OUR ARTISTS IN ITALY.

William page.

Among artists, William Page is a painter.

This proposition may seem, to the great public which has so long and so well known him and his works, somewhat unnecessary.  There are few who are not familiar with his paintings.  Whether these seem great or otherwise, whether the Venus be pure or gross, we may not here discuss; the public has, and will have, many estimates; yet on one point there is no difference of opinion, apparently.  The world willingly calls him whose hand wrought these pictures a painter.  It has done so as a matter of course; and we accept the title.

But perhaps the title comes to us from this man’s studio, charged with a significance elevating it above the simply self-evident, and rendering it worthy of the place we have given it as a germ proposition.

Not every one who uses pigments can say, “I also am a painter.”  To him who would make visible the ideal, there are presented the marble, the pencil, and the colors; and should he employ either of these, just in proportion to his obedience to the laws of each will he be a sculptor, a designer, or a painter; and the revelations in stone, in light and shade, or on canvas, shall be his witnesses forevermore,—­witnesses of him not only as an artist, in view of his relation to the ideal world, but as possessing a right to the especial title conferred by the means which he has chosen to be his interpreter.

The world has too much neglected these means of interpretation.  It has condemned the science which would perfect the art, as if the false could ever become the medium of the true.  The art of painting has suffered especially from the influence of mistaken views.

Nor could it be otherwise.  Color-manifestation, of all art-utterance, is the least simple.  It requires the fulfilment of a greater number of conditions than are involved in any other art.  He who has selected colors as his medium cannot with impunity neglect form; light and shade must be to him as important as they are to the designer in chiaro-scuro; while above all are the mystery and power of color.

There is perplexity in this.  The science of form seems to be vast enough for any man’s genius.  No more than he accomplishes is demanded of the genuine sculptor.  His life has been grand with noble fulfilments.  We, and all generations, hold his name in the sacred simplicity which has ever been the sign of the consummate.  Men say, Phidias, Praxiteles, and know that they did greatly and sufficiently.

Yet with the science which these men had we combine elements equally great, and still truth demands the consummate.  Hence success in painting has been the rarest success which the world has known.  If we search its history page by page, the great canvas-leaves written over with innumerable names yield us less than a score of those who have overcome the difficulties of its science, through that, achieving art, and becoming painters.