In the summer of 1877, the British art critic John Ruskin attended the inaugural exhibition of the Grosvenor Gallery in London. Included in the show, an assortment of modern artwork that had been turned down by the traditionally oriented Royal Academy Arts, was a painting by the American artist James Abbott McNeill Whistler titled Nocturne in Black and Gold, the Falling Rocket. An abstract rendition of an industrial park with fireworks inspired by Japanese woodblock prints, Nocturne elicited a strong response from Ruskin—but not in a good way.
“I have seen, and heard, much of Cockney impudence before now,” the critic wrote in a scathing review published in Fors Clavigera, his own monthly periodical aimed at working-class readers, “but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.” These words mark the beginning of a remarkable chapter of art history, for not only did Whistler sue Ruskin for libel, but he actually ended up winning the court case, too.
The trial, delayed by a year because of Ruskin’s declining health, received extensive media coverage. While the prosecution argued Ruskin’s comments had damaged Whistler’s reputation and commercial prospects, the defense employed fellow artist Edward Burne-Jones—whose work Ruskin had reviewed favorably—to convince the jury that Nocturne was a flawed work of art deserving of Ruskin’s criticism.
Burne-Jones called the painting a “beautiful sketch,” but said “that is not alone sufficient to make a good work of art. It is deficient in form, and form is as essential as color.”
Although the court ruled in Whistler’s favor, the affair had done him more harm than good. Despite claiming damages north of £1,000—a sum Linda Merrill, author of A Pot of Paint: Aesthetics on Trial in Whistler v. Ruskin, suspects would have been used to pay off debts accrued through his lavish lifestyle—he was awarded only a farthing, forcing him to sell off his London estate and start a new life in Venice, making etchings on commission.
Ruskin also suffered. The trial ended his career as one of the country’s leading critics and hastened the deterioration of his mental state, which continued until his death in 1900. After going through yet another nervous breakdown, he resigned from his post as a professor of fine art at Oxford University, stating that “I cannot hold a Chair from which I have no power of expressing judgement.”
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