Fig 1: D. H. Lawrence, Laughing Horse (c. 1924)
Fig 2: Josef Moest, Lady Godiva (1906)
I.
D. H. Lawrence had very definite ideas on most things, including the art of representation.
Take a look fig. 1 above, for example, which he produced for a possible cover to an edition of Spud Johnson's two-bit literary magazine, The Laughing Horse [1].
It's arguable that what Lawrence is attempting here is to give us an impression of a horse that has something childlike about it. For Lawrence believed that a child sees things differently, more magically, than the average adult:
"When a boy of eight sees a horse, he doesn't see the correct biological object we intend him to see. He sees a big living presence of no particular shape with hair dangling from its neck and four legs. If he puts two eyes in the profile, he is quite right. Because he does not see with optical, photographic vision. The image on his retina is not the image of his consciousness. The image on his retina just does not go into him. His unconsciousness is filled with a strong, dark, vague prescience of a powerful presence, a two-eyed, four-legged, long-maned presence looming imminent.
And to force the boy to see a correct one-eyed horse-profile is just like pasting a placard in front of his vision. It simply kills his inward seeing. We don't want him to see a proper horse. The child is not a little camera. He is a small vital organism which has direct dynamic rapport with the objects of the outer universe. He perceives from his breast and his abdomen, with deep-sunken realism, the elemental nature of the creature." [2]
However, if an adult is passionate enough - like an artist - then they retain the ability to see things like a child; i.e., as a kind of vibrating blur in which nothing is fixed and final. They can still see the horse as a darkly vital presence composed of a mane, a long face, a round nose, and four legs.
II.
I remembered what Lawrence wrote here when recently re-reading a discussion about art in Women in Love (1920). Or, more precisely, enjoying the argument between Ursula Brangwen and Loerke over the latter's sculpted bronze figure of a naked young girl sat upon a horse [3].
Ursula doesn't care for Loerke - despite the fact her sister Gudrun is very much drawn to him. And so, when he produces a photogravure reproduction of a statuette signed with his name, she is more inclined to be confrontational than complimentary:
"The statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sitting on a great naked horse. The girl was young and tender, a mere bud. She was sitting sideways on the horse, her face in her hands, as if in shame and grief, in a little abandon. Her hair, which was short and must be flaxen, fell forward, divided, half covering her hands.
Her limbs were young and tender. Her legs, scarcely formed yet, the legs of a maiden just passing towards cruel womanhood, dangled childishly over the side of the powerful horse, pathetically, the small feet folded one over the other, as if to hide. But there was no hiding. There she was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse.
The horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start. It was a massive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up power. Its neck was arched and terrible, like a sickle, its flanks were pressed back, rigid with power." [4]
Gudrun, who is also present, is clearly affected by the work: she turns pale, "and a darkness came over her eyes" [5]. She finds the horse phallic and wishes to know its size. But also she was thinking "of the slender, immature, tender limbs of the girl, smooth and cold in green bronze" [6].
Ursula, however, hates it:
"'Why,' said Ursula, 'did you make the horse so stiff? It is as stiff as a block.'" [7]
Somewhat affronted by this, Loerke merely repeats the word stiff, obliging Ursula to expand upon her accusation:
"'Yes. Look how stock and stupid and brutal it is. Horses are sensitive, quite delicate and sensitive, really.'" [8]
At this, Loerke "raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of slow indifference, as much as to inform her she was an amateur and an impertinent nobody" [9], before attempting to explain "with an insulting patience and condescension in his voice" [10], that the horse is not an actual living creature:
"'It is part of a work of art, a piece of form. It is not a picture of a friendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you see - it is part of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that work of art.'" [11]
That, of course, in one sense at least, is quite true. But the opinionated somewhat provincial Brangwen girl is having none of it and creates quite the scene:
"Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly de haut en bas, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exoteric amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face: 'But it is a picture of a horse, nevertheless.'
[Loerke] lifted his shoulders in another shrug.
'As you like - it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.'
Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any more of this, any more of Ursula's foolish persistence in giving herself away.
'What do you mean by "it is a picture of a horse?"' she cried at her sister. 'What do you mean by a horse? You mean an idea you have in your head, and which you want to see represented. There is another idea altogether, quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say it is not a horse. I have just as much right to say that your horse isn't a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up.'
Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came.
'But why does he have this idea of a horse?' she said. 'I know it is his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really -'
Loerke snorted with rage.
'A picture of myself!' he repeated, in derision. 'Wissen sie, gnädige Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is a picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all counsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you must not confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art. That you must not do.'
'That is quite true,' cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody. 'The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have nothing to do with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with each other. My art stands in another world, I am in this world.'
Her face was flushed and transfigured. Loerke who was sitting with his head ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and murmured:
'Ja - so ist es, so ist es.'
Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious. She wanted to poke a hole into them both.
'It isn’t a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me,' she replied flatly. 'The horse is a picture of your own stock, stupid brutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and then ignored.'
He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. He would not trouble to answer this last charge.
Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula was such an insufferable outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. But there - fools must be suffered, if not gladly.
But Ursula was persistent too.
'As for your world of art and your world of reality,' she replied, 'you have to separate the two, because you can't bear to know what you are. You can’t bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you are really, so you say "it's the world of art". The world of art is only the truth about the real world, that's all - but you are too far gone to see it.'
She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and Loerke sat in stiff dislike of her. Gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of the speech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. He felt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the esotericism which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forces with the other two. They all three wanted her to go away. But she sat on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingers twisting her handkerchief." [12]
What, then, do we think of this?
Well, I hate to say it - and don't want to sound like Clive Bell ecstatically singing the praises of significant form [13] - but I tend to agree with Loerke and Gudrun and think Ursula is being almost wilfully naive.
Ultimately, it is irritating when individuals like Miss Brangwen insist that the plastic arts have to be representational; that a sculpture or painting must forever be referred back to a model in the real world; or that a horse is a horse of course of course ...
Notes
[1] The Laughing Horse was irregularly published between 1921 and 1939 and celebrated the contemporary literary and artistic culture of the American West.
Willard ('Spud') Johnson was the principal editor and contributed much of the poetry, prose, and artwork himself. He also encouraged friends and acquaintances to submit material, including D. H. Lawrence, who had an entire issue devoted to his work in April 1926 (#13).
The laughing horse sketch by Lawrence was unused - perhaps because Lawrence got the price wrong; Johnson's magazine always sold for 25¢ (or two bits). It is reproduced in D. H. Lawrence's Paintings, ed. Keith Sagar, (Chaucer Press, 2003), p. 145.
[2] D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 121.
Lawrence was not alone in the view that the child sees - and draws - in a manner that is difficult for the adult to replicate. As Picasso once famously said: "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child."
[3] Lawrence was most likely thinking of a patinated bronze sculpture by the German artist Josef Moest (1873-1914) entitled Lady Godiva (1906); see fig. 2 above.
[4-6] D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 429.
[7-11] Ibid., p. 430.
[12] Ibid., pp. 430-31.
[13] Significant form was a theory developed by English art critic Clive Bell which specified a set of criteria for what qualified as a work of art. In his 1914 book Art, for example, Bell argues that art transports us from the actual world of existence to one of aesthetic exaltation.
Lawrence hates this kind of abstract idealism, so popular amongst the Bloomsbury elite of his time, and he openly attacks Bell in his own writings on art, which can be found in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004). For an excellent discussion of all this see chapter 4 of Anne Fernihough's, D. H. Lawrence: Aesthetics and Ideology, (Oxford University Press, 1993).
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