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diff --git a/16178.txt b/16178.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77b6b82 --- /dev/null +++ b/16178.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3222 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Essays on Art, by A. Clutton-Brock + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Essays on Art + +Author: A. Clutton-Brock + +Release Date: July 2, 2005 [EBook #16178] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ESSAYS ON ART *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, Peter Barozzi and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + ESSAYS ON ART + + + BY + + A. CLUTTON-BROCK + + + + + METHUEN & CO. LTD. + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. + + LONDON + + + + + _First Published in 1919_ + + + + + PREFACE + + +These essays, reprinted from the _Times Literary Supplement_ with a few +additions and corrections, are not all entirely or directly concerned +with art; but even the last one--Waste or Creation?--does bear on the +question, How are we to improve the art of our own time? After years of +criticism I am more interested in this question than in any other that +concerns the arts. Whistler said that we could not improve it; the best +we could do for it was not to think about it. I have discussed that +opinion, as also the contrary opinion of Tolstoy, and the truth that +seems to me to lie between them. If these essays have any unity, it is +given to them by my belief that art, like other human activities, is +subject to the will of man. We cannot cause men of artistic genius to be +born; but we can provide a public, namely, ourselves, for the artist, +who will encourage him to be an artist, to do his best, not his worst. +I believe that the quality of art in any age depends, not upon the +presence or absence of individuals of genius, but upon the attitude of +the public towards art. + +Because of the decline of all the arts, especially the arts of use, +which began at the end of the eighteenth century and has continued up to +our own time, we are more interested in art than any people of the past, +with the interest of a sick man in health. To say that this interest +must be futile or mischievous is to deny the will of man in one of the +chief of human activities; but it often is denied by those who do not +understand how it can be applied to art. We cannot make artists +directly; no government office can determine their training; still less +can any critic tell them how they ought to practise their art. But we +can all aim at a state of society in which they will be encouraged to do +their best, and at a state of mind in which we ourselves shall learn to +know good from bad and to prefer the good. At present we have neither +the state of society nor the state of mind; and we can attain to both +not by connoisseurship, not by an anxiety to like the right thing or at +least to buy it, but by learning the difference between good and bad +workmanship and design in objects of use. Anyone can do that, and can +resolve to pay a fair price for good workmanship and design; and only so +will the arts of use, and all the arts, revive again. For where the +public has no sense of design in the arts of use, it will have none in +the "fine arts." To aim at connoisseurship when you do not know a good +table or chair from a bad one is to attempt flying before you can walk. +So, I think, professors of art at Oxford or Cambridge should be chosen, +not so much for their knowledge of Greek sculpture, as for their success +in furnishing their own houses. What can they know about Greek sculpture +if their own drawing-rooms are hideous? I believe that the notorious +fallibility of many experts is caused by the fact that they concern +themselves with the fine arts before they have had any training in the +arts of use. So, if we are to have a school of art at Oxford or +Cambridge, it should put this question to every pupil: If you had to +build and furnish a house of your own, how would you set about it? And +it should train its pupils to give a rational answer to that question. +So we might get a public knowing the difference between good and bad in +objects of use, valuing the good, and ready to pay a fair price for it. + +At present we have no such public. A liberal education should teach the +difference between good and bad in things of use, including buildings. +Oxford and Cambridge profess to give a liberal education; but you have +only to look at their modern buildings to see that their teachers +themselves do not know a good building from a bad one. They, like all +the rest of us, think that taste in art is an irrational mystery; they +trust in the expert and usually in the wrong one, as the ignorant and +superstitious trust in the wrong priest. For as religion is merely +mischievous unless it is tested in matters of conduct, so taste is mere +pedantry or frivolity unless it is tested on things of use. These have +their sense or nonsense, their righteousness or unrighteousness, which +anyone can learn to see for himself, and, until he has learned, he will +be at the mercy of charlatans. + +I have written all these essays as a member of the public, as one who +has to find a right attitude towards art so that the arts may flourish +again. The critic is sure to be a charlatan or a prig, unless he is to +himself not a pseudo-artist expounding the mysteries of art and telling +artists how to practise them, but simply one of the public with a +natural and human interest in art. But one of these essays is a defence +of criticism, and I will not repeat it here. + + A. CLUTTON-BROCK + _July_ 30, 1919 + FARNCOMBE, SURREY + + + + + CONTENTS + + + "THE ADORATION OF THE MAGI" 1 + + LEONARDO DA VINCI 13 + + THE POMPADOUR IN ART 27 + + AN UNPOPULAR MASTER 37 + + A DEFENCE OF CRITICISM 48 + + THE ARTIST AND HIS AUDIENCE 58 + + WILFULNESS AND WISDOM 74 + + "THE MAGIC FLUTE" 86 + + PROCESS OR PERSON? 97 + + THE ARTIST AND THE TRADESMAN 110 + + PROFESSIONALISM IN ART 120 + + WASTE OR CREATION? 132 + + + + + ESSAYS ON ART + + + "The Adoration of the Magi" + + +There is one beauty of nature and another of art, and many attempts have +been made to explain the difference between them. Signor Croce's theory, +now much in favour, is that nature provides only the raw material for +art. The beginning of the artistic process is the perception of beauty +in nature; but an artist does not see beauty as he sees a cow. It is his +own mind that imposes on the chaos of nature an order, a relation, which +is beauty. All men have the faculty, in some degree, of imposing this +order; the artist only does it more completely than other men, and he +owes his power of execution to that. He can make the beauty which he has +perceived because he has perceived it clearly; and this perceiving is +part of the making. + +The defect of this theory is that it ends by denying that very +difference between the beauty of nature and the beauty of art which it +sets out to explain. If the artist makes the beauty of nature in +perceiving it, if it is produced by the action of his own mind upon the +chaos of reality, then it is the very same beauty that appears in his +art; and if, to us, the beauty of his art seems different from the +beauty of nature, as we perceive it, it is only because we have not +ourselves seen the beauty of nature as completely as he has, we have not +reduced chaos so thoroughly to order. It is a difference not of kind, +but of degree; for the artist himself there is no difference even of +degree. What he makes he sees, and what he sees he makes. All beauty is +artistic, and to speak of natural beauty is to make a false distinction. + +Yet it is a distinction that we remain constantly aware of. In spite of +Signor Croce and all the subtlety and partial truth of his theory, we do +not believe that we make beauty when we see it, or that the artist makes +it when he sees it. Nor do we believe that that beauty which he makes is +of the same nature as that which he has perceived in reality. Rather he, +like us, values the beauty which he perceives in reality because he +knows that he has not made it. It is something, independent of himself, +to which his own mind makes answer: that answer is his art; it is the +passionate value expressed in it which gives beauty to his art. If he +knew that the beauty he perceives was a product of his own mind, he +could not value it so; if he held Signor Croce's theory, he would cease +to be an artist. + +And, in fact, those who act on his theory do cease to be artists. +Nothing kills art so certainly as the effort to produce a beauty of the +same kind as that which is perceived in nature. In the beauty of nature, +as we perceive it, there is a perfection of workmanship which is +perfection because there is no workmanship. Natural things are not made, +but born; works of art are made. There is the essential difference +between them and between their beauties. If a work of art tries to have +the finish of a thing born, not made, if a piece of enamel apes the +gloss of a butterfly's wing, it misses the peculiar beauty of art and is +but an inadequate imitation of the beauty of nature. That beauty of the +butterfly's wing, which the artist like all of us perceives, is of a +different kind from any beauty he can make; and if he is an artist he +knows it and does not try to make it. But all the arts, even those which +are not themselves imitative, are always being perverted by the attempt +to imitate the finish of nature. There is a vanity of craftsmanship in +Louis Quinze furniture, in the later Chinese porcelain, in modern +jewelry, no less than in Dutch painting, which is the death of art. All +great works of art show an effort, a roughness, an inadequacy of +craftsmanship, which is the essence of their beauty and distinguishes it +from the beauty of nature. As soon as men cease to understand this and +despise this effort and roughness and inadequacy, they demand from art +the beauty of nature and get something which is mostly dead nature, not +living art. + +We can best understand the difference between the two kinds of beauty if +we consider how beauty steals into language, that art which we all +practise more or less and in which it is difficult, if not impossible, +to imitate the finish of natural beauty. There is no beauty whatever in +sentences like "Trespassers will be prosecuted" or "Pass the mustard," +because they say exactly and completely all that they have to say. There +is beauty in sentences like "The bright day is done, And we are for the +dark," or "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well," because in them, +although they seem quite simple, the poet is trying to say a thousand +times more than he can say. It is the effort to do something beyond the +power of words that brings beauty into them. That is the very nature of +the beauty of art, which distinguishes it from the beauty of nature; it +is always produced by the effort to accomplish the impossible, and what +the artist knows to be impossible. Whenever that effort ceases, whenever +the artist sets himself a task that he can accomplish, a task of mere +skill, then he ceases to be an artist, because he no longer experiences +reality in the manner necessary to an artist. The great poet is aware of +some excellence in reality so intensely that it is to him beauty; for +all excellence when we are intensely aware of it is beauty to us. There +is that truth in Croce's theory. Our perception of beauty does depend +upon the intensity of our perception of excellence. But that intensity +of perception remains perception, and does not make what it perceives. +That the poet and every artist knows; and his art is not merely an +extension of the process of perception, but an attempt to express his +own value for that excellence which he has perceived as beauty. It is an +answer to that beauty, a worship of it, and is itself beautiful because +it makes no effort to compete with it. + +Thus in the beauty of art there is always value and wonder, always a +reference to another beauty different in kind from itself; and we too, +if we are to see the beauty of art, must share the same value and +wonder. To enter that Kingdom of Heaven we must become little children +as the artist himself does. Art is the expression of a certain attitude +towards reality, an attitude of wonder and value, a recognition of +something greater than man; and where that recognition is not, art dies. +In a society valuing only itself, believing that it can make a heaven of +itself out of its own skill and knowledge and wisdom, the difference +between the beauty of nature and the beauty of art is no longer seen, +and art loses all its own beauty. The surest sign of corruption and +death in a society is where men and women see the best life as a life +without wonder or effort or failure, where labour is hidden underground +so that a few may seem to live in Paradise; where there is perfect +finish of all things, human beings no less than their clothes and +furniture and buildings and pictures; where the ideal is the lady so +perfectly turned out that any activity whatever would mar her +perfection. In such societies the artist becomes a slave. He too must +produce work that does not seem to be work. He must express no wonder +or value for patrons who would be ashamed to feel either. What he makes +must seem to be born and not made, so that it may fit a world which +pretends to be a born Paradise populated by cynical angels who own +allegiance to no god. In such a world art means, beauty means, the +concealment of effort, the pretence that it does not exist; and that +pretence is the end of art and beauty in all things made by man. There +is a close connexion between the idea of life expressed in Aristotle's +ideal man and the later Greek sculpture. The aim of that sculpture, as +of his ideal man, was proud and effortless perfection. Both dread the +confession of failure above all things--and both are dull. In +Aristotle's age art had started upon a long decline, which ended only +when the pretence of perfection was killed, both in art and in life, by +Christianity. Then the real beauty of art, the beauty of value and +wonder, superseded the wearisome imitation of natural beauty; and it is +only lately that we have learnt again to prefer the real beauty to the +false. + +Men must free themselves from the contempt of effort and the desire to +conceal it, they must be content with the perpetual, passionate failure +of art, before they can see its beauty or demand that beauty from the +artist. When they themselves become like little children, then they see +that the greatest artists, in all their seeming triumphs, are like +little children too. For in Michelangelo and Beethoven it is not the +arrogant, the accomplished, the magnificent, that moves us. They are +great men to us; but they achieved beauty because in their effort to +achieve it they were little children to themselves. They impose awe on +us, but it is their own awe that they impose. It is not their +achievement that makes beauty, but their effort, always confessing its +own failure; and in that confession is the beauty of art. That is why it +moves and frees us; for it frees us from our pretence that we are what +we would be, it carries us out of our own egotism into the wonder and +value of the artist himself. + +Consider the beauty of a tune. Music itself is the best means which man +has found for confessing that he cannot say what he would say; and it is +more purely and rapturously beauty than any other form of art. A tune is +the very silencing of speech, and in the greatest tunes there is always +the hush of wonder: they seem to tell us to be silent and listen, not to +what the musician has to say, but to what he cannot say. The very +beauty of a tune is in its reference to something beyond all expression, +and in its perfection it speaks of a perfection not its own. Pater said +that all art tries to attain to the condition of music. That is true in +a sense different from what he meant. Art is always most completely art +when it makes music's confession of the ineffable; then it comes nearest +to the beauty of music. But when it is no longer a forlorn hope, when it +is able to say what it wishes to say with calm assurance, then it has +ceased to be art and become a game of skill. + +Often the great artist is imperious, impatient, full of certainties; but +his certainty is not of himself; and he is impatient of the failure to +recognize, not himself, but what he recognizes. Michelangelo, Beethoven, +Tintoret, would snap a critic's head off if he did not see what they +were trying to do. They may seem sometimes to be arrogant in the mere +display of power, yet their beauty lies in the sudden change from +arrogance to humility. The arrogance itself bows down and worships; the +very muscle and material force obey a spirit not their own. They are +lion-tamers, and they themselves are the lions; out of the strong comes +forth sweetness, and it is all the sweeter for the strength that is +poured into it and subdued by it. What is the difference, as of +different worlds, between Rubens at his best and Tintoret at his best? +This: that Rubens always seems to be uplifted by his own power, whereas +Tintoret has most power when he forgets it in wonder. When he bows down +all his turbulence in worship, then he is most strong. Rubens, in the +"Descent from the Cross," is still the supreme drawing-master; and +painters flocking to him for lessons pay homage to him. But, in his +"Crucifixion," it is Tintoret himself who pays homage, and we forget the +master in the theme. We may say of Rubens's art, in a new sense, "C'est +magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre." The greatest art is not +magnificent, but it is war, desperate and without trappings, a war in +which victory comes through the confession of defeat. + +Man, if he tries to be a god in his art, makes a fool of himself. He +becomes like God, he makes beauty like God, when he is too much aware of +God to be aware of himself. Then only does he not set himself too easy a +task, for then he does not make his theme so that he may accomplish it; +it is forced upon him by his awareness of God, by his wonder and value +for an excellence not his own. So in all the beauty of art there is a +humility not only of conception, but also of execution, which is mere +failure and ugliness to those who expect to find in art the beauty and +finish of nature, who expect it to be born, not made. They are always +disappointed by the greatest works of art, by their inadequacy and +strain and labour. They look for a proof of what man can do and find a +confession of what he cannot do; but that confession, made sincerely and +passionately, is beauty. There is also a serenity in the beauty of art, +but it is the serenity of self-surrender, not of self-satisfaction, of +the saint, not of the lady of fashion. And all the accomplishment of +great art, its infinite superiority in mere skill over the work of the +merely skilful, comes from the incessant effort of the artist to do more +than he can. By that he is trained; by that his work is distinguished +from the mere exclamation of wonder. He is not content to applaud; he +must also worship, and make his offerings in his worship; and they are +the best he can do. It was not only the shepherds who came to the birth +of Christ; the wise men came also and brought their treasures with them. +And the art of mankind is the offering of its wise men, it is the +adoration of the Magi, who are one with the simplest in their worship-- + + Wise men, all ways of knowledge past, + To the Shepherd's wonder come at last. + +But they do not lose their wisdom in their wonder. When it passes into +wonder, when all the knowledge and skill and passion of mankind are +poured into the acknowledgment of something greater than themselves, +then that acknowledgment is art, and it has a beauty which may be envied +by the natural beauty of God Himself. + + + + + Leonardo da Vinci + + +Leonardo da Vinci is one of the most famous men in history--as a man +more famous than Michelangelo or Shakespeare or Mozart--because +posterity has elected him the member for the Renaissance. Most great +artists live in what they did, and by that we know them; but what +Leonardo did gets much of its life from what he was, or rather from what +he is to us. Of all great men he is the most representative; we cannot +think of him as a mere individual, eating and drinking, living and +competing, on equal terms with other men. We see him magnified by his +own legend from the first, with people standing aside to watch and +whisper as he passed through the streets of Florence or Milan. "There he +goes to paint the Last Supper," they said to each other; and we think of +it as already the most famous picture in the world before it was begun. +Every one knew that he had the most famous picture in his brain, that he +was born to paint it, to initiate the High Renaissance; from Giotto +onwards all the painters had been preparing for that, Florence herself +had been preparing for it. It makes no difference that for centuries it +has been a shadow on the wall; it is still the most famous painting in +the world because it is the masterpiece of Leonardo. There was a fate +against the survival of his masterpieces, but he has survived them and +they are remembered because of him. We accept him for himself, like the +people of his own time, who, when he said he could perform +impossibilities, believed him. To them he meant the new age which could +do anything, and still to us he means the infinite capacities of man. He +is the Adam awakened whom Michelangelo only painted; and, if he +accomplished but little, we believe in him, as in mankind, for his +promise. If he did not fulfil it, neither has mankind; but he believed +that all things could be done and lived a great life in that faith. + +Another Florentine almost equals him in renown. Men watched and +whispered when Dante passed through the streets of Florence; but Dante +lives in his achievement, Leonardo in himself. Dante means to us an +individual soul quivering through a system, a creed, inherited from the +past. Leonardo is a spirit unstraitened; not consenting to any past nor +rebelling against it, but newborn with a newborn universe around it, +seeing it without memories or superstitions, without inherited fears or +pieties, yet without impiety or irreverence. He is not an iconoclast, +since for him there are no images to be broken; whatever he sees is not +an image but itself, to be accepted or rejected by himself; what he +would do he does without the help or hindrance of tradition. In art and +in science he means the same thing, not a rebirth of any past, as the +word Renaissance seems to imply, but freedom from all the past, life +utterly in the present. He is concerned not with what has been thought, +or said, or done, but with his own immediate relation to all things, +with what he sees and feels and discovers. Authority is nothing to him, +whether of Galen or of St. Thomas, of Greek or mediaeval art. In science +he looks at the fact, in art at the object; nor will he allow either to +be hidden from him by the achievements of the dead. Giotto had struck +the first blow for freedom when he allowed the theme to dictate the +picture; Leonardo allowed the object to dictate the drawing. To him the +fact itself is sacred, and man fulfils himself in his own immediate +relation to fact. + +All those who react and rebel against the Renaissance have an easy case +against its great representative. What did he do in thought compared +with St. Thomas, or in art compared with the builders of Chartres or +Bourges? He filled notebooks with sketches and conjectures; he modelled +a statue that was never cast; he painted a fresco on a wall, and with a +medium so unsuited to fresco that it was a ruin in a few years. Even in +his own day there was a doubt about him; it is expressed in the young +Michelangelo's sudden taunt that he could not cast the statue he had +modelled. Michelangelo was one of those who see in life always the great +task to be performed and who judge a man by his performance; to him +Leonardo was a dilettante, a talker; he made monuments, but Leonardo +remains his own monument, a prophecy of what man shall be when he comes +into his kingdom. With him, we must confess, it is more promise than +performance; he could paint "The Last Supper" because it means the +future; he could never, in good faith, have painted "The Last Judgment," +for that means a judgment on the past, and to him the past is nothing; +to him man, in the future, is the judge, master, enjoyer of his own +fate. Compared with his, Michelangelo's mind was still mediaeval, his +reproach the reproach of one who cares for doing more than for being, +and certainly Michelangelo did a thousand times more; but from his own +day to ours the world has not judged Leonardo by his achievement. As +Johnson had his Boswell so he has had his legend; he means to us not +books or pictures, but himself. In his own day kings bid for him as if +he were a work of art; and he died magnificently in France, making +nothing but foretelling a race of men not yet fulfilled. + +Before Francis Bacon, before Velasquez or Manet, he prophesied not +merely the new artist or the new man of science, but the new man who is +to free himself from his inheritance and to see, feel, think, and act in +all things with the spontaneity of God. That is why he is a legendary +hero to us, with a legend that is not in the past but in the future. For +his prophecy is still far from fulfilment; and the very science that he +initiated tells us how hard it is for man to free himself from his +inheritance. It seems strange to us that Leonardo sang hymns to +causation as if to God. In its will was his peace and his freedom. + + O marvellous necessity, thou with supreme reason constrainest + all efforts to be the direct result of their causes, and by a + supreme and irrevocable law every natural action obeys thee by + the shortest possible process. + + Who would believe that so small a space could contain the + images of all the universe? O mighty process, what talent can + avail to penetrate a nature such as thine? What tongue will it + be that can unfold so great a wonder? Verily none. This it is + that guides the human discourse to the considering of divine + things.[1] + +[Footnote 1: The sayings of Leonardo quoted in this article are taken +from _Leonardo da Vinci's Notebooks_, by E. M'Curdy. (Duckworth, 1906.)] + +To Leonardo causation meant the escape from caprice; it meant a secure +relation between man and all things, in which man would gain power by +knowledge, in which every increase of knowledge would reveal to him more +and more of the supreme reason. There was no chain for him in cause and +effect, no unthinking of the will of man. Rather by knowledge man would +discover his own will and know that it was the universal will. So man +must never be afraid of knowledge. "The eye is the window of the soul." +Like Whitman he tells us always to look with the eye, and so to confound +the wisdom of ages. There is in every man's vision the power of relating +himself now and directly to reality by knowledge; and in knowing other +things he knows himself. By knowledge man changes what seemed to be a +compulsion into a harmony; he gives up his own caprice for the universal +will. + +That is the religion of Leonardo, in art as in science. For him the +artist also must relate himself directly to the visible world, in which +is the only inspiration; to accept any formula is to see with dead men's +eyes. That has been said again and again by artists, but not with +Leonardo's mystical and philosophical conviction. He knew that it is +vain to study Nature unless she is to you a goddess or a god; you can +learn nothing from reality unless you adore it, and in adoring it he +found his freedom. How different is this doctrine from that with which, +after centuries of scientific advance, we intimidate ourselves. We are +threatened by a creed far more enslaving than that of the Middle Ages. +If the Middle Ages turned to the past to learn what they were to think +or to do, we turn to the past to learn what we are. They may have feared +the new; but we say that there is no new, nothing but some combination +or variation of the old. Causation is to us a chain that binds us to the +past, but to Leonardo it was freedom; and so he prophesies a freedom +that we may attain to not by denying facts or making myths, but by +discovering what he hinted--that causation itself is not compulsion but +will, and our will if, by knowledge, we make it ours. + +No one before him had been so much in love with reality, whatever it may +be. He was called a sceptic, but it was only that he preferred reality +itself to any tales about it; and his religion, his worship, was the +search for the very fact. This, because he was both artist and man of +science, he carried further than anyone else, pursuing it with all his +faculties. In his drawings there is the beauty not of his character, but +of the character of what he draws; he does not make a design, but finds +it. That beauty proves him a Florentine--Duerer himself falls short of +it--but it is the beauty of the thing itself, discovered and insisted +upon with the passion of a lover. He draws animals, trees, flowers, as +Correggio draws Antiope or Io; and it is only in his drawings now that +he speaks clearly to us. The "Mona Lisa" is well enough, but another +hand might have executed the painting of it. It owes its popular fame to +the smile about which it is so easy to write finely; but in the drawings +we see the experiencing passion of Leonardo himself, we see him +feeling, as in the notebooks we see him thinking. There is the eagerness +of discovery at which so often he stopped short, turning away from a +task to further discovery, living always in the moment, taking no +thought either for the morrow or for yesterday, unable to attend to any +business, even the business of the artist, seeing life not as a struggle +or a duty, but as an adventure of all the senses and all the faculties. +He is, even with his pencil, the greatest talker in the world, but +without egotism, talking always of what he sees, satisfying himself not +with the common appetites and passions of men, but with his one supreme +passion for reality. If Michelangelo thought him a dilettante, there +must have been in his taunt some envy of Leonardo's freedom. + +Yet once at least Leonardo did achieve, and something we should never +have expected from his drawings. "The Last Supper" is but a shadow on +the wall, yet still we can see its greatness, which is the greatness of +pure design, of Giotto, Masaccio, Piero della Francesa. Goethe and +others have found all kinds of psychological subtleties in it, meanings +in every gesture; but what we see now is only space, grandeur, a supreme +moment expressed in the relation of all the forms. The pure music of +the painting remains when the drama is almost obliterated; and it +proves that Leonardo, when he chose, could withdraw himself from the +delight of hand-to-mouth experience into a vision of his own, that he +had the reserve and the creative power of the earlier masters and of +that austere, laborious youth who taunted him. If it were not for "The +Last Supper" we might doubt whether he could go further in art than the +vivid sketch of "The Magi"; but "The Last Supper" tells us how great his +passion for reality must have been, since it could distract him from the +making of such masterpieces. + +That passion for reality itself made him cold to other passions. We know +Michelangelo and Beethoven as men in some respects very like other men. +They were anxious, fretful, full of affections and grievances, and much +concerned with their relations. Leonardo is like Melchizedek, not only +by the accident of birth, for he was a natural son, but by choice. He +never married, he never had a home; there is no evidence that he was +ever tied to any man or woman by his affections; yet it would be stupid +to call him cold, for his one grand passion absorbed him. Monks +suspected him, but in his heart he was celibate like the great monkish +saints, celibate not by vows but by preoccupation. It is clear that +from youth to age life had no cumulative power over him; as we should +say in our prosaic language, he never settled down, for he let things +happen to him and valued the very happening. He was always like a +strange, wonderful creature from another planet, taking notes with +unstaled delight but never losing his heart to any particular. Sex +itself seems hardly to exist for him, or at least for his mind. Often +the people in his drawings are of no sex. Rembrandt draws every one, +Leonardo no one, as if he were his own relation. Women and youths were +as much a subject of his impassioned curiosity as flowers, and no more. +He is always the spectator, but a spectator who can exercise every +faculty of the human mind and every passion in contemplation; he is the +nearest that any man has ever come to Aristotle's Supreme Being. + +But we must not suppose that he went solemnly through life living up to +his own story, that he was mysterious in manner or in any respect like a +charlatan. Rather, he lived always in the moment and overcame mankind by +his spontaneity. He had the charm of the real man of genius, not the +reserve of the false one. The famous statement of what he could do, +which he made to Ludovico Sforza, is not a mere boast but an expression +of his eagerness to do it. These engines of war were splendid toys to +him, and all his life he enjoyed making toys and seeing men wonder at +them. His delight was to do things for the first time like a child, and +then not to do them again. Again and again he cries out against +authority and in favour of discovery. "Whoever in discussion adduces +authority," he says, "uses not intellect but rather memory"; and, +anticipating Milton, he observes that all our knowledge originates in +opinions. Perhaps some one had rebuked him for having too many opinions. +We can be sure that he chafed against dull, cautious, safe men who +wished for results. He himself cared nothing for them; it was enough for +him to know what might be done, without doing it. He was so sure of his +insight that he did not care to put it to the test of action; that was +for slower men, whether artists or men of science. His notebooks were +enough for him. + +In spite of the notebooks and the sketches, we know less about the man +Leonardo than about the man Shakespeare. Here and there he makes a +remark with some personal conviction or experience in it. "Intellectual +passion," he says, "drives out sensuality." In him it had driven out or +sublimated all the sensual part of character. We cannot touch or see or +hear him in anything he says or draws. The passion is there, but it is +too much concerned with universals to be of like nature with our own +passions. He seems to be speaking to himself as if he had forgotten the +whole audience of mankind, but in what he says he ignores the personal +part of himself; he is most passionate when most impersonal. "To the +ambitious, whom neither the boon of life nor the beauty of the world +suffices to content, it comes as a penance that life with them is +squandered and that they possess neither the benefits nor the beauty of +the world." That might be a platitude said by some one else; but we know +that in it Leonardo expresses his faith. The boon of life, the beauty of +the world, were enough for him without ambition, without even further +affections. He left father and mother and wealth, and even achievement, +to follow them; and he left all those not out of coldness, or fear, or +idleness, but because his own passion drew him away. No cold man could +have said, "Where there is most power of feeling, there of martyrs is +the greatest martyr." It is difficult for us northerners to understand +the intellectual passion of the South, to see even that it is passion; +most difficult of all for us to see that in men like Leonardo the +passion for beauty itself is intellectual. We, with our romanticism, our +sense of exile, can never find that identity which he found between +beauty and reality. "This benign nature so provides that all over the +world you find something to imitate." To us imitation means prose, to +him it meant poetry; science itself meant poetry, and illusion was the +only ugliness. "Nature never breaks her own law." It is we who try to +find freedom in lawlessness, which is ignorance, ugliness, illusion. +"Falsehood is so utterly vile that, though it should praise the great +works of God, it offends against His divinity." There is Leonardo's +religion; and if still it is too cold for us, it is because we have not +his pure spiritual fire in ourselves. + + + + + The Pompadour in Art + + +It is an important fact in the history of the arts for the last century +or more that in England and America, if not elsewhere, the chief +interest in all the arts, including literature, has been taken by women +rather than by men. In the great ages of art it was not so. Women, so +far as we can tell, had little to do with the art of Greece in the fifth +century or with the art of the Middle Ages. There were female patrons of +art at the Renaissance, but they were exceptions subject to the +prevailing masculine taste. Art was and remained a proper interest of +men up to the eighteenth century. Women first began to control it and to +affect its character at the mistress-ridden Court of Louis XV. But in +the nineteenth century men began to think they were too busy to concern +themselves with the arts. Men of power, when they were not working, +needed to take exercise and left it to their wives to patronize the +arts. And so the notion grew that art was a feminine concern, and even +artists were pets for women. The great man, especially in America, liked +his wife to have every luxury. The exquisite life she led was itself a +proof of his success; and she was for him a living work of art, able to +live so because of the abundance of his strength. In her, that strength +passed into ornament and became beautiful; she was a friendly, faithful +Delilah to his Samson, a Delilah who did not shear his locks. And so he +came to think of art itself as being in its nature feminine if not +effeminate, as a luxury and ornament of life, as everything, in fact, +except a means of expression for himself and other men. + +This female control of art began, as I have said, at the mistress-ridden +Court of Louis XV, and it has unfortunately kept the stamp of its +origin. At that Court art, to suit the tastes of the Pompadour and the +Du Barri, became consciously frivolous, became almost a part of the +toilet. The artist was the slave of the mistress, and seems to have +enjoyed his chains. In this slavery he did produce something charming; +he did invest that narrow and artificial Heaven of the Court with some +of the infinite beauty and music of a real Heaven. But out of this +refined harem art there has sprung a harem art of the whole world which +has infested the homes even of perfectly respectable ladies ever since. +All over Europe the ideals of applied art have remained the ideals of +the Pompadour; and only by a stern and conscious effort have either +women or men been able to escape from them. Everywhere there has spread +a strange disease of romantic snobbery, the sufferers from which, in +their efforts at aesthetic expression, always pretend to be what they are +not. Excellent mothers of families, in their furniture and sometimes +even in their clothes, pretend to be King's mistresses. Of course, if +this pretence were put into words and so presented to their +consciousness, they would be indignant. It has for them no connexion +with conduct; it is purely aesthetic, but art means to them make-believe, +the make-believe that they live an entirely frivolous life of pleasure +provided for them by masculine power and devotion. + +Yet these ladies know that they have not the revenues of the Pompadour; +they must have their art, their make-believe, as cheap as possible; and +it has been one of the triumphs of modern industry to provide them with +cheap imitations of the luxury of the Pompadour. Hence the machine-made +frivolities of the most respectable homes, the hair-brushes with backs +of stamped silver, the scent-bottles of imitation cut-glass, the +draperies with printed rose-buds on them, the general +artificial-floweriness and flimsiness and superfluity of naughtiness of +our domestic art. It expresses a feminine romance to which the male +indulgently consents, as if he were really the voluptuous monarch whose +mistress the female, aesthetically, pretends to be. In this world of +aesthetic make-believe our homes are not respectable; they would scorn to +be so, for to the romantic female mind, when it occupies itself with +art, the improper is the artistic. + +But this needs a more precise demonstration. We wonder at our modern +passion for superfluous ornament. We shall understand it only if we +discover its origin. The King's mistress liked everything about her to +be ornamented, because it was a point of honour with her to advertise +the King's devotion to her in the costliness of all her surroundings. He +loved her so much that he had paid for all this ornamentation. She, like +Cleopatra, was always proving the potency of her charms by melting +pearls in vinegar. Like a prize ox, she was hung with the trophies of +her physical pre-eminence. In all the art which we call Louis Quinze +there is this advertisement of the labour spent upon it. It proclaims +that a vast deal of trouble has been taken in the making of it, and we +can see the artist utterly subdued to this trouble, utterly the slave of +the mistress's exorbitant whims. This advertisement of labour spent, +without the reality, has been the mark of all popular domestic art ever +since. + +The beautiful is the ornamented--namely, that which looks as if it had +taken a great deal of trouble to make. The trouble now is taken by +machinery, and so, with the cost, is minimized; and what it produces is +ugliness, an ugliness which could not be mistaken for beauty but for the +notion that it does express a desirable state of being in those who +possess it. And this desirable state is the state of the King's +mistress, of a siren who can have whatever she desires because of the +potency of her charms. How otherwise can we explain the passion for +superfluous machine-made ornament which makes our respectable homes so +hideous? The machine simulates a trouble that has not been taken, and so +gives proof of a voluptuous infatuation that does not exist. The +hardworking mother of a family buys out of her scanty allowance a +scent-bottle that looks as if it had been laboriously cut for a King's +mistress, whereas really it has been moulded by machinery to keep up +the delusion, unconsciously cherished by her, that she lives in a world +of irresistible and unscrupulous feminine charm. And her husband endures +indulgently all this superfluous ugliness because he, too, believes that +it is the function of art to make the drawing-room of the mother of a +family look like the boudoir of a siren. + +Most of this make-believe remains unconscious. We are all so used to it +that we do not see in it the expression of the dying harem instinct in +women. Yet it persists, even where the harem instinct would be +passionately repudiated. It persists often in the dress of the most +defiant suffragette, in outbreaks of incongruous frivolity, forlorn +tawdry roses that still whisper memories of the Pompadour and her +triumphant guilty splendour. + +But besides all this unconscious feminine influence upon art, there is +the influence of women who care consciously for art; and it also has an +enervating effect on the artist. For the female patron of art, just +because there are so few male patrons of it, is apt to take a motherly +interest in the artist. To her he is a delightful wayward child rather +than a real man occupied with real things, like her husband or her +father or her brother: not one who can earn money for her and fight for +her and protect her, but rather one who needs to be protected and +humoured in a world which cares so little for art. To her, with all her +passion for art, it is something in its nature irrational, and, like a +child, delightful because irrational. It is an escape from reality +rather than a part of it. And so she will believe whatever the artist +tells her because he is an artist, not because he is a man of sense; and +she encourages him to be more of an artist than a man of sense. She +encourages him to be extravagantly aesthetic, and enjoys all his +extravagance as a diversion from the sound masculinity of her own +mankind. There is room in her prosperous, easy world for these +diversions from business, just as there is room for charity or, perhaps, +religion. The world can afford artists as it can afford pets; as it can +afford beautiful, cultivated women. And that also is the view of her +husband, if he is good-natured. But to him, just because art and artists +are the proper concern of his wife, they are even less serious than they +are to her. She may persuade herself that she takes them quite +seriously, but he pretends to do so only out of politeness, and as he +would pretend to take her clothes seriously. For him the type of the +artist is still the pianist who gives locks of his over-abundant hair to +ladies. Even if the artist is a painter and cuts his hair and dresses +like a man, he still belongs to the feminine world and excites himself +about matters that do not concern men. Men can afford him, and so they +tolerate him; but he is one of the expenses they would cut down if it +were necessary to cut down expenses. + +Well, it is necessary to cut down expenses now; and yet in ages much +sterner and poorer than our own art was the concern of men, and they +afforded it because it was not to them a mere feminine luxury. They +afforded the towering churches of the Middle Ages because they expressed +the religious passion of all mankind; and have we nothing to express +except a dying harem instinct and the motherliness of kind women to a +neglected class? We ought to be grateful to this motherliness, which has +kept art alive in an age of ignorance; but we should see that it is only +a _pis-aller_, and women should see this as well as men. The female +attitude towards art has been itself the result of a wrong relation +between women and men, a relation half-animal, half-romantic, and +therefore not quite real. This relation, even while it has ceased to +exist more and more in fact, has still continued to express itself +aesthetically; and in art it has become a mere obsolete nuisance. One may +care nothing for art and yet long to be rid of the meaningless +frivolities of our domestic art. One may wish to clear them away as so +much litter and trash; and this clearance is necessary so that we may +purge our vision and see what is beautiful. We are almost rid of the +manners of the King's mistress, and most women no longer try to appeal +to men by their charming unreason. It is not merely that the appeal +fails now; they themselves refuse to make it, out of self-respect. But +they still remain irrational in their tastes; or at least they have not +learned that all this aesthetic irrationality misrepresents them, that it +is forced upon them by tradesmen, that it is as inexpressive as a +sentimental music-hall song sung by a gramophone. But now that men have +given women the vote, and so proved that they take them seriously at +last, they have the right to speak plainly on this matter. The feminine +influence upon art has been bad. Let us admit that it has been the +result of a bad masculine influence upon women, that it has been supreme +because men have become philistine; but the fact remains that it has +been bad. Art must be taken seriously if it is to be worth anything. It +must be the expression of what is serious and real in the human mind. +But all this feminine art has expressed, and has tried to glorify, +something false and worthless. Therefore it has been ugly, and we are +all sick of its ugliness. We look to women, now that they are equalled +with men by an act of legal justice, to deliver us from it. They disown +the Pompadour in fact; let them disown her in art. + + + + + An Unpopular Master + + +Nicholas Poussin is one of the great painters of the world; yet it is +easier to give reasons for disliking him than for liking him. After his +death there was a war of pamphlets about him; the one side, led by +Lebrun, holding him up as a model for all painters to come, the other +side, under de Piles, calling him a mere pedant compared with Rubens. +Here is a passage from a poem against Poussin:-- + + Il scavoit manier la regle et le compas, + Parloit de la lumiere et ne l'entendoit pas; + Il estoit de l'antique un assez bon copiste, + Mais sans invention, et mauvais coloriste. + Il ne pouvait marcher que sur le pas d'autruy: + Le genie a manque, c'est un malheur pour luy. + +Now this is just what the criticism of yesterday said about him, the +criticism of the eighties and nineties, when it was supposed that +Velasquez had discovered the art of seeing, and with it the art of +painting. It sounds plausible, but not a word of it is true. And yet it +remains difficult to show why it is not true, to distinguish between the +genius of Poussin and the pedantry of his imitators, to convince people +that he was not a bad colourist, and that he did not imitate the +antique. + +This difficulty is connected with the age in which he happened to live. +Nobody calls Mantegna a pedant nowadays; yet one might say against him +most of the things that have been said against Poussin. But Mantegna +lived in a century that we like, and Poussin in one that we dislike. The +seventeenth century is for us a time of pictorial platitude; there was +nothing then to discover about gesture or expression, and painters, even +the best of them, used stock gestures and stock expressions without any +of the eagerness of discovery. Now Poussin is, or appears to be, in many +of his works a dramatic painter, and for us his drama is platitudinous. +Take the "Plague of Ashdod," in the National Gallery. There are the +gestures that we are already a little weary of in Raphael's cartoons. +The figures express horror and fear with uplifted hands or contorted +features; but their real business seems to be to make the picture. The +drama is thrust upon us, and we cannot ignore it; yet we feel that it +is no discovery for the artist, but something that he has learnt like a +second-rate actor--that he has, in fact, a "bag of tricks" in common +with all the Italian painters of his time, and that he is only +pretending to be surprised by his subject. Now every age has its +artistic platitudes; but these platitudes of dramatic expression are +peculiarly wearisome to us because they have persisted in European +painting up to the present day, and because most great painters in +modern times have struggled in one way or another to escape from them. +We associate them with mediocrity and insincerity; and we do not +understand that for many of the better painters of the seventeenth +century they were only a basis for discoveries of a different kind. Il +Greco, for instance, is often as dramatically platitudinous as Guido +Reni, but he also was making discoveries in design which happen to +interest us now, so that we overlook his platitudes. He was trying to +express his emotions not so much by gesture and the play of features as +by a rhythm really independent of those, a rhythm carried through +everything in the picture, to which all his platitudes are subject. And +because this rhythm is new to us now we hardly notice the platitudes. +Poussin was playing the same game, but his rhythm has been imitated by +so many dull painters that we are tempted to think it as platitudinous +as his drama, and that is where we are unjust to him. + +Poussin had a mind that was at once passionate and determined to be +master of its passions. He would not suppress them, but he would express +them with complete composure; and as Donne in poetry tried to attain to +an intellectual mastery over his passions by means of conceits, so +Poussin in painting tried to attain to the same mastery through the +representation of an ideal world. Each was enthralled with his +experience of real life; but each was dissatisfied with the haphazard, +tyrannous nature of that experience, and especially with the divorce +between passion and intellect, which in actual experience is so painful +to the man who is both passionate and intelligent. So each, in his art, +tried to make a new kind of experience, in which passion should be +intelligent and intellect passionate. This, no doubt, is what every +artist tries to do; but the effort was peculiarly fierce in Donne and +Poussin because in them there was a more than common discord between +passion and intelligence, because they were instantly critical both of +what they desired and of their own process of desire. Donne, at the very +height of passion, asked himself why he was passionate; and he could not +express his passion without trying to justify it to his intelligence. So +in his poetry he endeavoured to experience it again with simultaneous +intellectual justification which in that poetry was a part of the +experience itself. Poussin aims not so much at an intellectual +justification of passion as at an expression of it in which there shall +be also complete intellectual composure. He aims in his art at an +experience in which the intellect shall be free from the bewilderment of +the passions and the passions also free from the check of the intellect; +and to this he attains by the representation of an ideal state in which +the intellect can make all the forms through which the passion expresses +itself. He is, in fact, nearer than most painters to the musician; but +still he is a painter and appeals to us through the representation of +objects that we can recognize by their likeness to what we have seen +ourselves. His intellect desires to make its forms, not to have them +imposed upon it by mere ocular experience, since ocular experience for +him is full of the tyrannous bewilderment of actual passion. But at the +same time those forms which his intellect makes must be recognized by +their likeness to what men see in the world about them. So he found a +link between his ideal forms and what men see in what is vaguely called +the antique. + +But he did not go to the antique out of any artistic snobbery or because +he distrusted his own natural taste. The antique was not for him an +aristocratic world of art that he tried to enter in the hope of becoming +himself an aristocrat. He showed that he was perfectly at ease in that +world by the manner in which he painted its subjects. When, for +instance, he paints Bacchanals, he is really much less overawed by the +subject than Rubens would be. Rubens, who was a man of culture and an +intellectual _parvenu_, tried desperately to combine his natural tastes +with classical subjects. When he painted a Flemish cook as Venus he +really tried to make her look like Venus; and the result is a Flemish +cook pretending to be Venus, an incongruity that betrays a like +incongruity in the artist's mind. Poussin's Venus, far less flesh and +blood, does belong entirely to the world in which he imagines +her--indeed, so intensely that, if we have lost interest in that world, +she fails to interest us. The Venetians have done this much better, we +think; and why, if Poussin was going to paint like Titian, did he not +use Titian's colour? The answer is, Because his mood was very far from +Titian's, because he makes a comment that Titian never makes upon his +Venuses and Bacchanals. Rubens makes no comment at all: his attitude +towards the classical is that of the wondering _parvenu_. Titian through +the classical expresses the Renaissance liberation from scruple and +fear. But Poussin gives us a mortal comment upon this immortal +carelessness and delight. Whether his figures are tranquil or rapturous, +there is in his colour an expression of something far from their +felicity. Indeed, however voluptuous the forms may be, the colour is +always ascetic. It is not that he seems to disapprove of those glorified +pleasures of the senses, but that he cannot satisfy himself with his own +conception of them, as Titian could. Titian represents a world in which +all the mind consents to delight. His figures are not foolish, but they +are like dancers or dreamers to the music of their own pleasure. He +makes us hear that music to which his figures dance or dream; but, with +Poussin, we do not hear it, we only see the figures subject to it as to +some influence from which we are cut off; and that which cuts us off is +the colour. + +Most painters, if they wished to paint a scene of voluptuous pleasure, +would conceive it first in colour; for colour is the natural expression +of all delights of the senses. But Poussin never allows the delight that +he paints to affect his colour at all. That is always an expression of +his own permanent mind, of a mind that could not dance or dream to the +music of any pleasure possible in this world. For him the ideal world +was not merely one of perpetual, intensified pleasure, but one in which +all the activities of the mind should work like gratified senses and yet +keep their own character, in which passion should be freed from its +bewilderment and intellect from its questioning. That was what he tried +to represent; and his colour was a comment, half-unconscious perhaps, +upon its impossibility. For the everlasting conflict between colour and +form does itself express that impossibility. Whatever he might +represent, Poussin could not, for one moment, lose his interest in form +or subordinate it to colour. His figures, whatever their raptures, must +express his own intellectual mastery of them; and it was impossible to +combine this with a colour that should express their raptures. But +Poussin, knowing this impossibility, was not content with a compromise. +He might have used a faintly agreeable colour that would not be +incongruous with their raptures; but he chose rather to express his own +exasperation in a colour that was violently incongruous with them, but +which at the same time heightens his emphasis upon form. So, though +there is an incongruity between the subject itself and the mood in which +it is treated, there is none in the treatment. Poussin himself seems to +look, and to make us look, at a mythological Paradise, with the +searching, mournful gaze of a human spectator. This glory is forbidden +to us not merely by our circumstances but by the nature of our own +minds. It is, indeed, one of our own conceptions of Heaven, but +inadequate like all the rest; and Poussin, by making the conception +clear to us, reveals its inadequacy. + +He paints the subjects of the Renaissance like a man remembering his own +youth, and sad, not because he has lost the pleasures of youth, but +because he wasted himself upon them. Here are these deities, he seems to +tell us, but there must be a secret in their felicity that we do not +understand. The joy they seem to offer is below us, and he will not +pretend to have caught it from them in his art. For that art is always +sad, not with a particular grief nor with mere low spirits, but with the +incongruity of the passions and the intellect; and this noble sadness is +expressed by Poussin as no other painter has expressed it. He was +himself a melancholy man to whom art was the one happiness of life; but +he did not use his art to talk of his sorrows. He used it to create a +world of clear and orderly design, and satisfied his intellect in the +creation of it. In his art he could exercise the composure which actual +experience disturbed; he could remake that reality so troubled by the +conflict of sense, emotion, and understanding; but, even in remaking it, +he added the comment that it was only his in art. And that is the reason +why his art seems so impersonal to us, why there is the same cold +passion in all his pictures, whether religious or mythological. In all +of them he expresses a sharp dissatisfaction with the very nature of his +actual experience. A painter like Rubens is entranced with his own +actual vision of things; but Poussin tells us that he has never even +seen anything as he wanted to see it. He is not a vague idealist +dissatisfied with reality because of the weakness of his own senses or +understanding. Rather he seems to cry, like Poe, of everything that he +draws-- + + O God, can I not grasp + Them with a tighter clasp? + +It is the very substance and matter of things that he tries to master; +and that so intensely that he never sees them flushed or dimmed by any +mood of his own. Nor does he allow the passions of his figures to affect +his representation of them or of their surroundings. He is cold, +himself, towards these passions, for to him they are only a part of the +bewilderment of actual experience. But in making forms he escapes from +that bewilderment and shows us matter utterly subject to mind. Yet in +this triumph there is always implied the sadness that such a triumph is +impossible in life, that the artist cannot be what he paints. The +Renaissance had failed, and Poussin's art was a bitterly sincere +announcement of its failure. + + + + + A Defence of Criticism + + +The only kind of critic taken seriously in England is the art critic; +and he is taken seriously as an expert, that is to say, as one who will +tell us not what he has found in a work of art, but who produced it. His +very judgment is valued not on a matter of art at all, but on a matter +of business. No one wants to know whether a certain picture is good or +bad. The question is, Was it painted by Romney? It might well have been +and yet be a very bad picture; but that is not the point. Experts are +called to say that it is by Romney; and they are proved to be wrong. +Thereupon Sir Thomas Jackson writes to the _Times_ and says that if +people learned to think for themselves the profession of art critic +would be at an end. The art critic, for him, is one who tells people +what to think. And then he proceeds-- + + It is only for the public he writes; he is of no use to + artists. I doubt whether any man in any branch of art could be + found who would honestly say he had ever learned anything from + the art critic, who, after all, is only an amateur. The + criticism we value, and that which really helps, is that of our + brother artists, often sharp and unsparing, but always salutary + and useful. And if useless to the artist, art criticism is + harmful to the public, who take their opinion from it at second + hand. Were all art criticism made penal for ten years lovers of + art would learn to think for themselves, and a truer + appreciation of art than the commercial one would result, with + the greatest benefit both to art and to artists. It is the + artist and not the professional critic who should be the real + instructor of the public taste. + +Here there seems to be an inconsistency; for if we are to think for +ourselves we do not need to be instructed by artists any more than by +critics. But Sir Thomas Jackson may mean that the artist is to instruct +the public only through his works. Still, the question remains, How is +the artist to be recognized? There is a riddle--When is an artist not an +artist? and the answer is--Nine times out of ten. Certainly the opinions +of artists about each other will not bring security to the public mind; +and does Sir T. Jackson really believe that artists always value the +criticism of brother artists? Does an Academician value the criticism +of a Vorticist, or _vice versa_? The Academician, of course, would say +that the Vorticist was not an artist--and _vice versa_. The artist +values the opinion of the artist who agrees with him; and at present +there is less agreement among artists than among critics. They condemn +each other more than the critics condemn them. + +But these are minor points. What I am concerned with is Sir T. Jackson's +notion of the function of criticism. For him, as for most Englishmen, +the critic is one who tells people what to think; and the value of his +criticism depends upon his reputation; we should pay no heed to art +critics, because they are not artists. But the critic, whether of art or +of anything else; is a writer; and he is to be judged not by his +reputation either as artist or as critic, but by what he writes. Sir T. +Jackson thinks that he is condemning the critic when he says that he +writes only for the public. He might as well think that he condemned the +artist if he said that he worked only for the public. Of course the +critic writes for the public, as the painter paints for the public; and +he writes as one of the public, not as an artist. Further, if he is a +critic, he does not write to tell the public what to think any more +than he writes to tell the painter how to paint. Just as the painter in +his pictures expresses a general interest in the visible world, so the +critic in his criticism expresses a general interest in art; and his +justification, like that of the painter, consists in his power of +expressing this interest. If he cannot express it well, it is useless to +talk about his reputation either as artist or critic; one might as well +excuse a bad picture of a garden by saying that the painter of it was a +good gardener and therefore a good judge of gardens. + +It is a misfortune that the word critic should be derived from a Greek +word meaning judge. A critic certainly does arrive at judgments; but the +value of his criticism, if it has any, consists not in the judgment, but +in the process by which it is arrived at. This fact is seldom understood +in England, either by the public or by artists. The artist cares only +about the judgment and complains that a mere amateur has no right to +judge him. He would rather be judged by himself; and, being himself an +artist, he must be a better judge. But the question to be asked about +the critic is not whether he is an amateur as an artist, but whether he +is an amateur as a critic; and that can be decided only by his +criticism. The greatest artist might prove that he was an amateur in +criticism; and he could not disprove it by appealing to his art. Sir +Joshua Reynolds, for instance, thinks like an amateur in some of his +discourses; and it is amateur thinking to defend him by saying that he +does not paint like one. + +Certainly much of our criticism consists of mere judgments, and is +therefore worthless as criticism. But much of our art consists also of +mere judgments; it tells us nothing except that the artist admires this +or that, or believes that the public admires it; and it also is +worthless as art. But no critic therefore writes to the papers to say +that, if only the public would learn to feel for themselves, the +profession of artist would be at an end. We know that the business of an +artist is not to tell the public what to feel about the visible world, +or anything else, but to express his own interest in the visible world +or whatever may be the subject-matter of his art. We do not condemn art +because of its failures. Those who know anything at all about the nature +of art know that it has value because it expresses the common interests +of mankind better than most men can express them; and for this reason +it has value for mankind and not merely for artists. For this reason, +also, criticism has value for mankind and not merely for artists or for +critics. But the value of it does not lie in the judgment of the critic +any more than the value of art lies in the judgment, taste, preference +of the artist. The value in both cases lies in power of expression; and +by that art and criticism are to be judged. + +Needless to say, then, criticism is not to be judged by the help it +gives to artists. One might as well suppose that philosophy was to be +judged by the help it gives to the Deity. The philosopher does not tell +the Deity how He ought to have made the universe; nor do we read +philosophy for the sake of the judgments at which philosophers arrive. +We do not want to know Kant's opinion because he is Kant; what interests +us is the process by which he arrives at that opinion, and it is the +process which convinces us that his opinion is right, if we are +convinced. So it is, or should be, with criticism. It ought to provoke +thought rather than to suppress it; and if it does not provoke thought +it is worthless. + +But in the best criticism judgment is rather implied than expressed. For +the proper subject-matter of criticism is the experience of works of +art. The best critic is he who has experienced a work of art so +intensely that his criticism is the spontaneous expression of his +experience. He tells us what has happened to him, as the artist tells us +what has happened to him; and we, as we read, do not judge either the +criticism or the art criticized, but share the experience. The value of +art lies in the fact that it communicates the experience and the +experiencing power of one man to many. When we hear a symphony of +Beethoven, we are for the moment Beethoven; and we ourselves are +enriched for ever by the fact that we have for the moment been +Beethoven. So the value of the best criticism lies in the fact that it +communicates the experience and the experiencing power of the critic to +his readers and so enriches their experiencing power. If he is futile, +so is the artist. If we cannot read him without danger to our own +independence of thought, neither can we look at a picture without danger +to our own independence of vision. But believe in the fellowship of +mankind, believe that one mind can pour into another and enrich it with +its own treasures, and you will know that neither art nor criticism is +futile. They stand or fall together, and the artist who condemns the +critic condemns himself also. + +There remains the contention, half implied by Sir T. Jackson, that the +critic's experience of art is of no value because he is not an artist. +Now if it is of no value to himself because he is not an artist, then +art is of no value to anyone except the artist, and the artist who +practises the same kind of art; music is of value only to musicians, and +painting to painters. It cannot be that mere technical training gives a +man the mysterious power of experiencing works of art; for, as we all +know, it does not make an artist. No artist will admit that anyone +through technical training can become a member of the sacred brotherhood +of those who understand the mystery of art. Therefore they had all +better admit that there is no mystery about it, or, rather, a mystery +for us all. Either art is of value to us all, and our own experience of +it is of value to us; or art has no value whatever to anyone, but is the +meaningless activity of a few oddities who would be better employed in +agriculture. + +But if our own experience of art is of value to us, then it is possible +for us to communicate that experience to others so that it may be of +value to them; as it is possible for the painter to communicate to +others his experience of the visible world. If he denies this, once +again he denies himself. He shuts himself within the prison of his own +arrogance, from which he can escape only by a want of logic. But, +further, if our experience of art is of value to ourselves, and if it is +possible for us to communicate that experience to others, it is also +possible for us to arrive at conclusions about that experience which may +be of value both to ourselves and to others. Hence scientific or +philosophic criticism, which is based not, as some artists seem to +think, upon a fraudulent pretence of the critic that he himself is an +artist, but upon that experience of art which is, or may be, common to +all men. The philosophic critic writes not as one who knows how to +produce that which he criticizes better than he who has produced it, but +as one who has experienced art; and his own experience is really the +subject-matter of his criticism. If he _is_ a philosophic critic, he +will know that his experience is itself necessarily imperfect. As some +one has said: "We do not judge works of art; they judge us"; and the +critic is to be judged by the manner in which he has experienced art, as +the painter is to be judged by the manner in which he has experienced +the visible world. All the imperfections of his experience will be +betrayed in his criticism; where he is insensitive, there he will fail, +both as artist and as philosopher; and of this fact he must be +constantly aware. So if he gives himself the airs of a judge, if he +relies on his own reputation to make or mar the reputation of a work of +art, he ceases to be a critic and deserves all that artists in their +haste have said about him. Still, it is a pity that artists, in their +haste, should say these things; for when they do so they, too, become +critics of the wrong sort, critics insensitive to criticism. They may +think that they are upholding the cause of art; but they are upholding +the cause of stupidity, that common enemy of art and of criticism. + + + + + The Artist and his Audience + + +According to Whistler art is not a social activity at all; according to +Tolstoy it is nothing else. But art is clearly a social activity and +something more; yet no one has yet reconciled the truth in Whistler's +doctrine with the truth in Tolstoy's. Each leaves out an essential part +of the truth, and they remain opposed in their mixture of error and +truth. The main point of Whistler's "Ten o'clock" is that art is not a +social activity. "Listen," he cries, "there never was an artistic +period. There never was an art-loving nation. In the beginning man went +forth each day--some to battle, some to the chase; others again to dig +and to delve in the field--all that they might gain and live or lose and +die. Until there was found among them one, differing from the rest, +whose pursuits attracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with the +women, and traced strange devices with a burnt stick upon a gourd. This +man, who took no joy in the ways of his brethren, who cared not for +conquest and fretted in the field, this designer of quaint patterns, +this deviser of the beautiful, who perceived in Nature about him curious +curvings, as faces are seen in the fire--this dreamer apart was the +first artist." + +Then, he says, the hunters and the workers drank from the artists' +goblets, "taking no note the while of the craftsman's pride, and +understanding not his glory in his work; drinking at the cup not from +choice, not from a consciousness that it was beautiful, but because, +forsooth, there was none other!" Luxury grew, and the great ages of art +came. "Greece was in its splendour, and art reigned supreme--by force of +fact, not by election. And the people questioned not, and had nothing to +say in the matter." In fact art flourished because mankind did not +notice it. But "there arose a new class, who discovered the cheap, and +foresaw fortune in the manufacture of the sham." Then, according to +Whistler, a strange thing happened. "The heroes filled from the jugs and +drank from the bowls--with understanding.... And the people--this +time--had much to say in the matter, and all were satisfied. And +Birmingham and Manchester arose in their might, and art was relegated +to the curiosity shop." + +Whistler does not explain why, if no one was aware of the existence of +art except the artist, those who were not artists began to imitate it. +If no one prized art, why should sham art have come into existence? +According to him it was the sham that made men aware of the true; yet +the sham could not exist until men were aware of the true. But the +account he gives of the decadence of art is historically untrue as well +as unintelligible. We know little of the primitive artist; but we have +no proof that he was utterly different from other men, or that they did +not enjoy his activities. If they had not enjoyed them they would +probably have killed him. The primitive artist survived, no doubt, +because he was an artist in his leisure; and all we know of more +primitive art goes to prove that it was, and is, practised not by a +special class but by the ordinary primitive man in his leisure. Peasant +art is produced by peasants, not by lonely artists. Some, of course, +have more gift for it than others, but all enjoy it, though they do not +call it art. Whistler saw himself in every primitive artist; and seeing +himself as a dreamer apart misunderstood by the common herd, he saw the +primitive artist as one living in a primitive White House, and +producing primitive nocturnes for his own amusement, unnoticed, happily, +by primitive critics. + +But his view, though refuted both by history and by common sense, is +still held by many artists and amateurs. They themselves make much of +art, but do not see that their theory makes little of it, makes it a +mere caprice of the human mind, like the collecting of postage stamps. +If art has any value or importance for mankind, it is because it is a +social activity. If no one but an artist can enjoy art, it seems to +follow that no art can be completely enjoyed except by him who has +produced it; for in relation to that art he alone is an artist. All +other artists, even, are the public; and, according to Whistler, the +public has nothing to do with art; it flourishes best when they are not +aware of its existence. He is very contemptuous of taste. All judgment +of art must be based on expert knowledge, for art, he says, "is based +upon laws as rigid and defined as those of the known sciences." Yet +whereas "no polished member of society is at all affected by admitting +himself neither engineer, mathematician, nor astronomer, and therefore +remains willingly discreet and taciturn upon these subjects, still he +would be highly offended were he supposed to have no voice in what +clearly to him is a matter of taste." So to Whistler art has no more to +do with the life of the ordinary man than astronomy or mathematics. His +mention of engineering is an unfortunate slip, for, although we are not +engineers we all knew, when the Tay Bridge broke down and threw hundreds +of passengers into the water, that it was not a good bridge. We are all +concerned with engineering in spite of our ignorance of it, because we +make use of its works. Whistler assumes that we make no use of works of +art except as objects of use; and since pictures, poems, music are not +objects of use, we can have no concern with them whatever--which is +absurd. + +But here comes Tolstoy, who tells us that all works of art are merely +objects of use and are to be judged therefore by the extent of their +use. A work of art that few can enjoy fails as much as a railway that +few can travel by. "Art," Tolstoy says, "is a human activity, consisting +in this--that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, +hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people +are infected by these feelings and also experience them." So it is the +essence of a work of art that it shall infect others with the feelings +of the artist. Now certainly a work of art is a work of art to us only +if it does so infect us, but Tolstoy is not content with that. The +individual is not to judge the work of art by its infection of himself. +He is to consider also the extent of its infection. "For a work to be +esteemed good and to be approved of and diffused it will have to satisfy +the demands, not of a few people living in identical and often unnatural +conditions, but it will have to satisfy the demands of all those great +masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of laborious +life." + +The two views are utterly irreconcilable. According to Whistler the +public are not to judge art at all because they have no concern with it, +and it flourishes most when they do not pretend to have any concern with +it. According to Tolstoy the individual is to judge it, not by the +effect it produces on him, but by the effect it produces on others, "on +all those great masses of people who are situated in the natural +conditions of laborious life." + +Now, if we find ourselves intimidated by one or other of these views, if +we seem forced to accept one of them against our will, it is a relief +and liberation from the tyranny of Whistler's or Tolstoy's logic to ask +ourselves simply what does actually happen to us in our own experience +and enjoyment of a work of art. The fact that we are able to enjoy and +experience a work of art does liberate us at once from the tyranny of +Whistler; for clearly, if we can experience and enjoy a work of art, we +are concerned with it. It is vain for Whistler to tell us that we ought +not to be, or that we do injury to art by our concern. The fact of our +enjoyment and experience makes art for us a social activity; we know +that our enjoyment of it is good; we know also that the artist likes us +to enjoy it; and we do not believe that either the primitive artist or +the primitive man was different from us in this respect. There is now, +and always has been, some kind of social relation between the artist and +the public; the only question is how far that relation is the essence of +art. + +Tolstoy tells us that it is the essence of art, because the proper aim +of art is to do good. This is implied in his doctrine that art can be +good only if it is intelligible to most men. "The assertion that art may +be good art and at the same time incomprehensible to a great number of +people, is extremely unjust; and its consequences are ruinous to art +itself." The word unjust implies the moral factor. I am not to enjoy a +work of art if I know that others cannot enjoy it, because it is not +fair that I should have a pleasure not shared by them. If I know that +others cannot share it, I am to take no account of my own experience, +but to condemn the work, however good it may seem to me. From this logic +also I can liberate myself by concerning myself simply with my own +experience. Again, if I experience and enjoy a work of art, I know that +my experience of it is good; and, in my judgment of the work of art, I +do not need to ask myself how many others enjoy it. I may wish them to +enjoy it and try to make them do so, but that effort of mine is not +aesthetic but moral. It does not affect my judgment of the work of art, +but is a result of that judgment. And, as a matter of fact, if I am to +experience a work of art at all, I cannot be asking myself how many +others enjoy it. Judgments of art are not formed in that way and cannot +be; they are, and must be, always formed out of our own experience of +art. If art is to be art to us, we cannot think of it in terms of +something else. There would be no public for art at all if we all agreed +to judge it in terms of each other's enjoyment or understanding. Each +individual of "the great masses of people who are situated in the +natural conditions of laborious life" would also have to ask himself +whether the rest of the masses were enjoying and understanding, before +he could judge; indeed, he would not feel a right to enjoy until he knew +that the rest were enjoying. That is to say, no individual would ever +enjoy art at all. The fact is that art is produced by the individual +artist and experienced by the individual man. Tolstoy says that it is +experienced by mankind in the mass, and not as individuals; Whistler +that it is not experienced at all, either by the mass or by the +individual. Each is a heretic with some truth in his heresy; what is the +true doctrine? + +It is clear that every artist desires an audience, not merely so that he +may win pudding and praise from them, nor so that he may do them good; +none of these aims will make him an artist; he can accomplish all of +them without attempting to produce a work of art. It is also clear that +his artistic success is not his success in winning an audience. Those +"great masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of +laborious life" are a figment of Tolstoy's mind. No conditions are +natural in the sense in which he uses the word; nor do any existing +conditions make one man a better judge of art than another. There is no +multitude of simple, normal, unspoilt men able and willing to enjoy any +real art that is presented to them. The right experience of art comes +with effort, like right thought and right action; and no Russian peasant +has it because he works in the fields. Nor, on the other hand, are there +any artists who are mere "sports" occupied with a queer game of their +own self-expression which no one else can enjoy. There is a necessary +relation between the work of art and its audience, even if no actual +audience for it exists; and the fact that this relation must be, even +when there is no audience in existence, is the paradox and problem of +art. A work of art claims an audience, entreats it, is indeed made for +it; but must have it on its own terms. Men are artists because they are +men, because they have a faculty, at its height, which is shared by all +men. In that Croce is right; and his doctrine that all men are artists +in some degree, and that the very experience of art is itself an +aesthetic activity, contains a truth of great value. But his aesthetic +ignores, or seems to ignore, the fact that art is not merely, as he +calls it, expression, but is also a means of address; in fact, that we +do not express ourselves except when we address ourselves to others, +even though we speak to no particular, or even existing, audience. Yet +this fact is obvious; for all art gets its very form from the fact that +it is a method of address. A story is a story because it is told, and +told to some one not the teller. A picture is a picture because it is +painted to be seen. It has all its artistic qualities because it is +addressed to the eye. And music is music, and has the form which makes +it music, because it is addressed to the ear. Without this intention of +address there could be no form in art and no distinction between art and +day-dreaming. Day-dreaming is not expression, is not art, because it is +addressed to no one but is a purposeless activity of the mind. It +becomes art only when there is the purpose of address in it. That +purpose will give it form and turn it from day-dreaming into art. Even +in an object of use which is also a work of art, the art is the effort +of the maker to emphasize, that is, to point out, the beauty of that +which he has made. It is this emphasis that turns building into +architecture; and it implies that the building is made not merely for +the builder's or for anyone else's use, but that its aim also is to +address an audience, to speak to the eye as a picture speaks to it. Art +is made for men as surely as boots are made for them. + +But not as Tolstoy thinks, for any particular class of men or even for +the whole mass of existing mankind. The artist will not and cannot judge +his work by its effects on any actual men, any more than we can or will +judge it by its effects on anyone except ourselves. As we, in our +experience of it, must be completely individual; so must he in his +production of it. He is not a public servant, but a man speaking for +himself, and with no thought of effects, to anyone who will hear. His +audience consists only of those who will hear, of those individuals who +can understand his individual expression which is also communication. In +his art he seeks the individual who will hear. He has something to say; +but he can say it only to others, not to himself; it is what it is +because he says it to others. Yet he says it also for its own sake and +not for theirs. The particular likes and dislikes, stupidities, +limitations, demands, of individual men or classes are nothing to him. +The condition of his art is this alone, that he does address it to an +audience. So the relation between the artist and his audience is the +most important fact of his art, even if he has no actual audience. It +is his attitude towards the audience that makes him do his best or his +worst, makes him a good artist or a bad one, that sets him free to +express all he has to say or hampers him with inhibitions. His business +is not to find an audience, but to find the right attitude towards one, +the attitude which is that of the artist and not of the tradesman, or +peacock, or philanthropist. And it is plain that in his effort to find +this right attitude he may be helped or hindered much by his actual +fellow-men. The artist is also a man and subject to all the temptations +of men. Whistler, when he said that art happens, ignored this fact, +ignored the whole social relation of mankind and the whole history of +the arts; while Tolstoy ignored no less the mind of the artist, and the +minds of all those who do actually experience art. To Whistler the +artist is a _Chimaera bombinans in vacuo_; to Tolstoy he is a +philanthropist. For Whistler the public has no function whatever in +relation to art; for Tolstoy the artist himself has no function whatever +except a moral one. In fact he denies the existence of the artist, as +Whistler denies the existence of the public. Whistler's truth is that +the public must not tell the artist what he is to do; Tolstoy's, that a +public with a right relation to the artist will help the artist to have +a right relation to the public. + +Artists are not "sports," but men; and men engaged in one of the most +difficult of human activities. They are subject to aesthetic temptation +and sin, as all men are subject to temptation and sin of all kinds. +Their public may tempt them to think more of themselves than of what +they have to express, either by perverse admiration or by ignorant +contempt. An actual audience may be an obstruction between them and the +ideal audience to which every artist should address himself. Every +artist must desire that his ideal audience should exist, and may mistake +an actual audience for it. In the ideal relation between an artist and +his audience, it is the universal in him that speaks to the universal in +them, and yet this universal finds an intensely personal expression. +Art, which is personal expression, tells, not of what the artist wants, +but of what he values. But if his ego is provoked by the ego in a +particular audience, then he begins to tell of what he wants or of what +they want. The audience may demand of him that he shall please them by +indulging their particular vanities, appetites, sentimental desires, +that he shall present life to them as they wish it to be; and if he +yields to that demand it is because of the demands of his own particular +ego. There is a transaction between him and that audience, in its +essence commercial. His art is the particular supplying some kind of +goods to the particular, not the universal pouring itself out to the +universal. + +The function of the audience is not to demand but to receive. It should +not allow its own expectations to hinder its receptiveness; to that +extent Whistler is right. Art happens as the beauty of the universe +happens; and it is the business of the audience to experience it, not to +dictate how it shall happen. It has been said: It is not we who judge +works of art; they judge us. The artist speaks and we listen; but still +he speaks to us and by listening wisely we help him to speak his best, +for man is a social being; and all life, in so far as it is what it +wishes to be, is a fellowship. Never is it so completely a fellowship as +in the relation between an artist and his audience. There Tolstoy is +right, but the fellowship has to be achieved by both the artist and the +audience. There is no body of simple peasants, any more than there are +rich or cultured people, to whom he must address himself or whose +demands he must satisfy. Art that tries to satisfy any particular demand +is of use neither to the flesh nor to the spirit. It is neither meat nor +music. But where all is well with it, the spirit in the artist speaks to +the spirit in his audience. There is a common quality in both, with +which he speaks and they listen; and where this common quality is found +art thrives. + + + + + Wilfulness and Wisdom + + +There are people to whom the war was merely the running amuck of a +criminal lunatic; and they get what pleasure they can from calling that +lunatic all the names they can think of. To them the Germans are +different in kind from all other peoples, utterly separated from the +rest of us by their crimes. We could learn nothing from them except how +to crush them; and, having done so, we shall need to learn nothing +except how to keep them down. But such minds never learn anything from +experience, because they believe that there is nothing to be learnt. +They consume all their mental energy in anger and the expression of it; +and in doing so they grow more and more like those with whom they are +angry. Wisdom always goes contrary to what our passions tell us, +especially when they take the form of righteous indignation. The +creative power of the mind begins with refusal of all those tempting +fierce delights which the passions offer to it. Wisdom must be cold +before it can become warm; it must suppress the comforting heat of the +flesh before it can kindle with the pure fire of the spirit. Above all, +when we say that we are not as other men, as the Germans, for instance, +it must insist that we are, and that we shall avoid the German crime +only by recognizing our likeness to those who have committed it. + +The Germans have committed the great crime; but they have been born and +nurtured in an atmosphere which made that crime possible; and we live in +the same atmosphere. Their error, though they carried it to an extreme +in theory and in practice with the native extravagance of their race, is +the error of the whole Western world; and we shall not understand what +it is unless we are aware of it in ourselves as well as in them. For it +is a world-error and one against which men have been warned for ages; +but in their pride they will not listen to the warning. Many of the old +warnings, in the Gospels and elsewhere, sound like platitudes to us; we +expect the clergyman to repeat them in church; but we should never think +of applying them to this great, successful, progressive Western world of +ours. If we are not happy; if we do not even see the way to happiness; +if all our power merely helps us to destroy each other, or to make the +rich more vulgarly rich and the poor more squalidly poor; if the great +energy of Germany has hurried her to her own ruin; still we do not ask +whether we may not have made some fundamental mistake about our own +nature and the nature of the universe, and whether Germany has not +merely made it more systematically and more philosophically than the +rest of us. + +But the German, because he is systematic and philosophical, may reveal +to us what that error is in us as well as in himself. We do not state it +as if it were a splendid truth; we merely act upon it. He stated it for +us with such histrionic and towering absurdity that we can laugh at his +statement of it; but we must not laugh at him without learning to laugh +at ourselves. All this talk about the iron will, about set teeth and +ruthlessness, what does it mean except that the German chose to glorify +openly and to carry to a logical extreme the peculiar error of the whole +Western world--the belief that the highest function of man is to work +his will upon people and things outside him, that he can change the +world without changing himself? + +The Christian doctrine, preached so long in vain and now almost +forgotten, is the opposite of this. It insists that man is by nature a +passive, an experiencing creature, and that he can do nothing well in +action unless he has first learned a right passivity. Only by that +passivity can he enrich himself; and when he has enriched himself he +will act rightly. Man has a will; but he must apply it at the right +point, or it will seem to him merely a blind impulse. He must apply it +to the manner in which he experiences things; he must free himself from +his "will to live" or his "will to power," and see all men and things +not as they are of material use to him, but with the object of loving +whatever there is of beauty or virtue in them. His will, in fact, must +be the will to love, which is the will to experience in a certain way; +and out of that will to love right action will naturally ensue. Is this +a platitude? If it is, it is flatly contradicted by the German doctrine +of wilfulness. For the Germanic hero exercises his will always upon +other men and things, not upon himself; and we all admire this Germanic +hero, when he is not an obvious danger to us all, and when he is not +made ridiculous by the German presentment of him. We all believe that +the will is to be exercised first of all in action, that it is the +function of the great man to change the world, not to change himself. +To us the great man is one who does work a change upon the world, no +matter what that change may be. He may change it only as an explosion +changes things, and at the end he may be left among the ruins he has +made; but still we admire him. We compare him to the forces of nature, +we say that there is "something elemental" in him, even though he has +been merely an elemental nuisance. We value force in itself, and do not +ask what it can find to value in itself when it has exhausted itself +upon the world. But out of this worship of wilfulness there comes, +sooner or later, a profound scepticism and discouragement. For while +these wilful heroes do produce some violent effect, it is not the effect +they aimed at. Something happens; something has happened to Germany as +the result of Bismarck's wilfulness; but it is not what he willed. The +wilful hero is a cause in that he acts; but the effect is not what he +designed, and so he seems to himself, and to the world, only a link in +an unending chain of cause and effect; and as for his sense of will, it +is nothing but the illusion that he is all cause and not at all effect. + +_Quem Deus vult perdere dementat prius._ That old tag puts a truth +wrongly. God does not interfere to afflict the wilful man with madness, +but he has never thrown himself open to the wisdom of God. His mind is +like a machine that acts with increasing speed and fury because there is +less and less material for it to act upon. One act leads to another in a +blind chain of cause and effect; he does this merely because he has done +that, and seems to be driven by fate on and on to his own ruin. So it +was with Napoleon in his later years. He had lost the sense of any +reality whatever except his own action; he saw the world as a passive +object to be acted upon by himself. And that is how the Germans saw it +two years ago. They could not understand that it was possible for the +world to react against them. It was merely something that they were +going to remake, to work their will upon. The war, at its beginning, was +not to them a conflict between human beings; it was a process by which +they would make of things what they willed. There was no reality except +in themselves and their own will; for, in their worship of action, they +had lost the sense of external reality, they had come to believe that +there was nothing to learn from it except what a craftsman learns from +his material by working in it. It is by making that he learns; and they +thought that there was no learning except by making. + +But that is the mistake of the whole Western world, though we have none +of us carried it so far as Germany. Other men are to us still men, they +still have some reality to us; but we see external reality as a material +for us to work in; we are to ourselves entirely active and not at all +passive beings. Even among all the evil and sorrow of the war we still +took a pride in the enormous power of our instruments of destruction, as +if we were children playing with big, dangerous toys. But these toys are +themselves the product of a society that must always be making and never +thinking or feeling. They express the will for action that has ousted +the will to experience; and all the changes which we work on the face of +the earth express that will too. We could not live in the cities we have +made for ourselves if we thought that we had anything to learn from the +beauty of the earth. They are for us merely places in which we learn to +act, in which no one could learn to think or feel. Passive experience is +impossible in them and they do not consider the possibility of it. So +they express in every building, in every object, in the very clothes of +their inhabitants, an utter poverty of passive experience. In what we +make we give out no stored riches of the mind; we make only so that we +may act, never so that we may express ourselves; and we have little art +because our making is entirely wilful. Our attempts at art are +themselves entirely wilful. We will have art, we say; and so we plaster +our utilities with the ornaments of the past, as if we could get the +richness of experience secondhand from our ancestors. And in the same +way we are always finding for our blind activities moral motives, those +motives which are real only when they spring out of right experience. We +rationalize all that we do, but the rationalizing is secondhand ornament +to blind impulse; it is an attempt to persuade ourselves that our +actions spring out of the experience which we lack. There is among us an +incessant activity both of thought and of art; but much of it is +entirely wilful. The thinker makes theories to justify what is done; he, +too, sees all life in terms of action, he is the parasite of action. For +a German professor the whole process of history was but a prelude to the +wilfulness of Germany; he could not experience the past except in terms +of what Germany willed to do; and the aim of his theorizing was to +remove all scrupulous impediments to the action of Germany which she may +have inherited from the past. Think so that you may be stronger to do +what you wish to do; that is the modern notion of thought, and that is +the reason why we throw up theories so easily; for thinking of this kind +needs no experience, it needs merely an activity of the mind, the +activity which collects facts and does with them what it will. And these +theories are eagerly accepted so long as the impulse lasts which they +justify. When that is spent they are forgotten, and new theories take +their place to justify fresh impulses. And so it is with the incessant +new movements in art. Art now is conceived entirely as action. The +artist is as wilful as the Germanic hero; the will to make excludes in +him the will to experience. The painter cannot look at the visible world +without considering at once what kind of picture he will make of it. It +is to him mere passive material for his artistic will, not an +independent reality to enrich his mind so that it will give out its +riches in the form of art. And as he is always willing to make pictures +so he must will the kind of pictures he will make, as the Germans willed +the kind of world they would make. But this willing of his is a kind of +theorizing to justify his own action; and it changes incessantly because +he never can be satisfied with his own poverty of experience. But still +he will do anything rather than try to enrich that poverty. + +And that is the secret of all our restlessness, the restlessness that +forced the Germans into the folly and crime of war. We are always +dissatisfied with our poverty of experience; and we try to get rid of +our dissatisfaction in more blind activity, throwing up new theories all +the while as reasons why we should act. We fidget about the earth as if +we were children, that could not read, left in a library; and, like +them, we do mischief. And that is just what we are: children that have +not learnt to read let loose upon the library of the universe; and all +that we can do is to pull the books about and play games with them and +scribble on their pages. Everywhere the earth is defaced with our +meaningless scribbling, and we tell ourselves that it means something +because we want to scribble. Or sometimes we tell ourselves that there +is no meaning in anything, no more in the books than in our scribble. + +The only remedy is that we should learn to read; and for this we need +above all things humility; not merely the personal humility of a man who +knows that other men excel him, but a generic humility which +acknowledges in the universe a greater wisdom, power, righteousness than +his own. That is formally acknowledged by our religion, but it is not +practically acknowledged in our way of life, in our conduct or our +thought. We think and feel and behave as if we were the best and wisest +creatures in the universe, as if it existed only for us to make use of +it; and in so far as we learn from it at all, we learn only to make use +of it. That is our idea of knowledge and wisdom; more and more it is our +idea of science; and as for philosophy, we pay no heed to it because, in +its nature, it is not concerned with making use of things. In every way +we betray the fact that we cannot listen humbly, because we do not +believe there is anything to listen to. For a few of the devout God +spoke long ago, but He is not speaking now. "The kings of modern thought +are dumb," said Matthew Arnold; but that is because everything outside +the mind of man is dumb; all must be dumb to those who will not listen. +If we assume that there, is no intelligence anywhere but in ourselves, +we shall find none anywhere else. There will be no meaning for us in +anything but our own actions; and they will become more and more +meaningless to us as they become more and more wilful, until at last we +shall be to ourselves like squirrels in a cage, or prisoners on a +universal treadmill. Years ago the war must have seemed a meaningless +treadmill to the Germans, but they cannot escape from its consequences; +they have done and they must suffer. But will they learn from their +sufferings, shall we all learn, that doing is not everything? Are we +humbled enough to listen to the wisdom of the ages, which tells us that +we can be wise only if we listen for a wisdom that is not ours? + + + + + "The Magic Flute" + + +When _The Magic Flute_ was produced by the already dying Mozart it had +little success. At the first performance, it is said, when the applause +was faint, the leader of the orchestra stole up to Mozart, who was +conducting, and kissed his hand; and Mozart stroked him on the head. We +may guess that the leader knew what the music meant and that Mozart knew +that he knew. Neither could put it into words and it is not put into +words in the libretto. But the libretto need not be an obstruction to +the meaning of the music if only the audience will not ask themselves +what the libretto means. After Mozart's death the opera was successful, +no doubt because the audience had given up asking what the libretto +meant and had learnt something of the meaning of the music. + +There are worse librettos--librettos which have some clear unmusical +meaning of their own beyond which the audience cannot penetrate to the +meaning of the music, if it has any. This libretto, apart from the +music, is so nearly meaningless, it has so little coherence, that one +can easily pass through it to the music. The author, Schickaneder, was +Mozart's friend, and he had wit enough to understand the mood of Mozart. +That mood does express itself in the plot and the incidents of the +libretto, although in them it is empty of value or passion. +Schickaneder, in fact, constructed a mere diagram to which Mozart gave +life. The life is all in the music, but the diagram has its use, in that +it supplies a shape, which we recognize, to the life of the music. The +characters live in the music, but in the words they tell us something +about themselves which enables us to understand their musical speech +better. Papageno tells us that he is a bird-catcher and a child of +nature. The words are labels, but through them we pass more quickly to +an understanding of his song. Only we shall miss that understanding if +we try to reach it through the words, if we look for the story of the +opera in them. In the words the events of the opera have no connexion +with each other. There is no reason why one should follow another. The +logic of it is all in the music, for the music creates a world in which +events happen naturally, in which one tune springs out of another, or +conflicts with it, like the forces of nature or the thoughts and actions +of man. This world is the universe as Mozart sees it; and the whole +opera is an expression of his peculiar faith. It is therefore a +religious work, though free from that meaningless and timid solemnity +which we associate with religion. Mozart, in this world, was like an +angel who could not but laugh, though without any malice, at all the +bitter earnestness of mankind. Even the wicked were only absurd to him; +they were naughty children whom, if one had the spell, one could enchant +into goodness. And in _The Magic Flute_ the spell works. It works in the +flute itself and in Papageno's lyre when the wicked negro Monostatos +threatens him and Tamino with his ugly attendants. Papageno has only to +play a beautiful childish tune on his lyre and the attendants all march +backwards to an absurd goose-step in time with it. They are played off +the stage; and the music convinces one that they must yield to it. So, +we feel if we had had the music, we could have made the Prussians march +their goose-step back to Potsdam; so we could play all solemn perversity +off the stage of life. If we had the music--but there is solemn +perversity in us too; by reason of which we can hardly listen to the +music, much less play it, hardly listen to it or understand it even +when Mozart makes it for us. For he had the secret of it; he was a +philosopher who spoke in music and so simply that the world missed his +wisdom and thought that he was just a beggar playing tunes in the +street. A generation ago he was commonly said to be too tuney, as you +might say that a flower was too flowery. People would no more consider +him than they would consider the lilies of the field. They preferred +Wagner in all his glory. + +Even now you can enjoy _The Magic Flute_ as a more than usually absurd +musical comedy with easy, old-fashioned tunes. You can enjoy it anyway, +if you are not solemn about it, as you can enjoy _Hamlet_ for a bloody +melodrama. But, like _Hamlet_, it has depths and depths of meaning +beyond our full comprehension. Papageno is a pantomime figure, but he is +also one of the greatest figures in the drama of the world. He is +everyman, like Hamlet, if only we had the wit to recognize ourselves in +him. Or rather he is that element in us which we all like and despise in +others, but which we will never for one moment confess to in +ourselves--the coward, the boaster, the liar, but the child of nature. +He, because he knows himself for all of these, can find his home in +Sarostro's paradise. He does not want Sarostro's high wisdom; what he +does want is a Papagena, an Eve, a child of nature like himself; and she +is given to him. He has the wit to recognize his mate, almost a bird +like himself, and to them Mozart gives their bird-duet, so that, when +they sing it, we feel that we might all sing it together. It is not +above our capacity of understanding or delight. The angel has learnt our +earthly tongue, but transformed it so that he makes a heaven of the +earth, a heaven that is not too high or difficult for us, a wild-wood +heaven, half-absurd, in which we can laugh as well as sing, and in which +the angels will laugh at us and with us, laugh our silly sorrows into +joy. + +There is Mozart himself in Papageno, the faun domesticated and sweetened +by centuries of Christian experience, yet still a faun and always ready +to play a trick on human solemnity; and in this paradise which Mozart +makes for us the faun has his place and a beauty not incongruous with +it, like the imps and gargoyles of a Gothic church. At any moment the +music will turn from sublimity into fun, and in a moment it can turn +back to sublimity; and always the change seems natural. It is like a +great cathedral with High Mass and children playing hide-and-seek behind +the pillars; and the Mass would not be itself without the children. That +is the mind of Mozart which people have called frivolous, just because +in his heaven there is room for everything except the vulgar glory of +Solomon and cruelty and stupidity and ugliness. There never was anything +in art more profound or beautiful than Sarostro's initiation music, but +it is not, like the solemnities of the half-serious, incongruous with +the twitterings of Papageno. Mozart's religion is so real that it seems +to be not religion, but merely beauty, as real saints seem to be not +good, but merely charming. And there are people to whom his beauty does +not seem to be art, because it is just beauty; they think that he had +the trick of it and could turn it on as he chose; they prefer the +creaking of effort and egotism. His gifts are so purely gifts and so +lavish that they seem to be cheap; and _The Magic Flute_ is an absurdity +which he wrote in a hurry to please the crowd. + +We can hardly expect to see a satisfying performance of it on the stage +of to-day, but we must be grateful for any performance, for the life of +the music is in it. One can see from it what _The Magic Flute_ might be. +The music is so sung, so played that it does transfigure the peculiar +theatrical hideousness of our time. Tamino and Panina may look like +figures out of an Academy picture, as heroes and heroines of opera +always do. They may wear clothes that belong to no world of reality or +art, clothes that suggest the posed and dressed-up model. But the music +mitigates even these, and it helps every one to act, or rather to forget +what they have learnt about acting. It evidently brings happiness and +concord to those who sing it, so that they seem to be taking part in a +religious act rather than in an act of the theatre. One feels this most +in the concerted music, when the same wind from paradise seems to be +blowing through all the singers and they move to it like flowers, in +spite of their absurd clothes. + +But what is needed for a satisfying performance is a world congruous to +the eye as well as to the ear; and for this we need a break with all our +theatrical conventions. Sarostro, for instance, lives among Egyptian +scenery--very likely the architecture of his temple was Egyptian at the +first performance--but, for all that, this Egyptian world does not suit +the music, and to us it suggests the miracles of the Egyptian Hall. But +there is one world which would perfectly suit the music, a world in +which it could pass naturally from absurdity to beauty, and in which all +the figures could be harmonious and yet distinct, and that is the +Chinese world as we know it in Chinese art. For in that there is +something fantastic yet spiritual, something comic but beautiful, a +mixture of the childish and the sacred, which might say to the eye what +Mozart's music says to the ear. Only in Chinese art could Papageno be a +saint; only in that world, which ranges from the willow-pattern plate to +the Rishi in his mystical ecstasy in the wilderness, could the soul of +Mozart, with its laughter and its wisdom, be at home. That too is the +world in which flowers and all animals are of equal import with mankind; +it is the world of dragons in which the serpent of the first act would +not seem to be made of pasteboard, and in which all the magic would not +seem to be mere conjuring. In that world one might have beautiful +landscapes and beautiful figures to suit them. There Sarostro would not +be a stage magician, but a priest; from Papageno and the lovers to him +would be only the change from Ming to Sung, which would seem no change +at all. Chinese art, in fact, is the world of the magic flute, the world +where silver bells hang on every flowering tree and the thickets are +full of enchanted nightingales. It is the world of imps and monsters, +and yet of impassioned contemplation, where the sage sits in a moonlit +pavilion and smiles like a lover, and where the lovers smile like sages; +where everything is to the eye what the music of Mozart is to the ear. + +In the Chinese world we could be rid of all the drawling erotics of the +modern theatre, we could give up the orchid for the lotus and the heavy +egotism of Europe for the self-forgetful gaiety of the East. It may be +only an ideal world, empty of the horrors of reality, but it is one +which the art of China makes real to us and with which we are familiar +in that art; and there is a smiling wisdom in it, there is a gaiety +which comes from conquest rather than refusal of reality, just like the +gaiety and wisdom of Mozart's music. He knew sorrow well, but would not +luxuriate in it; he took the beauty of the universe more seriously than +himself. To him wickedness was a matter of imps and monsters rather than +of villains, and of imps and monsters that could be exorcized by music. +He was the Orpheus of the world who might tame the beast in all of us if +we would listen to him, the wandering minstrel whom the world left to +play out in the street. And yet his ultimate seriousness and the last +secret of his beauty is pity, not for himself and his own little +troubles, but for the whole bitter earnestness of mortal children. And +in this pity he seems not to weep for us, still less for himself, but to +tell us to dry our tears and be good, and listen to his magic flute. +That is what he would have told the Prussians, after he had set them +marching the goose-step backwards. Even they would not be the villains +of a tragedy for him, but only beasts to be tamed with his music until +they should be fit to sing their own bass part in the last chorus of +reconciliation. And this pity of his sounds all through _The Magic +Flute_ and gives to its beauty a thrill and a wonder far beyond what any +fleshly passion can give. Sarostro is a priest, not a magician, because +there is in him the lovely wisdom of pity, because he has a place in his +paradise for Papageno, the child of nature, where he shall be made happy +with his mate Papagena. There is a moment when Papageno is about to hang +himself because there is no one to love him; he will hang himself in +Sarostro's lonely paradise. But there is a sly laughter in the music +which tells us that he will be interrupted with the rope round his neck. +And so he is, and Papagena is given to him, and the paradise is no +longer lonely; and the two sing their part in the chorus of +reconciliation at the end. And we are sure that the Queen of Night, and +the ugly negro and all his goose-stepping attendants, are not punished. +They have been naughty for no reason that anyone can discover, just like +Prussians and other human beings; and now the magic flute triumphs over +their naughtiness, and the silver bells ring from every tree and the +enchanted nightingales sing in all the thickets, and the sages and the +lovers smile like children; and the laughter passes naturally into the +divine beauty of Mozart's religion, which is solemn because laughter and +pity are reconciled in it, not rejected as profane. + + + + + Process or Person? + + +Nearly all war pictures in the past have been merely pictures that +happened to represent war. Paolo Uccello's battle scenes are but +pretexts for his peculiar version of the visible world. They might as +well be still life for all the effect the subject has had upon his +treatment of it. Leonardo, in his lost battle picture, was no doubt +dramatic, and expressed in it his infinite curiosity; he has left notes +about the manner in which fighting men and horses ought to be +represented, but he had this detached curiosity about all things. +Michelangelo's battle picture, also lost, expressed his interest in the +nude in violent action, like his picture of the "Last Judgment." +Titian's "Battle of Cadore," which we know from the copy of a fragment +of it, was a landscape with figures in violent action. Tintoret's battle +scenes are parade pictures. Those of Rubens are like his hunting scenes +or his Bacchanals, expressions of his own overweening energy. In none of +these, except perhaps in Leonardo's, was there implied any criticism of +war, or any sense that it is an abnormal activity of man. The men who +take part in it are just men fighting; they are not men seen differently +because they are fighting, or in any way robbed of their humanity +because of their inhuman business. As for Meissonier, he paints a battle +scene just as if he were a second-rate Dutchman painting a _genre_ +picture; and most other modern military painters make merely a patriotic +appeal. War to them also is a normal occupation; and they paint battle +pictures as they might paint sporting pictures, because there is a +public that likes them. + +In Mr. Nevinson's war pictures there is expressed a modern sense of war +as an abnormal occupation; and this sense shows itself in the very +method of the artist. He was something of a Cubist before the war; but +in these pictures he has found a new reason for being one; for his +cubist method does express, in the most direct way, his sense that in +war man behaves like a machine or part of a machine, that war is a +process in which man is not treated as a human being but as an item in a +great instrument of destruction, in which he ceases to be a person and +is lost in a process. The cubist method, with its repetition and sharp +distinction of planes, expresses this sense of mechanical process better +than any other way of representation. Perhaps it came into being to +express the modern sense of process as the ultimate reality of all +things, even of life and growth. This is the age of mechanism; and +machines have affected even our view of the universe; we are overawed by +our own knowledge and inventions. Samuel Butler imagined a future in +which machines would come to life and make us their slaves; but it is +not so much that machines have come to life as that we ourselves have +lost the pride and sweetness of our humanity; not that the machines seem +more and more like us, but that we seem more and more like the machines. +Everywhere we see processes to which we are subject and of which our +humanity is the result, though in the past we have harboured the +delusion that our humanity was in some way independent of processes. Now +that delusion is fading away from us; and it fades away most of all in +war, where all humanity is evidently dominated by the struggle for life, +and is but a part of it, as raindrops are part of a storm. + +It is this sense of tyrannous process that Mr. Nevinson expresses in +his battle pictures, with, we suspect, a bitter feeling of resentment +against it. His pictures look like a visible _reductio ad absurdum_ of +it all. That is how men look, he seems to say, when they are fighting in +modern war; and, being men, they ought not to look so. That, at least, +is the effect the pictures produce on us. They are a bitter satire on +all the modern power of man and the uses to which he has put it. He has +allowed it to make him its slave and to set him to a business which has +no purpose whatever, which is as blind as the process of the universe +seems to one who has no faith. This struggle for life might just as well +be called a struggle for death. It is, in fact, merely a struggle +between two machines intent on wrecking each other; and part of the +machines are the bodies of men, which behave as if there were no souls +in them, as if there were not even life, but merely energy; so that they +collide and destroy each other like masses of matter in space. Nothing +can be said of them except that they obey certain laws; we call their +obedience discipline, but it is only the discipline of things subject to +a process. + +Now it is the sense of process, as the ultimate reality in the universe, +which has produced war against the conscience of mankind, and even of +many Germans. Conscience was powerless to prevent it because conscience +had ceased to believe in its own power, had come to think of itself as a +vain and inexplicable rebellion against the nature of things. This +rebellion we call sentimentality, meaning thereby that it is really not +even moral; for true morality would recognize the process to which the +nature of man is subject, of which that nature is itself a part; and +would cure man of his futile rebellions so that he should not suffer +needlessly from them. It would cure man of pity, because it is through +pity that he suffers. He is a machine, and, if he is a conscious +machine, he should be conscious of the fact that he is one. Such is the +belief that has been growing upon us for fifty years or more with many +strange effects. It has not destroyed our sense of pity, but has +confused and exasperated it. We pity and love still, but with +desperation, not like Christians assured that these things are according +to the order of the universe, but fearing that they are wilful +exceptions to that order, costly luxuries that we indulge in at our own +peril. We seem to ourselves lonely in our pity and love; the supreme +process knows nothing of them; the God, who is love, does not exist. + +In the past wars have happened with the consent of mankind; but this war +did not happen so. Even in Germany there was something hysterical in the +praise of war, as if it were the worship of an idol both hated and +feared. We must praise war, the German worshippers of force seem to say, +so that we may survive. We must forgo the past hopes of man so that we +may find something real to hope for. We must habituate ourselves to the +universe as it is, and break ourselves and all mankind in to the bitter +truth. They praised war as we used in England to praise industry. +Labour, we believed, when all the labour of the poor had been made +joyless by the industrial revolution, was the result of the curse laid +upon man by God. Therefore, man must labour without joy and never dream +of happy work. And so now the very worshippers of war believe that it is +a curse laid upon man by the nature of things. They may not believe in +the fall of man, but they do believe that he can never rise, since he is +himself part of a process which is always war; and, if he tries to +escape from it, he will become extinct. So they exhort us to consent to +that process even with our conscience; the more completely we consent +to it, the more we shall succeed in it. But all the while they are doing +violence to our natures and to their own. They try to think like +machines, like the slaves of a process; but thought itself is +inconsistent with their effort; their very praises of the heroism of +their victims are inconsistent with it. There is a gaping incongruity +between the obsolete German romanticism and the new German atheism which +exploited it, between their talk about Siegfried and their talk about +the struggle for life. And there is the same incongruity between the +cubist effort to see the visible world as a mechanical process and art +itself. The cubist seems to force himself with a savage irony into this +caricature of nature; we have emptied reality of its content in our +thought and he will empty it of its content to our eyes; that is not how +we really see things, but it is how we ought to see them if what we +believe about the nature of things is true. This irony we find in Mr. +Nevinson's pictures of the war, whether it be a despairing irony or the +rebellion of an unshaken faith. He has emptied man of his content, just +as the Prussian drill sergeant would empty him of his content for the +purposes of war; and only a Prussian drill sergeant could consent to +this version of man with any joy. + +That, perhaps, is how we shall all come to see everything if we continue +for some centuries to believe that process and not person is the +ultimate reality. Emptying ourselves of all our content in thought, we +shall at last empty ourselves of all content in reality; we shall become +what now we fear we are, and our very senses will be obedient to our +unfaith. For unfaith is the belief in process; and faith is the belief +in person. It is the belief in process that makes men sacrifice other +men in thousands to some idol; it is the belief in person that makes +them refuse to sacrifice anyone but themselves; and they are afraid when +they sacrifice others, but confident when they sacrifice themselves. +Ultimately process has no value and can have no value for us. It is +merely what exists or what we believe to exist, and our effort to value +it is only the obsequiousness of the slave to the power that he fears. +All our values come from the sense of person as more real than process. +We will not do wrong to a man because he is a man; if he is to us only +part of a process, we cannot value him and we can do what we will to him +without any sense of wrong. All the old cruelties and iniquities of the +world arose out of a belief in process and a fear of it. It is not a +modern scientific discovery, but the oldest and darkest superstition +that has oppressed the mind of man. To all religious persecutors +salvation was a process, like that struggle for life which is the modern +form of the struggle for salvation to the superstitious. And because +salvation was a process human beings were sacrificed to it. It did not +matter how they were tortured, provided this abstract process was +maintained. So it does not matter now how they are slaughtered, provided +the abstract process of the struggle for life is maintained. To the +German this war was part of a process, the historical process of the +triumph of Germany, and it did not matter how many Germans were killed +in furthering it. If they were all killed Germany would still have +asserted her faithless faith in process and would have reduced it to a +glorious absurdity. + +So, if we fought for anything beyond ourselves, we fought for the belief +in person as against the belief in process. Indeed, it is the chief +glory of England, among her many follies and crimes, that she has always +believed in person rather than in process; and that is what we mean when +we say that we refuse to sacrifice facts to theories. Men themselves +are to us facts, and we distrust theories that empty them of content. If +we act like brutes, we would rather do so because the brute has mastered +us for the moment than because we believe that humanity is inconsistent +with the process that dominates the world. We ourselves had rather be +inconsistent than empty ourselves of all reality for the sake of a +theory. And there is an intellectual as well as a moral basis to this +inconsistency of ours. For if you believe that person, not process, is +the ultimate reality, you must offer some defiance to the material facts +of life. There is evidently a conflict between person and process; and +in that conflict the process, which you perceive with your intelligence, +will be less real to you than the person of whom you are aware with all +your faculties. So you will trust in this union of all the faculties +rather than in the exercise of the pure intelligence; for to you the +pure intelligence will be part of the person and will share in the +person's universal imperfection. In fact it will not be pure +intelligence at all, but rather a faculty that may be obsequious to all +the lower passions. Nothing will free you from them, except the respect +for persons, except, in fact, loving your neighbour as yourself. There +is no way to consistency but through that, and no way to the exercise of +the pure intelligence. Never sacrifice a person to a process and you +will never sacrifice a person to your own lower passions. But, if you +believe in process rather than in person, you will see your passions as +part of the process and glorify them when you think you are glorifying +the nature of the universe. + +Cubism and all those new methods of art which subject facts to the +tyranny of a process may be good satire, but they will never, I think, +produce an independent beauty of their own. Like all satire, they are +parasitic upon past art, negative and rebellious. They tell us what the +universe may look like to us if we lose all faith in ourselves and each +other; and, when they are the result of a desperate effort to see the +universe so, they are unconscious satire. The complete, convinced cubist +reduces his own method, his own beliefs, his own state of mind, to an +absurdity. The more sincere he is, the more complete is the reduction. +For he, rejecting all that has been the subject-matter of painting in +the past, all the human values and the complexes of association which +have invested the visible world with beauty for men, proves to us in his +tortured diagrams that he has found nothing to take their place, He +gives us a _Chimaera bombinans in vacuo_, that vacuum which the universe +is to the human spirit when it denies itself. He tries to make art, +having cut himself off from all the experience and belief that produce +art. For art springs always out of a supreme value for the personal and +is an expression of that value. It is an effort, no matter in what +medium, to find the personal in all things, to see trees as men walking; +and the new abstract methods in painting reverse this process, they +empty all things, even men, of personality and subject them to a process +invented by the artist, which expresses, if it expresses anything, his +own loss of personal values and nothing else. The result may be +ingenious, it may still have a kind of beauty remembered from the great +design of past art; but it will lead nowhere, since it is cut off from +the very experience, the passionate personal interest in people and +things, which gave design to the great art of the past. It is at best +satirical, at worst parasitic, using up all devices of design and +turning from one to another in a restless ennui which of itself can give +no enrichment. It may have its uses, since it insists upon the supreme +importance of design and provides a new method for the expression of +three dimensions; but this method will be barren unless those who +practise it enrich it with their own observation and delight. Already +some of them seem to be weary of the barrenness of pure abstraction; +they see that any fool can hide his own commonplace in cubism as an +ostrich hides its head in the sand; but we would rather have honest +chocolate-box ladies than the kaleidoscopic but betraying chocolate-box +fragments of the futurist. + + + + + The Artist and the Tradesman + + +The Exhibition of the Arts and Crafts at Burlington House was an +acknowledgment of the fact that there are other arts besides those of +painting, sculpture, and architecture, or rather perhaps that the arts +subsidiary to architecture are arts and not merely commercial +activities. Burlington House would protest, of course, that it is not a +shop; but now at last objects are to be shown in it which the great mass +of the public expects to see only in shops and expects to be produced +merely to sell. We remember how Lord Grimthorpe called Morris a poetic +upholsterer. He meant there was something incongruous in the combination +of an upholsterer and a poet; he would have seen nothing incongruous in +the combination of a poet and a painter, because he would have called a +painter an artist; but an upholsterer was to him merely a tradesman, and +tradesmen are not expected to write poetry. Their business is to sell +things and to make objects for sale. + +In that respect he thought like the mass of the public now. For them +the painter has some prestige, because he is supposed not to be a +tradesman, not to paint his pictures merely so that he may sell them. He +has to live by his art, of course, but he practises it also because he +enjoys it; and, if he is an artist, he will not paint bad pictures +merely because they are what the public wants. But it is the business of +those who make furniture and such things to produce what the public +wants. No one would blame them for producing what they do not like +themselves, any more than one would blame a pill-maker for producing +pills that he would not swallow himself. The pill-maker and the +furniture-maker are both tradesmen producing objects in answer to a +demand. They have no prestige and no conscience is expected of them. + +Now in Italy in the fifteenth century this distinction between the +artist and the tradesman did not exist. The painter was a tradesman; he +kept a shop and he had none of that peculiar prestige which he possesses +now. But of the tradesman more was expected than is expected now; for +instance, good workmanship and material were expected of him and also +good design. He did not produce articles merely to sell, whether they +were pictures or wedding-chests or jewelry or pots and pans. He made all +these other things just as he made pictures, with some pleasure and +conscience in his own work; and it was the best craftsman who became a +painter or sculptor, merely because those were the most difficult +crafts. Now it is the gentleman with artistic faculty who becomes a +painter; the poor man, however much of that faculty he possesses, +remains a workman without any artistic prestige and without any +temptation to consider the quality of his work or to take any pleasure +in it. This is a commonplace, no doubt; but it remains a fact, however +often it may have been repeated, and a social fact with a constant evil +effect upon all the arts. Because the painter is supposed to be an +artist and nothing else and the craftsman a tradesman and nothing else, +we do not expect the virtues of the craftsman from the painter nor the +virtues of the artist from the craftsman. For us there is nothing but +mystery in the work of the artist and no mystery at all in the work of +the craftsman. The painter can be as silly as he likes, and we do not +laugh at him, if we are persons of culture, because his art is a sacred +mystery. But, as for the craftsman, there is nothing sacred about his +work. It is sold in a shop and made to be sold; and all we expect of it +is that it shall be in the fashion, which means that it shall be what +the commercial traveller thinks he can sell. There are, of course, a few +craftsman who are thought of as artists, and their work at once becomes +a sacred mystery, like pictures. They too have a right to be as silly as +they like; and some people will buy their work, however silly it may be, +as they would buy pictures--that is to say, for the good of their souls +and not because they like it. + +How are we to get rid of this distinction we have made between the +artist and the tradesman? How are we to recover for the artist the +virtues of the craftsman and for the craftsman the virtues of the +artist? At present we get from neither what we really like. Art remains +to us a painful mystery; most of us would define it, if we were honest, +as that which human beings buy because they do not like it. While, as +for objects of use, they are bought mainly because they are sold; they +are forced upon us as a conjurer forces a card. We think we like them +while they remain the fashion; but soon they are like women's clothes of +two years ago, if they last long enough to be outmoded. It is vain for +us to reproach either the artist or the tradesman. The fault is in +ourselves; we have as a whole society yielded to the most subtle +temptation of Satan. We have lost the power of knowing what we +like--that is to say, the power of loving. We value nothing for itself, +but everything for its associations. The man of culture buys a picture, +not because he likes it, but because he thinks it is art; at most what +he enjoys is not the picture itself but the thought that he is cultured +enough to enjoy it. That thought comes between him and the picture, and +makes it impossible for him to experience the picture at all. And so he +is ready to accept anything that the painter chooses to give him, if +only he believes the painter to be a real artist. This is bad for the +painter, who has every temptation to become a charlatan, and to think of +his art as a sacred mystery which no one can understand but himself and +a few other painters of his own sect. But in this matter the man of +culture is just like the vulgar herd, as he would call them. Their +attitude to the arts of use is the same as his attitude to pictures. +They do not buy furniture or china because they like them, but because +the shopman persuades them that what they buy is the fashion. Or +perhaps they recognize it themselves as the fashion and therefore +instantly believe that they like it. In both cases the buyer is +hypnotized; he has lost the faculty of finding out for himself what he +really likes, and his mind, being empty of real affection, is open to +the seven devils of suggestion. He cannot enjoy directly any beautiful +thing, all he can enjoy is the belief that he is enjoying it; and he can +harbour this belief about any nonsense or trash. + +It is a very curious disease that has become endemic in the whole of +Europe. People impute it to machinery, but unjustly. There are objects +made by machinery, such as motor-cars, which have real beauty of design; +and people do genuinely and unconsciously enjoy this beauty, just +because they never think of it as beauty. They like the look of a car +because they can see that it is well made for its purpose. If only they +would like the look of any object of use for the same reason, the arts +of use would once again begin to flourish among us. But when once we ask +ourselves whether any thing is beautiful, we become incapable of knowing +our real feelings about it. Any tradesman or artist can persuade us that +we think it beautiful when we do nothing of the kind. We are all like +the crowd who admired the Emperor's clothes; and there is no child to +tell us that the Emperor has no clothes on at all. We are not so with +human beings; we cannot be persuaded that we like a man when really we +dislike him; if we could, our whole society would soon dissolve in a +moral anarchy. But with regard to the works of man, or that part of them +which is supposed to aim at beauty, we are in a state of aesthetic +anarchy, because there is a whole vast conspiracy, itself unconscious +for the most part, to persuade us that we like what no human being out +of a madhouse could like. + +So the real problem for us is to discover, not merely in pictures, but +in all things that are supposed to have beauty, what we really do like. +And we can best do that, perhaps, if we dismiss the notions of art and +beauty for a time from our minds; not because art and beauty do not +exist, but because our notions of them are wrong and misleading. The +very words intimidate us, as people used to be intimidated by the jargon +of pietistic religion, so that they would believe that a very unpleasant +person was a saint. When once we look for beauty in anything, we look no +longer for good design, good workmanship, or good material. It is +because we do not look for beauty in motor-cars that we enjoy the +excellence of their design, workmanship, and material, which is beauty, +if only we knew it. Beauty, in fact, is a symptom of success in things +made by man, not of success in selling, but of success in making. If an +object made by man gives us pleasure in itself, then it has beauty; if +we got pleasure only from the belief that in it we are enjoying what we +ought to enjoy, then very likely it is as naked of beauty as the Emperor +was of clothes. The great mass of people now have a belief that ornament +is necessarily beauty, that, without it, nothing can be beautiful. But +ornament is often only added ugliness, like a wen on a man's face. It is +always added ugliness when it is machine-made, and when it is put on to +hide cheapness of material and faults of design and workmanship. +Unfortunately, it does hide these things from us; we accept ornament as +a substitute for that beauty which can only come of good design, +material, and workmanship; and we do not recognize these things when we +see them, except in objects like motor-cars, which we prefer plain +because we do unconsciously enjoy their real beauty. + +So, in the matter of ornament, we need to make a self-denying +ordinance; not because ornament is necessarily bad--it is the natural +expression of the artist's superfluous energy and delight--but because +we ourselves cannot be trusted with ornament, as a drunkard cannot be +trusted with strong drink. We must learn to see things plain before we +can see them at all, or enjoy them for their own real qualities and not +for what we think we see in them. A man whose taste is for bad poetry +can only improve it by reading good, plain prose. He must become +rational before he can enjoy the real beauties of literature. And so we +need to become rational before we can enjoy art, whether in pictures or +in objects of use. The unreason of our painting has the same cause as +the unreason of our objects of use; and the cause is in us, not in the +artist. We think of taste as something in its nature irrational. It is +no more so than conscience is. Indeed, there is conscience in all good +taste as in all the good workmanship that pleases it. But where the +public has not this conscience, the artist will not possess it either. +At best he will have only what he calls his artistic conscience--that is +to say, a determination to follow his own whims rather than the taste of +the public. But where the public knows what it likes, and the artist +makes what he likes, there is more than a chance that both will like the +same thing, as they have in the great ages of art. For a real liking +must be a liking for something good. It is Satan who persuades us that +we like what is bad by filling our mind with sham likings, which are +always really the expression of our egotism disguised. + + + + + Professionalism in Art + + +Professionalism is a dull, ugly word; but it means dull, ugly things, a +perversion of the higher activities of man, of art, literature, +religion, philosophy; and a perversion to which we are all apt to be +blind. We know that in these activities specialization is a condition of +excellence. As Keats said to Shelley, in art it is necessary to serve +both God and Mammon; and as Samuel Butler said, "That is not easy, but +then nothing that is really worth doing ever is easy." The poet may be +born, not made; but no man can start writing poetry as if it had never +been written before. In every art there is a medium, and the poet, like +all other artists, learns from the poets of the past how to use his +medium. Often he does this unconsciously by reading them for delight. He +first becomes a poet because he loves the poetry of others. And the +painter becomes a painter because he loves the pictures of others. Each +of them is apt to begin-- + + As if his whole vocation + Were endless imitation. + +So the artist insists to himself upon the value of hard work. He is +impatient of all the talk about inspiration; for he knows that, though +nothing can be done without it, it comes only with command of the +medium. And this command, like all craftsmanship, is traditional, handed +down from one generation to another. Any kind of expression in this +imperfect world is as difficult as virtue itself. For expression, like +virtue, is a kind of transcendence. In it the natural man rises above +his animal functions, above living so that he may continue to live; he +triumphs over those animal functions which hold him down to the earth as +incessantly as the attraction of gravity itself. But, like the airman, +he can triumph only by material means, and by means gradually perfected +in the practice of others. Yet there is always this difference, that in +mechanics anyone can learn to make use of an invention; but in the +higher activities, invention, if it becomes mechanical, destroys the +activity itself, even in the original inventor. The medium is always a +medium, not merely a material; and if it becomes merely a material to be +manipulated, it ceases to be a medium. + +Now professionalism is the result of a false analogy between mechanical +invention and the higher activities. It happens whenever the medium is +regarded merely as material to be manipulated, when the artist thinks +that he can learn to fly by mastering some other artist's machine, when +his art is to him a matter of invention gradually perfected and +necessarily progressing through the advance of knowledge and skill. One +often finds this false analogy in books about the history of the arts, +especially of painting and music. It is assumed, for instance, that +Italian painting progressed mechanically from Giotto to Titian, that +Titian had a greater power of expression than Giotto because he had +command of a number of inventions in anatomy and perspective and the +like that were unknown to Giotto. So we have histories of the +development of the symphony, in which Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven are +treated as if they were mechanical inventors each profiting by the +discoveries of his predecessors. Beethoven was the greatest of the three +because he had the luck to be born last, and Beethoven's earliest +symphonies are necessarily better than Mozart's latest because they were +composed later. But in such histories there always comes a point at +which artists cease to profit by the inventions of their predecessors. +After Michelangelo, perhaps after Beethoven, is the decadence. Then +suddenly there is talk of inspiration, or the lack of it. Mere +imitators appear, and the historian who reviles them does not see that +they have only practised, and refuted, his theory of art. They also have +had the luck to be born later; but it has been bad luck, not good, for +them, because to them their art has been all a matter of mechanical +invention, of professionalism. + +The worst of it is that the greatest artists are apt themselves to fall +in love with their own inventions, not to see that they are mechanical +inventions because they themselves have discovered them. Michelangelo in +his "Last Judgment" is very professional; Titian was professional +through all his middle age; Tintoret was professional whenever he was +bored with his work, which happened often; Shakespeare, whenever he was +lazy, which was not seldom. Beethoven, we now begin to see, could be +very earnestly professional; and as for Milton--consider this end of the +last speech of Manoah, in _Samson Agonistes_, where we expect a simple +cadence:-- + + The virgins also shall on feastful days + Visit his tomb with flowers, only bewailing + His lot unfortunate in nuptial choice, + From whence captivity and loss of eyes + +Milton was tempted into the jargon of these last two lines, which are +like a bad translation of a Greek play, by professionalism. He was +trying to make his poetry as much unlike ordinary speech as he could; he +was for the moment a slave to a tradition, and none the less a slave +because it was the tradition of his own past. + +Professionalism is a device for making expression easy; and it is one +used by the greatest artists sometimes because their business is to be +always expressing themselves, and even they have not always something to +express. But expression is so difficult, even for those who have +something to express, that they must be always practising it if they are +ever to succeed in it. Wordsworth, for instance, was a professed enemy +of professionalism in poetry; yet he, too, was for ever writing verses. +It was a hobby with him as well as an art; and his professionalism was +merely less accomplished than that of Milton or Spenser:-- + + Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate + Upon the Braes of Kirtle, + Was lovely as a Grecian maid + Adorned with wreaths of myrtle. + +Why adorned with wreaths of myrtle? Wordsworth himself tells us. His +subject had already been treated in Scotch poems "in simple ballad +strain," so, he says, "at the outset I threw out a classical image to +prepare the reader for the style in which I meant to treat the story, +and so to preclude all comparison." No one, whose object was just to +tell the story, would compare Ellen with a Grecian maid and her wreaths +of myrtle; but Wordsworth must do so to show us how he means to tell it, +and, as he forgets to mention, so that he may rhyme with Kirtle. That is +all professionalism, all a device for making expression easy, practised +by a great poet because at the moment he had nothing to express. But art +is always difficult and cannot be made easy by this means. We need not +take a malicious pleasure in such lapses of the great poet; but it is +well to know when Homer nods, even though he uses all his craft to +pretend that he is wide awake. Criticism may have a negative as well as +a positive value. It may set us on our guard against professionalism +even in the greatest artists, and most of all in them. For it is they +who begin professionalism and, with the mere momentum of their vitality, +make it attractive. Because they are great men and really accomplished, +they can say nothing with a grand air; and these grand nothings of +theirs allure us just because they are nothings and make no demands +upon our intelligence. That is art indeed, we cry: and we intoxicate +ourselves with it because it is merely art. "The quality of mercy is not +strained" is far more popular than Lear's speech, "No, no, no! Come, +let's away to prison," because it is professional rhetoric; it is what +Shakespeare could write at any moment, whereas the speech of Lear is +what Lear said at one particular moment. The contrast between the two is +the contrast well put in the epigram about Barry and Garrick in their +renderings of King Lear:-- + + A king, aye, every inch a king, such Barry doth appear. + But Garrick's quite another thing; he's every inch King Lear. + +We admire the great artist when he is every inch a king more than when +he has lost his kingship in his passion. + +He no doubt knows the difference well enough. But he wishes to do +everything well, he has a natural human delight in his own +accomplishment; and a job to finish. Shakespeare, Michelangelo, +Beethoven were not slaves to their own professionalism; no doubt they +could laugh at it themselves. But there is always a danger that we shall +be enslaved by it; and it is the business of criticism to free us from +that slavery, to make us aware of this last infirmity of great artists. +We are on our guard easily enough against a professionalism that is out +of fashion. The Wagnerian of a generation ago could sneer at the +professionalism of Mozart; but the professionalism of Wagner seemed to +him to be inspiration made constant and certain by a new musical +invention. We know now only too well, from Wagner's imitators, that he +did not invent a new method of tapping inspiration; we ought to know +that no one can do that. The more complete the method the more tiresome +it becomes, even as practised by the inventor. + +Decadence in art is always caused by professionalism, which makes the +technique of art too difficult, and so destroys the artist's energy and +joy in his practice of it. Teachers of the arts are always inclined to +insist on their difficulty and to set hard tasks to their pupils for the +sake of their hardness; and often the pupil stays too long learning +until he thinks that anything which is difficult to do must therefore be +worth doing. This notion also overawes the general public so that they +value what looks to them difficult; but in art that which seems +difficult to us fails with us, we are aware of the difficulty, not of +the art. The greater the work of art the easier it seems to us. We feel +that we could have done it ourselves if only we had had the luck to hit +upon that way of doing it; indeed, where our aesthetic experience of it +is complete, we feel as if we were doing it ourselves; our minds jump +with the artist's mind; we are for the moment the artist himself in his +very act of creation. But we are always apt to undervalue this true and +complete aesthetic experience, because it seems so easy and simple, and +we mistake for it a painful sense of the artist's skill, of his +professional accomplishment. So we demand of artists, that they shall +impress us with their accomplishment; we have not had our money's worth +unless we feel that we could not possibly do ourselves what they have +done. No doubt, when the _Songs of Innocence_ were first published, +anyone who did happen to read them thought them doggerel. Blake in a +moment had freed himself from all the professionalism of the followers +of Pope, and even now they make poetry seem an easy art to us, until we +try to write songs of innocence ourselves:-- + + When the voices of children are heard on the green, + And laughing is heard on the hill, + My heart is at rest within my breast, + And everything else is still. + + "Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, + And the dews of night arise; + Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, + Till the morning appears in the skies." + +We call it artless, with still a hint of depreciation in the word, or at +least of wonder that we should be so moved by such simple means. It is a +kind of cottage-poetry, and has that beauty which in a cottage moves us +more than all the art of palaces. But we never learn the lesson of that +beauty because it seems to us so easily won; and so our arts are always +threatened by the decadence of professionalism. But poetry in England +has been a living art so long because it has had the power of freeing +itself from professionalism and choosing the better path with Mary and +with Ruth. The value of the Romantic movement lay, not in its escape to +the wonders of the past, but in its escape from professionalism and all +its self-imposed and easy difficulties. For it is much easier to write +professional verses in any style than to write songs of innocence; and +that is why professionalism in all the arts tempts all kinds of artists. +Anyone can achieve it who has the mind. It is a substitute for +expression, as mere duty is a substitute for virtue. But, as a +forbidding sense of duty makes virtue itself seem unattractive, so +professionalism destroys men's natural delight in the arts. Like the +artist himself, his public becomes anxious, perverse, exacting; afraid +lest it shall admire the wrong thing, because it has lost the immediate +sense of the right thing. Just as it expects art to be difficult, so it +expects its own pleasure in art to be difficult; and thus we have +attained to our present notion about art which is like the Puritan +notion about virtue, that it is what no human being could possibly enjoy +by nature. And if we do enjoy it, "like a meadow gale in spring," it +cannot be good art. + +But in painting as in poetry, all the new movements of value are escapes +from professionalism; and they begin by shocking the public because they +seem to make the art too easy. Dickens was horrified by an early work of +Millais; Ruskin was enraged by a nocturne of Whistler. He said it was +cockney impudence because it lacked the professionalism he expected. +Artists and critics alike are always binding burdens on the arts; and +they are always angry with the artist who cuts the burden off his back. +They think he is merely shirking difficulties. But the difficulty of +expression is so much greater than the self-imposed difficulties of +mere professionalism that any man who is afraid of difficulties will try +to be a professional rather than an artist. + +In art there is always humility, in professionalism pride. And it is +this pride that makes art more ugly and tiresome than any other work of +man. Nothing is stranger in human nature than the tyranny of boredom it +will endure in the pursuit of art; and the more bored men are, the more +they are convinced of artistic salvation. Our museums are cumbered with +monstrous monuments of past professionalism; our bookshelves groan with +them. Always we are trying to like things because they seem to us very +well done; never do we dare to say to ourselves: It may be well done, +but it were better if it were not done at all; and the artist is still +to us a dog walking on his hind legs, a performer whose merit lies in +the unnatural difficulty of his performance. + + + + + Waste or Creation? + + +The William Morris Celebration was not so irrelevant to these times as +it may seem. Morris was always foretelling a catastrophe to our society, +and it has come. That commercial system of ours, which seems to so many +part of the order of Nature, was to him as evil and unnatural as +slavery. His quarrel with it was not political, but human; it was the +quarrel not of the oppressed, for he was not the man to be oppressed in +any society, but of the workman. He was sure that a society which +encouraged bad work and discouraged good must in some way or other come +to a bad end; and he would have seen in this war the end that he +predicted. Whatever its result, there must be a change in the order of +our society, whether it sinks through incessant wars, national and +commercial, into barbarism or is shocked into an effort to attain to +civilization. There were particular sayings of Morris's to which no one +at the time paid much heed. They seemed mere grumblings against what +must be. He was, for instance, always crying out against our waste of +labour. If only all men did work that was worth doing-- + + Think what a change that would make in the world! I tell you I + feel dazed at the thought of the immensity of the work which is + undergone for the making of useless things. It would be an + instructive day's work, for any one of us who is strong enough, + to walk through two or three of the principal streets of London + on a weekday, and take accurate note of everything in the shop + windows which is embarrassing or superfluous to the daily life + of a serious man. Nay, the most of these things no one, serious + or unserious, wants at all; only a foolish habit makes even the + lightest-minded of us suppose that he wants them; and to many + people, even of those who buy them, they are obvious + encumbrances to real work, thought, and pleasure. + +At the time most people said that this waste of labour was all a matter +of demand and supply, and thought no more about it; some said that it +was good for trade. Very few saw, with Morris, that demand for such +things is something willed and something that ought not to be willed. + +But then it was generally believed that we could afford this waste of +labour; and so it went on until, after a year or two of war, we found +that we could not afford it. Then even the most ignorant and thoughtless +learned, from facts, not from books, certain lessons of political +economy. They learned that, in war-time at least, a nation that wastes +its labour will be overcome by one that does not. At once the common +will was set against the waste of labour; and, what would have seemed +strangest of all forty years ago, the Government, with the consent of +the people, set to work to stop the waste of labour, and did to a great +extent succeed in stopping it. When people thought in terms of +munitions, instead of in terms of general well-being, they saw that the +waste of labour must be, and could be, stopped. They talked no longer +about the laws of supply and demand, but about munitions. Those who had +made trash must be set to make munitions, or to fight, or in some way to +second the Army. Those who still were ready to waste labour on trash for +themselves were no longer obeying the laws of supply and demand; they +were diverting labour from its proper task; they were unpatriotic, they +were helping the Germans. Money, in fact, had no longer the right to an +absolute command over labour. A man, before he spent a sovereign, must +ask himself whether he was spending it for the good of the nation; and +if he did not ask himself that, the Government would ask it for him. + +So much the war taught us, for purposes of war. But Morris many years +ago tried to teach it for purposes of peace. When he wrote those words +which we have quoted, he was not talking politics but ordinary common +sense. He was not even talking art, but rather economics; and he was +talking it not to any vague abstraction called the community, but to +each individual human being. At that time every one thought of economics +as something which concerned society or the universe. It was, so to +speak, a natural science; it observed phenomena as if they were in the +heavens; and stated laws about them, laws not human but natural. Perhaps +it was the greatest achievement of Morris in the way of thought that he +saw economics, even more clearly than Ruskin, as a matter not of natural +laws, but of conscience and duty. He did not talk about economics at +all, but about the waste of labour, just as we talk about it now. The +only difference is that he saw it to be one of the chief causes of +poverty in time of peace, whereas we see it as a hindrance to victory in +time of war. We have, for war purposes, acquired the conscience that he +wished us to acquire for all purposes. The question is whether we shall +keep it in peace. + +Upon that depends the question how soon we shall recover from the war. +For there is no doubt that we shall not be able to afford our former +waste of labour; and, if we persist in it, we shall be bankrupt as a +society. It may be said that we shall not have the money, the power, to +waste labour. But we shall certainly have some superfluous energy, more +and more, it is to be hoped, as time goes on; and our future recovery +will depend upon the use we make of this superfluous energy. We can +waste it, as we wasted it before the war; or we can keep the conscience +we have acquired in war and ask ourselves in peace, with every penny we +spend, whether we are wasting labour. It is true that what may be waste +to one will not be waste to another; but in that matter every one must +obey his own conscience. The important thing is that every one should +have a conscience and obey it. There will be plenty of people to tell us +that no one can define waste of labour. No one can define sin; but each +man has his own conscience on that point and lives well or ill as he +obeys it or disobeys it. Besides, there are many things, all the trash +that Morris speaks about in the shop windows, that every one knows to be +waste. We need not trouble ourselves about the fact that art will seem +waste to the philistine and not to the artist. We must allow for +differences on that point as on most others. Some things that might +have been waste to Samuel Smiles would have been to Morris a symptom of +well-being. But he knew, and often said, that we cannot have the beauty +which was to him a symptom of well-being unless we end the waste of +labour on trash. Of luxury he said:-- + + By those who know of nothing better it has even been taken for + art, the divine solace of human labour, the romance of each + day's hard practice of the difficult art of living. But I say, + art cannot live beside it nor self-respect in any class of + life. Effeminacy and brutality are its companions on the right + hand and the left. + +There is, we have all discovered now, only a certain amount of labour in +the country, in the world. Even the most ignorant are aware at last that +money does not create labour but only commands it, and may command it to +do what will or will not benefit us all. We were, for the purposes of +the war, much more of a fellowship than we had ever been before. We +acknowledged a duty to each other, the duty of commanding labour to the +common good. We asked with every sovereign we spent whether it would +help or hinder us in the war. Morris would have us ask also whether it +will help or hinder us in the advance towards a general happiness. + +And he put a further question, which in time of war unfortunately we +could not put, a question not only about the work but about the workman. +Are we, with our money, forcing him to work that is for him worth doing; +are we, to use an old phrase, considering the good of his soul? Morris +insisted on our duty to the workman more even than on our duty to +society. He saw that where great masses of men do work that they know to +be futile there must be a low standard of work and incessant discontent. +The workman may not even know the cause of his discontent. He may think +he is angry with the rich because they are rich; but the real source of +his anger is the work that they set him to do with their riches. And no +class war, no redistribution of wealth, will end that discontent if the +same waste of labour continues. Double the wages of every workman in the +country, and if he spends the increase on trash no one will be any +better off in mind or body. There will still be poverty and still +discontent, with the work if not with the wages. + +The problem for us, for every modern society now, is not so much to +redistribute wealth; that at best can be only a means to an end; but to +use our superfluous energy to the best purpose, no longer to waste it +piecemeal. That problem we solved, to a great extent, in war. We have +to solve it also in peace if the peace is to be worth having and is not +to lead to further wars at home or abroad. The war itself has given us a +great opportunity. It has opened our eyes, if only we do not shut them +again. It has taught every one in the country the most important of all +lessons in political economy which the books often seem to conceal. And, +better still, it has taught us that in economics we can exercise our own +wills, that they concern each individual man and woman as much as +morals; that they are morals, and not abstract mathematics; that we have +the same duty towards the country, towards mankind, that we have to our +own families. The proverb, Waste not, want not, does not apply merely to +each private income. We have accounts to settle not only with our +bankers, but with the community. It will thrive or not according as we +are thrifty or thriftless; and our thrift depends upon how we spend our +income, not merely on how much we spend of it. For all that part of it +which we do not spend on necessaries is the superfluous energy of +mankind, and we determine how it shall be exercised; each individual +determines that, not an abstraction called society. + +One may present the thrift of labour as a matter of duty to society. +But Morris saw that it was more than that; and he lit it with the +sunlight of the warmer virtues. It is not merely society that we have to +consider, or the direction of its superfluous energy. It is also the +happiness, the life, of actual men and women. We shall not cease to +waste work until we think always of the worker behind it, until we see +that it is our duty, if with our money we have command over him, to set +him to work worth doing. Capital now is to most of those who own it a +means of earning interest. We should think of it as creative, as the +power which may make the wilderness blossom like the rose and change the +slum into a home for men and women; and, better still, as the power that +may train and set men to do work that will satisfy their souls, so that +they shall work for the work's sake and not only for the wages. Until +capital becomes so creative in the hands of those who own it there will +always be a struggle for the possession of it; and to those who do +possess it it will bring merely superfluities and not happiness. If it +becomes creative, no one will mind much who possesses it. The class war +will be ended by a league of classes, their aim not merely peace, but +those things which make men resolve not to spoil peace with war. + +We shall be told that this is a dream, as we are always told that the +ending of war is a dream. "So long as human nature is what it is there +will always be war." Those who talk thus think of human nature as +something not ourselves making for unrighteousness. It is not their own +nature. They know that they themselves do not wish for war; but, looking +at mankind in the mass and leaving themselves out of that mass, they see +it governed by some force that is not really human nature, but merely +nature "red in tooth and claw," a process become a malignant goddess, +who forces mankind to act contrary to their own desires, contrary even +to their own interests. She has taken the place for us of the old +original sin; and the belief in her is far more primitive than the +belief in original sin. She is in fact but a modern name for all the +malignant idols that savages have worshipped with sacrifices of blood +and tears that they did not wish to make. It is strange that, priding +ourselves as we do on our modern scepticism which has taught us to +disbelieve in the miracle of the Gadarene swine, we yet have not dared +to affirm the plain fact that this nature, this human nature, does not +exist. There is no force, no process, whether within us or outside us, +that compels us to act contrary to our desires and our interests. There +is nothing but fear; and fear can be conquered, as by individuals, so by +the collective will of man. It is fear that produces war, the fear that +other men are not like ourselves, that they are hostile animals governed +utterly by the instinct of self-preservation. + +So it is fear that produces the class war and the belief that it must +always continue. It is our own fears that cut us off from happiness by +making us despair of it. The man who has capital sees it as a means of +protecting himself and his children from poverty; it is to him a +negative, defensive thing, at best the safeguard of a negative, +defensive happiness. So others see it as something which he has and they +have not, something they would like to snatch from him if they could. +But if he saw capital as a creative thing, like the powers of the mind, +like the genius of the artist, then it would be to him a means of +positive happiness both for himself and for others. He would say to +himself, not How can I protect myself with this against the tyranny of +the struggle for life? not How can I invest this? but What can I do with +this? He would see it as Michelangelo saw the marble when he looked for +the shape within it. And then he would rise above the conception of mere +duty as something we do against our own wills, or of virtue as a luxury +of the spirit to which we escape in our little leisure from the +struggle for life. Virtue, duty, would be for him life itself; in +creation he would attain to that harmony of duty and pleasure which is +happiness. + +If only we could see that the superfluous energy of mankind is something +out of which to make the happiness of mankind we should find our own +happiness in the making of it. There is still for us a gulf between +doing good to others and the delight of the artist, the craftsman, in +his work. The artist is one kind of man and the philanthropist another; +the artist is a selfish person whom we like, and the philanthropist an +unselfish person whom we do not like. What we need is to fuse them in +our use of capital, in our exercise of the superfluous energy of +mankind. There are single powerful capitalists who know this joy of +creation, who are benevolent despots, and yet are suspect to the poor +because of their great power. But it never enters the head of the +smaller investor that he, too, might create instead of merely investing; +that, instead of being a shareholder in a limited liability company, he +might be one of a creative fellowship, not merely earning dividends but +transforming cities, exalting things of use into things of beauty, +giving to himself and to mankind work worth doing for its own sake, +work in which all the obsolete conflicts of rich and poor could be +forgotten in a commonwealth. That is the vision of peace which our +sacrifices in the war may earn for us. We have learned sacrifice and the +joy of it; but, so far, only so that we may overcome an enemy of our own +kind. There remains to be overcome, by a sacrifice more joyful and with +far greater rewards, this other old enemy not of our own kind, the enemy +we call nature or human nature, the enemy that is so powerful merely +because we dare not believe that she does not exist. + + + + + PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Essays on Art, by A. 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