DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68745#0251
THE CHARACTER OF HIS ART
matured; yet when his crimsons and carnations have faded or
been laid aside, the greys and browns and ivories in which he
delights, combine in a lustrous symphony, more impressive than
brilliant tints. His canvas swims in gold-dust, or glows with
‘the smothered red of smoky torches.’ It is flooded with the
metallic green of moonlight or illumined by a flash on curved
limb or rounded throat, and fugitive gleams play across his
shadows, like iridescent sparkles on the dark plumage of a bird.
Of all the exponents of that Eastern scheme, in which colour and
emotion are so inextricably blended, Tintoretto, with his enthusiasm
for ‘ black and white,’ is the supreme instance.
The luminariste, as Eugene Fromentin says, comes to the aid
of the colourist. Though Tintoretto has practised line and form
till they have no secrets left for him, he has no innate enjoyment
in them when once mastered. His form is rather shape, moulded
by the massing of light and shade, for, as the ‘ sounding cataract ’
haunted the poet, so the luminous gradations of sunshine and
shadow haunt the painter, ‘like a passion.’
It is curious to note how small a part costume and furniture
play in his pictures. Titian and Bonifazio, Veronese and Paris
Bordone and Carpaccio, these are the illustrators of the modes
and manners of their Venice, but Tintoretto thinks more of how
the light and dark strike the masses of a figure, than what is the
fashion of its garments. The courtyards and colonnades interest
him because the sunlight streams through the pillars and plays
upon the marble pavements, and not because the feasts of the
Grimani or the Mocenigo are held under their splendid roofs.
He is saved from being the popular painter by that elan
which allows him no time to waste on vulgarizing detail. His
intrepid certainty never cools, and he elaborates his ideas at a pace
at which even great masters can only sketch. He has nourished
his power of rapid execution by infinite painstaking, and employs
it with splendid self-forgetfulness. His ‘ stormy brush ’ has be-
come automatic, and is used with the freedom of perfect mastery.
He has, too, the artist’s sense of emphasis, and knows where to
stop when a noble and vivid vision is sufficiently accentuated.
Yet while we may consider him as the first great impressionist,
we must note how far removed his slightness and carelessness of
T.—10
145
matured; yet when his crimsons and carnations have faded or
been laid aside, the greys and browns and ivories in which he
delights, combine in a lustrous symphony, more impressive than
brilliant tints. His canvas swims in gold-dust, or glows with
‘the smothered red of smoky torches.’ It is flooded with the
metallic green of moonlight or illumined by a flash on curved
limb or rounded throat, and fugitive gleams play across his
shadows, like iridescent sparkles on the dark plumage of a bird.
Of all the exponents of that Eastern scheme, in which colour and
emotion are so inextricably blended, Tintoretto, with his enthusiasm
for ‘ black and white,’ is the supreme instance.
The luminariste, as Eugene Fromentin says, comes to the aid
of the colourist. Though Tintoretto has practised line and form
till they have no secrets left for him, he has no innate enjoyment
in them when once mastered. His form is rather shape, moulded
by the massing of light and shade, for, as the ‘ sounding cataract ’
haunted the poet, so the luminous gradations of sunshine and
shadow haunt the painter, ‘like a passion.’
It is curious to note how small a part costume and furniture
play in his pictures. Titian and Bonifazio, Veronese and Paris
Bordone and Carpaccio, these are the illustrators of the modes
and manners of their Venice, but Tintoretto thinks more of how
the light and dark strike the masses of a figure, than what is the
fashion of its garments. The courtyards and colonnades interest
him because the sunlight streams through the pillars and plays
upon the marble pavements, and not because the feasts of the
Grimani or the Mocenigo are held under their splendid roofs.
He is saved from being the popular painter by that elan
which allows him no time to waste on vulgarizing detail. His
intrepid certainty never cools, and he elaborates his ideas at a pace
at which even great masters can only sketch. He has nourished
his power of rapid execution by infinite painstaking, and employs
it with splendid self-forgetfulness. His ‘ stormy brush ’ has be-
come automatic, and is used with the freedom of perfect mastery.
He has, too, the artist’s sense of emphasis, and knows where to
stop when a noble and vivid vision is sufficiently accentuated.
Yet while we may consider him as the first great impressionist,
we must note how far removed his slightness and carelessness of
T.—10
145