interpretation ruskin 7 lamps

Interpreting Ruskin: The Argument of the Seven Lamps of Architecture and the Stones ofVeniceAuthor(s): Cornelis J. BaljonSource: The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, Vol. 55, No. 4 (Autumn, 1997), pp. 401-414Published by: Blackwell Publishing on behalf of The American Society for AestheticsStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/430927 .Accessed: 05/02/2011 15:33

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CORNELIS J. BALJON

Interpreting Ruskin: The Argument of The Seven Lamps of Architecture and The Stones of Venice

Strange as it is may sound, considering the huge body of secondary literature on John Ruskin (1819-1900), studies that focus on his architectural writings, reconstruct their several argu- ments, and place these in their proper philosophical context are rare. An essay by Charles Dougherty' takes care of just about that for Ruskin's debut as an architectural writer, The Poetry of Architecture (1839), but little of comparable scope has appeared regarding the far more celebrated The Seven Lamps of Architec- ture (1849) and The Stones of Venice (3 vols., 1851-1853). Studies by art historians over the past twenty-five years probe less into the argument of Ruskin's texts than into their architectural impact.2 Looking at Architecture with Ruskin by John Unrau3 marks an exception, in the sense that it extensively quotes and summa- rizes what, here and elsewhere, Ruskin actually has to say on architecture. It rather narrowly focuses on empirical observations and practical recommendations, though. Study of "ethical, religious and historical theories woven round architecture in his writings" is left to "many able scholars"-who remain unspecified. Writing in the mid-1970s, Unrau may have thought of George Landow, whose pioneering study in tex- tual and philosophical interpretation came out in 1971.4 That work, however, pays scant attention to The Seven Lamps of Architecture, whereas in dealing with The Stones of Venice it focuses on sections that anticipate much of great interest in the later volumes of Modern Painters (5 vols., 1846-1859), but are less distinguished for what they have to say on architecture. This pattern is repeated in later Ruskin studies by scholars whose primary field is English literature.5

In what follows, the argument of both works will be analyzed in terms of an interplay of

philosophical concepts and empirical observations. The history of those concepts beyond Ruskin's writings will not be explored in depth. The focus is internal. Among the things I hope to demonstrate is that, if the effort is made, those works yield more substantial architectural thought than they are generally assumed to hold.6

1. THE SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTURE

A recurring problem in twentieth-century recep- tion of The Seven Lamps of Architecture has been the book's utterly British philosophical background. Considering that Ruskin's commentators, too, have mostly been Anglo-Ameri- cans, one might naively think that this should cause no problem, but it did. Prestige of German aesthetics was so high, and of English or Scot- tish associationist philosophy so low, that the latter was either overlooked or not taken seri- ously as a basis on which even Ruskin could possibly erect a substantial body of architectural thought.7

Yet it is only in terms of associationist patterns of thought that one can hope to make sense of the work's conceptual structure. As indicated in the following diagram, each "Lamp" stands for a direction in which it is considered well for a beholder's associative trains to wander.

"The Lamp of Sacrifice" (chap. I) focuses on an almighty Biblical God, who demands love, obedience, and, as visible proof of both, ornate churches. In "Beauty" (chap. IV), aspiration is toward God as he reveals himself in nature's beauty. The same God as manifested in nature's sublimity is the object of "The Lamp of Power" (chap. III), which moreover refers to efforts, physical or organizational, invested in a construction by its builders. In that capacity it

The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 55:4 Fall 1997

402 The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism

B -fillI\\ Subim Nature Sacrifice [Nature

B eaut IV | M Power

State V - Person facing V Makers Society Obedience Building Life Builders

VI H Memory Truth

Lives and Times Actual of Former Users Construction

FIGURE 1. Conceptual Scheme of The Seven Lamps of Architecture

shares ground with "The Lamp of Life" (chap. V), where association is with joy and happiness of masons and stone carvers, who with considerable freedom in the execution of their tasks (if things are well) once raised the building. "The Lamp of Truth" (chap. II) explores relationships between a building's actual and apparent construction. It is not taken for granted that the two should coincide, as in that case there might be little to spark the imagination. What is endorsed is rather an interesting, yet intelligible, dialogue between the two. A comparable point of view will be encountered in "The Lamp of Beauty," where it deals with color in relation to form.8 "The Lamp of Memory" (chap. VI) expounds upon the ways in which a building should speak of its own history as intertwined with that of human institutions like a family, city, or state.

"The Lamp of Obedience" (chap. VII), finally, dwells on associations with society organized in a state and visualized by way of a universally accepted (or, if need be, prescribed) style-prefer- ably, though not necessarily, English Gothic of the "earliest decorated" variety.

For each of these seven directions one chapter thus explores the demands architecture should meet in order to ensure that associative trains will successfully come off. The result is a tightly organized essay. Each chapter, including the first one and the last-by current standards probably the most contentious-presents new and valu- able insights. Moreover, there is little redun- dancy. Every chapter breaks new ground and, by and large (a few exceptions will be discussed momentarily), recommendations issuing from these explorations remain compatible. A few

Baljon Interpreting Ruskin 403

topics, to be sure, appear to be arranged under the wrong headings. Thus, in those sections of "The Lamp of Truth" which deal with ferro-vit- reous construction and cast-iron ornament, it is admitted there is no deceit.9 The actual objection to such forms is that they are lifeless and bound to remain so. So why not discuss them in "The Lamp of Life"? Besides, the chapters II and V share more ground than most of the others, so why not make them consecutive?

Whatever the answer, these are minor imper- fections which cannot spoil a feeling of being witness to an authentic quest for standards of architectural excellence. Easy rationalizations will not do. Consistently, the author tries to grasp the issues in their full complexity. Speak- ing of his explorations in terms of an interplay of concepts and empirical observations, it nonetheless remains to be demonstrated that there really is such interaction-rather than God-ridden philosophical concepts on one side and "Ruskin as an Optical Thinker"10 on the other, with little to connect the two.

Certain parallels between the two are easily accounted for by common roots in associationist philosophy. On the conceptual side, the associationist nature of each "Lamp" is clearly stated. A conceptual scheme made up of precisely these seven remains unique for this one work by Ruskin-a superficial likeness to the one pro- jected for Modern Painters (but hardly lived by) notwithstanding. In many of the book's empirical observations and practical recommendations the link to associationist writings is more direct. Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste (1790/1811) by Archibald Alison (1757-1839) stands out as a particularly rich source of inspi- ration. That beauty is best enjoyed by one who is idling, so to say, unconcerned with either practical or intellectual affairs, is in the spirit of that work,1 1 though not of that alone. It can be traced to the very beginnings of associationist aesthetics in Joseph Addison's Taste and the Pleasures of the Imagination. 12 In "The Lamp of Beauty"' 3 it figures as an argument against lavish decoration of railway stations-where people tend to be in a hurry. Other ideas often associated with Ruskin, such as that an artist who grew up in the countryside is better off than one who was raised in the city,14 or that the greatest glory of a building is in its age,15 likewise have counter- parts in Alison's Essays.16 That beauty of form

rests on curved outline,17 an idea generally identified with Hogarth,18 features prominently with Alison too. That repetition of identical elements is suggestive of "power"19 comes from Burke.20

Within this associationist tradition Ruskin thus drew on a variety of sources. If only for that reason, it is unfair to speak of The Seven Lamps as "a moral gloss on Alison."'21 What happened is that, from an uncritical endorsement of picturesque ideals in The Poetry of Architecture, and their subsequent rejection in Modern Painters 1 and 2, in The Seven Lamps Ruskin moved beyond them to their source in associationist philosophy. Ideas encountered there were carefully weighed and, if accepted, assigned a place in a new conceptual framework. The audacity of this new scheme lies in the way six other lamps besides the one of "Beauty" came to replace the traditional categories of the sublime and picturesque. A modest place is still granted to these. Sublimity is dealt with in "The Lamp of Power" as a positive quality, but of more limited scope than at the time was common in aesthetic dis- course. More negatively, the picturesque is diag- nosed as "parasitical sublimity."22

So much for mere parallels. A more truly cre- ative interplay lies in the way a conceptual scheme, as outlined, structures questions and suggests answers, not just by chapter headings, but in every detail of the argument as it unfolds under the lamps of "Truth," "Power," "Beauty," "Life," and "Memory." In the opening and con- cluding chapters, the "Lamp of Sacrifice" and of "Obedience," such is less markedly the case, but, with their strong Biblical and political overtones, these two stand a bit apart anyway. Un- fortunately, the extent of this structuring cannot be demonstrated without extensive quoting- for which there is no room. By way of illustra- tion, suffice it to take a brief look at "The Lamp of Truth." Truth in general is introduced in a re- markably sober and perceptive way:

Speaking truth is like writing fair, and comes only by practice; it is less a matter of will than of habit. ... To speak and act truth with constancy and precision is nearly as difficult, and perhaps as meritorious, as to speak it under intimidation or penalty; and it is a strange thought how many men there are, as I trust, who would hold to it at the cost of fortune or life, for one who would hold to it at the cost of a little daily trouble.23


It is not assumed that truthfulness in architecture will much further its cause in other realms. Benefits will be mainly architectural. At stake are truth to material and honest display of actual construction-issues that ranked high among advocates of a Gothic revival. As such, the ideal is initially (?5) proclaimed with Puginian fer- vor. Next it is carefully qualified. Like his true mentor in these matters, Robert Willis (1800- 1875), Ruskin distinguishes between actual and apparent construction, of which aesthetically it is the latter that counts. Thus with regard to Gothic vaults he notes:

Now, there is a nice question of conscience in this, which we shall hardly settle but by considering that, when the mind is informed beyond the possibility of mistake as to the true nature of things, the affecting it with a contrary impression, however distinct, is no dishonesty, but on the contrary, a legitimate appeal to the imagination. For instance, the greater part of the happiness which we have in contemplating clouds, re- sults from the impression of their having massive, lu- minous, warm, and mountain-like surfaces; and our delight in the sky frequently depends upon our considering it as a blue vault. But we know the contrary in both instances; we know the cloud to be a damp fog, or a drift of snow-flakes; and the sky to be a lightless abyss. There is, therefore, no dishonesty, while there is much delight, in the irresistibly contrary impression.24

The practice of cladding masonry walls with marble or other kinds of precious stone is justified by noting (? 18) that it is generally under- stood that such precious materials will not be used for the whole thickness of a wall, so there is no deceit. Gilding is justified on the same grounds. It is added, though, that from the point of view of truth there is always higher rectitude in what is solid.

So much for positive interaction. Negatively, a dependence on associationist conceptions of art, beauty, and other varieties of aesthetic experience speaks from shared flaws and inconsistencies. Beauty in associationist philosophy was a notoriously elusive thing-and so it is with Ruskin. Critics who have objected that there is not much of a consistent theory of beauty in his works are absolutely right. "The Lamp of Beauty" covers three major aspects of architectural design: figurative ornament (??4-

23, 30-34), as much composition as is needed to give such ornament its proper place within an architectural whole (??24-29), and color (??35-42). Observe how in all these architecture touches on the fine arts. In a philosophical context where beauty in nature is held to be conceptually derived from beauty in art, this would be perfectly natural, but not in British associationism, where the primacy of Beautiful Nature remained unchallenged.25 With this unpromis- ing proposition as virtually the only common ground, psychological explanations for the experience of beauty were pursued in various directions. Burke tried to account for it in physio- logical terms, with strongly erotic overtones. Alison tended to locate it in association as such-albeit, as Ruskin correctly points out, not in an altogether consistent way.26

To Ruskin, whose one and only sustained effort to lay down a theory of beauty of his own came in the second half of Modern Painters 2 (the part that was completed shortly before work on The Seven Lamps began), such efforts were sacrilege. The experience of beauty, so he thought, was too unique a feeling to be reduced to other emotions, like love, lust, fear of death, fear of pain, curiosity, or a mere longing for di- version, let alone to a process of random association. It was as a direct manifestation of a supreme intelligence on which we all depend for life and well-being that Beautiful Nature was to be considered the source and paradigm of all authentic beauty. In beholding architecture it was, of course, mainly through association that thoughts and feelings could be directed that way, but then at least such associative trains were safely anchored in beauty of an intrinsic kind.

Endorsing this position, Ruskin sided with early-eighteenth-century philosophers like Shaft- esbury (1671-1713) and Addison against later associationists. For one who lived and worked in the mid-nineteenth century, this may seem a bit reactionary, yet the idea is consistently pursued in those sections of "The Lamp of Beauty" which deal with figurative ornament.27 In those on composition and on color, on the other hand, it is compromised. Significantly, the former opens with a musical analogy-albeit in order to point out that mastering the so-called art of proportionate design takes more than a few rules of thumb, that "The man who has eye and intellect will invent beautiful proportions, and


cannot help it; but he can no more tell us how to do it than Wordsworth could tell us how to write a sonnet, or than Scott could have told us how to plan a romance."28 This being said, Ruskin con- fines himself to outlining a few basic principles, "of no use, indeed, except as preventives of gross mistake": that proportion refers to the vertical dimension, symmetry to the horizontal; that proportion cannot exist between equal things; that it is of three things at least, one of which must be dominant; and that symmetry is a matter of balancing equal quantities rather than of mirroring a left side to a right.

Some natural analogy, no doubt, can be pointed out for all those things, but so could it for the rejected idea of near-perfect symmetry-as in animals. More interesting is the section on color. Of issues raised there, many were in the air. This holds for generous attention to architectural coloration as such, for claims that the pleasures it provides are in no way inferior to those enjoyed in good form and, like the former, analogous to those of music, that figurative ap- plications of color tend to be unarchitectural, the less so the more realistic and illusionist they become, and for a reliance on natural colors of stone and brick rather than on paint. More truly original is a claim that color should not follow form, and that perfection in one does not go along with perfection in the other. Nature, where "stripes of a zebra do not follow the lines of its body or limbs, still less the spots of a leopard," or where "in the plumage of birds, each feather bears a part of the pattern which is arbitrarily carried over the body," once again sets the stan- dard. It is suggested never to

paint a column with vertical lines, but always cross it. Never give separate mouldings separate colours ...; and in sculptured ornaments do not paint the leaves or figures (I cannot help the Elgin frieze) of one colour and their ground of another, but vary both the ground and the figures with the same harmony. Notice how Nature does it in a variegated flower; not one leaf red and another white, but a point of red and a zone of white, or whatever it may be, to each.29

Let it be noted, though, that in nature cases where color does follow form are just as common. Leaves by and large contrast to both the branch they grow from and to fruits or flowers they surround. Conversely, wholly successful

cases of architectural coloration in which form is fully ignored are rare. As Ruskin does not fail to demonstrate when elaborating his point, there must be some interesting dialogue between the two. However that unfolds, he nonetheless holds it to be a rule that "in general the best place for colour is on broad surfaces, not on the points of interest in form." These are acute observations, and so is the following:

Infinite nonsense has been written about the union of perfect colour with perfect form. They never will, never can be united. Colour, to be perfect, must have a soft outline or a simple one; and you will never pro- duce a good painted window with good figure-draw- ing in it. You will lose perfection of colour as you give perfection of line. ... Curved outlines, especially if re- fined, deaden the colour, and confuse the mind. ... I believe, therefore, that it is impossible to be over quaint or angular in architectural colouring; and thus many dispositions which I have had occasion to re- probate in form, are, in colour, the best that can be invented.30

Even so, this is a serious qualification of the doctrine that ornament should be imitative of natural form. Erratic moves about the scope of "beauty" in volume 1 of The Stones, of which we will come to speak in a moment, suggest that Ruskin was never altogether at ease with the situation. For now, let it be noted how an imperfect theory of beauty wrought little havoc in The Seven Lamps. Most of the above, if it does not fit a mimetic concept of beauty, remains compatible with a basically associationist scheme as outlined for the work as a whole. Even when Ruskin went far out on a divergent branch, that scheme kept him from falling down.

Finally, inconsistencies on the level of practical recommendations often can be traced to questionable aspects of a conceptual scheme as identified for The Seven Lamps as a whole. This too points to an active interplay of concepts and empirical observations. Thus critics have not failed to note how, from a theoretical point of view, there can be nothing holy about the number seven. To suggest the number might have been increased indefinitely,3' I think, is an ex- aggeration. Yet, in an effort to explain all architectural experience in terms of association (rather than of processes which are either more cognitive or less so), some omissions are striking. Associa-


tion of built forms with current use is one, with buildings in a similar style or shape another.

Association with use received ample attention in The Poetry of Architecture a decade earlier. Its omission in The Seven Lamps, therefore, must be intentional. Picturesque effects, as resulting from clear and straightforward functional layout, in "The Lamp of Power" must yield to richer and nobler associations occa- sioned by imposing size and bounded outline. What The Seven Lamps has to say on functional expression is in relation, not to functional layout, but to choice of material and distribution of ornament, like when it is stated that it is better to "bury gold in the embankments, than put it in ornaments on the stations" because "Railroad architecture has, or would have, a dignity of its own if it were only left to do its work."32

As for association with other buildings of comparable shape, only negative conclusions are attained, like that there is nothing intrinsically Catholic about Gothic, nor any reason to reserve it for devotional architecture. In an endorsement of Gothic for contemporary use, medieval remi- niscences have no part. Both in The Seven Lamps and in The Stones, such associations are considered too much a matter of convention and historical coincidence to show a way out of stylistic dilemmas. Besides, detailed attention to likeness with other buildings might have as little fitted the high moral road to which Ruskin committed himself33 as would have association with something as down-to-earth as current use.

What this implies is nothing less than a denial of style as, in any way, a matter of convention. At best, Ruskin is ambivalent. Continuity of style, even if it means acceptance of basically ir- rational conventions, in a few places is recommended,34 but never otherwise than as an argument against a new style of architecture in iron and glass. The few sections where a Gothic revival is endorsed-with a rhetorical power which could not fail to have an effect-are out of tune with the main argument. The thrust of both The Seven Lamps and The Stones is toward a more disciplined and vital eclecticism. Me- dieval elements, to be sure, are favored, but not necessarily those of a Gothic variety. More often than not, Romanesque and Byzantine forms are preferred. And anyway, each element is judged on its own formal merits. That it belongs to a set of conventions which characterize a certain

range of historic buildings, a set that ought to be taken as a whole or not at all, with Ruskin will not do as a justification-except, of course, when a Gothic revival is endorsed (The Seven Lamps, chap. VII in particular). An assessment of association with other buildings is thus dearly missed. Its absence accounts for some of the worst inconsistencies in both works.

II. THE STONES OF VENICE I

The introductory volume of The Stones of Venice stands apart from the rest in that, except for its opening chapter ("The Quarry"), it is not about Venice in particular. What it presents is a compi- lation of rules of right and wrong in architectural detailing. As such it stands in the tradition of classicist architectural treatises. References to these treatises are rare35 (which to some extent explains why this aspect of Ruskin's theorizing has received so little attention from commentators), yet this first volume can best be read as a kind of countertreatise. Parallels with Alberti's De Re Aedificatoria (1452) are particularly striking. Both works address well-educated laymen, who incidentally may serve as principals, not architects in the first place.36 Architecture in both is approached in terms of stone walls rather than of beams and lintels. The various parts of a building (foundations, walls, ceilings, vaults, and roofs), severally of a wall (base, "wall veil," cornice) and openings therein, are first discussed constructively, next with regard to what decoration best suits each part.

Erratic moves in defining the scope of "beauty," as indicated, somewhat disfigure this first volume. Yet I believe this too becomes less problematic when seen in the context of a dialogue with classicist architectural theory, and with Alberti in particular. For how does the argument proceed? The "virtues" of a building at the outset are introduced as:

1. That it act well, and do the things it was intended to do in the best way. 2. That it speak well, and say the things it was intended to say in the best words. 3. That it look well, and please us by its presence, whatever it has to do or say.37

Echoes of the triad utilitas, firmitas, venustas- with utilitas left out, firmitas (1) coming first,


and expressional character (2) added, so as to make three again. Utilitas, or functionality, was something Ruskin acknowledged as important, but as an aspect of "building" rather than of architecture proper. Accordingly, he felt no urge to theorize about it. Nor did he feel that way regarding expressional character, after all. Con- sidering that not all buildings are supposed to "speak" in the same manner and degree, and that, moreover, such expression rests on conventions and a beholder's knowledge thereof, it is decided to "leave the expression of buildings for incidental notice only." This corresponds to an intention, stated at the outset of The Seven Lamps, to focus on:

constant, general, and irrefragable laws of right which based upon man's nature, not upon his knowledge, may possess so far the unchangeableness of the one, as that neither the increase nor imperfection of the other may be able to assault or invalidate them.38

As a result, all aspects to be covered are sub- sumed under "Strength" and "Beauty." Puzzling is the way beauty is thus in rapid succession presented as independent of expressional character, as encompassing whatever makes a building look well and "please by its presence" (and thus as covering much of what so far six other lamps were held accountable for), and a little later as synonymous with decoration or ornament. The latter was at most loosely suggested by the range of topics dealt with in "The Lamp of Beauty," but becomes explicit when it is stated:

And again, in decoration or beauty, it is less the actual loveliness of the thing produced than the choice and invention concerned in the production, which are to delight US.39

The oddness of the identification speaks most directly from the impossibility of speaking about the ornament of beauty the way one talks about beauty of ornament. This verbal confu- sion can likewise be traced to Alberti, yet one wonders why a man as sensitive to language as Ruskin not only joined in, but made things worse. What is involved is hinted at in an appendix entitled 'Answer to Mr. Garbett." In an Elementary Treatise on Design (1850), this Gar- bett had taken issue with the way beauty in The Seven Lamps was treated as interchangeable

with ornament and thus degraded to something dependent on superfluous features. After a somewhat confusing diatribe as to what is "superfluous," Ruskin notes:

You do not build a temple and then dress it. You cre- ate it in its loveliness, and leave it, as her Maker left Eve. Not unadorned, I believe, but so well adorned as to need no feather crowns. And I use the words ornament and beauty interchangeably, in order that architects may understand this ... 40

And so on. What follows is once again not very illuminating-but why temples in a book on Venice? In architectural treatises, "temple" often refers to church, but such use of the word is rare in Gothic revival literature, or, for that matter, in associationist philosophy. In the present context it marks a shift in frame of reference to classicist architectural theory. Ruskin's statements become less cryptic if read in contrast to the following by Alberti:

We should erect our building naked, and let it be quite completed before we begin to dress it with ornaments, which should always be our last work, being best done at leisure, when we can do it without any impediment, and can take the advantage of such op- portunities as may offer for that purpose.4'

This, as is well known, corresponds to a conception of ornament as:

a kind of an auxiliary brightness and improvement to beauty. So that then beauty is somewhat lovely which is proper and innate, and diffused over the whole body, and ornament somewhat added or fastened on, rather than proper and innate.42

And of beauty as:

a harmony of all the parts ... fitted together with such proportion and connection, that nothing could be added, diminished, or altered, but for the worse.43

For Alberti as for Ruskin, beauty rests on imi- tating nature, but where Alberti sees the locus of authentic beauty in universals beyond particu- lars, Ruskin holds to the opposite point of view. Skepticism regarding mathematical proportions and love of naturalist decoration are corollaries of this philosophical outlook. In Alberti's view,


the function of ornament is twofold: to articu- late beautiful proportions in a building's main structure and to endow it with social decorum. Ruskin was enough of a romantic not to deeply care about the latter. The former he wished to turn around. Refinement of proportionate design, so he held, shouldfollow choice of a deco- rative system and be subject to considerations as to how decoration best finds its place within a larger whole. Identifying beauty with ornament was a polemical device to get this message through.

New labels for variables of architectural excellence do not, so far, reflect a major shift in aesthetic conception. Elaborating on recommendations expounded in The Seven Lamps, volume 1 of The Stones remains continuous with that earlier work. Criteria by which solutions for all the various parts of a wall or building are evaluated are, first, that they add "life" to the whole, second, that they lend it a lasting presence (or at least the impression of it) and, third, that they do so without infringing upon the integrity of walls. This brings along the idea of a "living wall":

For it is rather strange that, often as we speak of a "dead" wall, and that with considerable disgust, we hate not often ... heard of a living one. But the common epithet of opprobrium is justly bestowed, and marks a right feeling. A wall has no business to be dead. It ought to have members in its make, and pur- poses in its existence, like an organised creature, and to answer its ends in a living and energetic way.44

There is no implication here that walls should move about-no more so than trees are supposed to. Nor that their ephemeral nature should be underlined. A famous dictum from "The Lamp of Memory," that what we build should look as if it were made to last forever, remains in place.45 Is there a conflict here? Not really, if we consider that what Ruskin wishes a building to express is never-ending life, of the sort that can be observed in nature by abstracting from the mortality of individuals. Such life can be en- hanced in several ways. First, by a construction that is sufficiently straightforward to exhume a pleasant sense of constructedness, so to speak. Next, by a display of natural materials, taking advantage of their colors, which lend themselves to be arranged in interesting patterns. Fur-

ther, by figurative ornament imitative of form in nature. However, lest this become unarchitectural, over-refinement in its execution should be avoided. Depending on distance to an average viewer and on subject matter, only certain levels of realization are right. In order to preserve the integrity of walls, ornament is better concen- trated on edges of walls or of openings therein. Anthropomorphic and zoomorphic analogies have a part as well, especially when it comes to three-dimensional articulation of walls.46 A fascinating account of why northern Gothic is so rich in steep roofs and spires, finally, exem- plifies the book's overall antisymbolist tenor.47

III. THE STONES OF VENICE II AND III

The Seven Lamps of Architecture, as indicated, stands firmly in an associationist tradition, and so does the first volume of The Stones of Venice, which in its practical recommendations (which make up the bulk of the text) is by and large continuous with that earlier work. A first significant change in aesthetic outlook nonetheless be- gins to surface in the form of a revaluation of the picturesque, implicit in an observation that to the "superimposition" of weight on lightness "we owe the most picturesque street effects in the world."48 Halfway through volume 2 (in "The Nature of Gothic") this is amplified, when Gothic is hailed as a style which:

Undefined in its slope of roof, height of shaft, breadth of arch, or disposition of ground plan, ... can shrink into a turret, expand into a hall, coil into a staircase, or spring into a spire, with undegraded grace and unexhausted energy; and whenever it finds occasion for change in its form or purpose, it submits to it without the slightest sense of loss either of its unity or majesty.49

If it is asked how this differs from picturesque functionalism as advocated by Pugin and rejected in "The Lamp of Power," the answer must be: not in much. What has changed are Ruskin's priorities. Whereas picturesque functionalism, as more directly expressive of human life and freedom, regained respectability, formal restraint lost urgency along with the sublime in nature, by reference to which it had been justified.

Another new trend, in part related to the for-


mer, is heightened attention to iconographic detail. Once Ruskin comes, in volume 2, to de- scribe specific Venetian buildings, issues like what is represented in frescoes, mosaics, or other decoration can no longer be "left for incidental notice only." Inexorably, the city draws him deeper into the history and meaning of what he sees. Eventually, buildings are approached as texts. As it is stated in "The Nature of Gothic":

Thenceforward the criticism of the building is to be conducted precisely on the same principles as that of a book; and it must depend on the knowledge, feeling, and not a little on the industry and perseverance of the reader, whether, even in the case of the best works, he either perceive them to be great, or feel them to be entertaining.50

It has been noted how this decoding of a building's interesting features one by one corresponds to picturesque ideals, whereas for an ap- preciation of an object's beauty or sublimity one is supposed to swallow all at once.51 Consider- ing the close historical connection between picturesque ideals and associationist philosophy, this may not as yet suggest a fundamental conflict with positions outlined in volume 1 or in The Seven Lamps. A significant departure is involved, though, from an intention stated at the outset of The Stones to focus exclusively on principles "based upon man's nature, not his knowledge." Apparently, the author had turned skeptical as to the feasibility of that project.

Recently, this has been hailed as a healthy retreat from an essentially ahistorical approach.52 Indeed it does, in chapters like "Grotesque Re- naissance" (The Stones of Venice, vol. 3), result in remarkable new points of view. How can it be, it there is asked, that Renaissance grotesques, even if they display great technical virtuosity, tend to remain destitute of deeper thought and feeling? Why is most medieval work in the same category so much more expressive? This issues in fascinating speculations on the nature of grotesque art in general. The shift from associationism to allegorism that is involved neverthe- less has stronger ramifications in Ruskin's later work as a literary and art critic than in The Stones.53 For the latter, considered as a study in architectural history and theory, the more immediate result is a loss of focus. Volume 2 peaks

(but ultimately that, of course, is a matter of taste) in a magnificent fifth chapter on St. Mark's. Following "The Nature of Gothic," that most famous or infamous chapter (VI),54 the volume ends with Gothic palaces in general (chap. VII) and the Ducal Palace in particular (chap. VIII). These present nice observations on architectural form and color, as well as historical accounts of some interest. Substantial space, however, is now claimed by iconographic detail, which readers who have no intention to visit Venice next year, The Stones in hand, may prefer to skip.

In volume 3 sections of architectural interest become increasingly rare. Renaissance architecture is claimed as subject matter for all chapters except the first, but serves more markedly as a foil for elaborations on the virtues of Gothic. Chapter II, "Early Renaissance," is meant to be a counterpart to "The Nature of Gothic." Base- ness of Venetian Renaissance art is analyzed in terms of four constituent elements: Pride of Sci- ence (??6-36), Pride of State (??37-85), Pride of System (??86-92), and Infidelity (??93-103). Evidence is taken from paintings, tombs, sar- cophagi, political, religious, and intellectual history, but hardly from Venetian buildings. Of chapter III we already came to speak. In the con- cluding one (IV), Renaissance architecture is denounced55 and Gothic endorsed, both in a huge display of rhetorical fireworks.

In the end, fundamental associationist positions are left behind. Thus, with regard to Byzantine mosaics and their efficacy in com- municating religious content, it is noted:

there must be a summons in the work, which it shall be our own fault if we do not obey.... Most men do not know what is in them, till they receive this summons from their fellows ...; there is nothing for which they are so thankful as that cry, "Awake, thou that sleep- est." And this cry must be most loudly uttered to their noblest faculties; first of all, to the imagination, for that is the most tender, and the soonest struck into numbness by the poisoned air.... Once that he is well awake, the guidance which the artist gives him should be full and authoritative: the beholder's imagination should not be suffered to take its own way, or wander hither and thither; but neither must it be left at rest; and the right point of realization, for any given work of art, is that which will enable the spectator to com- plete it for himself, in the exact way the artist would


have him, but not that which will save him the trouble of effecting the completion.56

Whence this "authoritative guidance"? Why in- sist on a one-to-one relationship between artistic form and content? Why should this relationship be the same for artist and audience-any audience!-or even for one person at different occasions? Nothing could be more at variance with associationist delight in "pleasures of the imagination."

IV. STATUS AS THEORY

Associationist aesthetics hold a middle ground between, on the one hand, conceptions of art and architecture as a language and, on the other, more formalist positions. Works of art are ex- pected to be rich in suggested meaning; truth is no major issue. Likeness, analogy, and secondary associations based on use feature more prominently than linguistic or pseudo-linguistic conventions, precisely because, being less specific, they do not constrain a beholder's imagination as much. Such an approach need not be altogether hedonistic. The better the art, so it is generally held, the more significant its moral dimension-and the easier the latter gets lost on an uneducated audience. An artwork's moral function takes effect, as it were, in the exercise of taste. Accordingly, it does so less through moral teaching than by means of a capacity to rouse emotions in a cathartic way.

Thus considered, similarities between the spirit in which The Seven Lamps was completed and The Stones begun and that of Kant's Critique of Judgment are more striking than differences. However, from this common eighteenth-century basis, aesthetic thought in Ger- man-speaking lands evolved in rather different directions from Ruskin's. To begin with, an awareness that, conceptually, beauty in art, not beauty in nature, is the primary thing gained more ground.57 For reasons outlined above, fa- miliarity with continental trends of thought might have served Ruskin well in this matter. For ideas regarding the interdependence of ethics and aesthetics, the situation is more complicated. In post-Kantian Europe the overriding feeling was that even if moral considerations often encroach upon aesthetic judgments, it should, at least in principle, be possible to

clearly distinguish between ethical and aesthetic aspects of the same. At this point Ruskin parts company with mainstream European thought. In the creation of art as much as in its perception, he felt, all of a person is involved. Distinction between works that have a lot and those that have very little authentic quality is perfectly feasible, but within such quality ethical and aesthetic elements cannot be as neatly laid apart as those continental post-Kantians would like us to believe. Philosophical underpinnings for this position evolved and may not always have been convincing, but Ruskin's rejection of what Ro- senberg has called "the deleterious fiction of Esthetic Man" was fundamental.58 As a red line it runs through all of his writings on art and architecture. Had he known more about German philosophy, chances are slim that it would have affected his position very much.

Against this background, there is no justification in downplaying the theoretical status of Rus- kin's architectural writings just because of the author's proudly confessed ignorance of Ger- man philosophy.59 There may be other reasons, though, for such an assessment, so let us give this status a closer look. What is the scope of Ruskin's architectural theorizing? What status is claimed for the criteria of excellence he sets out to defend? Are they supposed to hold for all architecture of all times and for all qualified ob- servers, or is there a beginning of cultural and historic relativism? In either case, what evidence is presented in support of those claims: only the author's own intuitive responses to art and architecture, or those of others as well? And, last but not least, how consistently does he argue his case?

As for the evidence, it has been noted that the range of buildings on which Ruskin bases his generalizations is fairly small.60 Almost in- variably it concerns medieval or Renaissance churches and palazzi in northern France and northern Italy. Yet this selection spans a rela- tively wide range of regional and period styles, more than most architectural treatises. There- fore, the objection more fairly would be raised against architectural treatises in general. Of buildings reviewed, little is discussed beyond their public appearance, to be sure. With churches this involves their interior as much as their exterior, but of palazzi only the street facade appears to matter. Functional layout is


relegated to the related art of building, as distinct from architecture proper. Thus it remains outside the range of topics Ruskin feels called upon to explore. So be it. No text of finite length can deal with all aspects of design in depth. Why not be grateful to Ruskin for having con- centrated on these few? With this type of objection the problem usually lies with the reader. Whoever is more interested in advanced construction methods or layout of department stores than in architectural detailing in brick and stone, or in the limits of architectural criticism-in the extent, that is, to which architectural excellence can be described at all-should not come to Ruskin in the first place. But then, who is to blame?

With regard to the consistency of his art teaching, Proust's observation that, more often than not, the point is less Ruskin's contradicting himself than his commentators' contradicting each other, has lost none of its topicality. Rus- kin, to be sure, occasionally loved to brag that he was apt to contradict himself and would con- tinue to do so, if only to force his readers to think for themselves. No reader who takes the time to look more closely at contexts in which statements are made, or at qualifications they are embedded in, can escape the impression, though, that the man's reputation as an incoher- ent writer is much exaggerated. His style is as clear as it is elegant. Serious inconsistencies rarely occur on the level of single chapters or essays. Unresolved tensions between them, on the other hand, are not uncommon. As noted with regard to picturesque functionalism, conventionality of style, or a Gothic revival, Ruskin, like a devil's advocate, is liable to argue two sides of a matter convincingly and leave the reader guessing where he actually stands.

This in turn raises questions regarding the status of principles endorsed and, related to that, their empirical underpinnings. Why so little attention to other people's responses to architecture? More would have been in tune with standards that obtain in behavioral science. Would it not also have resulted in a more stable and reli- able body of theory?

Reasonable as it may sound, I fear the question is wholly academic. Ruskin's approach is not objectifying in a behaviorist sense; rather, it is dialectical. Readers are invited to look at buildings (or, for that matter, paintings) the au-

thor's way. Can they not see them so, nor share the author's feelings, the challenge is, first, that they watch those works more closely and imag- inatively than they have done so far and, second, that they place their resulting judgments in a wider ethical and aesthetic context-of their own making, but comparable in scope to Ruskin's.

So far so good, but what if Ruskin-as he occasionally seems willing to admit-cannot himself come up with a fully consistent set of criteria? Intellectual relativism, unmatched by a corresponding relativism regarding values, be they ethical or aesthetic, might be the answer. If pushed too far, the idea is theoretically self- defeating, though. Accordingly, Ruskin's position is ambivalent. In an empirical vein he states:

In many cases, the conclusions are those which men of quick feeling would arrive at instinctively; and I then sought to discover the reasons of what so strongly recommended itself as truth. Though these reasons could every one of them, from the beginning to the end of the book, be proved insufficient, the truth of its conclusions would remain the same. I should only regret that I had dishonoured them by an ill-grounded defence; and endeavour to repair my error by a better one.61

In a more rationalist spirit, the task he sets himself a little later is defined as one of:

determining some law of right, which we may apply to the architecture of all the world and of all time; and by help of which, and judgment according to which, we may as easily pronounce whether a building is good or noble, as, by applying a plumb-line, whether it be perpendicular.62

By and large, Ruskin's approach to artistic excellence evolved from daring experiments with broad principles to an intuitive assessment of value systems and of works of art as exemplifi- cations of these. First principles, from which all valid value judgments can be derived, became increasingly suspect. Yet one will look in vain for an acknowledgment of all value as historically conditioned. If this sounds unfashionable, let it, to Ruskin's defense, be asked what can be wrong about efforts to at least distinguish between more and less historically conditioned features. Conceptualization of what seems rela-


tively constant and description of what is more variable in terms of the resulting concepts might seem to be of the essence of the historian's trade. Mutatis mutandis (with a shift from what actually happened to what could or should be), the same holds for architectural theory. Further pur- suing this train of thought, one may hit upon standards that prevail in any civilization of some sophistication-inevitably so, because without them a culture cannot thrive.

Considered this way, the problem with Ruskin is less a search for invariables as such than an approach of these in a subject-centered manner which does no justice to the fundamen- tally cultural nature of all artistic production and all experience of art. Ambivalence toward conventionality of style is a case in point. So is a lack of sympathetic understanding for non- European art,63 but there is more. Ruskin has been hailed as a pioneer in exploring interrela- tionships of art and society. Yet it is in this realm that he puts on his most conservative face and presents some of his most outdated views. Pri- marily, he is concerned to show that it takes noble people to yield a noble culture, which in turn is the only context in which truly great art can flourish. Along with an assumption that, for reasons which.are not their fault, poor people are less likely to attain such nobility as their well-to-do (because more educated) fellow- men, this keeps in place a chauvinistic vision of the world which Hewison has identified as Ultra-Toryism.64 So be it. An Ultra-Tory he may well have been, but for a generally undog- matic person like Ruskin it will not do to hold such ideology directly responsible for what we find questionable in his aesthetic outlook. More likely, the two are to be seen as parallel but rel- atively independent outpourings of an intellectual mechanism which, in search of criteria of right and wrong, be they ethical or aesthetic, ultimately focuses on those of a psychological and religious variety, rather than on more strictly cultural factors.

Put this way, it may immediately be objected that religion is an aspect of culture. The point is that in Ruskin, religion and psychological inwardness are intertwined. His religious outlook is Protestant in leaving little room for other humans (saints, priests, or whatever) between a believer and his God. A congregation of like-

minded believers may for other Protestants still serve as some sort of an intermediary, but Ruskin is more radical. As pointed out by Wilenski, man's relationship to God for him is always a very personal, not a sectarian one.65 Nor does it stop there. Eventually, God is psy- chologized. Turning to God through art means turning one's back to society, for a while. Whether it be in nature as represented in a work of art that a beholder hopes to meet him, or in the soul of an artist as another lonesome, struggling individual, the locus of the artistic act and corresponding religio-aesthetic experience is not in socio-religious, or just social, ceremony, but rather in a retreat from it. No problem there, except that, ever since the mid- seventeenth century or thereabouts, precisely such psychologizing had been the driving force behind that separation of ethics and aesthetics Ruskin resented so much. Thus there was little future in efforts to repair the rift along these lines.

This sheds an interesting light on what may otherwise seem paradoxical, namely that often Ruskin is at his best and most perceptive in sections where he is also deeply involved in acting out his religious obsessions. Contrary to what Pevsner thought,66 religion need not be the spoiler in an otherwise rational approach. Chap- ters like those on St. Mark's or "Grotesque Re- naissance" suggest the very opposite.67 The clue, I think, is that in playing off religious prac- tices of medieval man against his own religious thought Ruskin effectively zooms in on the former-and hence on the ceremonial nature of medieval art. Who cares when it is suggested that the author personally shares, or at least sympathizes with, some of those medieval fic- tions? In a reconstruction of systematic thought from a certain range of texts, as attempted here, ideology and belief systems account for little. What matters is not what an author, whose works are scrutinized, believes, but what he sees and invites us to see with him. In Ruskin's case it was a fascination with religious purport which sensitized him to the ceremonial nature of art. Among a later generation of art historians, who favored a more strictly psychological- empathy or Gestalt-approach, such sensitivity became rare.68


CORNELIS J. BALJON 137 Fayette Street Ithaca, New York 14850-5262

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1. Charles Dougherty, 'A Study of The Poetry of Archi- tecture," in Studies in Ruskin, eds. R. Rhodes and D. I. Janik (Ohio University Press, 1982). Dougherty in turn refers to an unpublished master's thesis by Paul Q. Beeching, The Eigh- teenth-Century Background of Ruskin's The Poetry of Ar- chitecture (St. Louis University, 1956: microfilm).

2. See George L. Hersey, High Victorian Gothic (Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972); Eve Blau, Ruskinian Gothic (Princeton University Press, 1982); or Michael W. Brooks, John Ruskin and Victorian Architecture (Rutgers University Press, 1987). As for Ruskinism in American architecture, see Sarah Bradford Landau, P B. Wight (The Art Institute of Chicago, 1981).

3. John Unrau, Looking at Architecture with Ruskin (Lon- don: Thames & Hudson, 1978).

4. George Landow, The Aesthetic and Critical Theories of John Ruskin (Princeton University Press, 1971).

5. See, e.g., Elizabeth K. Helsinger, Ruskin and the Art of the Beholder (Harvard University Press, 1982).

6. Kenneth Clark's opinion, that "we should be wasting our time to look for a coherent system of aesthetics (two words he hated) in his works as a whole," (Ruskin Today [New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1964], p. 124), still enjoys great currency among art historians.

7. Overlooked they are by Kenneth Clark, who notes (Ruskin Today, p. 124) that, when he wrote Modern Painters, Ruskin's philosophical training consisted of "a slight ac- quaintance with Aristotle's Ethics and Locke's Essay Con- cerning Human Understanding," whereas of "Kant and Hegel, and the other founders of modern aesthetics he was, and remained, totally ignorant." In a lecture of 1919, entitled "Ruskin's Philosophy," R. G. Collingwood, while aware of a certain impact of associationism, trivializes it. More recently, George Hersey, in High Victorian Gothic and "Ruskin as an Optical Thinker" (in The Ruskin Polygon, eds. Hunt and Holland [Manchester University Press, 1982]) took a similar position.

8. SL, chap. IV, ??35-42; Works, vol. 8, pp. 176-187. Ci- tations from Ruskin's works conform to The Works of John Ruskin, eds. E. T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn, 39 vols. (London: George Allen, 1903-1912), to be cited as Works, followed by volume and page number. For the convenience of readers who have easier access to some other edition, this is preceded by a reference by mnemonic code for the title, followed by section, chapter, and paragraph numbering. In this notation, "MP" stands for Modern Painters, "SL" for Seven Lamps, and "SV" for Stones of Venice.

9. SL, chap. II, ??9-13, 20; Works, vol. 8, pp. 66-72, 84-86.

10. Title of the aforementioned essay by Hersey (see note 7). In John Ruskin: The Argument of the Eye (Princeton Uni- versity Press, 1976), Robert Hewison suggests a similar point of view, but does not systematically work it out.

1 1. Archibald Alison, Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste, ed. A. Mills (New York: Harper, 1854), Essay I, chap. I, sec. II, I.

12. Joseph Addison, Taste and the Pleasures of the Imag- ination, Issues 409-421 (1712) of The Spectator. For a recent reprint see Critical Essays from the Spectator, ed. Don- ald F. Bond (Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 172-209.

13. SL, chap. IV, ?21; Works, vol. 8, pp. 159-160. 14. SL, chap. III, ?24 and chap. IV, ?43; Works, vol. 8, pp.

136, 189. 15. SL, chap. VI, ?10; Works, vol. 8, pp. 233-234. 16. Alison, Essay I, chap. II, sec. II, 1.3 and Essay II, chap.

IV, sec. I, 1.1 respectively. 17. SL, chap. IV, ?6; Works, vol. 8, pp. 144-145. 18. The painter and engraver William Hogarth (1697-

1764) in his treatise Analysis of Beauty, Written with a View of Fixing the Fluctuating Ideas of Taste (1753), ed. J. Burke (Oxford University Press, 1955).

19. SL, chap. III, ?9; Works, vol. 8, p. 110. 20. Edmund Burke (1729-1797), A Philosophical En-

quiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beau- tiful (1757), ed. Adam Phillips (Oxford University Press, 1990).

21. Hersey, High Victorian Gothic, pp. 24, 28. 22. SL, chap. VI, ??1 1-12; Works, vol. 8, pp. 235-236. 23. SL, chap. II, ?1; Works, vol. 8, pp. 56-57. 24. SL, chap. II, ?7; Works, vol. 8, p. 62. 25. Ruskin's position is complicated by the fact that, as in-

dicated by Landow in "Ruskin, Holman Hunt, and Going to Nature to See for Oneself" (in Studies in Ruskin, eds. Rhodes and Janik), p. 64, he was aware that we are more likely to see what we paint than to paint what we see. In other words, it is through art that we apprehend the world aesthetically. From there to the notion that, not only in per- ceiving a scene or object, but even more in judging it beautiful, we as it were approach it as a work of art, might seem but a small step. Yet it was not. When in the aforementioned Essays (1811, p. ix) Alison states: "If the fine arts are in re- ality arts of imitation, their principles are to be sought for in the subject which they imitate; and it is ever to be remem- bered, 'That music, architecture, and painting, as well as poetry and oratory are to deduce their laws and rules from the general sense and taste of mankind, and not from the principles of these arts themselves: in other words, that the taste is not to conform to the art, but the art to the taste,"' he voices a more accepted point of view. The quote inside the quote is from Addison.

26. MP2, part III, section I, chap. IV, ?7. 27. For details see Unrau, Looking at Architecture with

Ruskin, or, of course, The Seven Lamps itself. 28. SL, chap. IV, ?25; Works, vol. 8, p. 163. 29. SL, chap. IV ?36; Works, vol. 8, pp. 177-178. 30. SL, chap. IV, ??38-39; Works, vol. 8, pp. 180-182. 31. This opinion was voiced by Kenneth Clark in The

Gothic Revival (1928; New York: Harper & Row, 1974), p. 198. Ruskin himself at some point (SL, intro.) concedes that "Both arrangement and nomenclature [of principles to be expounded] are those of convenience rather than of system," and that possibly not all, nor "even the greater number of, the principles necessary to the well-being of the art, are included in the inquiry."

32. SL, chap. IV, ?21; Works, vol. 8, p. 160. 33. In the "Introductory" of The Seven Lamps, where it is

noted that "there is no action so slight, nor so mean, but it may be done to a great purpose, and ennobled therefore,"


and that, accordingly, "in the pressing or recommending of any act or manner of acting, we have choice of two separate lines of argument: one based on representation of the expe- diency or inherent value of the work, which is often small, and always disputable; the other based on proofs of its rela- tions to the higher orders of human virtue, and of its accept- ableness, so far is it goes, to Him who is the origin of virtue. The former is commonly the more persuasive method, the latter assuredly the more conclusive."

34. SL, chap. II, ?9, chap. VII, ??4-7; Works, vol. 8, pp. 66-67, 252-259. Also in "Iron in Nature, Art, and Policy," a lecture of 1858, included in The Two Paths, Works, vol. 16, pp. 375-41 1.

35. Only Vitruvius is occasionally mentioned, others, like Alberti and Palladio, at best as architects.

36. A clear statement to that effect is in the preface to The Stones, vol. 1: "And it is assuredly intended that all of us should have knowledge, and act upon our knowledge, in matters with which we are daily concerned, and not to be left to the caprice of architects or mercy of contractors."

37. SV 1, chap. II, ?1; Works, vol. 9, p. 60. 38. SL, Introduction, ?2, Works, vol. 8, p. 21. 39. SV 1, chap. II, ?4; Works, vol. 9, p. 64, emphasis added. 40. SV1, Appendix 17; Works, vol. 9, p. 452. 41. Alberti, Book IX, ?8. Considering that presumably

this was the edition most readily available to Ruskin, the following quotations are from the Leoni translation of 1755, entitled The Ten Books of Architecture (New York: Dover, 1986), not from the more recent-and no doubt more accu- rate-one by Rykwert et al.

42. Ibid., Book VI, ?2. 43. Ibid. 44. SV 1, chap. IV, ? 1; Works, vol. 9, p. 79. 45. SL, chap. VI, ?10; Works, vol. 8, p. 233. 46. SV1, chap. IV, ??3-7, chap. IV, ?1; Works, vol. 9, pp.

80-82, 91; SL, chap. III, ?7; Works, vol. 8, pp. 107-108. 47. SV1, chap. XIII, ??5-9; Works, vol. 9, pp. 184-188. 48. SV 1, chap. XIX, ?7; Works, vol. 9, p. 243. For similar

observations on Gothic palaces, see SV2, chap. VII, ? 1. 49. SV2, chap. VI, ?38; Works, vol. 10, p. 212. 50. SV2, chap. VI, ?114; Works, vol. 10, p. 269. 51. Helsinger puts it as follows: "The sublime was under-

stood as a single impression of unity, without conscious recognition of parts, and the picturesque as a progressive perception of parts, without an immediate comprehension of unity, the beautiful was frequently described as the conscious perception of both the whole and its parts, of unity in multiplicity" (Ruskin and the Art of the Beholder, p. 116). In this connection reference is made to Francis Hutcheson and Alexander Gerard.

52. E.g., by Helsinger, ibid. 53. Most notably in Modern Painters, vol. 3 (1856). For de-

tails see Landow, The Aesthetic and Critical Theories of John Ruskin, and Helsinger, Ruskin and the Art of the Beholder.

54. For an interesting and provocative vision on this chapter see John Unrau, "Ruskin, the Workman and the Savageness of Gothic," in New Approaches to Ruskin, ed. Robert Hewison (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1981), pp. 33-50.

55. Ruskin's treatment of classicist architecture leaves much to be desired, yet is less one-sided than commonly as-

sumed. Unrau (Looking at Architecture with Ruskin, pp. 48-53) lists several Renaissance buildings in Venice that Ruskin praises for good proportions and fine detailing. With few exceptions, though, such positive reviews are re- served for the "Venetian Index," an appendix to volume 3. The main text holds on to debunking of whatever goes by the name of Renaissance. Exception is made for half a dozen famous buildings, like Palladio's Vicenza Town Hall (SV3, chap. II, ?3)-but with no positive identification of what is so great about them. Otherwise, "Palladian" remains synonymous with decadent. With Michelangelo it is the other way around. Along with Phidias and Dante he ranks among the three great artists of all times, but St. Peter's gets mixed reviews and no other architectural works are discussed.

56. SV3, chap. IV, ?21; Works, vol. 11, pp. 213-214, emphasis added

57. Kant, who was much indebted to British associationism, in this held on to a rather conventional perspective. An early instance (preceding the Critique of Judgment by a few years) of a contrary point of view is the entry caractere by Quatremere de Quincy in volume 1 (1788) of the Ency- clopedie Methodique, where it is noted that uncultivated nature by and large is poor in character.

58. John D. Rosenberg, The Darkening Glass (1961; Co- lumbia University Press, 1986), p. 21.

59. MP3, Appendix 2. 60. See, e.g., R. H. Wilenski, John Ruskin (1933; New

York: Russell & Russell, 1967). 61. SV1, preface to first edition ?4; Works, vol. 9, p. 7. 62. SV1, chap. II, ?1; Works, vol. 9, p. 60. 63. Such prejudice is striking in "Grotesque Renais-

sance." The alleged superiority of Gothic over Renaissance grotesques has echoes, one might think, in equally remarkable "primitive" art from far-away lands. Ruskin acknowl- edges nothing of the kind. The only exception he allows for non-European art concerns "Egyptians, Jews, Arabians, As- syrians and Persians," in other words, our own cultural an- cestors (SV3, chap. III, ??69-70). Chinese and Mexican are categorically rejected (SV1, chap. I, ?49). Indian rugs, which featured so prominently at the Great Exhibition of 1851, could not, however, be so easily ignored. On this, see chap. 1 of The Two Paths (Works, vol. 16, pp. 259-292).

64. Robert Hewison, "Notes on the Construction of The Stones of Venice," in Studies in Ruskin, ed. Rhodes and Janik, pp. 131-152. "Ultra-Toryism" refers to an anti- Catholic, antiliberal political philosophy shared by John Ruskin and his father, John James-who also acted as his son's editor and publisher.

65. Wilenski, John Ruskin. 66. Sir Nikolaus Pevsner, Some Architectural Writers of

the Nineteenth Century (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), pp. 145ff. 67. SV2, chap. V; SV3, chap. III. 68. Thanks are due to George Allan Cate, Kent Bloomer,

Duncan Stroik, Per Galle, Eve Blau, and an anonymous re- viewer for this journal for reading and criticizing earlier drafts of this article. Elizabeth Helsinger was kind enough to do the same for a case study on Ruskin that was part of my Ph.D. dissertation, The Structure of Architectural Theory: A Study of Some Writings by Gottfried Semper, John Ruskin, and Christopher Alexander, Delft Technical University, 1993.

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