Ingres, Turner & the Desire for Order

No man is a psychological island, and through the simple fact of being human is a universal being, or at least universal in the earthly sense. The individual actualises certain traits or potentialites of the universal self in his person- the personality a form of greater or lesser fluidity- and this most easily witnessed in the realms of art where inner substance takes outer form. This universality of self is naturally the sole reason art is of interest to individuals other than that of the individual creator. Whatever life the artist breathes into his work resonates with us through human commonality.

Perhaps the prime motivation of art is the urge towards unity, where the elements of existence find some cohesive form. What then becomes interesting is the extent to which the form achieved satsifies the inner nature and complexity of life, and is istelf a living extension of life. Is the art of a comparatively genuine order, reaching into the emotional and intellectual depths of life- the work of a great artist- or inconsistent with life, a false clarity, certainty at the expense of truth- for example, the childish work of a Tarantino. In the first, the artwork is an organic extension of life, whereas in the second the work simply seves the desire for form, but is more or less a parralel universe of artificiality, and will soon lie in the dust of forgotten time.

And to look at two roughly contemporary artists- Ingres(1780-1867) and Turner(1775-1851), as two examples of wildly divergent senses of being, reflected in their respective art.

In Ingres’ own words, “Drawing is seven eights of what makes up painting. This signifying a sense of self that sees, or wishes to see, life contained within purely delineated contours, and he abhorred the visible brushstroke, in obvious contrast to artists like Rembrandt, Van Gogh and Turner - comparative primitives of the temperament, and to my mind Ingres is the creator often of a rather prissy, bloodless 'perfection', with the above painting, Odalisque with a Slave a rather typical example of what might be termed his frequent exercises in porcelain erotica. His desire for simple classical certainty fits neatly the mentioned doll-like nature of the two women, neither of whom offers the faintest threat of possessing any volatile, awkward inner life, inaccessible to the artist. 

And to cement the point, another beautiful, if slightly oddly shaped, doll La Grande Odalisque

In keeping with Ingres' apparent sense of the world, his style remained roughly a constant through his career. He wrote, "I am a conservator of good doctrine, and not an innovator." Such a mind is not seeking breakthroughs to intenser vision, or the like; such a desire being at odds with the classical type to whom all should be clear and simple in self-contained perfection, rather than elusive, and difficult. And in terms of this classical ideal of clarity, this also explains Oedipus' extremely violent and ludicrous self-punishing for the crime - through no real fault of his own - of transgressing the desired form of absolute order integral to his culture. 

A greater painting by Ingres above, The Valpincon Bather, though the greater worth could be to a large extent down to where we are viewing the bather from, and were her face to be in view, she would most likely be revealed to be just another human doll.

And below Ingres, Rain Steam and Speed the Great Western Railway, by Turner, an artist actualising perhaps diametrically contrary psychological, spiritual aspects of the human condition. For Ingres, truth is contained firmly within the particulars of existence, especially within their physical form which offers its essence up meekly to the draughtman skills of the artist, and elusive inner reality is almost wholly non-existent. Such simple rational clarity is anathema to Turner, and his art, especially as he progressed, produces little in the way of drawing skills at all, and becomes at times squalls of virtual abstraction. Truth for him is a much more dangerous animal.
One could say there are two poles of temptation here: for the Ingres type, stagnation through excessive order, and for the Turner type a falling over from order into shapeless chaos.
For Turner the too solid flesh of the world dissolves into what might appear to be chaos, which brings to mind Blake's line, "As I was walking among the fires of hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity". Also Nietzsche's words, "You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star."

(This was all written a while back, not posted as what follows is a bit shoddy, and for some reason, still extant, I don't feel like working on finishing it. I might feel sufficiently motivated in some future time, but here it is anyway)

One could describe Turner's greatest works as involving the dissolving of an unsatisfactory constricting sense of order, of life contained within an intellectual false form, where 'truth' is too easily and risklessly attained by a rationalising mind, falsely sure of itself and its surroundings. Simply dissolving an unsatisfying sense of order in itself merely leaves us with unformed chaos, however, and it is the greatness of Turner's finest works to unify the particulars of life within a more intense vision. Turner's is not a New Age calendar vision of truth, with spirituality softly presenting itself to a gentle awakening soul. That would simply be an updated version of Ingres' soft-focus classicism. Turner is in violent opposition to such a comforting order too cheaply arrived at, which quickly rings false and emanates the banal.


Thomas Mann from Doctor Faustus:

I find there is something uncomfortable about standing eye-to-eye with greatness; it is a test of courage- can one really endure that gaze?

This inhuman majesty certainly intrinsic to Turner's greatest works, but it would be ridiculous to make such test of courage claims about Ingres' soft-focus classicism.