A summary of Leon Bakst’s "The Paths of Classicism in Art"

This book is a philosophical and critical essay from 1909, reflecting on the crisis of European visual art and the constant struggle between classicism and romanticism. The author draws a sharp line between the lost authentic craft of the Renaissance and the fragmented artistic movements of the twentieth century, demonstrating the loss of a vital connection between contemporary painters and the long-standing tradition of mastery.

The split in French painting

The spring of the twentieth century finds art in a time of complete thaw. The heated air is foggy and teeming with new creatures with shiny, fragile wings destined to live only one day. French reformist artists are constantly at war with one another. Bakst lists the many schools that have emerged: Impressionists, Pointillists, Divisionists, Symbolists, Intimists, Visionists, Sensualists, and Neoclassicists. The artistic world is constantly searching for new perspectives on painting.

Gustave Courbet’s expression, "It is observed," was once prized, dismissing anything unrealistic as a pretentious lie. Courbet even threatened, "If I could now miraculously meet Guercino, I would kill him on the spot for his outrageous lies." Later, the public began to search for "mood," then "style" or "stylization," and later still, "mysticism" and "rhythm." These catchphrases reflect the turbulent history of changing tastes over the past thirty years.

The loss of a great school and the workshop system

Numerous movements arise from the demise of an ancient tradition that had lasted almost uninterrupted since the thirteenth century. Art historians often gloss over this colossal loss. True craft training is almost completely forgotten today. Bakst recalls commissioning an elderly master to trim a large painting on glass. The glazier, with his peasant-like features, easily drew a perfect wavy line with a diamond and nipped off the excess with pliers. This simple artisan preserved the skills of his workshop, whereas a specialized academy failed to impart similar practical skills to the artist.

True apprenticeship existed in ancient Italy. Giorgio Vasari told a story about the Florentine master Giotto. An envoy from Pope Benedict IX demanded to see sketches for upcoming commissions. Giotto rested his elbow on his knee and drew a perfect circle with red paint. The gesture convincingly demonstrated the artist’s superiority over his competitors. In the workshops of Domenico Ghirlandaio, apprentices worked side by side with their master, performing the rough work. Twelve-year-old apprentices witnessed the entire process of creating a painting, learning from their elders.

The struggle of ideals in the nineteenth century

The past century has been marked by the incessant struggle between the classicists and the romantics. Jacques-Louis David rudely broke the old ties. He naively attempted to transplant the canons of ancient Greek sculpture to French soil. David wanted to instantly achieve the absolute beauty that ancient masters like Scopas, Phidias, and Polykleitos had sought for centuries. The reformer accepted the results of past eras at face value, simply squeezing foreign standards into his canvases. He was followed by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, who continued this arid, academic line.

Romanticism sought the sublime in everyday things. The brilliant Jean-François Millet turned his gaze to French peasants. The artist found beautiful silhouettes among the simple workers, refusing to copy Greek heroes. The modern generation, by contrast, knows the history of fine art too well. This vast erudition has given rise to a fearful attitude toward antiquity in artists. Naturalists once haughtily rejected the old schools, making exceptions only for Frans Hals, Velázquez, and Rembrandt.

Collecting and fear of the past

People are accustomed to placing an ordinary Breton old woman’s glasses case and a Tintoretto masterpiece in a display case with equal reverence. The author is outraged by aesthete collectors who seek solace from modern crudeness in the artifacts of the past. The nails from Catherine the Great’s buildings may be more curious than those of today, but they are no substitute for living creativity. Viewers are horrified at the thought that Pinturicchio’s frescoes were painted over to make way for Raphael’s works in the Vatican. Restorers want to preserve all the painterly layers. Such a religious fear of old things paralyzes modernism, which is kept in the collectors’ anteroom. Such a protective attitude demonstrates the artists’ lack of self-confidence.

The sincerity of art and the fear of nudity

Two-thirds of paintings are created from the mind, not from an inner imperative. Children’s drawings possess a special sincerity and expressiveness, as the subjects deeply touch the child’s heart. Children draw synthetically, choosing their favorite objects: a house, a motor, a locomotive, a dog, or a girl. The young artist’s eye is focused on the essentials, indifferently omitting boring details. Such works always feature movement: hail pelting, snow falling, an airplane soaring through the air. However, by the age of twelve, drawings become stiff, dull and cold, acquiring the conventionality of good taste. Adult artists often completely forget how to highlight their favorite elements on the canvas.

Today’s painters hide the human figure amidst nature. At Salon exhibitions, viewers see gardens, boulevards, pots, and peaches. The schools of Paul Signac, Paul Cézanne, and Claude Monet have almost completely depopulated their canvases. The human nude terrifies artists with its perfection, once conveyed in the ancient sculpture of Praxiteles. Only recently has a timid interest emerged in the graceful poses of dancers and the pure line of the body, standing out against the smooth cloth like a museum statue.