Ophelia's Muse Read Online Free Page A

day.”
    â€œHarsh words!”
    â€œPerhaps. But what else am I to think when we are asked to worship dead masters as our gods, and make ourselves over in their images? There is nothing to be learned here. We would all be better off in a field, painting a flower and learning from nature.”
    He spoke loudly and his words drew a small crowd of students, as they always did. Rossetti might have been considered eccentric by many at the Academy, but he was the sort of person who always drew others toward him. They may have admired him or despised him, but he was rarely ignored—even his critics were secretly proud of a kind word from him about their work. When Rossetti turned his attention on you, it was as if the sun shone brighter, and when he left a gathering it often signaled the end of the evening. But his growing resentment of the Academy was a sore point among many of the other students, for whom winning a place at the Academy was their proudest achievement. One of these students was shaking his head as Rossetti spoke. “I, for one, am honored to study at the feet of such masters!” he exclaimed.
    â€œThen you shall learn to paint on your knees. What satisfaction is there in churning out pale copies of another man’s work?”
    The man flushed with anger, but before he could reply, Rossetti added: “Of course, the lecturers would be very pleased with your attitude. The Academy has a habit of rewarding cleverness in execution, rather than talent or originality.”
    â€œAnd I suppose that you think yourself much possessed of the latter? Tell me, has all your talent and originality made you a rich man, or even gained you a single spot at the Exhibition?”
    The other students laughed, and Rossetti colored. He had, as of yet, only sold a few small watercolors, and he’d finished no major works in oil that would be suitable for the Exhibition. But he had high hopes for his current picture, though its style, almost medieval, was so far from the current fashion for the picturesque that he had shown it to only a few close friends.
    â€œIf I’m not a rich man yet,” he said, “it’s only because the public buys what the Academy sanctions—mostly fruit bowls and brown cows dotting a muddy country lane, as far as I can tell. I have no wish to paint decorations for drawing rooms.”
    â€œAnd what do you want to paint, then?”
    â€œBeauty and light! The style today has become so dark and dreary. We’re taught to pay attention to form and perspective, at the cost of truth and beauty.” He spoke carefully, trying out an idea that was bound to be unpopular with the other students, but in which he fervently believed. “There was more perfection in a single face or scrap of tapestry in a medieval painting than there is in a whole gallery of Landseer’s insipid portraits. I want to paint with the rich color and the pure light of the old Italian masters, before we became so enamored of Raphael’s exacting ratios. I’ve no wish to make proficient paintings, when there is true beauty in the world.”
    â€œBut don’t you find the earlier work quite primitive? All those saints with shining faces crowded in upon each other, with no perspective to speak of?”
    â€œHardly. Is beauty primitive? I want my art to celebrate beauty, as it is, as I see it. I don’t want to bend it through the lens of what the Academy thinks is right, or proper, or appropriate.” He spat out the last word, as though it pained him.
    â€œBut surely you admit that Raphael is the greatest of all the masters?” pressed the other student. “That can no more be argued with by any sane man than that Shakespeare is the greatest writer of the English language!”
    â€œI admit nothing of the sort. In fact, I propose to you that the works of Raphael were the first step in the long decline of Italian painting.”
    A few students gasped at this