THE ARTIST. Suppose _you_ tell me what Beauty is.
THE QUESTIONER. It seems to me quite simple. Beauty is--well--a thing
is either beautiful, or it isn’t. And--
THE ARTIST. Just so; the only trouble is that so few of us are able
to agree whether it is or isn’t. You yourself have doubtless changed
your opinions about what is beautiful many times in the course of your
career as an art-lover; and the time may come when you will cherish
some horrid nude of Matisse’s as your dearest possession. Let us admit,
like the wise old poet, that Beauty is not a thing which can be argued
about. It can only be produced.
THE QUESTIONER. But if we don’t know what Beauty is, how can we produce
it?
THE ARTIST. I have already told you--as the incidental result of
creative effort.
THE QUESTIONER. Effort to create _what_?
THE ARTIST. Oh, anything.
THE QUESTIONER. Are you joking?
THE ARTIST. I never was more serious in my life. And I should really
inform you that I am merely repeating the familiar commonplaces of
modern esthetics. Beauty is the incidental result of the effort to
create a house, a sword,--
THE QUESTIONER. Or a shoe?
THE ARTIST. Yes. I have some peasant shoes from Russia which are very
beautiful. You can see shoes which are works of art in any good museum.
THE QUESTIONER. But hardly in any boot-shop window!
THE ARTIST. Those shoes were not created--they were done as a set task.
They were not made by peasants or craftsmen for pleasure--they were
made by wage-slaves who did them only because they must. Do not for a
moment imagine that it is the difference in materials or shape that
matters--it is the difference in the spirit with which they are made. I
have seen modern shoes which are works of art--because they were made
by a bootmaker who is an artist and does what pleases himself.
THE QUESTIONER. Do they please anybody else?
THE ARTIST. Eh?
THE QUESTIONER. Would you be seen wearing them?
THE ARTIST. Would I be seen drinking my coffee from a cup that had
been turned on a wheel by a man who loved the feel of the clay under
his fingers and who knew just the right touch to give the brim? Was
Richard Coeur du Lion’s sword less a sword because it had been made
by an artist who dreamed over the steel instead of by a tired man in
a hurry? I cannot afford to wear shoes made by my bootmaker-artist
friend--but I wish I could, for they _fit_!
THE QUESTIONER. Will you give me his address?--I beg your
pardon--Please go on.
THE ARTIST. I was about to say, you wrong the artist if you think that
he is not interested in utility. It is only because utility has become
bound up with slavery that artists and people with artistic impulses
revolt against it and in defiance produce utterly and fantastically
useless things. This will be so, as long as being useful means being
a slave. But art is not an end in itself; it had its origin, and will
find its destiny, in the production of useful things. For example--
THE QUESTIONER. Yes, do let us get down to the concrete!
THE ARTIST. Suppose you are out walking in a hilly country, and decide
to whittle yourself a stick. Your wish is to make something useful. But
you can’t help making it more than useful. You can’t help it, because,
if you are not in a hurry, and nobody else is bossing the job, you find
other impulses besides the utilitarian one coming in to elaborate your
task. Shall I name those impulses?
THE QUESTIONER. If you will.
THE ARTIST. I am not a psychologist, but I would call them the impulse
to command and the impulse to obey.
THE QUESTIONER. To command and obey _what_?
THE ARTIST. Your material, whatever it is--paint and canvas, words,
sounds, clay, marble, iron. In this case, the stick of wood.