That is not Art, which, while I, am contemplating it, inspires me with
any active or directive impulse; that is Art, when, for however brief a
moment, it replaces within me interest in myself by interest in itself.
For, let me suppose myself in the presence of a carved marble bath. If
my thoughts be “What could I buy that for?” Impulse of acquisition; or:
“From what quarry did it come?” Impulse of inquiry; or: “Which would be
the right end for my head?” Mixed impulse of inquiry and acquisition—I
am at that moment insensible to it as a work of Art. But, if I stand
before it vibrating at sight of its colour and forms, if ever so little
and for ever so short a time, unhaunted by any definite practical
thought or impulse—to that extent and for that moment it has stolen me
away out of myself and put itself there instead; has linked me to the
universal by making me forget the individual in me. And for that moment,
and only while that moment lasts, it is to me a work of Art. The
word “impersonal,” then, is but used in this my definition to signify
momentary forgetfulness of one's own personality and its active wants.
So Art—I thought—is that which, heard, read, or looked on, while
producing no directive impulse, warms one with unconscious vibration.
Nor can I imagine any means of defining what is the greatest Art,
without hypothecating a perfect human being. But since we shall
never see, or know if we do see, that desirable creature—dogmatism is
banished, “Academy” is dead to the discussion, deader than even Tolstoy
left it after his famous treatise “What is Art?” For, having destroyed
all the old Judges and Academies, Tolstoy, by saying that the greatest
Art was that which appealed to the greatest number of living human
beings, raised up the masses of mankind to be a definite new Judge
or Academy, as tyrannical and narrow as ever were those whom he had
destroyed.
This, at all events—I thought is as far as I dare go in defining what
Art is. But let me try to make plain to myself what is the essential
quality that gives to Art the power of exciting this unconscious
vibration, this impersonal emotion. It has been called Beauty! An
awkward word—a perpetual begging of the question; too current in use,
too ambiguous altogether; now too narrow, now too wide—a word, in fact,
too glib to know at all what it means. And how dangerous a word—often
misleading us into slabbing with extraneous floridities what would
otherwise, on its own plane, be Art! To be decorative where decoration
is not suitable, to be lyrical where lyricism is out of place, is
assuredly to spoil Art, not to achieve it. But this essential quality of
Art has also, and more happily, been called Rhythm. And, what is Rhythm
if not that mysterious harmony between part and part, and part and
whole, which gives what is called life; that exact proportion, the
mystery of which is best grasped in observing how life leaves an
animate creature when the essential relation of part to whole has been
sufficiently disturbed. And I agree that this rhythmic relation of
part to part, and part to whole—in short, vitality—is the one quality
inseparable from a work of Art. For nothing which does not seem to a man
possessed of this rhythmic vitality, can ever steal him out of himself.
And having got thus far in my thoughts, I paused, watching the swallows;
for they seemed to me the symbol, in their swift, sure curvetting, all
daring and balance and surprise, of the delicate poise and motion of
Art, that visits no two men alike, in a world where no two things of all
the things there be, are quite the same.
Yes—I thought—and this Art is the one form of human energy in the whole
world, which really works for union, and destroys the barriers between
man and man. It is the continual, unconscious replacement, however
fleeting, of oneself by another; the real cement of human life; the
everlasting refreshment and renewal. For, what is grievous, dompting,
grim, about our lives is that we are shut up within ourselves, with an
itch to get outside ourselves. And to be stolen away from ourselves by
Art is a momentary relaxation from that itching, a minute's profound,
and as it were secret, enfranchisement. The active amusements and
relaxations of life can only rest certain of our faculties, by indulging
others; the whole self is never rested save through that unconsciousness
of self, which comes through rapt contemplation of Nature or of Art.
And suddenly I remembered that some believe that Art does not produce
unconsciousness of self, but rather very vivid self-realisation.
Ah! but—I though—that is not the first and instant effect of Art; the
new impetus is the after effect of that momentary replacement of oneself
by the self of the work before us; it is surely the result of that brief
span of enlargement, enfranchisement, and rest.
Yes, Art is the great and universal refreshment. For Art is never
dogmatic; holds no brief for itself you may take it or you may leave it.
It does not force itself rudely where it is not wanted. It is reverent
to all tempers, to all points of view. But it is wilful —the very wind
in the comings and goings of its influence, an uncapturable fugitive,
visiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we often stand
even before the greatest works of Art without being able quite to lose
ourselves! That restful oblivion comes, we never quite know when—and
it is gone! But when it comes, it is a spirit hovering with cool wings,
blessing us from least to greatest, according to our powers; a spirit
deathless and varied as human life itself.
And in what sort of age—I thought—are artists living now? Are conditions
favourable? Life is very multiple; full of “movements,” “facts,” and
“news”; with the limelight terribly turned on—and all this is adverse
to the artist. Yet, leisure is abundant; the facilities for study great;
Liberty is respected—more or less. But, there is one great reason
why, in this age of ours, Art, it seems, must flourish. For, just as
cross-breeding in Nature—if it be not too violent—often gives an extra
vitality to the offspring, so does cross-breeding of philosophies make
for vitality in Art. I cannot help thinking that historians, looking
back from the far future, will record this age as the Third Renaissance.
We who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither tell what we
are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing, that, just
as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan orthodoxy was penetrated by
new philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan philosophy,
reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred Christian
creed; so now Orthodoxy fertilised by Science is producing a fresh and
fuller conception of life—a love of Perfection, not for hope of reward,
not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake. Slowly, under our
feet, beneath our consciousness, is forming that new philosophy, and
it is in times of new philosophies that Art, itself in essence always a
discovery, must flourish. Those whose sacred suns and moons are ever in
the past, tell us that our Art is going to the dogs; and it is, indeed,
true that we are in confusion! The waters are broken, and every nerve
and sinew of the artist is strained to discover his own safety. It is
an age of stir and change, a season of new wine and old bottles. Yet,
assuredly, in spite of breakages and waste, a wine worth the drinking is
all the time being made.
I ceased again to think, for the sun had dipped low, and the midges
were biting me; and the sounds of evening had begun, those innumerable
far-travelling sounds of man and bird and beast—so clear and intimate—of
remote countrysides at sunset. And for long I listened, too vague to
move my pen.
New philosophy—a vigorous Art! Are there not all the signs of it?
In music, sculpture, painting; in fiction—and drama; in dancing; in
criticism itself, if criticism be an Art. Yes, we are reaching out to
a new faith not yet crystallised, to a new Art not yet perfected; the
forms still to find-the flowers still to fashion!
And how has it come, this slowly growing faith in Perfection for
Perfection's sake? Surely like this: The Western world awoke one day to
find that it no longer believed corporately and for certain in future
life for the individual consciousness. It began to feel: I cannot say
more than that there may be—Death may be the end of man, or Death may
be nothing. And it began to ask itself in this uncertainty: Do I then
desire to go on living? Now, since it found that it desired to go on
living at least as earnestly as ever it did before, it began to inquire
why. And slowly it perceived that there was, inborn within it, a
passionate instinct of which it had hardly till then been conscious—a
sacred instinct to perfect itself, now, as well as in a possible
hereafter; to perfect itself because Perfection was desirable, a vision
to be adored, and striven for; a dream motive fastened within the
Universe; the very essential Cause of everything. And it began to see
that this Perfection, cosmically, was nothing but perfect Equanimity and
Harmony; and in human relations, nothing but perfect Love and Justice.
And Perfection began to glow before the eyes of the Western world like a
new star, whose light touched with glamour all things as they came forth
from Mystery, till to Mystery they were ready to return.
This—I thought is surely what the Western world has dimly been
rediscovering. There has crept into our minds once more the feeling
that the Universe is all of a piece, Equipoise supreme; and all things
equally wonderful, and mysterious, and valuable. We have begun, in fact,
to have a glimmering of the artist's creed, that nothing may we despise
or neglect—that everything is worth the doing well, the making fair—that
our God, Perfection, is implicit everywhere, and the revelation of Him
the business of our Art.
And as I jotted down these words I noticed that some real stars
had crept up into the sky, so gradually darkening above the pollard
lime-trees; cuckoos, who had been calling on the thorn-trees all the
afternoon, were silent; the swallows no longer flirted past, but a bat
was already in career over the holly hedge; and round me the buttercups
were closing. The whole form and feeling of the world had changed, so
that I seemed to have before me a new picture hanging.
Ah! I thought Art must indeed be priest of this new faith in Perfection,
whose motto is: “Harmony, Proportion, Balance.” For by Art alone can
true harmony in human affairs be fostered, true Proportion revealed, and
true Equipoise preserved. Is not the training of an artist a training
in the due relation of one thing with another, and in the faculty of
expressing that relation clearly; and, even more, a training in the
faculty of disengaging from self the very essence of self—and passing
that essence into other selves by so delicate means that none shall see
how it is done, yet be insensibly unified? Is not the artist, of all
men, foe and nullifier of partisanship and parochialism, of distortions
and extravagance, the discoverer of that jack-o'-lantern—Truth; for, if
Truth be not Spiritual Proportion I know not what it is. Truth it seems
to me—is no absolute thing, but always relative, the essential symmetry
in the varying relationships of life; and the most perfect truth is
but the concrete expression of the most penetrating vision. Life seen
throughout as a countless show of the finest works of Art; Life shaped,
and purged of the irrelevant, the gross, and the extravagant; Life, as
it were, spiritually selected—that is Truth; a thing as multiple, and
changing, as subtle, and strange, as Life itself, and as little to be
bound by dogma. Truth admits but the one rule: No deficiency, and no
excess! Disobedient to that rule—nothing attains full vitality. And
secretly fettered by that rule is Art, whose business is the creation of
vital things.
That aesthete, to be sure, was right, when he said: “It is Style that
makes one believe in a thing; nothing but Style.” For, what is Style in
its true and broadest sense save fidelity to idea and mood, and perfect
balance in the clothing of them? And I thought: Can one believe in
the decadence of Art in an age which, however unconsciously as yet, is
beginning to worship that which Art worships—Perfection-Style?
The faults of our Arts to-day are the faults of zeal and of adventure,
the faults and crudities of pioneers, the errors and mishaps of the
explorer. They must pass through many fevers, and many times lose their
way; but at all events they shall not go dying in their beds, and be
buried at Kensal Green. And, here and there, amid the disasters and
wreckage of their voyages of discovery, they will find something new,
some fresh way of embellishing life, or of revealing the heart of
things. That characteristic of to-day's Art —the striving of each branch
of Art to burst its own boundaries —which to many spells destruction, is
surely of happy omen. The novel straining to become the play, the play
the novel, both trying to paint; music striving to become story; poetry
gasping to be music; painting panting to be philosophy; forms, canons,
rules, all melting in the pot; stagnation broken up! In all this havoc
there is much to shock and jar even the most eager and adventurous. We
cannot stand these new-fangled fellows! They have no form! They rush in
where angels fear to tread. They have lost all the good of the old, and
given us nothing in its place! And yet—only out of stir and change is
born new salvation. To deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our
backs on courage! It is well, indeed, that some should live in closed
studies with the paintings and the books of yesterday—such devoted
students serve Art in their own way. But the fresh-air world will ever
want new forms. We shall not get them without faith enough to risk the
old! The good will live, the bad will die; and tomorrow only can tell us
which is which!
Yes—I thought—we naturally take a too impatient view of the Art of our
own time, since we can neither see the ends toward which it is almost
blindly groping, nor the few perfected creations that will be left
standing amidst the rubble of abortive effort. An age must always decry
itself and extol its forbears. The unwritten history of every Art will
show us that. Consider the novel—that most recent form of Art! Did not
the age which followed Fielding lament the treachery of authors to the
Picaresque tradition, complaining that they were not as Fielding and
Smollett were? Be sure they did. Very slowly and in spite of opposition
did the novel attain in this country the fulness of that biographical
form achieved under Thackeray. Very slowly, and in face of condemnation,
it has been losing that form in favour of a greater vividness which
places before the reader's brain, not historical statements, as it were,
of motives and of facts, but word-paintings of things and persons, so
chosen and arranged that the reader may see, as if at first hand, the
spirit of Life at work before him. The new novel has as many bemoaners
as the old novel had when it was new. It is no question of better or
worse, but of differing forms—of change dictated by gradual suitability
to the changing conditions of our social life, and to the ever fresh
discoveries of craftsmen, in the intoxication of which, old and equally
worthy craftsmanship is—by the way—too often for the moment mislaid. The
vested interests of life favour the line of least resistance—disliking
and revolting against disturbance; but one must always remember that a
spurious glamour is inclined to gather around what is new. And, because
of these two deflecting factors, those who break through old forms must
well expect to be dead before the new forms they have unconsciously
created have found their true level, high or low, in the world of Art.
When a thing is new how shall it be judged? In the fluster of meeting
novelty, we have even seen coherence attempting to bind together two
personalities so fundamentally opposed as those of Ibsen and Bernard
Shaw dramatists with hardly a quality in common; no identity of
tradition, or belief; not the faintest resemblance in methods of
construction or technique. Yet contemporary; estimate talks of them
often in the same breath. They are new! It is enough. And others, as
utterly unlike them both. They too are new. They have as yet no label of
their own then put on some one else's!
And so—I thought it must always be; for Time is essential to the proper
placing and estimate of all Art. And is it not this feeling, that
contemporary judgments are apt to turn out a little ludicrous, which
has converted much criticism of late from judgment pronounced into
impression recorded—recreative statement—a kind, in fact, of expression
of the critic's self, elicited through contemplation of a book, a
play, a symphony, a picture? For this kind of criticism there has
even recently been claimed an actual identity with creation. Esthetic
judgment and creative power identical! That is a hard saying. For,
however sympathetic one may feel toward this new criticism, however
one may recognise that the recording of impression has a wider, more
elastic, and more lasting value than the delivery of arbitrary judgment
based on rigid laws of taste; however one may admit that it approaches
the creative gift in so far as it demands the qualities of receptivity
and reproduction—is there not still lacking to this “new” critic
something of that thirsting spirit of discovery, which precedes the
creation—hitherto so-called—of anything? Criticism, taste, aesthetic
judgment, by the very nature of their task, wait till life has been
focussed by the artists before they attempt to reproduce the image which
that imprisoned fragment of life makes on the mirror of their minds.
But a thing created springs from a germ unconsciously implanted by the
direct impact of unfettered life on the whole range, of the creator's
temperament; and round the germ thus engendered, the creative
artist—ever penetrating, discovering, selecting—goes on building cell on
cell, gathered from a million little fresh impacts and visions. And to
say that this is also exactly what the recreative critic does, is to say
that the interpretative musician is creator in the same sense as is the
composer of the music that he interprets. If, indeed, these processes be
the same in kind, they are in degree so far apart that one would think
the word creative unfortunately used of both....
But this speculation—I thought—is going beyond the bounds of vagueness.
Let there be some thread of coherence in your thoughts, as there is
in the progress of this evening, fast fading into night. Return to the
consideration of the nature and purposes of Art! And recognize that
much of what you have thought will seem on the face of it heresy to the
school whose doctrine was incarnated by Oscar Wilde in that admirable
apotheosis of half-truths: “The Decay of the Art of Lying.” For therein
he said: “No great artist ever sees things as they really are.” Yet,
that half-truth might also be put thus: The seeing of things as they
really are—the seeing of a proportion veiled from other eyes (together
with the power of expression), is what makes a man an artist. What
makes him a great artist is a high fervour of spirit, which produces a
superlative, instead of a comparative, clarity of vision.
Close to my house there is a group of pines with gnarled red limbs
flanked by beech-trees. And there is often a very deep blue sky behind.
Generally, that is all I see. But, once in a way, in those trees against
that sky I seem to see all the passionate life and glow that Titian
painted into his pagan pictures. I have a vision of mysterious meaning,
of a mysterious relation between that sky and those trees with their
gnarled red limbs and Life as I know it. And when I have had that vision
I always feel, this is reality, and all those other times, when I have
no such vision, simple unreality. If I were a painter, it is for such
fervent vision I should wait, before moving brush: This, so intimate,
inner vision of reality, indeed, seems in duller moments well-nigh
grotesque; and hence that other glib half-truth: “Art is greater than
Life itself.” Art is, indeed, greater than Life in the sense that the
power of Art is the disengagement from Life of its real spirit and
significance. But in any other sense, to say that Art is greater than
Life from which it emerges, and into which it must remerge, can but
suspend the artist over Life, with his feet in the air and his head in
the clouds—Prig masquerading as Demi-god. “Nature is no great Mother who
has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens
to life.” Such is the highest hyperbole of the aesthetic creed. But what
is creative instinct, if not an incessant living sympathy with Nature, a
constant craving like that of Nature's own, to fashion something new out
of all that comes within the grasp of those faculties with which Nature
has endowed us? The qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative
power, are no more divorced from Nature, than are the qualities of
common-sense and courage. They are rarer, that is all. But in truth,
no one holds such views. Not even those who utter them. They are the
rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such as wish to condemn
what they call “Realism,” without being temperamentally capable of
understanding what “Realism” really is.
And what—I thought—is Realism? What is the meaning of that word so
wildly used? Is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the
spirit of the artist; or both, or neither? Was Turgenev a realist? No
greater poet ever wrote in prose, nor any one who more closely brought
the actual shapes of men and things before us. No more fervent idealists
than Ibsen and Tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their
people real. Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic writer can I
conceive than Dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations
more vividly. Was he a realist? The late Stephen Crane was called a
realist. Than whom no more impressionistic writer ever painted with
words. What then is the heart of this term still often used as an
expression almost of abuse? To me, at all events—I thought—the words
realism, realistic, have no longer reference to technique, for which the
words naturalism, naturalistic, serve far better. Nor have they to do
with the question of imaginative power—as much demanded by realism as
by romanticism. For me, a realist is by no means tied to naturalistic
technique—he may be poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic,
anything but—romantic; that, in so far as he is a realist, he cannot
be. The word, in fact, characterises that artist whose temperamental
preoccupation is with revelation of the actual inter-relating spirit
of life, character, and thought, with a view to enlighten himself and
others; as distinguished from that artist whom I call romantic—whose
tempera mental purpose is invention of tale or design with a view to
delight himself and others. It is a question of temperamental antecedent
motive in the artist, and nothing more.