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XSLT mastering XML transformations 2nd Edition Doug
Tidwell Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Doug Tidwell
ISBN(s): 9780596527211, 0596527217
Edition: 2
File Details: PDF, 6.20 MB
Year: 2008
Language: english
XSLT
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Doug
Jason Brittain and Ian Tidwell
F. Darwin
Published by O’Reilly Media, Inc., 1005 Gravenstein Highway North, Sebastopol, CA 95472.
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Printing History:
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August 2001: First Edition.
Nutshell Handbook, the Nutshell Handbook logo, and the O’Reilly logo are registered trademarks of
O’Reilly Media, Inc. XSLT, the image of a Jabiru, and related trade dress are trademarks of O’Reilly
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ISBN: 978-0-596-52721-1
[C]
1213384691
To my family—my wonderful wife, Sheri Castle,
and our amazing daughter, Lily—for their love,
support, and understanding. Nothing I do would
be possible or meaningful without them.
...and a special thanks to our dog, Domino, who
frequently and selflessly pushed his fuzzy head
between my hands and keyboard to protect me
from carpal tunnel syndrome. Good boy!
Table of Contents
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi
1. Getting Started . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
The Design of XSLT 1
XML Basics 4
Installing XSLT Processors 20
Summary 24
vii
[2.0] Formatting Dates and Times 130
Using <xsl:copy> and <xsl:copy-of> 132
Dealing with Whitespace 139
Summary 144
Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 933
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 943
Table of Contents | ix
Preface
xi
I have a problem, I grab this book off the shelf, go to the index, and within five minutes
I’ve found the answer to my problem. Then I toss it back on the shelf.”
That’s exactly the kind of book I’ve tried to write. There are hundreds of stylesheets in
this book, including examples for every XSLT element, function, and operator defined
by XSLT and XPath. The first chapters of the book are prose that explain how style-
sheets work and what you need to learn to be productive with XSLT. Once you’re
comfortable with that material, you can use the rest of the book as a dictionary-style
reference.
xii | Preface
addition to testing all of the XSLT 1.0 samples with the Microsoft tools, there are
also XSLT extensions written in C# and EcmaScript.
The MSXSL XSLT processor is available from the Microsoft XML downloads page,
http://msdn.microsoft.com/XML/XMLDownloads/default.aspx. There is also an
XSLT processor embedded in the .NET framework; it’s part of the
System.Xml.Xsl namespace.
You Shouldn’t Migrate All of Your Stylesheets Just Because There’s a New
Version of XSLT
Anytime a new version of a language, standard, or software package comes along, de-
ciding when or if to migrate to the new features depends on your application. If you’ve
built a web application in which you use a web browser to process XSLT stylesheets
on the client side, you can’t migrate to XSLT 2.0 until all the major browsers support
XSLT 2.0. That’s going to be a while. On the other hand, if you use XSLT to transform
your data and then send the transformed data to the client, you can use XSLT 2.0 right
away. With very few exceptions, anything that worked in XSLT 1.0 works in XSLT 2.0.
We cover migration in Appendix G.
XSLT 2.0 and XPath 2.0 have many new features that make your stylesheets easier to
write, easier to maintain, and much more powerful. It’s definitely worth your time to
investigate the new features to see how many of them you can use.
Preface | xiii
book, writing under the assumption that everyone would migrate to XSLT 2.0 as soon
as possible. I don’t believe that will happen, so I didn’t go that way. Instead, I tried to
cover everything in terms of common tasks, things you’ll probably have to do with
XSLT. If there are new features in XSLT 2.0 that apply to those tasks, I mention them
after explaining the concepts behind the stylesheets. Usually XSLT 2.0 makes your life
much easier, so I begin the discussion by pointing out that if you’re using XSLT 2.0,
you’ve got a simpler option.
As with the first edition, this book has two parts: a series of prose chapters that cover
concepts and tasks, followed by a series of appendixes that form a reference to all of
the elements, functions, operators, and other details you’ll need as you write style-
sheets. Once you’re comfortable with XSLT, you can use the appendixes as a dictionary
of all things related to XSLT and XPath.
The book contains the following chapters:
Chapter 1, Getting Started
Covers the basics of XML and discusses how to install the stylesheet engines used
in this book.
Chapter 2, The Obligatory Hello World Example
Takes a look at an XML-tagged “Hello World” document, then examines style-
sheets that transform it into other things.
Chapter 3, XPath: A Syntax for Describing Needles and Haystacks
Covers the basics of XPath, the language used to describe parts of an XML
document. This chapter includes an in-depth discussion of the many changes
introduced in XPath 2.0.
Chapter 4, Creating Output
Discusses the basics of creating output, including extracting text, copying infor-
mation, and numbering things.
Chapter 5, Branching and Control Elements
Discusses the logic elements of XSLT (<xsl:if> and <xsl:choose>) and how they
work. Also covers the new if operator in XPath 2.0.
Chapter 6, Creating Links and Cross-References
Covers the different ways to build links between elements in XML documents.
Using XPath to describe relationships between related elements is also covered.
Chapter 7, Sorting and Grouping Elements
Goes over the <xsl:sort> element and discusses various ways to sort elements in
an XML document. It also talks about how to do grouping with various XSLT
elements and functions. Grouping is much simpler in XSLT 2.0; the new grouping
features are covered in this chapter as well.
xiv | Preface
Chapter 8, Combining Documents
Discusses the document( ) function, which allows you to combine several XML
documents, then write a stylesheet that works against the collection of documents.
Related functions from XSLT 2.0 are also featured.
Chapter 9, Extending XSLT
Explains how to write extension elements and extension functions. Although XSLT
and XPath are extremely powerful and flexible, there are still times when you need
to do something that isn’t provided by the language itself.
The last section of the book contains reference information:
Appendix A
An alphabetical listing of all the elements defined by XSLT, with examples for those
elements and how they were designed to be used.
Appendix B
A listing of various aspects of XPath, including datatypes, axes, node types, and
operators.
Appendix C
An alphabetical listing of all the functions defined by XPath and XSLT.
Appendix D
Provides a brief overview of XML Schema. One of the additions to XSLT 2.0 is the
ability to use XML Schemas to define datatypes and validate XML structures
against them.
Appendix E
Covers the syntax and features of the regular expression language used by XPath
2.0 and XSLT 2.0.
Appendix F
Provides a handy listing of all the formatting codes used in XSLT and XPath.
Appendix G
Lists a number of considerations and approaches for migrating to XSLT 2.0.
Glossary
A glossary of terms used in XSLT, XPath, and XML in general.
Preface | xv
Constant width
Used for literals, constant values, code listings, and XML markup
Constant-width bold
Used to indicate user input
Constant-width italic
Used for replaceable parameter and variable names
[1.0]
This text represents information that applies only to XSLT 1.0 and XPath 1.0.
[2.0]
This text represents information that is new in XSLT 2.0 and XPath 2.0.
[2.0 – Schema]
This text represents information that applies to schema-aware XSLT 2.0
processors.
How to Contact Us
We have tested and verified the information in this book to the best of our ability, but
you may find that features have changed (or even that we have made mistakes!). Please
let us know about any errors you find, as well as your suggestions for future editions,
by writing to:
O’Reilly Media, Inc.
1005 Gravenstein Highway North
Sebastopol, CA 95472
800-998-9938 (in the United States or Canada)
707-829-0515 (international or local)
707-829-0104 (fax)
To ask technical questions or comment on the book, send email to:
[email protected]
The web site for this book lists examples, errata, and plans for future editions. You can
access this page at:
xvi | Preface
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Preface | xvii
I also want to thank the people I’ve worked with over the last few years. The IBM
developerWorks team is still a great influence on me. I’ll always think of myself as part
of the developerWorks family. During my time with IBM’s Developer Skills organiza-
tion, I had the great pleasure of working with an incredibly talented team. That group
is paid to give away as much knowledge as possible, along with free software to pro-
fessors and students around the world. Finally, I want to thank the members of my
current team in IBM’s Software Group Strategy organization. I’m very happy to be
working again for Dirk Nicol, the father of developerWorks.
I will resist the temptation to name names here in fear of forgetting someone. I hope
all of you know how much you mean to me, and how much I’ve learned from all of you.
Finally, I want to thank Simon St.Laurent for his guidance on the second edition. Both
of us were nervous about figuring out how to add XSLT 2.0 and XPath 2.0 to this book
without creating a 5,000 page tome. Unfortunately, I also relied on Simon’s patience
as portions of the book took far longer than either of us had hoped. Simon, you’re the
best.
xviii | Preface
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
mystical message; and some time afterwards, leaving school, he
became a landscape-painter.
With a man like Mr. Watts the world of desire would have burst
differently. He was the greatest figure-painter England has ever
produced. With the exception of Blake, who hardly counts, I may say
he was the one painter who worked in the grand manner and on
great subjects. Years ago, by a happy accident, I met him in my
studio. I remember his handsome face and a certain air, as it
seemed to me, of imperious detachment; in his voice also there was
a touch of austerity. He looked at my pictures without a word, till I
asked him for his opinion. It then came clear, frank, and to the point.
I did not tell him what, nevertheless, was the fact—that, though I
had never seen him before, I had been his diligent pupil for years,
and that from him first I learned the true meaning of painting, and
why I, or indeed anyone else, had been induced to take up the craft.
All his days Watts was a hermit and a recluse; had he loved life
and enjoyed it, he would have lived in it and painted it, as Hogarth
lived and painted; yet he loved his fellow-man, and sought
unweariedly whatever made for his happiness: indeed it might be
said that he painted because he loved his fellow-man. With such a
man the world of desire must have burst in some scene that excited
his indignation or his pity, or his moral admiration and love, and from
that moment he would become a dreamer who incessantly re-builds
life, according to the dictates of a kindled imagination; for since the
eye finds what it looks for, the world of desire becomes in the self-
same moment the world of creation; the desiring eye is the creating
eye: the world itself is neither beautiful nor ugly; it is a formless vast
out of which we create, according to our desires, new worlds; the
madman and the poet look out on the same scene, but where the
one finds ugliness the other finds beauty; and the world Watts
looked out on was the world of men when they suffer or when they
strive together in serious purpose.
In speaking about Watts, I would begin with his portraits. As
regards these, there is no controversy; some people harden their
hearts against his pictures, but no one denies his portraits. Now it
seems to me that the genius of portrait-painting is largely a genius
for friendship; at any rate, I am quite sure that the best portraits will
be painted where the relation of the sitter and the painter is one of
friendship; and it considerably helps my argument to know that in
Watts’ case he mostly painted people whom he had himself invited
to sit.
The technique of portrait-painting is mainly a technique of
interpretation; to get the colour, to model the face adequately, this
to the practised hand is comparatively easy; to so paint that people
should, perforce, see the particular curve, the particular shadow, and
the particular shape of brow or eye that interest the painter; here is
the true difficulty, here the true enjoyment and exquisite triumph of
the painter.
In his early portraits there is little attempt at this interpretation.
There is, indeed, the charm of atmosphere never absent from Watts’
work at any time, and there is a very obvious decorative purpose;
but these early portraits do not grip the attention as the later
portraits do, because the technique of interpretation is lacking.
I have heard people say they liked his male portraits better than
his portraits of women, but I cannot share this preference; each in
its degree is perfect. Watts will paint a young lady in fashionable
evening attire—surely the most modern and up-to-date arrangement
possible—and he will so paint her, so gild her with the heavenly
alchemy of his art, that she shall appear like a Venetian beauty
gazing at us from the page of history.
Indeed, over all his portraits, whether of men or women, he
spreads a sort of dim religious light; so that while painted with Dutch
realism, they yet seem to come to us out of the mists of memory
and romance.
Before speaking of his pictures of imagination, I will discuss a little
the whole purpose of art and artists.
The moralist says: I teach morality, without which society would
not hold together.
The trader says: I teach trade, without which there would be no
wealth, and life would not be worth living.
The religious teacher: I teach religion, without which people would
forget that there was another world or a judgment to come.
And the scientist says: I teach truth, which is the basis of
everything.
What can the artist say for himself in presence of this congress of
teachers, before whom we stand silent with hats off in age-long
reverence?
First, what is his record?
He works only to please himself, and regards it as the most
egregious folly—indeed, a kind of wickedness—to try and please
anybody else; he admires wrong as often as right; at one time he
occupies himself with the things of the spirit, and again he turns just
as eagerly to the things of sense; without conscience and without
scruple he flatters in turn every passion and every instinct, good or
bad; he will make the unhappy more unhappy, and the wicked he
will make worse; he inculcates no lessons, and preaches no dogma;
yet often the noble will become nobler for his companionship.
He is to be found in every community; among the sinners he is a
sort of father confessor, whose absolution is light, so that you may
confess all your sins to him, and you may still go on sinning; he will
laugh at the faces of the good, finding them guilty of self-
complacency, of formalism, of insincerity, of prudence, of cowardice,
of half-heartedness; indeed he is often much more respectful to
sinners than he is to good people of the earth; and withal is it not
from the hands of the painter and the poet that, as in some royal
caprice, the hero receives his crown?
This strange creature with the dubious record; what use is he in
the scheme of things? He seems to stand outside the whole circle of
the utilities.
Why there is morality, why there is commerce, and why there is
science, and why there is religion; these questions are easy to
answer. But why there are painters, and sculptors, and poets, and
musicians, is another mystery; it is as if you asked me why there are
billions of suns rolling through illimitable space.
Among these august teachers the mere artist stands like another
Lucifer among the angels. And yet all these teachers, high and
mighty though they be, pay to the artist continual court, and would
fain make him one of themselves: would indeed rescue him as a
very wanton from his bad surroundings, and persuade him to live
with them always; and this partly because human nature is strong
within them, and they love the craft we practise, and partly because
they recognize that where men are gathered together the artist—
that is, the poet, the painter, the musician, and the sculptor—wields,
for good or evil, the mightiest power on earth. Where is the
theologian that the poet does not help? Where is the moralist? At
the present moment, here in this exhibition, it seems to me that, in
their astute way, the theologian, the moralist, and even the
metaphysician, all think that they have patched up an admirable
working arrangement with one of the greatest of our artists.
The titles “Love and Death,” “Time, Death, and Judgment,” “The
Temptation of Eve,” “The Penitence of Eve,” “The Contrition of Cain,”
etc., do perhaps explain the facts that in Scotland Presbyterian
ministers crowded the Watts’ Gallery; and also that here in Dublin,
for the first time in the history of our animated city, a splendid
collection of pictures has been shown, and the voice of detraction
and malignant criticism remains silent.
Well! do these pictures teach anything? Has Mr. Watts been
captured? Is he a theologian or a moralist, or a metaphysician? Or is
he merely a highly-gifted man, working out his salvation by way of
art?
Take his two pictures of Eve. In all this collection there are none
more poetical.
In the first of these, “The Temptation,” what have we? A woman in
the fulness of her magnificent animalism, and we have this
animalism in the moment of its highest provocation. She seems to
curl herself and to quiver with delight as she listens to the whispers
of the subtle serpent; how voluptuously she leans over to the
tempter, her body elastic with health and vitality. It is womanhood; it
is splendid animalism, as yet untouched by conscience or doubt, and
unchilled by the thoughts of death; all about her summer flowers
and rich perfumes. At her feet a leopard rolls, itself a faint echo or
reverberation of her vast personality.
It is the merest sophistry to call this moral teaching; it celebrates
the deliciousness of temptation as Pindar, the ancient poet,
celebrates the wine-cup. In both these pictures Watts celebrates the
beauty of the nude and the beauty of the flesh. Leighton would have
painted Eve grand and statuesque—a figure out of the penumbra of
that decorative world where nothing is quite real. But this woman,
colossal and demi-god though she be, is as real as one of his
portraits—that of J. S. Mill, for instance, or the Earl of Ripon. She is
so real, that you feel almost that you could touch her golden flesh,
and hear her cries and murmurs of delight; while the other Eve is so
realistically painted that it might be said she weeps audibly.
Next take his picture of Paolo and Francesca. Of all pictures in this
gallery it is the most complete, possibly because his friends liked it,
and gave him the encouragement all artists need. It is at once
beautifully imaginative and a piece of charming decoration. But
these poor guilty lovers, these wrecks of humanity, these fragments
of tenuity, afloat on the winds like dead leaves, like lightest
gossamer, teach no moral lesson. This picture illustrates afresh the
sad fate of true lovers, and makes their punishment tender and
beautiful. I should like to have had John Knox’s opinion of this
picture. There was a certain grimness, a certain severity in the
painter. A meeting between these two champions would have been
interesting.
Yet we are so hemmed about with difficulty, and so bewildered by
a multitude of counsellors, and have got so much into the pestilent
habit of seeking guidance everywhere, that one must needs find a
moral even in the bosom of a rose.
Therefore—although it be quite unnecessary to the true
appreciation of art—I will, reluctantly as it were, entirely on my own
responsibility, pluck some moral guidance from imaginative art.
If morality frames for our guidance rules of conduct which, if we
do not obey, we are to be punished—if it bids us shun temptation
and remove temptation from our path and from the paths of all the
world—Art, on the contrary, seems to say, with all its strength and
with all its voices: “Seek temptation; run to meet it; we are here to
be tempted.” Art does not say—“Be happy, or be miserable, or be
wise, or be prudent”; but it says—“Live, have it out with fortune,
don’t spare yourself, be no laggard or coward, have no fear.” And
this also is part of the message: “Abide where Watts lived, and
where the true artist always lived—on the high table-lands, in the
unshaded sunshine of intellectual happiness—never descending into
the valleys, where hang, mist-like, the languors and lethargies, the
low miseries, sensualities, and adulteries which afflict human nature
when it is defeated, discouraged, disintegrated.”
At the end of this room there is a large picture enormously
impressive—“Time, Death and Judgment.” To be impressive is itself a
great artistic merit; yet I do not think this a great picture; there is,
indeed, a fine arrangement of colour, and mass, and line, yet behind
it all there is no energy of conviction.
Time moves forward, a striding figure, carrying a scythe; beside
him walks Death, his wife, a weary woman, tenderly gathering into
her lap the flowers of life; above these two figures is Judgment.
These figures are vague and conventional as regards any meaning or
intention they might convey. If this picture has any meaning, it is as
if Watts had said to himself: “I am a figure-painter and will, by my
craft of figure-painting, translate into a picture the kind of pleasing
terror which is excited by watching a fine sunset or listening to an
oratorio.” This is not art, as Michael Angelo gave it. Blake said a
picture should be like a lawyer presenting a writ.
“Love and Death” seems much finer—it grips the attention at
once. Before the other picture we stand idly pensive; but here we
want to get at the root of the matter—to grope our way into the
very heart of the picture. There is the naked figure of Love,
wavering, falling backwards; and then Death, this huge bulk;
draped, and hooded, and horrid. Is it man? Is it woman? and its face
is hidden; and is this because it was in the thought of the painter
that no one has ever seen the face of Death except the piteous
dead, who carry their knowledge into the grave?
As regards a famous picture not in this collection—the picture
called “Hope”—I would say that pleasing though it be, it owes its
success mainly to its faults; and that people like it because no one
can say exactly what it means. A man who really lived by hope—a
Krapotkin or a William Morris—would find its vagueness utterly
displeasing.
England likes her artists to preserve a soft, indefinite touch,
because in her world of action and practical effort ideas must not be
pushed too far, and compromise rules. Art, on the contrary, does not
like half thoughts—she will have a positive yea or nay. If thought is
not pursued to its furthest bourne and limit, the picture lacks energy,
and is without effect. In Art, as in everything else, energy is the true
solvent.
In my mind, pictures of this kind are meant to hang in the rooms
of the idle rich—because intended for people who wish, without
effort, to indulge themselves—and see all things past, present, and
to come, rosily and smilingly, however falsely. There are artists,
poets, and painters—and in this case Watts is among them—who
seem to keep in stock a sort of pharmacopœia of drugs and opiates
and soothing mixtures to be served out as required. Michael Angelo
owed his terribleness, his black melancholy, to the fact that in his
pride he would not accept any soothing mixtures; he faced all the
facts of life.
Now, let me say a word in reply to those who are so ready to
point out defects in Watts’ technique. To find fault is easy—is at all
times easy. In this vivacious city it is a special accomplishment,
where, indeed, everyone has learned logic, but no one has learned
enthusiasm, and few care for the ideal or for poetry.
In answer to these people I would enter a plea of confession and
avoidance.
Granted all they say about these faults, I would ask, in all the roll
of English painters, is there one who would have given us that
magnificent Eve of the Temptation? How royally she leans forward as
she stoops to her fate: what swing and what pose in her movement.
In the strain, in the ecstacy of her sinning, every nerve and every
muscle seems to tremble. Not Millais, nor Leighton, nor Alma
Tadema—far more accomplished artists than Watts—could have
done it; nor Reynolds, nor Gainsborough, nor Vandyke. None of
these men had the technique to do what Watts has here done. Watts
triumphs by his technique.
But it has not been always so in Watts’ work. When not roused to
great exertion by his theme, he fell away into carelessness and into
haste. You see, this man who lived so long a life had such a teeming
mind that his hands could not work fast enough.
And here let me allude for a moment to Watts the man. All
accounts that have reached us represent him as singularly humble
and modest. It was so with Michael Angelo, and it is so with all men
who work among great ideas. When The Last Judgment was
finished, and all Italy burst into praise, and princes, cardinals, and
poets, vied with each other in presenting homage, Michael Angelo
waved them off with scorn. “If,” he said, “I carried Paradise in my
bosom, these words would be too much”; and he wrote in reply to
one of them: “I am merely a poor man, working in the Art God has
given me, and trying to lengthen out my life.” When an artist or poet
gives himself airs, puts on side, as we say, it is because, like Lord
Byron, he is working away from great ideas, and because in all
simplicity and good faith he finds nothing which asks his reverence,
nothing greater than his own fortunes and his own sensations. Art
for Art’s sake is for those who hate life, as many poets do, or who
hate ideas, as again many poets do. The great artist is also a man
like unto ourselves, and great personality is the material out of
which is woven all his Art.
Now, let me offer most respectfully a startling opinion. I think that
as a religious painter Watts failed; and that he failed because he was
bound to fail.
The spiritual world is as much with us as it was with the people of
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; but we seek to explore its
recesses, by tabulated observation, by sequences of thought, by
scientific guesses, and carefully planned experiments: things not to
be expressed in pictorial or plastic forms, even though Michael
Angelo has said everything might be expressed as sculpture.
Is it that Nature never repeats herself? She has produced her
religious painter; his day is over; and Watts was trying to do what
was impossible.
In those far-off days people believed—and actually, with the most
vivid realisation, believed—at one and the same time in angels,
archangels, and saints, and gods, and goddesses, and prophets, and
sybils, and fiends of the under-world, and all the machinery of the
supernatural, including angels, such as that which Watts has painted
in the picture “Love and Life”; and the painter who painted those
images worked under the exacting criticism of an alert and
expectant people. Now, in place of these beautiful or terrible
personages, we have substituted the forces of nature.
Examine his picture called “Love and Life.” It is a vast subject. The
whole mind of the civilized world is groping a way among its
problems. But this picture is wholly inadequate. Life is represented
as a feeble mendicant sort of creature, blindly stumbling up rocky
stairs. This is a poor image of life. Milton would have scorned it.
Watts should have remembered his own “Eve.” And “Love” is
represented as a strong angel. It is precisely because Love is not a
strong angel that all the trouble is upon us. If his picture of “Hope”
should be placed in a lady’s boudoir, this picture should hang in the
cabinets of those who think life is to be saved merely by the clasping
of hands and turning eyes heavenward.
In “Eve’s Repentance” there is a cold light bursting through the
blue clouds, and shining over the back and shoulders. We have here
the old Venetian harmony of blue and yellow and white; and
because of it, in some subtle way, we have an enhanced sense of
the warmth of the palpitating, naked flesh. But, bless you! this is not
all. By this light breaking through the clouds, Watts symbolizes that
there is redemption for sinners. And who is interested? Compare this
symbolism with that in Michael Angelo’s picture, where the just-
created and half-awakened Adam raises his arm in superb languor to
receive Divine knowledge by the touching of God’s forefinger. I do
not here include the picture “Love and Death,” because it does not
seem to me in any sense a religious picture. It suggests no dogma
nor mystical theory, nor is there any kind of sentiment. The artist, by
his labour, has placed before us in monumental effectiveness certain
facts now and always with us. It is a great picture, but it is not a
religious picture.
Watts is a portrait-painter beyond all praise; he is singular among
all painters for the interest he imparts to his subject. Before most
portraits people stand and say, “What dull things portraits are! why
are they ever exhibited?” or perhaps they say, “What a clever
painter! but what an ugly man to paint!” In presence of a Watts we
are interested in a face; we feel liking or aversion, or a tantalizing
curiosity.
In Watts’ portraits craftsmanship attains its perfection, because
here he worked in an atmosphere of exacting criticism; everyone
understands a portrait, and the stupidest is interested when it is his
own portrait.
When Watts painted his imaginative work, it was done in an
atmosphere of polite indifference. It is a strange paradox that Watts
lived surrounded by the most distinguished and intellectual society of
his time, and yet he worked in solitude. When he went wrong, there
was no one to tell him; and when he was right, equally there was no
response. They were interested in the artist, but not in his art. This
lofty-minded recluse, who laboured by his painting to give the world
great thoughts, impressed these cultivated worldlings: they were
interested in the man, but neither in his thoughts nor in his pictures.
At a private view in the Grosvenor Gallery a friend of mine overheard
Watts saying to a lady: “Everyone is interested in my velvet coat, but
no one asks me about my pictures.”
It was not so in ancient Italy. When Michael Angelo, at the
imperious command of the impetuous Pope Julius, uncovered half
his work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he stood to receive the
judgment of a people who were superstitious, ignorant men of
violence, men of war, homicidal, but each one of them impassioned
for Art.
“Italy,” said the Spanish painter to Michael Angelo, “produces the
best Art, because Italians hate mediocrity.” We are clay in the hands
of the potter. We may affect to be proud and solitary as Lucifer, but
in vain; the artist gives that he may receive; to seek sympathy and
desire companionship is as instinctive as hunger and thirst. To the
true artist exacting criticism is comforting as mother’s love; and,
wanting this exacting criticism, Watts fell away into slackness of
work and of thought.
We can only say that had he lived in Dublin his fate would have
been worse. Indifference, however polite and respectful, is bad: but
destructive criticism kills.
There was once a small but mighty nation, now numerous as the
sands of the seashore, and no longer so interesting. To this nation
was born a poet, and they made him the poet of all time. They took
him and taught him all they knew—and they had great things to
teach; and when, at their command, he made great dramas, they
stood at his elbow; and everything they gave him he gave back to
them tenfold.
England was then Shakespeare’s land.
The poet is always amongst us: the difficulty is how to find him;
he is like the proverbial needle in a bundle of hay.
But one thing is certain—logicians without love will not find him;
they leave a desolation, and call it peace—nay, they call it culture.
Critics of this sort will allow nothing to exist except themselves. No; I
am wrong. There is one thing they admire more even than
themselves—the fait accompli, a mundane success. Had Watts been
born in Dublin, he would have read for the “Indian Civil,” and
perhaps—passed.
J. B. Yeats, r.h.a.
1907.
FOOTNOTE:
Poetry.
Fiction.
1. The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public
domain.
2. Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text, and
inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
3. Front Matter “The thanks The Talbot Press, Limited” changed to “The
thanks of The Talbot Press, Limited”.
4. Page 13 Period at end of “make-up as men” changed to comma.
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