MRS. OGI EMERGES
We now assume as demonstrated the following propositions. First:
_The artist is a social product, his psychology and that of his art
works being determined by the economic forces prevailing in his time._
And second:
_The established artist of any period is a man in sympathy with the
ruling classes of that period, and voicing their interests and ideals._
If this be true, the next step to the understanding of art, and the
history of art periods past and present, is to understand the economic
forces controlling mankind; the evolution and struggle of classes.
We get that far, when the argument is broken in upon by the particular
Mrs. Ogi who inhabits the cave where this manuscript is produced. Says
Mrs. Ogi: “In other words, you are going to give them your Socialist
lecture.”
Says Mrs. Ogi’s husband: “But--”
Says Mrs. Ogi, who finishes her husband’s sentences, as well as his
manuscripts: “You promised me to write one book without propaganda!”
“But--” once more--“this is a book to prove that all books are
propaganda! And can I conduct a propaganda for propaganda that isn’t
propaganda?”
“That depends,” says Mrs. Ogi, “upon how stupid you are.”
She goes on to maintain that the purpose of all propaganda is to put
itself across; the essence of it being a new camouflage, which keeps the
reader from knowing what he is getting. “If you imagine that people who
take up a discussion of art standards are going to read a discourse on
the history of social revolutions, I call you silly, and you aren’t
going to alter my opinion by calling me Mrs. Ogi.”
“My dear,” says the husband, in haste, “all that is not to be taken
literally. Mrs. Ogi is the wife of the artist in general; she is the
human tie that binds him to the group, and forces him to conform to
group conventions.”
“I know--like all men, you want to have it both ways. Everybody will
assume--”
“I won’t let them assume! It shall be explicitly stated that you are not
Mrs. Ogi.”
“Let it be explicitly stated that there has never been any
hand-embroidered table-linen in this cave--never any sort of table-linen
but paper napkins since I’ve been in it!”
“My dear,” says Ogi, patiently, “you were the one who first pointed out
to me the significance of hand-embroidered table-linen in the history of
art. You remember that time when we went to the dinner-party at Mrs.
Heavy Seller’s--”
“Yes, I remember; and what you ought to do is to put that dinner-party
into your book. Entitle your next chapter ‘The Influence of Lingerie on
Literature,’ or, ‘The Soul of Man Under Silk Hosiery.’”
“That’s not bad,” says Ogi, “I’ll use it later. Meantime, I’ll do my
best to liven up the argument as you request.” And so he retires and
cudgels his brain, and comes back with a new chapter--bearing, not the
dignified title of “The Evolution of Social Classes,” as he had planned,
but instead, a device to catch the fancy of the idle and frivolous--