Purely æsthetic decorative art has had its origin in the attempt to please the eye by lines and colors, just as music has originated in the attempt to give pleasure to the ear by a rhythmic series of sounds. Imitative decorative art appeals to the understanding as well as to the feelings: it is a song with words, but mere aesthetic ornament is visible music without words, and it is to this latter division of ornament that I shall principally invite your attention.
Color and form in ornament are so very different in their functions that they must be considered apart. Of the two, form is the more important element, and, in the following discussion, color will be left out of consideration.
The secret of the pleasant effect produced upon us by beautiful lines is, I believe, to be found in the structure of the eye itself, and I shall attempt to show that a line is beautiful, not because of any inherent quality of its own, but, primarily, because of the pleasure we take in making the muscular movements necessary to run over it with the eye, though, through education, we may afterward come to recognize, at a glance, and get the full effect of a form that has once given us pleasure; just as in music, the first few notes of an aria may be sufficient to recall the general effect of the complete composition.
When I look out of my window, the image of a very large tract falls upon my retina. I see at once a multitude of houses, and the infinitude of objects that go to make up the picture, and apparently I see every thing distinctly, but this is really far from being the case. If I look suddenly out at a landscape that I have never seen before, and fix my gaze upon a church-spire for a few moments, the image of the landscape falls immovably upon the retina; but, if I now suddenly withdraw and try to reproduce by sketch or writing what I have seen, I shall find myself totally unable. I have only an indistinct impression of the church-spire and perhaps of a few prominent objects in its immediate vicinity. I have seen the landscape, but I have not observed it.[1] Now let me return, paper in hand, to sketch the same landscape. Instead of fixing my eye immovably upon one point, I deliberately run it over the leading lines of the view, and then trace lines upon the paper that produce the same effect upon my eye as those in Nature have done. My sketch will at best be imperfect, but its accuracy will be in proportion to the care with which I have examined the outlines in the landscape. In observing an object, we do not then look fixedly at it—we run the eye over it. Let us see what this means.
The retina is not in all parts equally sensitive to light, and the whole of a visual image is not distinctly perceived at once. Directly in the back part of the eye is a little spot, about a line in diameter,
- ↑ Observation consists in the deliberate and careful running of the eye over the features of an object so that they are distinctly seen and appreciated. It is an art only to be learned by long practice. In natural-history studies I have found drawing to be a great aid in training a student, as it affords him a test of the accuracy of his observation.
