ARTIFICIAL CHILDHOOD
The reader who shares the art beliefs now prevalent in the world will be
quite certain that the ideas here being expounded are fantastic and
absurd. Among those who thus differ is a friend of mine, a very great
poet who is patiently reading the manuscript and suffering, both for
himself, and for all poets who will follow him. He writes: “There is and
should be such a thing as the enjoyment of what we are pleased to term
‘pure’ beauty.” And again: “You must believe either that we have a right
to play, in which case the poet-who-doesn’t-preach is justified, or
believe the contrary, with its corollary of a coming race of solemn
scientific monsters.”
I do not want to gain an argument by the easy device of omitting
everything that does not help me; therefore I take up this friend’s
contentions. Manifestly an element of play is essential to all art; it
is what distinguishes art from other forms of expression, essays,
sermons, speeches, mathematical demonstrations. If we do not emphasize
this play element, it is not from failure to realize the difference
between a work of art and an essay, a sermon, a speech or a mathematical
demonstration; it is merely because the play element in art is
recognized by everyone, to the exclusion of the element of rational
thought and purpose, which is no less essential.
Let us ask: what is play? The answer is: play is nature’s device whereby
the young train themselves for reality. Two puppies pretending to bite
each other’s throats, learn to fight without having their throats torn
in the process. So all young creatures develop their faculties; and this
function is carried right up into modern art products. From many new
novels I may learn, without risking the fatal experiment, what will
happen to me if I permit the wild beast of lust to get me by the throat.
Let us have another principle, to guide us in our analysis:
_Art is play, having for its purpose the development of human faculties,
and experiment with the possibilities of life._
But notice this distinction. Two puppies, leaping at each other’s
throats and dodging away, do not reason about what they are doing; they
are guided by instinct. But a modern novelist knows what he is doing; he
is thinking ordered thoughts about life, and making a deliberate record
thereof. So we have a second principle:
_Art is play, to the extent that it is instinctive; it is propaganda
when it becomes mature and conscious._
Manifestly, art can never be entirely play, because no human being is
entirely instinctive; nor can it be entirely propaganda--if it is to
remain art, it must keep the play form. Moreover, the play element must
be real, not simply a sham; the work must be a representation of life so
skillful that we can pretend to take it for actuality. Wilkie Collins
gave his formula for success as a fiction writer: “Make ’em laugh, make
’em cry, make ’em wait.” In other words, make ’em do just what they
would have to do, if they were taking part in actual life. This is the
one indispensable element: the artist, by whatever trick, must persuade
us that this is no trick, but reality.
The function of play in adults has been ably studied in Dr. Patrick’s
book, “The Psychology of Relaxation.” We humans have only recently
developed the upper lobes of the brain, and cannot stand using them all
the time; it is necessary occasionally to let them rest, and to live in
the lower centers; in other words, to go back into childhood and play.
To my friend the Poet, who asks if I believe in play, I answer by
pointing to my tennis racquet. But what shall we say about adults who
play all the time? Modern science has a name for such people; it calls
them morons.
If you are a moron artist, producing for a moron public, it will not
avail to argue with you. But we have to inquire: how comes it that the
art of morons is glorified and defended as “true” and “pure” art? How
comes it that the quality of enjoyment without thought, which is
characteristic of puppies and infants, comes to be considered a great
quality in adults? In the fields of industry and education, we know that
pitiful thing, the mind of a child in the body of a grown man. How comes
it that such defective mentality is glorified in the field of art?
The answer is what you will expect from me. There is a class which owns
and runs the world, and wishes everything to stay as it is. As one of
the functions of ownership, this class controls culture and determines
taste. It glorifies the scholar, the man who walks backward through
life; and likewise it glorifies the art-moron, the man who has emotions
without brains.
The so-called “purity” of art is thus a form of artificial childhood.
Just as the Chinese bind the feet of their women in order to keep them
helpless and acquiescent, so ruling-class culture binds the imagination
of the race so that it may not stride into the future. And if you think
that those who run the world’s thinking for the ruling class are not
intelligent enough to formulate such a purpose as this--my reply is that
you are as unintelligent as they would wish you to be, and you justify
all the contempt they feel for you.