Le secret du Manet révélé (FICTION) (French Edition)

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ComiXology Thousands of Digital Comics. East Dane Designer Men's Fashion. A welcome reference to the important analysis of Manet's paintings by Anne McCauley, the photographic historian not "writer", as she is described here , stops short of advancing the discourse on Manet and Spain, despite the evident interconnections between French Realism, Spanish art and culture, photography, and cultural entertainment and tourism Manet's only trip to Spain in , which lasted about ten days, is given its traditional interpretation here as an artistic pilgrimage; other more critical scholars have also suggested it served as an escape from the harsh criticism he had just received at the Salon, or a tourist's excursion made newly attractive by extended train service in France and Spain.

Wilson-Bareau does offer a new interpretation of the brevity of Manet's trip, the result, she writes, of his prudence and cost-consciousness. But letters in which Manet expresses his disgust with Spanish food - none of which is quoted here - and his well-informed friend Zacharie Astruc provides him with detailed itineraries for seeing Spanish art, which Manet ignored, offer a more credible reason for Manet having cut short his trip: That view is reinforced by the exclusion of two faithful copies that Manet made after Spanish works.

The fifth and sixth essays, "Goya and the French Romantics" and "The Galerie Espagnole of Louis-Philippe"reprise, in abbreviated versions, earlier publications by two major scholars. Lamentably, the abridged version of Lipschutz's material in this essay will only be followed easily by well-informed readers. For example, no discussion of the important Romantic writer Charles Nodier and his circle is given, or how artists like Delacroix were connected to them. The illustration of two paintings by Delacroix, Head of an Old Woman, Study for "The Massacres at Chios" and Orphan Girl in a Cemetery seems to imply that these are portraits of George Sand and that they are inspired from Goya's Caprichos , without any further explanation Jeannine Baticle co-authored with Cristina Marinas the most important publication on the Galerie Espagnole in , in which they attempted to catalogue and provide the provenance of the paintings that had belonged to it.

Their essay is even more of an apology for the creation of the Spanish Gallery, exhibited between in the Louvre museum, which occurred in contravention to Spanish law and with the full support of the French government and armed forces. The departure of the Galerie Espagnole from the Louvre to Louis-Philippe's heirs is also extraordinary and deserves further investigation, for no other deposed European ruler, then or now, recovered art works that had already entered a public museum. Moreover, if French taste for Spanish painting were so dominant by , why didn't the Second Republic maintain the Galerie Espagnole?

In the final paragraph, the author seems to justify this nineteenth-century collection with general claims of the modern-day public's appreciation for Spanish old master pictures in Paris Such nationalist apology and celebration have no place in modern scholarship. Painting, Art Criticism, and the Spanish Trope under Louis Philippe," is refreshing in its novel emphasis on lesser-known artists and art criticism of the s and s, and in its critical methodology and intelligent ideas. In his study of Jules Ziegler's Charles V, after preparing his funeral rites , he found that the artist himself disclaimed that his painting was a typically chivalric and morbid Spanish subject, but instead, a visual analogy to the recent dethroning of Louis-Philippe The author then demonstrates that Ziegler's work received some hostile criticism, even from conservative critics.

While some French nineteenth-century commentators on Spanish art feared the deleterious effects of its extreme characteristics on young, impressionable artists, other voices did not. In a report that seemed to respond to such fears, the assistant director of museums Alphonse de Cailleux countered that the Spanish Gallery had a salubrious and moderating influence It is also fascinating to learn that Millet, Courbet, and Whistler all copied works by Ziegler, who seems to have been a bridge between artistic generations interested in Spanish painting.

The only amplifications I would have wished for in this thoughtful and well-written essay are illustrations of the paintings by Brune, Heim, and others that are little known, and some attention to their master Ingres's interest in and contact with Spanish art and artists. Whistler, Eakins, Chase, and Sargent, who have long been cited as having been influenced by Spanish art. The addition of Mary Cassatt to that foursome is new, but unjustified. Although she did make a trip to Spain in late to mid, her early anecdotal Spanish pictures, On the Balcony and Offering the Panal to the Bullfighter , and her mature Impressionist work In the Loge have nothing to do with old master Spanish painting and very little to do with Goya.

Moreover, the reader does not learn how Spanish art and culture were represented in the United States, even before Hints of it appear in the later Chronology, such as Washington Irving's writings on the Alhambra, Joseph Bonaparte's art collection in New Jersey, and the exhibition of Spanish paintings in Philadelphia ; ; An unusual kind of "document" is published here: Although the photographer probably had distinct goals in making it, his photograph accomplished what Whistler, Degas, and their circle were attempting in paint in the late s and s: As scholarship by Joel Isaacson and Anne McCauley has demonstrated, it was often such widespread commercial imagery that provided sources of the innovative forms and compositions of Manet, Degas, and others.

The second essay on an American topic, Mitchell A. Huntington and The Hispanic Society of America," is a new and contextual study of Huntington's collecting of Spanish art and the founding of the Hispanic Society of America in New York which lent a painting to this exhibition. The author provides a measured and thoughtful discussion of Huntington's strengths and weaknesses, as well as how he seems to have acquired his knowledge and made his mistakes in his collecting.

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Codding also underscores Huntington's originality, for example, his self-imposed limitation of buying Spanish art only outside of Spain, as he wanted Spain to preserve its existing artistic heritage in situ, if possible. In another indication of his deep respect for Spain and Spanish culture, Huntington relied on contemporary Spanish painters to help him locate and purchase Spanish art. More unusual was his simultaneous patronage of contemporary Spanish art; he organized exhibitions in his museum to promote artists such as Zuloaga and Sorolla, both in Both appendices offer much new, rich, and useful material and ideas.

In the first, "Nineteenth-Century French Copies after Spanish Old Masters," Dominique Lobstein makes a fresh contribution to our understanding of copies commissioned by the French state, as it relates to the French taste for Spanish painting. Her data shows that the largest number of these state-commissioned copies of Spanish paintings was produced between the years allowing a few years after the opening and closing of the museum for artists to complete what were usually full-scale copies due to the presence of so many Spanish religious paintings in the Galerie Espagnole.

However, she also notes that these copies were predominantly made after works of the same thirteen Spanish painters, which reflected the limitations of French knowledge of and taste for Spanish painting at that time The State-commissioned copies were supposed to be painted in front of the original, as this practice was—and still is—believed to produce a more accurate copy.

My one quibble is that the reader does not learn the functions of such copies until late in the article Knowing that most copies went into storage and then were dispersed to hang in religious buildings in the provinces would satisfy any questions the reader would have as to why the copies were primarily religious subjects and why such journeyman artists received government commissions quality didn't really matter.

Some editing is needed in the paragraph concerning de Geniole's commission; the dates do not follow and the translation is rather awkward, if not incorrect A Fresh Look at the Back," is one of the most exciting contributions to the catalogue. It provides a potential means for identifying or confirming other paintings as having once hung in the Galerie Espagnole. It is also one of the few essays to examine closely the material objects, and then support or confirm those findings in archival research.

Weniger found consistency among certain stamps and marks, as well as types of canvas and stretchers, on the backs of some Spanish paintings in the Dresden Gemaldegalerie. Comparing these material features on the Dresden canvases to those on other pictures known to have been part of the Galerie Espagnole, he was able to trace all of them back to the Standish collection, which was donated by its English owner Frank Hall Standish to the Galerie Espagnole in Thus, Weniger is able to add three more pictures from the Dresden museum to its twelve already identified by Baticle and Marinas as having belonged to the Spanish Gallery: In so doing, he provides a set of criteria by which one could confirm paintings that Baticle and Marinas only posited as possible candidates for the Spanish Gallery.

Along with much unpublished information concerning the various restorers, their methods and materials, Weniger is constructing a more specific portrait of the Galerie Espagnole. The essays are followed by a copiously illustrated and annotated chronology that was compiled by Deborah L. This page chronology begins in with the Spanish government ban on the exportation of art by deceased Spanish masters, and ends in It allows the reader to make various links and parallels between diverse activities and art works related to the taste for Spanish painting.

For example, it is intriguing to consider that the French taste for Spanish painting emerged at the same time that it was made illegal, and therefore more desirable, to procure it. To my mind, it is one of the more valuable parts of the catalogue, and will serve scholars for many years to come. The entries on paintings and prints are separated into Spanish 90 works , French works , and American 27 works sections, in which the works are ordered alphabetically by artists' names.

Surprisingly little formal analysis or comparison is done in any of them. Had the exhibition's wall labels guided viewers in such analysis, one would be happy to read the biographical information and provenance history provided in the catalogue's entries, but this same information was what mostly appeared in the wall text of the show. The page bibliography will also provide scholars with a solid base from which to pursue further study. I will just mention two oversights: My final specific comment concerns the catalogue's lay-out.

Its designers almost always placed the reproductions on the same page or opposite the page on which they are mentioned in the text, which is surprisingly uncommon in art history books, but deeply satisfying for a reader. With the notes which appear in the outside margins—a format that I personally find quite handy—the designers did not achieve the same synchronization, and notes often lag as many as three to seven pages after their numbers in the text, which is awkward and frustrating for the reader.

Without wishing to depreciate the usefulness of this catalogue or denigrate its original material, I will enunciate three general problems concerning a lack of engaged visual analysis, the concept of influence and taste, and the practice of copying. A page catalogue should be able to prove fully its claim to "map a fascinating shift in the paradigm of painting from Idealism to Realism, from Italy to Spain, from Renaissance to Baroque, from carefully finished, porcelain-like surfaces. This is not a new story—it appears in countless survey books—but the catalogue's spare visual analyses and uneven comparisons do not address how a supposedly revolutionary French modernist painting technique evolved from looking at Spanish seventeenth-century pictures.

Moreover, the catalogue's authors do not differentiate between modernist and other nineteenth-century paintings, in relation to their shared taste for Spanish painting. Manet clearly serves as the benchmark for French modernist response to Spanish art, but painters trained at the French academy like Henri Regnault were also influenced by Spanish masters. Wouldn't it have been fruitful, not to say incumbent upon the authors, to compare Regnault's paintings to those of Manet?

For a fuller comprehension of taste and influence, a broader historical investigation and critical discussion is necessary, one that embraces political, commercial, and other non-aesthetic factors, as well as the nineteenth-century conflation between what today we consider historical research and popular journalism. In his essay, Tinterow is satisfied to enumerate the growing number of Spanish paintings in France to explain French painters' greater interest in and borrowing from them, but this doesn't explain why radical artists would be inspired to innovate, and in the specific ways they did.

Moreover, Tinterow does not mention Raphael until page 13 of a page essay, and then, without any interpretation. In Tinterow's conception of taste and how it works, we would expect that a dominant taste for Raphael in eighteenth-century France would translate into French emulation of his art's visual characteristics. This way of writing aesthetic taste as though one artist or school "dominates" all others, can lead to unbalanced views of how art is made and appreciated.

Because he sees this taste in purely aesthetic terms, he does not take into consideration the growing tourist industry between the two countries, and the French production of Spanish subject paintings to exploit that tourism. The reader is left to figure out how this collecting and exhibiting of Spanish old master painting, which was predominantly official and conservative, was transformed by certain artists into independent, radical art.

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The emphasis on collecting and collectors begs another question concerning taste and influence: The example of Ferdinand Guillemardet provides a case study During his brief term as French ambassador to Spain in , Guillemardet was one of the first Frenchmen known to have brought works by Goya back to France, including his own portrait.

However, Guillemardet was also removed from his post because even his French superiors recognized that he was unsympathetic to the Spanish people and culture. Is his dashing portrait a reflection of his good taste, or sympathy with the painter, or did Goya see an opportunity to make a name for himself in France?

And what does one do with Marshal Soult, who collected Spanish art as his rightful booty as a general, and was considered even by other Frenchmen in Spain to show poor taste in the way he exhibited these religious paintings in an opulent, domestic setting ? Yet, of all the Frenchmen collecting Spanish art before the Spanish Gallery opened, who got better quality works than this arrogant opportunist?

To that end, the catalogue should have addressed the fact that many of these so-called Spanish pictures were later proven to be of another national school. A quotation from the poet and art critic Charles Baudelaire in can be used to sum up the nineteenth—and apparently—twenty-first century belief that the French came to understand Spanish art and culture from the Galerie Espagnole: In the Spanish Gallery, of course, no argument was possible, since Spanish culture was represented as mute.

And yet, we know that Spain and Spaniards were constantly affecting what the French knew or thought they knew about Spanish art and what they acquired of it. Copying is another subject that receives sensitive historical and contextual analysis only from Lobstein, while some scholars seem to condemn it, as they privilege the original compositions by modernist artists who seem to have been inspired by the Spanish old masters.

Readers do not learn that copying a work by another artist, especially a recognized master, was a time-honored artistic custom, in which novices could practice skills and more mature painters could find solutions; and it was neither illegal nor shameful. Those artists who were commissioned to make copies were not all students or bad artists; some worked for modest patrons who wanted more convincing reproductions for their homes than prints could provide, and others made copies on speculation, to be sold at fairs or in trade shops.

It does not help the reader to come to a historical understanding of artistic copying when Alphonse Legros' Making Amends is described as "virtually plagiarized it in subject matter, composition, and format" Since Legros did not copy the subject, borrowing a composition and format was perfectly acceptable in artistic tradition. On the other hand, many modernist artists did have an ambivalent if not hostile attitude toward copying, seeing it as oppressive, as the nineteenth-century concept of originality evolved into the leading quality for contemporary art.

To end, I would strongly recommend that every scholar of nineteenth-century art, and those of nineteenth-century French or Spanish culture, acquire this volume for their libraries, but to read it with caution, while they contemplate the broader problems and specific questions that it raised.

This collection of essays addresses an unwieldy subject: An unprecedented number of books with images was produced in England and Scotland from the s until the First World War. Books in general flourished in Victorian Britain, of course, due to developments in mass-market publishing, and print might well have overshadowed graphic art.

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But the glut of words actually fostered illustrations due to what Richard Maxwell, the editor of this volume, calls a "widely shared hunger for visual stimulation" xxv. They deal, by and large, with the relation between image and text. In the opening essay, "Walter Scott, Historical Fiction, and the Genesis of the Victorian Illustrated Book," Richard Maxwell explains that, before Scott, "illustration" meant verbal explanation—of which Scott's own works had many.

The first edition of The Lay of the Last Minstrel [] was almost one half notes.

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Scott's own prodigious output used "illustration" in a number of senses, verbal and visual, as Maxwell explains in this substantial, well-reasoned discussion. Ostensibly visual images were used to authenticate points made in the text, and Scott's illustrators adopted the tradition of antiquarian drawings for the author's sometimes complex purposes a notable case being the Scottish regalia. On the other hand, an illustration might serve to destabilize the text, as in the case of an illustration of the "Lee-penny" in the posthumous Abbotsford edition of The Talisman.

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Whereas text and notes preserve a neutral tone about whether this talisman actually possesses its reputed powers, an illustration on the final page of a box for the Lee-penny owned by the Empress Queen Charlotte Sophia, wife of George III, raises issues of madness and fundamental questions about kingship; it also connotes relics, which have their own particular kind of truth. Steven Dillon also deals with the suggestiveness and ambiguity of objects in "Illustrations of Time: Watches, Dials, and Clocks in Victorian Pictures.

Whereas we might expect clocks to serve a regularizing function, Dillon more often finds connotations of "genial domestic time" in publications aimed, after all, at readers with leisure enough to read them. Yet time also leads inevitably to death, hence a number of instances where timepieces have dark associations. Dillon's broad theme is handled anecdotally and comes to no definite conclusions, as illustrated by his analysis of an unidentified "circle depending from a ribbon around his neck" to be seen in illustrations of Mr.

There is no clear answer, and Dillon rues the literalism of the one edition that identifies the mysterious shape. Patten seeks to demonstrate that images can be as complex and "polyvocal" as text. Dickens's narrator is a mature man, a successful novelist, yet he also directly represents the thoughts and feelings of his ten-year-old self, and Patten makes much of the challenge to Hablot Knight Browne "Phiz" in representing this complex point of view.

The essay emphasizes an illustration for the original serial titled "I make myself known to my aunt," when David, quite desperate and bereft of other hopes for his future—presents himself to Betsey Trotwood, hitherto a remote and frightening personage soon to reveal herself as a redemptive maternal figure. This scene required Phiz to show David as a near-beggar and yet suggest the spunk that will allow him to succeed, also to convey Aunt Betsey's complex reactions to him.

Patten examines sketches and related images from the serial to show how "the verbal epistemology of recollection and reconnection is matched by a visual epistemology of blended points of view and physical reconnections" Phiz's gentle illustrations would seem to stagger under the weight of this analysis, yet Patten does demonstrate a strong connection between the text and these images, which were not treated kindly by critics and omitted or replaced in later editions. Simon Joyce's "Maps and Metaphors: Topographical Representation and the Sense of Place in Late-Victorian Fiction" addresses issues raised by the use of illustrative maps in fiction in the second half of the nineteenth century.

Maps would seem to be neutral visual duplicates of information in the text, but Joyce uses post-structuralist theory to examine them as several different kinds of arguments about the world. Maps can "locate" a vanished world, as in Arthur Morrison's A Child of the Jago , where a map establishes the reality of a subculture in the East End of London that in the course of the novel wanes and disappears. Or a map can "locate" a fictional site, even establish routes for literary pilgrims, as in the case of the map of Egdon Heath drawn by Thomas Hardy himself for the first edition of The Return of the Native Hardy, who went so far as to emulate the style of an ordnance survey, later admitted the map to be largely fictional.

Rider Haggard's King Solomon's Mines Stevenson's tale literally developed out of a map he drew to entertain a child, we learn, and the map is the mainspring of the plot even if it proves to be a red herring. Joyce relates Haggard's map also a red herring to sinister elements of colonialism, manifested by its high-handed conferral of European names to African sites.

Referring to an interpretation by Anne McClintock, he suggests that the map might even undermine the text by alluding—when seen upside down—to "'the presence of alternative female powers and of alternative African notions of time and knowledge. Tucker's essay, "Literal Illustration in Victorian Print," is also concerned with the tension between image—here in the form of letters or words—and printed text.

His topic includes decorated capitals, as seen in Punch illustrations by John Tenniel and Richard Doyle. Amusing examples of capitals incorporated into illustrational drawings by William Makepeace Thackeray, who worked as an illustrator for Punch in his early days, make Tucker's point that initial capitals are about reading—in particular, the voluntary entry of the reader into the fictive world.

Tucker also examines how handwriting figures in printed texts, from the "illiterations" of The Pickwick Papers , where a carved inscription mistaken for an archaeological find is rendered in type for humorous effect, to John Ruskin's revealing use of samples of his own handwriting in Praeterita. In a discussion of the prosody of various Victorian poets, Tucker argues that the best illustrations for poems provide some kind of visual analogy to the text.

The most complex issues are found in the work of William Morris, whose Kelmscott productions show the culmination of letter as designed image. Essays by Elizabeth K. Helsinger and Jeffrey Skoblow continue the discussion of William Morris, who, according to Richard Maxwell, "emerges as probably the single most important figure in Victorian book design" xxvii. Helsinger deals with the early years when Morris was still casting around for his vocation. Wishing to address issues of contemporary life and labor, he looked to the "lesser arts" of interior design and book arts "the wall and the page" rather than great art, which involved struggle and strain.

Although forced in time to use machines, Morris wanted to reproduce the "unconscious intelligence" and sensory knowledge, and pleasure, of traditional crafts. Thus the designs used recurrent pattern and rhythmic repetition within an overall architectural structure, and so, Helsinger argues, did the poems.

Although such poems by Morris as The Earthly Paradise are often dismissed as escapist, Helsinger argues persuasively that by providing a "new way to live in Art," they were meant to coax the modern imagination back into health and even imbue the reader or listener, for they were meant to be read aloud with hope for the future. Kelmscott and the Modern," Jeffrey Skoblow asks how contemporary scholars can make such an idiosyncratic and antiquarian enterprise as the Kelmscott press new.

His answer lies in looking at the books, particularly the Chaucer, as material objects, indeed, as ritual objects. Morris is seen to share an "Aesthetics of the Dire" with twentieth-century theorists such as Walter Benjamin and Charles Bernstein, and like them to be looking for a way to overcome the commodification of art. Kelmscott restored the "aura" to books at a time when they had become commonplace.

Skoblow shows how Morris's text and images are "fully interpenetrated" in such works as The Glittering Plain , where everything works together: Even typeface is seen to have its own analogous "materiality. His work on an edition of the Rape of the Lock in the late s included the binding, a list of illustrations, frames for the images—all of which draw attention to the book as a book.

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The obtrusive graphic line of his drawings reminds us that they are drawn; such aspects as the prominent stippled effect remind us that they are to be reproduced photomechanically. Benjamin's "Painting and the Graphic Arts" is important to Frankel's analysis of Beardsley's style, seen in terms of a post-structuralist skirmish against the authority of the text and also, in the process, supporting the poem's subtext of transgression —a provocative point of view, although art historians might object to placing Beardsley's style in such a postmodern vacuum, without reference to Art Nouveau, Japanese prints, or other influences.

Pictures of an Institutional Imaginary. Not surprisingly, James opposed the very idea of illustrating his novels, but he did in the end sanction the use of Coburn's photographs in the ambitious New York Edition. Coburn's frontispiece to The Portrait of a Lady , a photograph of an English country house, reflects the ambiguity of James's text by both idealizing and de-idealizing this common symbol for cultural prestige.

It is, for Harmon, the blurriness of Coburn's image that provides a place for this ambiguity. Neither Coburn's artistic objectives as related to other Pictorialist photographers nor James's own ideas about Coburn's contributions figure in Harmon's postmodern analysis, which, of course, assumes the death of the author. Indeed, James is seen to figure in the death of the novelistic illustration, since he, along with Flaubert, Joyce, and others, "transformed the image of the serious writer into a quasi-priestly wordsmith, suspicious of icons and exclusively attuned to the displacements of the signifier" Coburn's photograph of James in profile the frontispiece to his first major novel, Roderick Hudson becomes the very image of the postmodern marginal man, with "a nameless sense of otherness" Katie Trumpener's essay, "City Scenes: Commerce, Utopia, and the Birth of the Picture Book," returns to a more benign domestic sphere with a consideration of children's books, common in Victorian homes by the s—in particular, the children's guide to London, pioneered by Ann and Jane Taylor members of William Blake's circle and continued by Thomas Crane and Ellen Houghton, E.

Trumpener's concern is largely socioeconomic in this analysis of attitudes toward the city and the surrounding countryside, and she focuses on social relationships and "the ethics of spectatorship, encounter, and witness" London is seen as the gateway to imaginative realms in such books as The Town Child's Alphabet and Mary Poppins Richard Maxwell's afterword, "The Destruction, Rebirth, and Apotheosis of the Victorian Illustrated Book," demonstrates that although the tradition of the Victorian illustrated book might seem to have died by it was through destruction that it survived.

A bellwether was What a Life! Lucas and George Morrow with text parodying nineteenth-century "sensation fiction" and illustrations cut out of a Whiteley's catalogue. Its ironic juxtaposition of word and image, deliberate infantilism, and use of popular imagery presaged Dada, Surrealism, and other subversive twentieth-century movements What a Life! Maxwell considers the further transmogrification of the tradition by Max Ernst and Joseph Cornell, the latter who "himself sometimes seems like a figure constructed for experimental purposes out of odd bits of Thomas De Quincey, Emily Dickinson, and Lewis Carroll" Maxwell also discusses the curious figure of Henry Darger, a self-taught artist who obsessively made scrapbooks and created a nineteen-thousand-word novel about the mythic Vivian girls, illustrated with images originally stored in loose-leaf books.

Although Darger was the subject of a exhibition at the University of Iowa Museum of Art, the text unfortunately supplies no illustrations of his work. The use of Victorian books as fodder for late-twentieth century irony and self-consciousness is seen in Tom Phillips's A Humument: A Treated Victorian Novel , which subjects the text of W. Mallock's novel A Human Monument to marking out, over-writing, and random illustration. The appearance of Victorian imagery in film, most notably Atom Egoyan's The Sweet Hereafter , further shows its enduring appeal to the contemporary imagination.

This collection of essays is not, of course, comprehensive in its treatment of the subject. Art historians may miss a more thoroughly developed art historical context for the artists considered, particularly William Morris. On the other hand, they may value other points of view from these writers who are, by and large, literary scholars a notable exception being Elizabeth Helsinger, a professor of art history as well as English at the University of Chicago.

The subject is an important one for all scholars of the nineteenth century. Maxwell cites the strong impact of the Victorian illustrated book on grand narrative painting, poetry, the theater, the writing of history, and journalism. We are reminded that the London Illustrated News was founded with explicit acknowledgement of the influence of the Abbotsford edition of Scott. Citing Pater's dictum that "all art constantly aspires towards the condition of music," Maxwell observes that "at one time or another, during the nineteenth century, all the arts in England—even music, when it accepted the mystique of the program—yearned to achieve the condition of illustration" xxii.

This volume goes a long way toward elucidating the complexities of that condition.

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It is a critical commonplace that Walter Pater was influenced by John Ruskin's idea of the critic as a creative sensibility, even though he habitually reversed the older writer's judgments. Harold Bloom, Kenneth Daley's advisor on the dissertation that is the basis for The Rescue of Romanticism , referred to Ruskin as Pater's "only begetter. The enterprise is necessarily speculative, for there is little in the way of personal connection, despite the simultaneous presence of both at Oxford for a time, and neither was given to careful acknowledgement of his intellectual debts.

Then there is the matter of the broader topic, romanticism, a term vigorously debated since its introduction in the eighteenth century. Daley focuses his discussion of the two critics on this problematic theme, analyzing selected texts to show Ruskin's rejection of romanticism on the grounds that it denies transcendental truth and Pater's "rescue" of romanticism using Ruskin's own topics and terms.

The crux of the matter is found in the two critics' writings on William Wordsworth, examined in Chapter One. The early Wordsworth corresponded with Ruskin's romantic ideal, found in the French Gothic, which he variously described, Daley tells us, as "heroic, passionate, imaginative, virtuous, beautiful, modest, sincere, and sublime," also "unerring," indicating his requirement that the romantic artist capture an external and absolute truth Ruskin admired the Wordsworth of The Excursion , where the "excursive sight" of the Wanderer produced historical and social observations that offered a Christian cure for the sorrow and cynicism of the modern age.

But Ruskin grew increasingly negative about Wordsworth on the score of "Self-Love," condemning the subjective response to nature seen in later poems as the Pathetic Fallacy. Whereas Homer and the ancients based their sense of animation in nature on the presence of the gods, most modern poets merely projected their own imaginations onto nature, representing for Ruskin a fall from faith into a mere sensuousness that threatened civilization. Pater, in contrast, saw Wordsworth's ability to project his feelings into nature as a "survival" of Greek myth. Rather than seeing a Ruskinian fall, Pater saw a "myth of return and refinement" He was influenced here by the Oxford anthropologist Edward Tylor.

Where Ruskin condemned Wordsworth for a lack of social conscience, Pater admired him for his empathy with the "pathetic" aspects of country life. Pater's version of Wordsworth as endlessly speculative and alert to the "strangeness" of life is quite different from the nineteenth-century stereotype of the bard as lofty and inspiring. In short, for Pater the "pathetic fallacy" becomes Wordsworth's chief glory. Pater's tendency to reverse Ruskin's critical conclusions has been most often noticed in writings on the Renaissance, the topic of Chapter Two. The two critics saw virtually the same characteristics in that period, as Wendell Harris has observed: In the Renaissance, the putative reconciliation of Christian and classical ideas was shallow and false, and science stifled Gothic emotion and imagination.

Ruskin propounded such views as Slade Professor at Oxford between and , the years in which Pater wrote most of the essays for The Renaissance Pater did not see a Ruskinian "fall"; rather, he saw a reconciliation of pagan and Christian elements effected by an interaction of opposites—the same opposites of Christian and pagan, faith and rebellion, orthodoxy and antinomianism that he saw in every age, including the Gothic.

Thus, Daley argues, did Pater undermine Ruskin's "overdetermined historicism" and work against his devotion to the abstract and absolute. A discussion of Hellenism, so central to Oxford life in those years, concludes Chapter Two. Pater's Hellenism was derived in part from Johann Joachim Winckelmann, source of the prevailing nineteenth-century idea of ancient Greece as an intellectual golden age characterized by balance and restraint.

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  8. Pater's view of the Greek psyche, Daley suggests, was influenced by Ruskin, who had begun to emphasize Greek awareness of pain and horror in volume five of Modern Painters As usual, however, Pater drew a different conclusion. Whereas Ruskin looked to the Greeks as models for ethical behavior, Pater admired their capacity to turn ideas into sensuous form.

    As various critics have noted, Pater, like Winckelmann, was particularly concerned with the sculpture of young males and shared his underlying aim of legitimating masculine love by associating it with the "pure" and "spiritual" Greek ideal. Pater capitalized on an established discourse: Ruskin's disapproval of this Oxford milieu probably fueled his condemnation of Greek culture. His hortatory Slade lectures stressed that "the art of any country is the exponent of its social and political virtues " quoted on Ruskin's messianic character—nicely evoked by Daley in Chapter Three—fired up the undergraduates.

    Meanwhile, Pater too was attracting a following with ideas on Leonardo and Michelangelo formed in response to Ruskin. When Ruskin vilified Leonardo as skeptical, relentlessly curious, and drawn to the grotesque, Pater praised him for the same qualities. Pater saw the Mona Lisa as capturing a beauty "wrought out from within upon the flesh—the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions" quoted p.

    Her figure, like the pastorals of Wordsworth, is a "survival" of past ages: Chapter Four locates the two writers' most significant discussions of romanticism in two essays: Ruskin's "Franchise," an lecture at Oxford, and Pater's "Romanticism," an essay published three years later and included as the last essay in the collection Appreciations as a postscript and, it would seem, critical manifesto.

    Originating in twelfth-century France and of course associated with the Gothic, it was equal in value to the classical temper.