A friend of Jean LŽon GŽr™me came one day to the painter's studio, when he was busy with the composition of a new picture. One sketch after another appeared upon the canvas, only to be rubbed out again. In the afternoon, the friend happened to call again, and seeing that the painter was still occupied in the same fashion as several hours before, exclaimed: "Still laboring at your composition?" "Oui, il n'y a que a," answered GŽr™me -- "Yes, there is nothing else but that." -- not meaning that the composition is the only quality of importance in a painting, but very likely holding the opinion that it is the most valuable of technical accomplishments, as it determines the character of the entire work.
To GŽr™me it has meant even more. It has saved his work from the clutches of absolute mediocrity. He is one of the men of whom the young art students say: "Pshaw, GŽr™me is so old-fogyish; but he knows something about composition."
He is one of the few painters to whom composition is still a science, not merely a decorative scheme of handling a certain space in a way that does not offend the eye. Study his sketches, "Conspiracy" and the "Death of Marshal Ney," how, by continual alterations, he gradually improved the pictures, and you begin to understand why the constructive element played such an important part in the creations of the old masters.
It will only be necessary to mention some really genuine work of art, like Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper," Rapahel's "Sistine Madonna" or Titian's "Entombment of Christ," to prove how sound principles of composition transfused and enabled all their mode of expression. The whole success or failure of their work, the sentiment, the character, the triumph of the soul over matter, hinged on composition in those times.
How marvelously do all the lines in da Vinci's picture converge to the central figure of Christ -- he made the laws of perspective the laws of composition. Raphael composed in an entirely different manner -- he applied the typical geometrical forms of nature with preference -- the triangle, the circle, and the ellipse -- giving them full sway to reign in supreme beauty and significance over the creations of his brain. Titian proved that an accurate juxtaposition of colors and the relations of their tones can be just as valuable for the making of a perfect picture as perspective and geometry. Michelangelo regarded architecture and the plastic element of sculpture as the foundations of great paintings, and Rembrandt believed that the massing of light and shade was sufficient to produce a masterpiece.
Each of these men excelled in his style of composition, which had become a part of their individuality; and one was as good as the other.
The situation has changed somewhat in modern times. Composition is no longer considered absolutely essential. It is even disregarded by the realists and impressionists, or at least subordinated to other qualities. They want to represent life as it is, and claim that nature cannot be improved upon. A faithful reproduction of what they see before them is all they desire. They claim they work on broader principles than hitherto, principles derived from the habits of the eye to note transient effect -- largely produced by instantaneous photography of movement, and to compare the values of color-patches with each other and to arrange them in a harmonious ensemble. They even assert that composition is no necessity; that there are no iron cast laws to go by, and that the true artist works out his salvation unconsciously.
I beg to differ on that point.
True enough, composition cannot be narrowed down to a few laws, which assure success to anyone who slavishly follows them. There are no definite laws for the composition of a portrait, a landscape, or an historical picture. But it has taken men like Chavannes and Whistler to prove that the decorative treatment of comparative values, or a solemn, low-toned key of color are as effective as the elaborate technical resources of the old masters. These men are geniuses who have beaten their own track through the labyrinthine thickets of modern art. Yet I doubt very much if they are not just as dependent on certain principles of composition as their predecessors, the only difference being that they proceed in a less scientific manner, and work more unconsciously -- not because they know less, but, on the contrary, more. They have seen everything that art has ever produced, and their knowledge of composition really embraces the entire history of art; ancient, mediaeval, and modern, Oriental as well as Occidental.
Every great artist makes his own laws of composition by studying the methods of his predecessors, and by giving infinite time and trouble to the elaboration of their ideas on the subjects. The mastery of composition is the final result of patient study of everything that is available in life and art.
And who can deny that the elements of Japanese art, the parallelism, the continual repetition with slight variation, the wayward caprice of losing detail here and scorning it there, the rhythm of line and the harmony of space proportion have influenced modern western art to such an extent that nearly every artistic production of the last thirty years shows a trace of one or another of its peculiarities. We believe that by adopting Japanese methods of composition we have discarded science and become more intuitive. But it is an illusion. Nobody who has studied the rigid canons of Japanese art will make such an assertion, for he will have found out that the fundamental process of so-called space-art, and the putting together of lines and masses is as scientific as the theories of Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance, and the academic rule of French artists.
As for the photographers, I do not believe that even the best have ever bothered themselves much about composition. Of course, they cannot do without it. But they have never taken it half seriously enough. they have simply imitated the painters in a more or less careless fashion.
It will be interesting to see how far they have succeeded.
There are four styles of composition in vogue at present: line composition, light and shade composition, space composition, and tone composition.
Eickemeyer is principally a story-teller of the old school, and his composition is largely a deduction of the methods of genre painters; he is at times very good in detail, but lacks fundamental principles. His pictures very seldom show concentration. Stieglitz excels in space composition (viz., "Fifth Avenue," "Scurrying Home," or "A Decorative Study"). Also Day, in his "Miss Devens," for instance, and KŠsebier, in several of her portraits, show how cleverly space can be broken up into parts of various shapes.
Light and shade composition (in the sense of Mauve or Corot) is rarely accomplished in photography. The distinction between light and shade in photography always lacks vigor and, what is more, proportional value. The first shortcoming is a mechanical one, the second due to the ignorance of the art. Stieglitz's "Old Mill" is a fair specimen of light and shadow composition (although from the point of subject, a sentimental platitude). A better one, because more rhythmic is its massing, is KŠsebier's "Mother and Child." Line composition is still rarer. The only photograph I know that can claim this quality is Stieglitz's "Decorative Study." White at times makes weak attempts at it. So do others, but in most cases it is largely due to the model when they succeed in suggesting it, as in Eugene's "Miss Lillian." Keiley is the only exception; he was wise enough to study A. W. Dow's book on composition, and whenever he fails he at least knows why.
In tone composition our artistic photographers celebrate their greatest triumphs. Day, KŠsebier, Keiley, and White are all ardent competitors for the harmony of tonal effects. I give the palm to Day and White. Day's tonal nuances in his portraits of Ethel Reed, Mrs. Potter, and some of his foreign types are so subtle and fugitive than any painter could be proud of them. I believe even Whistler would appreciate some of his prints in that respect. White's tonal schemes are managed with such delicacy of sentiment that they lend a peculiar poetic charm to all his work.
There is really not much else to say about composition in artistic photography -- that is, of what is actually done. Volumes could be written about what should be done, but I doubt if it would do much good. As I have said before, every artist of any independence of thought must make his own laws of composition. The photographer must go outside his profession and enter the province of the painter. The wielders of the brush must be his teachers.
The great painters, in the course of their practice, have authorized a sort of conventional language of composition, which every photographer ought to know, and apply whenever he possibly can. You are astonished that I, who otherwise always clamor for individuality, give such advice. You argue that your originality would be sacrificed by the use of such conventionalism. Pardon me; do not. Authors of books use combinations of words which have been in use for centuries, and yet display their originality, when they have any. Do they not enhance the beauty of their style by such knowledge?
It is the same way with composition. It has certain qualities which are understood by all who have studied art. And it is wiser to express one's own ideas, with such modifications as may be necessary, in this language, than to make the vain attempt to form a new one, or to talk incoherently.
If you are still young and do not aspire as yet to be ranked among the artistic photographers, amuse yourself for a while in trying different methods. Should you ever feel a decided preference for one or the other, have faith in your preference, for it is suggested by your own mental constitution, and practice your selected method until you succeed in it.
Les photographistes arrivŽs must work out their own salvation, for they won't listen any more to well-meaning advice; they know it all, or at least the largest part of it.
