Meet us on:
Welcome to Read Print! Sign in with
or
to get started!
 
Entire Site
    Try our fun game

    Dueling book covers…may the best design win!

    Random Quote
    "We don't always get to choose what we love."
     

    Subscribe to Our Newsletter

    Follow us on Twitter

    Never miss a good book again! Follow Read Print on Twitter

    Lecture to Art Students

    by Oscar Wilde
    • Rate it:
    Launch Reading Mode
    IN the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before you to-
    night I do not desire to give you any abstract definition of beauty
    at all. For we who are working in art cannot accept any theory of
    beauty in exchange for beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to
    isolate it in a formula appealing to the intellect, we, on the
    contrary, seek to materialise it in a form that gives joy to the
    soul through the senses. We want to create it, not to define it.
    The definition should follow the work: the work should not adapt
    itself to the definition.

    Nothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young artist than any
    conception of ideal beauty: he is constantly led by it either into
    weak prettiness or lifeless abstraction: whereas to touch the
    ideal at all you must not strip it of vitality. You must find it
    in life and re-create it in art.

    While, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give you any
    philosophy of beauty - for, what I want to-night is to investigate
    how we can create art, not how we can talk of it - on the other
    hand, I do not wish to deal with anything like a history of English
    art.

    To begin with, such an expression as English art is a meaningless
    expression. One might just as well talk of English mathematics.
    Art is the science of beauty, and Mathematics the science of truth:
    there is no national school of either. Indeed, a national school
    is a provincial school, merely. Nor is there any such thing as a
    school of art even. There are merely artists, that is all.

    And as regards histories of art, they are quite valueless to you
    unless you are seeking the ostentatious oblivion of an art
    professorship. It is of no use to you to know the date of Perugino
    or the birthplace of Salvator Rosa: all that you should learn
    about art is to know a good picture when you see it, and a bad
    picture when you see it. As regards the date of the artist, all
    good work looks perfectly modern: a piece of Greek sculpture, a
    portrait of Velasquez - they are always modern, always of our
    time. And as regards the nationality of the artist, art is not
    national but universal. As regards archaeology, then, avoid it
    altogether: archaeology is merely the science of making excuses
    for bad art; it is the rock on which many a young artist founders
    and shipwrecks; it is the abyss from which no artist, old or young,
    ever returns. Or, if he does return, he is so covered with the
    dust of ages and the mildew of time, that he is quite
    unrecognisable as an artist, and has to conceal himself for the
    rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as a mere
    illustrator of ancient history. How worthless archaeology is in
    art you can estimate by the fact of its being so popular.
    Popularity is the crown of laurel which the world puts on bad art.
    Whatever is popular is wrong.

    As I am not going to talk to you, then, about the philosophy of the
    beautiful, or the history of art, you will ask me what I am going
    to talk about. The subject of my lecture to-night is what makes an
    artist and what does the artist make; what are the relations of the
    artist to his surroundings, what is the education the artist should
    get, and what is the quality of a good work of art.

    Now, as regards the relations of the artist to his surroundings, by
    which I mean the age and country in which he is born. All good
    art, as I said before, has nothing to do with any particular
    century; but this universality is the quality of the work of art;
    the conditions that produce that quality are different. And what,
    I think, you should do is to realise completely your age in order
    completely to abstract yourself from it; remembering that if you
    are an artist at all, you will be not the mouthpiece of a century,
    but the master of eternity, that all art rests on a principle, and
    that mere temporal considerations are no principle at all; and that
    those who advise you to make your art representative of the
    nineteenth century are advising you to produce an art which your
    children, when you have them, will think old-fashioned. But you
    will tell me this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartistic
    people, and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century of
    ours.

    Of course he does. I, of all men, am not going to deny that. But
    remember that there never has been an artistic age, or an artistic
    people, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always
    been, and will always be, an exquisite exception. There is no
    golden age of art; only artists who have produced what is more
    golden than gold.

    WHAT, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they an artistic
    people?

    Well, the Greeks certainly not, but, perhaps, you mean the
    Athenians, the citizens of one out of a thousand cities.

    Do you think that they were an artistic people? Take them even at
    the time of their highest artistic development, the latter part of
    the fifth century before Christ, when they had the greatest poets
    and the greatest artists of the antique world, when the Parthenon
    rose in loveliness at the bidding of a Phidias, and the philosopher
    spake of wisdom in the shadow of the painted portico, and tragedy
    swept in the perfection of pageant and pathos across the marble of
    the stage. Were they an artistic people then? Not a bit of it.
    What is an artistic people but a people who love their artists and
    understand their art? The Athenians could do neither.

    How did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the great era, not
    merely in Greek, but in all art - I mean of the introduction of the
    use of the living model.

    And what would you say if all the English bishops, backed by the
    English people, came down from Exeter Hall to the Royal Academy one
    day and took off Sir Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate
    on the charge of having allowed you to make use of the living model
    in your designs for sacred pictures?

    Would you not cry out against the barbarism and the Puritanism of
    such an idea? Would you not explain to them that the worst way to
    honour God is to dishonour man who is made in His image, and is the
    work of His hands; and, that if one wants to paint Christ one must
    take the most Christlike person one can find, and if one wants to
    paint the Madonna, the purest girl one knows?

    Would you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if necessary, and say
    that such a thing was without parallel in history?

    Without parallel? Well, that is exactly what the Athenians did.

    In the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British Museum, you
    will see a marble shield on the wall. On it there are two figures;
    one of a man whose face is half hidden, the other of a man with the
    godlike lineaments of Pericles. For having done this, for having
    introduced into a bas relief, taken from Greek sacred history, the
    image of the great statesman who was ruling Athens at the time,
    Phidias was flung into prison and there, in the common gaol of
    Athens, died, the supreme artist of the old world.

    And do you think that this was an exceptional case? The sign of a
    Philistine age is the cry of immorality against art, and this cry
    was raised by the Athenian people against every great poet and
    thinker of their day - AEschylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the
    same with Florence in the thirteenth century. Good handicrafts are
    due to guilds, not to the people. The moment the guilds lost their
    power and the people rushed in, beauty and honesty of work died.

    And so, never talk of an artistic people; there never has been such
    a thing.

    But, perhaps, you will tell me that the external beauty of the
    world has almost entirely passed away from us, that the artist
    dwells no longer in the midst of the lovely surroundings which, in
    ages past, were the natural inheritance of every one, and that art
    is very difficult in this unlovely town of ours, where, as you go
    to your work in the morning, or return from it at eventide, you
    have to pass through street after street of the most foolish and
    stupid architecture that the world has ever seen; architecture,
    where every lovely Greek form is desecrated and defiled, and every
    lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducing three-fourths
    of the London houses to being, merely, like square boxes of the
    vilest proportions, as gaunt as they are grimy, and as poor as they
    are pretentious - the hall door always of the wrong colour, and the
    windows of the wrong size, and where, even when wearied of the
    houses you turn to contemplate the street itself, you have nothing
    to look at but chimney-pot hats, men with sandwich boards,
    vermilion letter-boxes, and do that even at the risk of being run
    over by an emerald-green omnibus.

    Is not art difficult, you will say to me, in such surroundings as
    these? Of course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you
    yourselves would not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is
    worth doing except what the world says is impossible.

    Still, you do not care to be answered merely by a paradox. What
    are the relations of the artist to the external world, and what is
    the result of the loss of beautiful surroundings to you, is one of
    the most important questions of modern art; and there is no point
    on which Mr. Ruskin so insists as that the decadence of art has
    come from the decadence of beautiful things; and that when the
    artist cannot feed his eye on beauty, beauty goes from his work.

    I remember in one of his lectures, after describing the sordid
    aspect of a great English city, he draws for us a picture of what
    were the artistic surroundings long ago.

    Think, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque imagery, whose
    beauty I can but feebly echo, think of what was the scene which
    presented itself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the
    Gothic school of Pisa - Nino Pisano or any of his men (22):

    On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter
    palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry,
    and with serpentine; along the quays before their gates were riding
    troops of knights, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and
    shield; horse and man one labyrinth of quaint colour and gleaming
    light - the purple, and silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over
    the strong limbs and clashing mall, like sea-waves over rocks at
    sunset. Opening on each side from the river were gardens, courts,
    and cloisters; long successions of white pillars among wreaths of
    vine; leaping of fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange:
    and still along the garden-paths, and under and through the crimson
    of the pomegranate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest
    women that Italy ever saw - fairest, because purest and
    thoughtfullest; trained in all high knowledge, as in all courteous
    art - in dance, in song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in
    loftier courage, in loftiest love - able alike to cheer, to
    enchant, or save, the souls of men. Above all this scenery of
    perfect human life, rose dome and bell-tower, burning with white
    alabaster and gold: beyond dome and bell-tower the slopes of
    mighty hills hoary with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea
    of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven Carrara
    mountains sent up their steadfast flames of marble summit into
    amber sky; the great sea itself, scorching with expanse of light,
    stretching from their feet to the Gorgonian isles; and over all
    these, ever present, near or far - seen through the leaves of vine,
    or imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno's stream, or set
    with its depth of blue close against the golden hair and burning
    cheek of lady and knight, - that untroubled and sacred sky, which
    was to all men, in those days of innocent faith, indeed the
    unquestioned abode of spirits, as the earth was of men; and which
    opened straight through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into
    the awfulness of the eternal world; - a heaven in which every cloud
    that passed was literally the chariot of an angel, and every ray of
    its Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of God.

    What think you of that for a school of design?

    And then look at the depressing, monotonous appearance of any
    modern city, the sombre dress of men and women, the meaningless and
    barren architecture, the colourless and dreadful surroundings.
    Without a beautiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all
    the arts will die.

    Well, as regards the religious feeling of the close of the passage,
    I do not think I need speak about that. Religion springs from
    religious feeling, art from artistic feeling: you never get one
    from the other; unless you have the right root you will not get the
    right flower; and, if a man sees in a cloud the chariot of an
    angel, he will probably paint it very unlike a cloud.

    But, as regards the general idea of the early part of that lovely
    bit of prose, is it really true that beautiful surroundings are
    necessary for the artist? I think not; I am sure not. Indeed, to
    me the most inartistic thing in this age of ours is not the
    indifference of the public to beautiful things, but the
    indifference of the artist to the things that are called ugly.
    For, to the real artist, nothing is beautiful or ugly in itself at
    all. With the facts of the object he has nothing to do, but with
    its appearance only, and appearance is a matter of light and shade,
    of masses, of position, and of value.

    Appearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and it is with
    the effects of nature that you have to deal, not with the real
    condition of the object. What you, as painters, have to paint is
    not things as they are but things as they seem to be, not things as
    they are but things as they are not.

    No object is so ugly that, under certain conditions of light and
    shade, or proximity to other things, it will not look beautiful; no
    object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not
    look ugly. I believe that in every twenty-four hours what is
    beautiful looks ugly, and what is ugly looks beautiful, once.

    And, the commonplace character of so much of our English painting
    seems to me due to the fact that so many of our young artists look
    merely at what we may call 'ready-made beauty,' whereas you exist
    as artists not to copy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait
    and watch for it in nature.

    What would you say of a dramatist who would take nobody but
    virtuous people as characters in his play? Would you not say he
    was missing half of life? Well, of the young artist who paints
    nothing but beautiful things, I say he misses one half of the
    world.

    Do not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and see life under
    picturesque conditions. These conditions you can create for
    yourself in your studio, for they are merely conditions of light.
    In nature, you must wait for them, watch for them, choose them;
    and, if you wait and watch, come they will.

    In Gower Street at night you may see a letter-box that is
    picturesque: on the Thames Embankment you may see picturesque
    policemen. Even Venice is not always beautiful, nor France.

    To paint what you see is a good rule in art, but to see what is
    worth painting is better. See life under pictorial conditions. It
    is better to live in a city of changeable weather than in a city of
    lovely surroundings.

    Now, having seen what makes the artist, and what the artist makes,
    who is the artist? There is a man living amongst us who unites in
    himself all the qualities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy
    for all time, who is, himself, a master of all time. That man is
    Mr. Whistler.

    * * * * * * * *

    But, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you cannot paint
    black cloth you could not have painted silken doublet. Ugly dress
    is better for art - facts of vision, not of the object.

    What is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beautifully coloured
    surface, merely, with no more spiritual message or meaning for you
    than an exquisite fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from
    the wall of Damascus. It is, primarily, a purely decorative thing,
    a delight to look at.

    All archaeological pictures that make you say 'How curious!' all
    sentimental pictures that make you say, 'How sad!' all historical
    pictures that make you say 'How interesting!' all pictures that do
    not immediately give you such artistic joy as to make you say 'How
    beautiful!' are bad pictures.

    * * * * * * * *

    We never know what an artist is going to do. Of course not. The
    artist is not a specialist. All such divisions as animal painters,
    landscape painters, painters of Scotch cattle in an English mist,
    painters of English cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters,
    bull-terrier painters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist he
    can paint everything.

    The object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the
    chords which make music in our soul; and colour is indeed, of
    itself a mystical presence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel.

    Am I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As long as there are
    any signs of technique at all, the picture is unfinished. What is
    finish? A picture is finished when all traces of work, and of the
    means employed to bring about the result, have disappeared.

    In the case of handicraftsmen - the weaver, the potter, the smith -
    on their work are the traces of their hand. But it is not so with
    the painter; it is not so with the artist.

    Art should have no sentiment about it but its beauty, no technique
    except what you cannot observe. One should be able to say of a
    picture not that it is 'well painted,' but that it is 'not
    painted.'

    What is the difference between absolutely decorative art and a
    painting? Decorative art emphasises its material: imaginative art
    annihilates it. Tapestry shows its threads as part of its beauty:
    a picture annihilates its canvas: it shows nothing of it.
    Porcelain emphasises its glaze: water-colours reject the paper.

    A picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message but its joy.
    That is the first truth about art that you must never lose sight
    of. A picture is a purely decorative thing.
    If you're writing a Lecture to Art Students essay and need some advice, post your Oscar Wilde essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

    Top 5 Authors

    Top 5 Books

    Book Status
    Finished
    Want to read
    Abandoned

    Are you sure you want to leave this group?