L: Whistler, CC: Public Domain // R: Ruskin, CC: Public Domain
The mere act of an artist confronting a critic usually signals a victory for the latter party. The artist is removed from his or her perch, the playing field is leveled, and the art is no longer speaking for itself.
James Abbott McNeill Whistler, the eccentric 19th century American painter living in London, didnât care about perches or the levelness of playing fields. When one of his paintings was torn to shreds in print, Whistler dragged the criticâs butt to court and sued him for libel.
It must be said that John Ruskin, Whistlerâs critic, wasnât your run-of-the-mill troll. Ruskin was a celebrated painter in his own right; he founded an eponymous school of drawing and fine art at Oxford and his watercolors still hang in the Tate and at the National Gallery in London. Marcel Proust idolized Ruskin and adored his writing, saying that  "the beauty of his erroneous judgment is often more interesting than the beauty of the work being judged."
Proust wasnât referring to Ruskinâs feud with Whistler there, but his quote is somewhat telling when put in the context of that contentious piece of criticism. Writing in Fors Clavigera [ PDF ], his periodical of "Letters to the Workmen and Labourers of Great Britain,"Â Ruskin issued a mixed review to the newly opened Grosvenor Gallery's collection in 1877. Even though some of the contemporary works on display earned praise, Ruskin spent the majority of his ink on scorching burns.
Nothing was safe from his criticism, not even the galleryâs fabrics ("The upholstery of the Grosvenor Gallery is poor in itself; and very grievously injurious to the best pictures it contains, while its glitter as unjustly veils the vulgarity of the worst"). Ruskin saved his sharpest and most condescending barbs for Whistler and his Nocturne in Black and GoldâThe Falling Rocket , a modernist, abstract interpretation of a fireworks show over the Thames:
Public Domain  // Collection of Detroit Institute of Arts
Unimpressed by the work, Ruskin gleefully dismissed Whistler as nothing more than a fraud:
Whistlerâs mother didnât raise no sucker, and the artist promptly sued Ruskin for libel. The case didnât go to court until November 1878, the year-long delay due to Ruskinâs fragile mental health (he suffered a breakdown in the spring of 1878).
Ruskin couldn't appear in court because of his state, but that didnât stop the two-day trial from becoming an obsessed-over sensation in Londonâs newspapers. Defending modern art as much as his libel claim, Whistler impressed while under cross-examination from Ruskinâs high-powered lawyer. When asked in a call-back to the original review if "the labor of two days is that for which you ask two hundred guineas," Whistler responded, "No, I ask it for the knowledge I have gained in the work of a lifetime."
The jury ruled in Whistlerâs favor, agreeing that Ruskin went too far. But the decision amounted to little more than hollow validation. Whistler was awarded a farthing (a minuscule amount of money) and was forced to split court costs. Already having lived his life with an artistâs unfortunate knack for personal finance, Whistler was driven to bankruptcy by the trial. Ruskin, meanwhile, furious at the courtâs decision, resigned from his post at Oxford.
It really was one hell of a review.
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