in one case in a wooden, and in another in a bronze lattice. It must be remembered that large panes were not available. Another method seems to have been to set panes of glass directly into small openings in stone-work. When coloured glass was first used in windows we have no evidence to enable us to say. As, however, the manufacture of coloured glass was already a flourishing art it cannot have been long before the idea came of using it to decorate windows. Whether the windows of St. Sophia at Constantinople originally had colour in them or not, is not quite certain. That they were glazed we know, from the description of the church by Paul the Silentiary, an officer of Justinian's court, but his language about them is tantalizingly vague. From his enthusiasm at the effect of the sunlight through them I am inclined to suspect that they were coloured, though he does not definitely say so. Of this glass, which seems to have been fixed in small rectangular openings in a slab of alabaster, nothing, I believe, remains; but similar work—coloured—is to be seen in other mosques, the only difference being that the openings in the slab are formed into patterns and kept very small. I have already mentioned the necessity, when dealing with clear coloured glass, of keeping the pieces small and contrasting them with plenty of solid dark. This was as far as stained glass in the East ever got. The Mahommedan conquerors seem to have taken the art as they found it, and continued it down without much change almost to modern times. Their religion debarred them from any attempt to represent living forms, so that the art as it stood sufficed for the needs of their architecture. Visitors to Leighton House may see some of these pierced and glazed lattices from Damascus, and very beautiful they are. In them the pieces are not much larger than a penny, and are set in holes cut in plaster slabs, bevelled on the inside, the glass being set at the outer edge of the hole. The glass is not really of very good quality, but treated in this way even thin poor glass looks rich and jewel-like. What course the glazier's art first followed in the West it is impossible to say, for nothing of it remains earlier than the eleventh century, if as early. Nevertheless, in spite of repeated barbarian invasions, it seems never to have quite died out. The Church, the refuge of the arts and civilization in the general debacle, sheltered it, and from being the luxury of the Roman millionaire it became the ornament of the house of God. From time to time we get allusions to glazed windows, 20but never a description that can throw much light on their construction or design. Enough is said, however, to show that coloured glass was sometimes used. For instance, we read that St. Gregory of Tours placed coloured windows in the Church of St. Martin in that city in the sixth century. One or two facts, however, lead me to think that whereas, in the East, glass was set in stone or plaster, in the West it was usually set in metal. At Pompeii, as we have seen, panes of glass are set in a bronze lattice and fixed with nuts and screws. As colour was introduced it is probable that from the necessity, already spoken of, of keeping the pieces small, several bits would be joined together with lead to fill one opening of the rigid lattice, and so patterns could be formed. Leo of Ostia says his predecessor, the Abbot Desiderius, filled the windows of the Chapter-House at Monte Cassino in the eleventh century with coloured glass, "glazed with lead and fixed with iron"; and certain it is that the earliest existing windows consist of a large rigid lattice of massive rebated iron bars, in which leaded panels have been placed separately, and held there by light cross-bars passed through staples and keyed with wedges. If this conjecture is correct, we may assume 21that the art of the glazier had for some time been perfected, and had progressed as far as was possible for it unaided, when its union, probably in the tenth century, with that of the enameller gave birth to the art of "stained-and-painted" glass—that is, stained glass as we know it. Without the use of enamel the glazier's craft must always have been strictly limited to patterns in glass and lead, or, as we now call it, "plain glazing." What was needed to convert it into the art as we know it was the addition of painting in the black or brown monochrome enamel described in the first chapter. Only one who has worked in glass, and seen his work grow from a map-like combination of white and coloured glass to the finished glass painting, knows the power the enamel gives him of controlling, softening, and enriching his effects of colour. The power it gives of suggesting form is only one, and not the most important, of its functions, and it was as vital to the work of the twelfth and thirteenth as of the fifteenth century. With its introduction the glorious windows of the Middle Ages became possible. Exactly when and where the application of the enameller's craft to glass windows first took place 22it is impossible to say with certainty; but there is some reason to suppose that it was in France, and not earlier than the tenth century. Enamel—the art of painting on metal with an easily fusible glass ground to powder, which is then fused on to its groundwork in a furnace—was of ancient invention, and had been carried to a high state of perfection in Constantinople in the eighth and following centuries. Thence by way of Venice it had come to France, where a colony of Venetian craftsmen had established itself before the end of the tenth century. France was already famous for its glaziers: for instance, when in A.D. 680 the Abbot, Benedict Biscop, glazed the windows of the monastery at Monkwearmouth, we read in Bede that "he sent messengers to Gaul to fetch makers of glass (or rather artificers) till then unknown in Britain.... They came, and not only finished the work required, but taught the English nation their handicraft"; and it is probable that the French glaziers, chafing under the limitations of their art, called in the aid of the Venetian enamellers. It is noteworthy that no attempt seems to have been made to use transparent coloured enamel on glass. That mistake was reserved for the decadence of the art seven 23hundred years later. Perhaps experiment convinced them that enamel colour could never hope to rival the depth and richness of coloured glass, and the glazier would realize that what he wanted of the enameller was not colour but black, to modify and enrich the colour which his glass already gave him in full measure. In this book, therefore, the word "enamel," when used in connection with glass, must be understood to refer, unless coloured enamel is specifically mentioned, to this brown opaque enamel or "paint," as glass-workers call it.

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They came, and not only finished the work required, but taught the English nation their handicraft"; and it is probable that the French glaziers, chafing under the limitations of their art, called in the aid of the Venetian enamellers. It is noteworthy that no attempt seems to have been made to use transparent coloured enamel on glass. That mistake was reserved for the decadence of the art seven hundred years later. Perhaps experiment convinced them that enamel colour could never hope to rival the depth and richness of coloured glass, and the glazier would realize that what he wanted of the enameller was not colour but black, to modify and enrich the colour which his glass already gave him in full measure. In this book, therefore, the word "enamel," when used in connection with glass, must be understood to refer, unless coloured enamel is specifically mentioned, to this brown opaque enamel or "paint," as glass-workers call it. It was not, however, till the first century of the Christian Era that any one seems to have thought of using glass to fill windows. In Egypt naturally the climate made it unnecessary, and even in Italy, where it can be cold enough in winter, civilization had evolved a style of architecture independent of glass. Nevertheless it was introduced in Rome under the first emperors. Caligula had his palace windows glazed, and Seneca mentions it as one of the luxuries which had been introduced into life in his time, but which did not really add to a philosopher's happiness. Its introduction was, however, very gradual, and even two centuries later its use was still quoted as evidence of excessive luxuriousness. Remains of these Roman windows have been found at Pompeii and elsewhere. At Pompeii they are in the form of small panes of glass held, in one case in a wooden, and in another in a bronze lattice. It must be remembered that large panes were not available. Another method seems to have been to set panes of glass directly into small openings in stone-work. When coloured glass was first used in windows we have no evidence to enable us to say. As, however, the manufacture of coloured glass was already a flourishing art it cannot have been long before the idea came of using it to decorate windows. Whether the windows of St. Sophia at Constantinople originally had colour in them or not, is not quite certain. That they were glazed we know, from the description of the church by Paul the Silentiary, an officer of Justinian's court, but his language about them is tantalizingly vague. From his enthusiasm at the effect of the sunlight through them I am inclined to suspect that they were coloured, though he does not definitely say so. Of this glass, which seems to have been fixed in small rectangular openings in a slab of alabaster, nothing, I believe, remains; but similar work—coloured—is to be seen in other mosques, the only difference being that the openings in the slab are formed into patterns and kept very small. (I have already mentioned the necessity, when dealing with clear coloured glass, of keeping the pieces small and contrasting them with plenty of solid dark.) This was as far as stained glass in the East ever got. The Mahommedan conquerors seem to have taken the art as they found it, and continued it down without much change almost to modern times. Their religion debarred them from any attempt to represent living forms, so that the art as it stood sufficed for the needs of their architecture. Visitors to Leighton House may see some of these pierced and glazed lattices from Damascus, and very beautiful they are. In them the pieces are not much larger than a penny, and are set in holes cut in plaster slabs, bevelled on the inside, the glass being set at the outer edge of the hole. The glass is not really of very good quality, but treated in this way even thin poor glass looks rich and jewel-like. What course the glazier's art first followed in the West it is impossible to say, for nothing of it remains earlier than the eleventh century, if as early. Nevertheless, in spite of repeated barbarian invasions, it seems never to have quite died out. The Church, the refuge of the arts and civilization in the general debacle, sheltered it, and from being the luxury of the Roman millionaire it became the ornament of the house of God. From time to time we get allusions to glazed windows, but never a description that can throw much light on their construction or design. Enough is said, however, to show that coloured glass was sometimes used. For instance, we read that St. Gregory of Tours placed coloured windows in the Church of St. Martin in that city in the sixth century. One or two facts, however, lead me to think that whereas, in the East, glass was set in stone or plaster, in the West it was usually set in metal. At Pompeii, as we have seen, panes of glass are set in a bronze lattice and fixed with nuts and screws. As colour was introduced it is probable that from the necessity, already spoken of, of keeping the pieces small, several bits would be joined together with lead to fill one opening of the rigid lattice, and so patterns could be formed. Leo of Ostia says his predecessor, the Abbot Desiderius, filled the windows of the Chapter-House at Monte Cassino in the eleventh century with coloured glass, "glazed with lead and fixed with iron"; and certain it is that the earliest existing windows consist of a large rigid lattice of massive rebated iron bars, in which leaded panels have been placed separately, and held there by light cross-bars passed through staples and keyed with wedges. If this conjecture is correct, we may assume that the art of the glazier had for some time been perfected, and had progressed as far as was possible for it unaided, when its union, probably in the tenth century, with that of the enameller gave birth to the art of "stained-and-painted" glass—that is, stained glass as we know it. Without the use of enamel the glazier's craft must always have been strictly limited to patterns in glass and lead, or, as we now call it, "plain glazing." What was needed to convert it into the art as we know it was the addition of painting in the black or brown monochrome enamel described in the first chapter. Only one who has worked in glass, and seen his work grow from a map-like combination of white and coloured glass to the finished glass painting, knows the power the enamel gives him of controlling, softening, and enriching his effects of colour. The power it gives of suggesting form is only one, and not the most important, of its functions, and it was as vital to the work of the twelfth and thirteenth as of the fifteenth century. With its introduction the glorious windows of the Middle Ages became possible. Exactly when and where the application of the enameller's craft to glass windows first took place it is impossible to say with certainty; but there is some reason to suppose that it was in France, and not earlier than the tenth century. Enamel—the art of painting on metal with an easily fusible glass ground to powder, which is then fused on to its groundwork in a furnace—was of ancient invention, and had been carried to a high state of perfection in Constantinople in the eighth and following centuries. Thence by way of Venice it had come to France, where a colony of Venetian craftsmen had established itself before the end of the tenth century. France was already famous for its glaziers: for instance, when in A.D. 680 the Abbot, Benedict Biscop, glazed the windows of the monastery at Monkwearmouth, we read in Bede that "he sent messengers to Gaul to fetch makers of glass (or rather artificers) till then unknown in Britain....

The colour of the glass in this First Period is of a barbaric richness, unequalled in the succeeding periods. A very deep and splendid blue is used, in contrast with the greyish-blue of later glass, and it is of an uneven tint, which greatly adds to its quality. The ruby, too, is often of a streaky character and of great beauty. These two usually form the dominant colours in the window, the greens, yellows, and purples being used rather to relieve them. So much is the artist in love with his deep reds and blues, which he nearly always uses for the backgrounds of his figures, that he seldom insults them by painting on them except in so far as is necessary to the drawing, reserving his enamel mainly for the decoration of his whites and paler colours, keeping them in their places by a delicate fret of line and pattern work. It is only towards the latter part of the period, when the quality of the glass began to fail a little, that he ever covered the whole surface of a blue background with an enamelled diaper, to give it a depth and richness which was lacking in the glass itself. Except in the grisaille windows to be described later, in which a definitely white effect is aimed at, the amount of colour used in proportion to the white glass is considerably greater than in succeeding periods. Nevertheless the white is always present, running everywhere among the colour like a silver thread, relieving and beautifying it. In fact it was not till modern times that any glass-worker ever thought he could do without it. The designer depends for his effect primarily upon glass and lead, and builds up his window out of tiny pieces. He had learned the jewel-like effect this gave to his work, and seemed to grudge no labour in it. Take, for example, the Ark at Canterbury in Plate IV. Where a fifteenth century painter would have been content to make the ark of perhaps only one piece of glass, probably of white, getting his detail in enamel and silver stain only, our thirteenth century craftsman has used over fifty pieces, purple, blue, red, yellow, green and white, and that in a space less than a foot square! He was a colourist par excellence, and his waves, too, are blue, greenish-blue and green, with caps of white foam—all a mosaic of glass and lead. From this dependence for its effect on the actual material used, it follows that the work of no period is more easily damaged than this by so-called "restoration." The introduction of only half a dozen pieces of crudely coloured modern glass is often enough to upset the whole harmony of the colour and to make the window irritating instead of restful to the eye. In France, indeed, so few windows of this period have been left unrestored that the period does not always get justice done it. I doubt if many people honestly get much pleasure from the effect of the windows of the Sainte Chapelle at Paris taken as a whole; but if you notice how much of the original glass is in South Kensington Museum you will understand the reason. The windows of this period consisted from the first, as we have seen, of separate leaded panels inserted into the openings of an iron lattice. This lattice was formed of iron bars of a T-shaped section, the head of the T being outwards, and having staples at intervals on the inner rib, through which light iron bars were thrust and keyed with wedges, to hold the glass in its place. In the absence of any tracery to assist in the support of the glass, this iron-work in large windows was of a massive character and could not be disregarded in the design. In figure work there were two possible ways of dealing with it: one was to make the figures so large as to be independent of it; and the other was to make the figures so small that a complete figure-subject could be included in one opening of the frame work. Both these methods were used by the artists of the early period. Where the work is far from the eye, as in the clerestory windows, we usually find large single figures—far larger, often, than life—filling the whole window, like the big angel from Chartres on Plate X. and the smaller and older figure of Methuselah from Canterbury on Plate III. When, on the other hand, the work is near the eye, as in the aisle windows, they used the other method, filling each opening of the iron-work with a small subject-panel like that of Noah and the Dove in Plate IV., thus producing what is called the medallion window. At first the lattice work consisted merely of upright and horizontal bars. These, it is true, sometimes, as in the twelfth century window at Poitiers in Plate II., were manipulated to fit the subject, but more usually the subject fitted the bars. In the earliest form of medallion window, such as those in west windows at Chartres and some 37of the earliest ones at Canterbury, the window is divided by the iron-work into a series of regular squares, each of which alternately is filled with a square and a circular figure-subject. Later, however, in the thirteenth century, the iron-work itself was bent into geometric patterns which the medallions were shaped to fit, producing the elaborate designs shown in the insets of the whole windows in Plates IV. and VIII. from Canterbury. Even when in the latter part of the thirteenth century there was a return, prompted no doubt by motives of economy, to iron-work composed of straight bars, the influence of these elaborate lattices is still seen in the shapes of the medallions, though these are no longer outlined by the iron-work which now passes across or between them. An example of this is shown in Plate XIV. from Rouen Cathedral.

Notice n°IA3112690042

La Dépêche : J. Quotidien

Boulevard de Strasbourg

Le Trianon Cinema Theatre

ISBN 978-2-9110-7539-12

(CURRENT, KLMN & XYZ)

Rue Jean-Baptiste [fr] (L)

01 MATABIAU; 02 OCCITAN TOP 686 m (2,251 ft)

Paysage

The arrangement is always the same as in this window at Chartres. The figure of Jesse lies recumbent at the foot of the window, and from his loins rises the "Tree"—a mass of branching scroll work with conventional foliage, spreading over the whole window, carrying on its branches David and other human ancestors of Christ, and culminating in the Virgin and Christ Himself at the top of the window. On either side are ranged the Prophets who foretold His coming, and the whole, surrounded by a rich border, forms, at Chartres, a mass of jewelled colour some 9 feet wide and 25 feet high. This window and the one of which a part, identical in design, remains at St. Denis, are the oldest examples I know of a Jesse tree in stained glass, and whether or not they were the first to be made, their design formed a model for others for long after. The remainder of the windows in the Cathedral, including the western rose, are of the thirteenth century with one exception—the one in the south choir aisle, which contains the great figure of the Virgin known as "Notre Dame de la Belle Verrière": the only window, as far as I know, to which in former times people knelt by hundreds in adoration, and before which they still occasionally burn a candle. The Virgin with the Child on her knee sits enthroned in the upper part of the window, and surrounded by angels, on a much smaller scale, incensing and holding candles, while below are medallions illustrating the Marriage at Cana and the Temptation. The angels and the medallions are of the thirteenth century, but the figures of the Virgin and Child with their background are almost certainly of the twelfth. Probably the veneration in which they were held caused them to be rescued from the fire,—hurriedly broken out, perhaps, from the surrounding glass,—and then reset in thirteenth century work after the Cathedral was rebuilt. The Virgin is dressed in a robe of pale greyish-blue, of a colour one seldom sees in later work, relieved against a background of deep ruby, set with jewels of a darker blue. The precision of the colour harmony is wonderful, and no drawing I have seen of the window gives, even in outline, the beautiful poise of the head, bent in gracious benediction. Although I have said that the workers of this school were breaking away from the Byzantine tradition and looking at life with their own eyes, yet it is never possible for men suddenly to produce work wholly independent of tradition, even when they are foolish enough to try; so we find in this case Greek art, through Byzantine, retains enough influence with these men to give to their work a dignity and restraint which is lacking in that of the thirteenth century. This is very noticeable wherever one gets the two in close juxtaposition, as at Chartres and also at Canterbury. There is an impressive severity of design and a feeling for proportion in the figure of the Virgin in La Belle Verrière which one misses in the surrounding work, which, though very beautiful, is by comparison small and fussy in treatment. In the meantime, in 1142, while the west front of Chartres Cathedral was still in progress, the great Abbot Suger had finished the construction of his abbey of St. Denis, near Paris. He was a great patron of the arts, as well as a good man and the first statesman of his age, and he seems to have spared no pains in the decoration of the church and especially in the filling of the windows with stained glass. Of this glass, alas! only the merest remnant is left, consisting of several medallions and part of a "Tree of Jesse." They have been collected and placed in the chapels of the apse of the church, embedded in garishly coloured ornament—the work of M. Gérente, acting under the orders of the great and terrible Viollet-le-Duc—which effectually prevents one taking any pleasure in their beauty. They are, however, very interesting to study. Whether or not they were done before or after the three windows at Chartres it is, I think, impossible to say for certain. The history of the two buildings shows that they must have been done within a few years of each other (two of those at St. Denis contain figures of Suger as donor, and he died in 1152), and they are certainly the work of the same school. The Jesse tree in particular is either a copy, or the original, on a smaller scale, of the one at Chartres, being almost identical in design. Many of the medallions are interesting from their deeply symbolical character. In one, for instance, is Christ, with the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, represented, as in the Jesse tree, by doves, each contained in a circle and connected with His breast by rays. With His left hand He unveils a figure labelled "Synagoga," and with His right He crowns another figure labelled "Ecclesia." Another very curious medallion represents the fœderis arca, "ark of the covenant." A figure of the Almighty supports a crucifix which rises from the ark,—a square box on four wheels,—while round about are the four symbols of the Evangelists. The cross is thus shown as the symbol of God's new covenant with man as the ark was that of the old. A quaint feature is that the artist, while feeling that all four wheels had got to be shown somehow, has been in some difficulty as to how to show the farther pair, and has therefore placed them above the ark, as if resting on it, as an ancient Egyptian artist might have done in his place.

Richelieu

Je te répète que je ne parle pas d'après moi. Mon opinion est faite de toutes les tristesses que j'ai vues ailleurs, de tous ces malentendus si fréquents dans les ménages d'artistes et causés justement par notre vie anormale. Regarde ce sculpteur qui, en pleine maturité d'âge et de talent, vient de s'expatrier, de planter là sa femme, ses enfants. L'opinion l'a condamné, et certes je ne l'excuserai pas. Et pourtant comme je m'explique qu'il en soit arrivé là! Voilà un garçon qui adorait son art, avait le monde et les relations en horreur. La femme, bonne pourtant et intelligente, au lieu de le soustraire aux milieux qui lui déplaisaient, l'a condamné pendant dix ans à toutes sortes d'obligations mondaines. C'est ainsi qu'elle lui faisait faire un tas de bustes officiels, d'affreux bonshommes à calottes de velours, des femmes fagotées et sans grâce, qu'elle le dérangeait dix fois par jour pour des visites importunes, puis tous les soirs lui préparait un habit, des gants clairs, et le traînait de salon en salon… Tu me diras qu'il aurait pu se révolter, répondre carrément: «Non!» Mais ne sais-tu pas que le fait même de nos existences sédentaires nous rend plus que les autres hommes dépendants du foyer? L'air de la maison nous enveloppe, et, s'il ne s'y mêle un grain d'idéal, nous alourdit et nous fatigue vite. D'ailleurs l'artiste met en général tout ce qu'il a de force et d'énergie dans son œuvre, et, après ses luttes solitaires et patientes, se trouve sans volonté contre les minuties de la vie. Avec lui les tyrannies féminines ont beau jeu. Nul n'est plus facilement dompté, conquis. Seulement, gare! Il ne faut pas qu'il sente trop le joug. Si un jour ces bandelettes invisibles dont on l'enveloppe sournoisement serrent un peu trop fort, arrivent à empêcher l'effort artistique, d'un seul coup il les arrache toutes et, méfiant de sa propre faiblesse, se sauve comme notre sculpteur par delà les monts… La femme de celui-là est restée saisie de ce départ. La malheureuse en est encore à se demander: «Qu'est-ce que je lui ai fait?» Rien. Elle ne l'avait pas compris… Car il ne suffit pas d'être bonne et intelligente pour être la vraie compagne d'un artiste. Il faut encore avoir un tact infini, une abnégation souriante, et c'est cela qu'il est miraculeux de trouver chez une femme jeune, ignorante et curieuse de la vie… On est jolie, on a épousé un homme connu, reçu partout. Dame! on aime aussi à se montrer un peu à son bras. N'est-ce pas tout naturel? Le mari, au contraire, devenu plus sauvage depuis qu'il travaille mieux, trouvant l'heure courte, le métier difficile, se refuse aux exhibitions. Les voilà malheureux tous deux, et que l'homme cède ou qu'il résiste, sa vie est désormais dérangée de son courant, de sa tranquillité… Ah! que j'en ai connu de ces intérieurs disparates où la femme était tantôt bourreau, tantôt victime, plus souvent bourreau que victime, et presque toujours sans s'en douter! Tiens, l'autre soir j'étais chez le musicien Dargenty. Il y avait quelques personnes. On le prie de se mettre au piano. À peine a-t-il commencé une de ces jolies mazurkas à brandebourgs qui en font l'héritier de Chopin, sa femme se met à causer, tout bas d'abord, puis un peu plus haut. De proche en proche, le feu prend aux conversations. Au bout d'un moment, j'étais seul à écouter. Alors il a fermé le piano et m'a dit en souriant, d'un air navré: «C'est toujours comme cela ici… ma femme n'aime pas la musique.» Connais-tu rien de plus terrible? Épouser une femme qui n'aime pas votre art… Va, crois-moi, mon cher, ne te maries pas. Tu es seul, tu es libre. Garde précieusement ta solitude et ta liberté. Parbleu! tu en parles à ton aise, toi, de la solitude. Tout à l'heure, quand je serai parti, s'il te vient des idées de travail, auprès de ton feu qui s'éteint tu les poursuivras doucement, sans sentir autour de toi cette atmosphère d'isolement si vaste, si vide que l'inspiration s'y disperse, s'y évapore… Et puis passe encore d'être seul aux heures de travail; mais il y a les moments d'ennui, de découragement, où on doute de soi, de son art. C'est alors qu'on doit être heureux de trouver là, toujours prêt et fidèle, un cœur aimant où l'on peut épancher son chagrin, sans crainte de troubler une confiance, un enthousiasme inaltérables… Et l'enfant… Ce sourire du bébé, qui s'épanouit toujours et sans cause, n'est-il pas le meilleur rajeunissement moral qu'on puisse avoir? Ah! j'ai souvent pensé à cela. Pour nous autres artistes, vaniteux comme tous ceux qui vivent du succès, de cette estime de surface, capricieuse et flottante, qu'on appelle la vogue; pour nous autres surtout, les enfants sont indispensables. Eux seuls peuvent nous consoler de vieillir… Tout ce que nous perdons, c'est l'enfant qui le gagne. Le succès qu'on n'a pas eu, on se dit: «C'est lui qui l'aura», et à mesure que les cheveux s'en vont, on a la joie de les voir repousser, frisés, dorés, pleins de vie, sur une petite tête blonde à côté de soi.

RIFT TONE ULTRA VOID AURA LOCK DOT SWAY KEY DAZE MIX TO RAY FOX DARK QUIZ PAINTS STARS TOUR SILK MOTIFS FRAMES ETCH MUSE YES GLAD ZEST VOLTS MYTH NEW AXIS TOPS SKIT CREW ICON ECHO KERN EDGE GOLD FUME INK WEBS XYZ HUES SIX COD BLAST GEM JUMP SKY QUEST OAKS BLUE FAN CHARM FIX GRIT JET GLINT MAP VIBES VOW TWIST WIN LACE PIT FROST HUB HAZE CHIRP ARC WARD ZIP BLAZE SWEEP LAMP BRINK RUNE

Celle-la, certes, n'était pas faite pour épouser un artiste, surtout ce terrible garçon, passionné, tumultueux, exubérant, qui s'en allait dans la vie le nez en l'air, la moustache hérissée, portant avec crânerie comme un défi à toutes les conventions sottes, à tous les préjugés bourgeois son nom bizarre et fringant de Heurtebise. Comment, par quel miracle, cette petite femme, élevée dans une boutique de bijoutier, derrière des rangées de chaînes de montres, de bagues enfilées, trouva-t-elle moyen de séduire ce poëte? Imaginez les grâces d'une dame de comptoir, des traits indécis, des yeux froids toujours souriants, une physionomie complaisante et placide, pas de vraie élégance, mais un certain amour du luisant, du clinquant, qu'elle avait pris sans doute à la devanture de son père, et qui lui faisait rechercher les nœuds de satin assorti, les ceintures, les boucles; avec cela des cheveux tirés par le coiffeur, bien lissés de cosmétique, au-dessus d'un petit front têtu, étroit, où l'absence de rides marquait moins la jeunesse qu'une nullité complète d'idées. Ainsi faite, Heurtebise l'aima, la demanda et, comme il avait quelque fortune, n'eut pas de peine à l'obtenir. Elle, ce qui lui plaisait dans ce mariage, c'était l'idée d'épouser un auteur, un homme connu qui lui donnerait des billets de spectacle autant qu'elle voudrait. Quant à lui, je crois qu'en définitive cette fausse élégance de boutique, ces façons prétentieuses, bouche pincée, petit doigt en l'air, l'avaient ébloui comme le dernier mot de la distinction parisienne, car il était né paysan et, au fond, malgré son esprit, il le resta toujours. Tenté de bonheur paisible, de cette vie de famille dont il était privé depuis si longtemps, Heurtebise passa deux ans loin de ses amis, s'enfouissant à la campagne, dans des coins de banlieue, toujours à la portée de ce grand Paris, qui le troublait et dont il recherchait l'atmosphère affaiblie, comme ces malades auxquels on ordonne l'air de la mer, mais qui, trop délicats pour le supporter, viennent le respirer à quelques lieues de distance. De loin en loin son nom apparaissait dans un journal, dans une revue, au bas d'un article; mais déjà ce n'était plus cette verdeur de style, ces emportements d'éloquence qu'on lui avait connus. Nous pensions: «Il est trop heureux… son bonheur le gâte.» Puis un jour il revint parmi nous, et nous vîmes bien qu'il n'était pas heureux. Sa mine pâlie, ses traits resserrés, contractés par un perpétuel agacement, la violence de ses manières rapetissée en colère nerveuse, son beau rire sonore déjà fêlé, en faisaient un tout autre homme. Trop fier pour convenir qu'il s'était trompé, il ne se plaignait pas, mais les anciens amis auxquels il rouvrit sa maison purent vite se convaincre qu'il avait fait le plus sot des mariages, et que sa vie était désormais hors de voie. Par contre, Mme Heurtebise nous apparut, après deux ans de ménage, telle que nous l'avions vue dans la sacristie, le jour des noces. Son même sourire, minaudier et calme, son même air de boutiquière endimanchée; seulement l'aplomb lui était venu. Elle parlait maintenant. Dans les discussions artistiques où Heurtebise se lançait passionnément, avec des jugements absolus, le mépris brutal ou l'enthousiasme aveugle; la voix mielleuse et fausse de sa femme venait tout à coup l'interrompre, l'obligeant à écouter quelque raisonnement oiseux, quelque réflexion sotte toujours en dehors du sujet. Lui, gêné, embarrassé, nous regardait d'un œil qui demandait grâce, essayait de reprendre la conversation interrompue. Puis devant la contradiction intime et persistante, la sottise de cette petite cervelle d'oisillon, gonflée et vide comme un échaudé, il se taisait, résigné à la laisser aller jusqu'au bout. Mais ce mutisme exaspérait madame, lui paraissait plus injurieux, plus dédaigneux que tout. Sa voix aigre—douce devenait criarde, montait, piquait, bourdonnait avec un harcellement de mouche, jusqu'à ce que le mari, furieux, éclatât à son tour, brutal et terrible. De ces querelles incessantes, qui se terminaient par des larmes, elle sortait reposée, plus fraîche, comme une pelouse après l'arrosage; lui, chaque fois brisé, fiévreux, incapable de tout travail. Peu à peu sa violence même se lassa. Un soir que j'avais assisté à une de ces scènes pénibles, comme Mme Heurtebise sortait de table, triomphante, je vis sur la figure de son mari, restée baissée pendant la querelle et qu'il relevait enfin, l'expression d'un mépris, d'une colère que les paroles ne pouvaient plus traduire. Rouge, les yeux pleins de larmes, la bouche tordue d'un sourire ironique et navrant, pendant que la petite femme s'en allait en refermant la porte d'un coup sec, il lui fit, comme un gamin dans le dos de son maître, une grimace atroce de rage et de douleur. Au bout d'un moment, je l'entendis murmurer d'une voix étranglée par l'émotion: «Ah! si ce n'était pas l'enfant, comme je filerais!» Car ils avaient un enfant, un pauvre petit superbe et malpropre, qui se traînait dans tous les coins, jouait avec les chiens plus grands que lui, la terre, les araignées du jardin. La mère ne le regardait que pour constater qu'il était «dégoûtant» et regretter de ne l'avoir pas mis en nourrice. Elle avait en effet gardé ses traditions de petite bourgeoise de comptoir, et leur intérieur en désordre, où elle promenait dès le matin des robes parées et des coiffures étonnantes, rappelait les arrière-boutiques si chères à son cœur, les pièces noires de crasse et de manque d'air où l'on passe vite dans les entr'actes de la vie de commerce pour manger à la hâte un repas mal fait, sur une table sans nappe, l'oreille au guet tout le temps vers la sonnette de la porte. Dans ce monde-là il n'y a que la rue qui compte, la rue où passent les acheteurs, les flâneurs, et ce débordement de peuple en vacances qui, le dimanche, remplit le trottoir et la chaussée. Aussi, comme elle s'ennuyait, la malheureuse, à la campagne; comme elle regrettait son Paris! Heurtebise, au contraire, avait besoin des champs pour la santé de son esprit. Paris l'étourdissait comme un provincial en visite. La femme ne comprenait pas cela et se plaignait beaucoup de son exil. Pour se distraire, elle invitait d'anciennes amies. Alors, si le mari n'était pas là, on s'amusait à feuilleter ses papiers, les notes, les travaux en train.

Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff Gg Hh Ii Jj Kk Ll Mm Nn Oo Pp Qq Rr Ss Tt Uu Vv Ww Xx Yy Zz

To the young painters of 1904, or thereabouts, Cézanne came as the liberator: he it was who had freed painting from a mass of conventions which, useful once, had grown old and stiff and were now no more than so many impediments to expression. To most of them his chief importance—as an influence, of course—was that he had removed all unnecessary barriers between what they felt and its realization in form. It was his directness that was thrilling. But to an important minority the distortions and simplifications—the reduction of natural forms to spheres, cylinders, cones, etc.—which Cézanne had used as means were held to be in themselves of consequence because capable of fruitful development. From them it was found possible to deduce a theory of art—a complete æsthetic even. Put on a fresh track by Cézanne's practice, a group of gifted and thoughtful painters began to speculate on the nature of form and its appeal to the æsthetic sense, and not to speculate only, but to materialize their speculations. The greatest of them, Picasso, invented Cubism. If I call these artists who forged themselves a theory of form and used it as a means of expression Doctrinaires it is because to me that name bears no disparaging implication and seems to indicate well enough what I take to be their one common characteristic: if I call those who, without giving outward sign (they may well have had their private speculations and systems) of an abstract theory, appeared to use distortion when, where, and as their immediate sensibility dictated, Fauves, that is because the word has passed into three languages, is admirably colourless—for all its signifying a colour—and implies the existence of a group without specifying a peculiarity. Into Doctrinaires—Theorists if you like the word better—and Fauves the first generation of Cézanne's descendants could, I feel sure, be divided; whether such a division would serve any useful purpose is another matter. What I am sure of is that to have two such labels, to be applied when occasion requires and cancelled without much compunction, will excellently serve mine, which may, or may not, be useful. I would not insist too strongly on the division; certainly at first it was not felt to be sharp. Plenty of Fauves did their whack of theorizing, while some of the theorists are amongst the most sensitive and personal of the age. What I do insist on—because it explains and excuses the character of my book—is that in this age theory has played so prominent a part, hardly one artist of importance quite escaping its influence, that no critic who proposes to give some account of painting since Cézanne can be expected to overlook it: some, to be sure, may be thought to have stared indecently. The division between Fauves and Theorists, I was saying, in the beginning was not sharp; nevertheless, because it was real, already in the first generation of Cézanne's descendants the seeds of two schools were sown. Already by 1910 two tendencies are visibly distinct; but up to 1914, though there is divergence, there is, I think, no antipathy between them—of antipathies between individuals I say nothing. Solidarity was imposed on the young generation by the virulent and not over scrupulous hostility of the old; it was l'union sacrée in face of the enemy. And just as political allies are apt to become fully alive to the divergence of their aims and ambitions only after they have secured their position by victory, so it was not until the new movement had been recognized by all educated people as representative and dominant that the Fauves felt inclined to give vent to their inevitable dislike of Doctrinaires. Taken as a whole, the first fourteen years of the century, which my malicious friend Jean Cocteau sometimes calls l'époque héroïque, possessed most of the virtues and vices that such an epoch should possess. It was rich in fine artists; and these artists were finely prolific. It was experimental, and passionate in its experiments. It was admirably disinterested. Partly from the pressure of opposition, partly because the family characteristics of the Cézannides are conspicuous, it acquired a rather deceptive air of homogeneity. It was inclined to accept recruits without scrutinizing over closely their credentials, though it is to be remembered that it kept its critical faculty sufficiently sharp to reject the Futurists while welcoming the Cubists. I cannot deny, however, that in that moment of enthusiasm and loyalty we were rather disposed to find extraordinary merits in commonplace painters. We knew well enough that a feeble and incompetent disciple of Cézanne was just as worthless as a feeble and incompetent disciple of anyone else—but, then, was our particular postulant so feeble after all? Also, we were fond of arguing that the liberating influence of Cézanne had made it possible for a mediocre artist to express a little store of recondite virtue which under another dispensation must have lain hid for ever. I doubt we exaggerated. We were much too kind, I fancy, to a number of perfectly commonplace young people, and said a number of foolish things about them. What was worse, we were unjust to the past. That was inevitable. The intemperate ferocity of the opposition drove us into Protestantism, and Protestantism is unjust always. It made us narrow, unwilling to give credit to outsiders of merit, and grossly indulgent to insiders of little or none. Certainly we appreciated the Orientals, the Primitives, and savage art as they had never been appreciated before; but we underrated the art of the Renaissance and of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Also, because we set great store by our theories and sought their implications everywhere, we claimed kinship with a literary movement with which, in fact, we had nothing in common. Charles-Louis Philippe and the Unanimistes should never have been compared with the descendants of Cézanne. Happily, when it came to dragging in Tolstoyism, and Dostoievskyism even, and making of the movement something moral and political almost, the connection was seen to be ridiculous and was duly cut.

Ein Kunstwerk weiterhin ist ein von diesem Menschen als Künstler aus isolierter Gefühls-Einstellung heraus gemachtes Gebilde, das imstande ist, dem Erlebenden das Gefühl, aus dem es entstand und das an ihm hängt, zu vermitteln. Und so wie jeder Mensch, nicht etwa nur ein „spezifisch Begabter“, bei den naturhaft vorhandenen Anlaß-Trägern für Gefühle zum ästhetischen Erleben gelangt, indem er die Gefühls-Begleitung des eben wahrgenommenen Objektes im Aufnehmen möglichst isoliert; so gelangt auch jeder Mensch, ohne Ausnahme, einem Kunstwerke gegenüber zum ästhetischen Erleben, indem er, gleicherweise in möglichster Isolierung, jenes Gefühl in sich lebendig macht und schwingen läßt, das durch die Gegebenheiten dieses künstlichen Gebildes getragen und vermittelt wird. Die theoretische Orientierung wird nun auch im Folgenden strenge dabei bleiben, nicht, wie meist bisher, den „Begriff“ oder — in platonischem Sinne — die „Idee“ eines Dinges in den Mittelpunkt der Betrachtung zu stellen, um von hier aus die naturhaften Objekte als einzelne „Individuationen“ jener „Idee“ aufzufassen; sondern sie wird auch in der „Theorie“, also im Versuch der „Anpassung der Gedanken aneinander“ immer wieder von der Natur-Erfahrung ausgehen, und alle Ergebnisse des theoretischen Denkens auch immer wieder an dieser Erfahrung kontrollieren. Ein Kunstwerk ist also ein von einem Menschen aus einem Gefühle heraus erstelltes Gebilde, das imstande ist, einem anderen Menschen das in ihm beschlossene Gefühl zu vermitteln. Da demgemäß alle Kunstwerks-Gefühle an ihre Anlaß-Träger gebunden und durch sie bestimmt sind, werden wir den Versuch, diese künstlich vermittelten Gefühle weiterhin in unterschiedene Klassen zu sondern, in der Weise vorzunehmen haben, daß wir eben ihre künstlichen Anlaß-Träger in spezifisch verschiedene Gruppen einzuteilen streben. Da ist nun leicht zu zeigen, daß in allen Kunst-Gebieten: im Sichtbaren der bildenden Künste, im Hörbaren der Musik, wie auch im Wort-Bereiche der Literatur, nur vier verschiedene Gestaltungsweisen jener künstlichen Gebilde, der Kunstwerke, möglich sind. Die Natur ist uns im Bereiche des Sichtbaren — den wir als Beispiel-Komplex herausheben — in den äußeren „Objekten“ gegeben. Hat nun ein derartiges sichtbares Natur-Objekt ein Gefühl vermittelt, das irgendwie bereichert oder erfreut hat, so kann man danach streben, sich dieses Gefühl auch unabhängig vom gerade vorhandenen, und vielleicht bald vergänglichen oder entschwindenden naturhaften Anlaß möglichst dauernd zu bewahren. Man denke etwa an jene oben erwähnte Berges-Aussicht, die ja an das Verweilen an dem Aussichtspunkte gebunden ist; oder man denke daran, daß die Gefühls-Vermittlung, die man erfährt, wenn man eine voll erblühte rote Rose in grünem Laub schauend erlebt, mit dem Hinwelken der Rose selbst auch verschwindet. Hat man nun das Bestreben, sich gerade diese eben erfahrene, durch das Natur-Objekt vermittelte Gefühls-Erschütterung zu erhalten, so kann man dies ersichtlicherweise so zu bewerkstelligen versuchen, daß man das Objekt, an dem ja das vermittelte Gefühl hängt, in möglichster Dauer zu bewahren trachtet. Um also, sei es von dem wechselnden Standpunkte des Erlebenden, sei es von der raschen Vergänglichkeit des Natur-Objektes unabhängig zu werden, kann man versuchen, dieses Objekt zu „kopieren“, nachzugestalten: also eine „künstliche“ Nach-Bildung der Natur-Gegebenheit nach Form und Farbe in möglichst dauerndem Materiale als Träger der Gefühls-Vermittlung an die Stelle des ursprünglich Natur-vorhandenen Gefühls-Trägers zu setzen. Dies zu behaupten, vielmehr als nicht nur durchaus möglich, sondern — im Laufe der Kunstgeschichte — auch als hundertfach wirklich, klar vor Augen zu stellen und zuzugeben, scheint heute Ketzerei. Und der Einwurf des „Panoptikums“ liegt nahe zur Hand. Doch einerseits ist noch niemals versucht worden, einem wirklich bedeutenden und überragenden Plastiker, etwa einem Donatello, die Aufgabe einer „Panoptikum-Gruppe“ zu stellen — die er sicherlich in hinreißend-naturalistischer Weise gelöst hätte —; und andererseits ist alles, was heute gegen diese künstlerische Gestaltungsweise gesagt wird, nur Tages-Wort zum — kunstpolitisch durchaus berechtigten — Kampfe gegen eine zufälligerweise gerade heute nicht lebendige und daher nicht erstrebte Erlebens- und Gestaltungsweise. Geht man aber hinter den Tageskampf zurück, sieht man die Stilweisen vergangener Kunstperioden durch, so findet man diese Übung der Kunstwerks-Gestaltung, die den naturhaften Gefühls-Träger nach-gestaltet, in weiten Bezirken, besonders gerade im jüngst vergangenen Naturalismus der zweiten Hälfte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, auf das reichste gepflegt. Es gibt also, erfahrungsgemäß, eine Kunstgestaltung, die eine Nach- oder Ab-Gestaltung des naturhaften Gefühls-Anlasses erstrebt. Ihrer Tendenz nach. Es gibt beim Schaffenden eine Einstellung des Bewußtseins, die nichts anderes will, als eine Wiedergabe des sehend unmittelbar erlebten Natur-Inhaltes, ohne dessen Umgestaltung. Und man hat diese Einstellung des Bewußtseins seit jeher Naturnähe oder Naturalismus oder Realismus genannt. Damit hätten wir die erste Art möglicher Kunstgestaltung erfahrungsgemäß festgelegt und definiert. Sie hält sich möglichst enge an die Natur, und sie kann diese abbildhafte Treue bis in das kleinste eben noch merkbare, zufällige Individualmerkmal zu treiben versuchen. Um also das Gefühlserlebnis, das irgendein Natur-Komplex dem Künstler vermittelt hat, sich und anderen zu erhalten und immer wieder vermitteln zu können, kann der Künstler den Anlaß-Träger des Gefühles möglichst genau in seinen Gegebenheiten so nachschaffen, daß er sich, innerhalb des Sichtbaren, bemüht, die Farben, Lichter und Schatten sowie die Formen des Natur-Gegebenen möglichst genau in jener Art wieder-zugeben, wie er sie bei immer wiederholter Betrachtung immer wieder vorfindet. Diese Art der Nach-Gestaltung wird sich dem Vor-Bilde der Natur „asymptotisch“, also in nie völlig erfülltem Streben, nähern. Doch die Einstellung, die Tendenz, das Ziel des Schaffens ist beim wahren objektiven Naturalisten eben in diesem Streben gegeben, sein künstlich geschaffenes Werk dem Natur-Vorbilde möglichst anzugleichen, um dann an diesem Kunst-Werke möglichst jene Gefühle wieder-zuerleben, die an dem vergänglichen Gefühls-Anlaß hingen. Und der Aufnehmende, der Genießende wird sich einem derartigen naturalistischen Kunstwerke gegenüber genau so verhalten, wie er sich der Natur gegenüber verhält: er gibt sich den lichtlichen, farblichen und inhaltlich-formalen Gegebenheiten des Werkes — in gleicher Weise, wie denen der Natur — passiv-aufnehmend hin.

Bonnard and Vuillard, unlike Aristide Maillol, though being sensitive and intelligent artists who make the most of whatever serves their turn they have taken what they wanted from the atmosphere in which they work, are hardly to be counted of Cézanne's descendants. Rather are they children of the great impressionists who, unlike the majority of their surviving brothers and sisters, instead of swallowing the impressionist doctrine whole, just as official painters do the academic, have modified it charmingly to suit their peculiar temperaments. Not having swallowed the poker, they have none of those stiff and static habits which characterize the later generations of their family. They are free and various; and Bonnard is one of the greatest painters alive. Mistakenly, he is supposed to have influenced Duncan Grant; but Duncan Grant, at the time when he was painting pictures which appear to have certain affinities with those of Bonnard, was wholly unacquainted with the work of that master. On the other hand, it does seem possible that Vuillard has influenced another English painter, Miss Ethel Sands: only, in making attributions of influence one cannot be too careful. About direct affiliations especially, as this case shows, one should never be positive. It is as probable that Miss Sands has been influenced by Sickert, who has much in common with Vuillard, as by Vuillard himself; and most probable of all, perhaps, that the three have inherited from a common ancestor something which each has developed and cultivated as seemed to him or her best. La recherche de la paternité was ever an exciting but hazardous pastime: if Bonnard and Vuillard, in their turn, are claimed, as they sometimes are, for descendants of Renoir, with equal propriety Sickert may be claimed for Degas. And it is worth noting, perhaps, as a curious fact, that in the matter of influence this is about as much as at the moment can be claimed for either of these masters. Both Renoir and Degas lived well on into the period of which I am writing; but though both were admired, the former immensely, neither up to the present has had much direct influence on contemporary painting. From 1908—I choose that year to avoid all risk of ante-dating—there existed side by side, and apparently in alliance, with the Fauves a school of theoretical painters. Of Cubism I have said my say elsewhere: if I have some doubts as to whether, as a complete theory of painting, it has a future, I have none that what it has already achieved is remarkable. Also, I recognize its importance as a school of experiments, some of which are sure to bear fruit and leave a mark on history. Of the merits of many of its professors I say nothing, because they are manifest and admitted. Picasso stands apart: he is the inventor and most eminent exponent, yet I refuse to call him Cubist because he is so many other things. Braque, who at present confines himself to abstractions, and to taste and sensibility adds creative power, is to my mind the best of the bunch: while Léger, Gris, Gleizes, and Metzinger are four painters who, if they did not limit themselves to a means of expression which to most people is still perplexing, if not disagreeable, would be universally acclaimed for what they are—four exceptionally inventive artists, each possessing his own peculiar and precious sense of colour and design. But besides these pure doctrinaires there were a good many painters who, without reducing their forms to geometrical abstractions, by modifying them in accordance with Cubist theory gave a new and impressive coherence to their compositions. Of them the best known, in England at all events, is Jean Marchand, whose admirable work has been admired here ever since the Grafton Galleries exhibition of 1912. Lately he has moved away from Cubism, but has not become less doctrinaire for that. Indeed, if I have a fault to find with his grave and masterly art it is that sometimes it is a little wanting in sensibility and inspiration. Marchand is so determined to paint logically and well that he seems a little to forget that in the greatest art there is more than logic and good painting. It is odd to remember that Lhote, who since the war has been saluted by a band of young painters (not French for the most part, I believe) as chief of a new and profoundly doctrinaire school which is to reconcile Cubism with the great tradition, stood at the time of which I am writing pretty much where Marchand stood. His undeniable gifts, which have not failed him since, were then devoted to combining the amusing qualities of the imagiers (popular print-makers) with the new discoveries. The results were consistently pleasing; and I will here confess that, however little I may like some of his later preaching and however little he may like mine, what Lhote produces in paint never fails to arrest me and very seldom to charm. Herbin, who was another of those who about the year 1910 were modifying natural forms in obedience to Cubist theory, has since gone all lengths in the direction of pure abstraction: his art is none the better for it. Valloton, so far as I can remember, was much where Herbin was. Now apparently he aims at the grand tragic; an aim which rarely fails to lead its votaries by way of the grand academic. Perhaps such aspirations can express themselves only in the consecrated formulæ of traditional rhetoric; at all events, the last I saw of Valloton was furiously classical.D And for all that he remains, what he was in the beginning, an Illustrator.

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