ingenuity in the adaptation of machinery, we come back to the _hand_,
as the best piece of machinery after all.
It is a strange commentary upon that industrial commercial progress
which has been the subject of so much congratulation. In the full
swing of our commercial century, which has witnessed such a wonderful
development of mechanical invention and application of steam power to
every kind of process of production, involving the specialising of
our workman, and his conversion very often into an appendage of the
machine, we have discovered that we are losing our sense of beauty, our
artistic feeling, and capacity for imaginative design; that our daily
work is losing, or has lost, its interest and romance; that we are
paying a heavy price for this lob-sided progress of ours in the loss
of beauty without and happiness within; and that that very cheapening
of commodities, which is often regarded as such a blessing, means the
cheapening of human life and labour; and we are apt to forget that
the cheapest necessity of life may be dear enough if one has not even
the cheap symbol of exchange for it--the uttermost farthing,--and the
portion of the human family, of our fellow-citizens in this condition
appears to be continually on the increase.
So that the glittering palace of commercial prosperity and individual
profit-at-other-people’s-expense casts a terrible shadow of
ever-deepening blackness exactly proportional to the luxury, the waste,
and the splendour within.
In the blackness of this shadow is involved the blight and desolation
of many a fair tract of our green England, as well as the blight and
desolation of the lives of her sons and daughters in the grime of
overcrowded joyless cities.
And while at one end of the social scale we get the height of
degradation which comes of the delegation of all manual labour to
another class, with ultra-refinement and softness of living, and
an aimless and restless life; at the other end we get depths of
degradation which comes not of work but of hopeless toil, or enforced
idleness; precarious and penurious living, and all the sordid and
narrowing cares it entails,--like the mysterious flakes that Shelley
describes in his “Triumph of Life,” falling and falling upon the
heads of the throng until the brightness of youth is changed to a
sour-visaged old age.
Here, in these two perhaps equally deplorable extremes, we have the
white and the black upon our palette for a picture of modern life--a
“Bridge of Life” I have not yet painted. These are the two negations.
Between them there is a band or bridge of colour very various in
hue, fading gradually into the white, or absorbed gradually into the
blackness. Here is the artificial bridge of life we have built up
with the rigid stones and bricks of an inhuman and unequal economic
system, cemented by the lives and hopes of the mass of mankind, who
are constrained to bear that bridge from dawn to sunset in order that
a privileged few may pass over dry-shod--not unpursued, it is true,
by their own Nemesis, if unvexed by the common cares that wear away
the lives of those unregarded supporters of the present structure of
society--the caryatides of toil turned to stone.
Well, this revival of handicraft, this claim of the workman to have
some share of the joy of the artist in his work, instead of, like the
blind tools and implements he uses, contributing to a result in which
he has no acknowledged part or recognition,--this claim, I say, which
is wrapped up in that revival of handicraft of which we see the signs
around us, is, in some sort, a protest against the domination of our
modern commercial and industrial system of production for profit--the
profit of some intervening person other than the actual worker and
maker--which has gradually superseded the ancient one of production
for use, which has destroyed the old village industries, and is fast
obliterating local varieties and characteristics of all kinds as
regards the outward life of the people in all countries where our
modern civilisation has obtained a footing.
Instead of things useful, each with their own constructive and organic
beauty, or decoration arising out of these, being produced at the will
and pleasure of the artist or craftsman, with a view to the actual
requirements of particular people, things both of use and so-called
ornament are now, with few exceptions, with our tremendous machinery,
produced wholesale--as many as possible to one pattern--whether hats,
or boots, or clothes, or houses, or food and furniture, or furniture
for the mind’s unseen house--things intended to stimulate and delight
it. Yet all these things, even matters, one would think, of pure art
like books and pictures, instead of being the spontaneous outcome of
a man’s best thoughts and skill, seem too often made by a species of
guess-work, and apparently on the assumption that, being made for no
one, or no place, in particular, they will do anywhere, or fit any one,
or every one, but sometimes end in suiting no one.
Now in order to facilitate this process of wholesale production for
profit (which ultimately depends for its success perhaps as much upon
the adroitness of the salesman as upon the actual wants of the big
public, at least beyond the bare necessities)--in order to facilitate
wholesale production, it becomes an object that all labour that _can
be_ done by machine, after almost infinitesimal subdivision has taken
place, _shall be_ done by machine, until such workmen as are necessary
to wait on the machine become parts of it, and independent craftsmen
cease to exist.
There may be a great future for machinery in the _real_ saving of
labour--heavy and exhausting labour--the necessary heavy and useful
work--lifting weights, pumping, excavating, and carrying us from place
to place, and many other useful services--perhaps when communities are
masters of their own soil and the materials of life; but at present it
is only the cost of labour that is saved. It may be a gain to the owner
and to a few individuals, but so long as machinery merely supplants
men, and turns them adrift to swell the army of the unemployed, what is
gain to individuals is a loss to the people at large.
If the production of the greatest saleable quantity for the greatest
purchasing number, without regard to quality or durability, be the
object, of course there can be little question that such a system as
the present one is well adapted to attain it.
If mere _reproduction_ of works on the same principle, even of works
of art, is our object, rather than to encourage the development of
the capacity for original invention, and the personal pleasure of
fashioning, such a system is again well adapted to the end, as, for
instance, in the case of printed books, newspapers, engravings, and all
things where any form of press is employed. But for all our advancement
and steam power as applied to the printing press, printing as an art
has declined, however it may have flourished as a trade, especially
as regards the form of type and its arrangement on the page, to say
nothing of printers’ ornaments and illustrations from the point of view
of their contributing to the unity and decorative effect.
Yet this matter of book and newspaper illustration is considered by
many, perhaps most, to be our strongest point. Well, if we limit it
strictly to the question of illustration pure and simple, and leave out
the question of adaptability to conditions and decorative effect--the
art and craft side, in fact--there can be no doubt that, fostered
perhaps by the enormous and wonderful development of the photograph,
there is an extraordinary display of clever work and graphic power of
a kind scattered about among our books, newspapers, and magazines.
In fact, some of our most original and clever work is found in these
things, and many of our most original painters first distinguished
themselves as illustrators, and owe much of their character and charm
as painters to the fact of their having been first craftsmen in black
and white.
Yet in contemplating the amount of ability spent on works the very
existence of which depends often upon the passing moment, it is
impossible not to feel that there is an enormous waste in this
direction, both literary and artistic.
It has been said that we grind our potential Shakespeares very small on
the mill of the daily press; and in like manner, I suppose, our Michael
Angelos may be squandered in magazines and Christmas numbers.
I believe it has been said that in our black and white illustrative
work we find our “art of the people.” It may be the modern substitute
for it, but I should describe it more as the art of a commercial
democracy. It is produced by a special class for special classes,
rather than for or by the people, strictly speaking; and, curiously
enough, though addressed to a wide public, its existence depends upon
its swift conversion into private property. You pay your money and you
take your choice.
As art, it is after all questionable compensation for that art of the
people which formerly existed in every village, every household, in
close connection with every handicraft, however humble; when every
carpenter, mason, blacksmith, weaver, or plasterer could give the
touch of art to his work; when every gable, every street, had character
and beauty of its own, and every church was the shrine of the most
beautiful art of the time--common to all who had eyes to see.
What, after all, becomes of this mass of illustrating and printing,
hastily conceived and hurriedly carried out--these flying leaves,
hot from the press, daily, hourly, weekly, monthly, falling upon
a comparatively apathetic public, needing stronger and stronger
sensational effects and newer novelties? Their days, indeed, are as
grass, for as soon as the breath of popular favour and interest passeth
over them they are gone, and the place thereof knoweth them no more.
There being so little beauty and variety or romance in the lives of
most of us, and since the mind and the senses must be fed in some way
or another, we try to make books and pictures fill the void. The demand
increases, and an organised system of supply springs up to meet it, so
that our poetry and romance, our sense of art and beauty, is ministered
to in the way of business, and made up in large or small parcels, to be
had in pounds’ worths or penny-worths across the counter.
All this may be very admirable and convenient, but the most beautiful
art is the natural outcome and expression of a rich, varied, heroic,
and hopeful contemporary life, its character and beauty depending upon
that life, and the unity of its sentiment, just as that of a tree or
a flower depends upon the soil from which it springs. By our modern
methods we are gradually impoverishing the soil while we are forcing
the crops. We are obliterating the beauty of common life, at least
in towns, while we are endeavouring to increase and stimulate the
production of works of art.
That, surely, is a ruinous system--most uneconomical economics! We
shall never make both ends meet.
It is well for those who have leisure and inclination to face the
question--whither our post-haste production for profit, whether in art
or craft, is carrying us? The world after all is limited in extent, and
the ordinary fundamental wants of man are limited also. Sooner or later
it may come within the bounds of possibility to calculate almost to a
nicety the demands of the world-market. That market is already crowded
with competitors, and at the present rate the salesmen, or at least the
goods, are too many for the market--too much for the margin of profit
ever growing narrower. The result is a glut, a waste, a loss, and
incalculable suffering to the producers. Is it possible to contemplate
the eternal existence of such a blindfold system? Is it not within
the bounds of probability that, when the people--the workers--men and
women, really come to their own again, and really govern their own,
a system of labour will be organised on a very different basis from
that of the present, and on a principle as near as possible to that
expressed in the motto: “_From_ each according to his capacity, _to_
each according to his needs”?
It is, at least, on such a belief, and a belief founded on the
prospects of the inevitable ultimate break-down of the present system
of production and exchange by its own failure to fit the conditions of
life, that I base my best hopes both for art and humanity.
I have no wish to return to the fourteenth, or any other century,
even if wishes were horses and could carry us back. The world moves
slowly; the centuries do their work. I fully recognise that our
present conditions are the result of a long chain of evolution, and we
are still evolving. The peoples of the world are being drawn closer
together, and the interdependence of nations brings such an ideal as
I have indicated for the first time in history into the region of
possibility. All questions lead us on to, and are absorbed in, one
great question--the organisation of labour. When that is solved in the
interest of the community, instead of for the profit of individuals,
we may look forward to a time when, released from the pressing burden
of the anxiety for the means of living, each one, while in his own
community, taking his share of the necessary work, having leisure and
opportunity, may devote his ability, such as lies in him, or as he may
develop, to the practice of art or craftsmanship; the results of which
would be, being followed for the pleasure of it, and in the pursuit
of beauty or for the expression of thought, Art would be entirely
unforced; growing naturally out of the use of the materials, and
adaptability to the constructive position, directed by creative thought.
When the highest good becomes truly the good of the community and
the service of man--the root and basis of all morality--when instead
of grudging and partial acknowledgment it becomes the mainspring of
action; and when, freed from narrowing and debasing superstitions,
man’s place in nature is understood; when living a life which afforded
equal opportunities to all, which, being more simple and natural, would
favour the development of the artistic sense, is it possible to doubt
that we should see great and beautiful public works and monuments, the
result of combined and sympathetic labours, expressing not only the
joy of individual artists and craftsmen in the beauty of their work,
but the collective spirit of the community, whose guiding principles
would be equality of condition and individual freedom, controlled only
by considerations of the common good and the fraternal relationship of
mankind?
Well, that is something, to my mind, worth looking forward to. It may
be a mere outline, but details can be filled in as we complete the
design. Whether its realisation be far or near, the important thing for
every one, it appears to me, is _to have an ideal_ of some kind. It is
of the greatest practical value in life, continually stimulating us to
fresh effort; producing wholesome discontent with existing conditions,
and filling the mind with aspirations for something better, and the
determination to work for it, however infinitesimally each may help to
attain it.
We know what it is in our work to have an aim--what a difference it
makes, if we are carving a piece of wood, or hammering a piece of
metal, if we are seeking to express some particular beauty of line or
surface, which all the while dwells in our mind; which we strive to
satisfy, but which, whether we succeed or fail, continually leads us to
higher and better efforts. It is our aim that makes all the difference
in the conduct of art as of life.
It is this, too, which finally settles all questions of style or
method, of high art or low, over and above the material we work in,
which no artist or craftsman can afford to leave out of account. There
is a saying attributed to Goethe, I believe, that the true power of
an artist is shown when he works under limitations; and most true
it is,--applicable to all art, but especially in association with
handicraft, for the whole art of the craftsman lies in his power of
working under conditions; and he shows his skill in applying design,
and expressing it in different materials in such a way as best to bring
out the peculiar beauty and adaptability of those materials, and the
fitness of the design to them; by no means endeavouring to imitate in
one material what can only properly be done in another, or joining
in that aimless masquerade in which the arts lose their identity and
character together.
In the midst of decay and dissolution there are signs of new life and
movement--the awakening of spring among the dead boughs of winter, the
budding of the new shoots from among the faded and fallen leaves. These
efforts to revive the handicrafts, to unite the scattered and estranged
members of the family of the arts, are full of good augury. Not that
such movements alone can solve the questions on which I have touched,
except, perhaps, for individuals here and there; but the effort to
return to better ways in one direction is sure to lead us on to search
out juster ways in another; and in our realisation of the unity of art
we may discover the secret of the unity of life, if, indeed, the first
is possible before the last.
In the meantime the formation of guilds of workers in art and
handicraft must tend to foster the sense of fellowship, sympathy, and
co-operation, from the loss of which art and artists have suffered
so much. We shall discover by our trials and exercises in various
handicrafts what real pleasure and interest can be associated with
work; how impossible, indeed, is a healthy existence without
interesting work of some kind; and even what is called the drudgery of
it--those preparatory stages in work, with the ultimate end in view,
become interesting, and fall into their place as a proper part and
necessary means to the attainment of that end, and even, perhaps, not
unwelcome incidents in the day’s work.
I feel sure we can afford to despise no manner of manual labour,
skilled or unskilled. The simplest operation requires some kind of
intelligence and adaptability. The stone-breaker on the road will
tell you that you have to find out “where to hit them,”--not that any
man ought to be condemned to stone-breaking all his life, however.
The human frame is the most adaptable thing in nature (as well as in
design); its beauty is owing to its adaptability, and depends for its
freedom of movement and command of limb upon constant exercise. I see
no beauty or desirability in the contemplation of a society divided
into two parts--brains and hands--even were it possible, for neither
can work well without the other. We must overthrow that false, false
notion that work is degrading, and that it must be the object and
mark of all superior persons to shift the burden of all manual and
useful labour on to the shoulders of a class; that it is at all a
creditable thing to be “of no occupation,” or that impossible being “an
independent gentleman.”
Here is where we have gone wrong, and there will have to be some
considerable changes in the ideals as well as in the realities of
existing society before things can be got straight again.
[Illustration]
THE PROSPECTS OF ART UNDER SOCIALISM
For the sake of clearness I will commit myself to a definition:
firstly of art, which, so far as its meaning can be packed up into
the portmanteau of a sentence, might be described as _a form of vital
force applied to the expression of Beauty_. This will at any rate
sufficiently indicate the point of view from which I regard it. As to
socialism I know no better or more portable definition than that of
Mr. Belfort Bax, namely, that socialism is _a new view of life upon an
economic basis_.
Under the present system of commercial competition every opportunity
which seems to afford a chance of gaining a livelihood or a hope of
gain stimulates people to activity in all manner of ways. But it is an
unwholesome stimulus, especially in its effect upon art and artists;
and, as a result, the market is flooded with every kind of catch-penny
abomination--pictures or so-called ornaments, and objects of art which
could have brought no joy to the maker of them, and can bring no real
or lasting pleasure to the user, for whom, perhaps, they but fit the
whim of the moment, or are only bought because of the persuasive
eloquence of some adroit salesman (under the aforesaid stimulus of
gain); and for no better reason than that such things are in fashion.
Now, naturally, there is this characteristic about genuine spontaneous
art, that its creation is a pleasurable exercise and excitement. The
artist is always anxious to give out what he has--to offer his best to
the sight of all men; and so far he is naturally socialistic. Indeed,
art itself is essentially a social product, intimately associated with
common life, and depending for its vitality upon a co-operation of all
workers, upon living traditions and quick and universal sympathies.
These are its sunlight and air.
Where the love of art is sincere, given the capacity, all a man would
ask would be security of livelihood, with a fair standard of comfort
and refinement, and materials to work with. For the rest it would be
simply a pleasurable thing to exercise his creative powers for the
benefit of the community and the praise he might win.
It would seem, too, that humanity under any system cannot do without
art in some form or another, and is always ready to welcome and reward
the artist who has the skill to interpret nature, or beautify and
refine the life of every day. But no artist, in so far as he is worthy
of the name, works consciously for the sake of reward, other than the
sympathy and praise of his contemporaries. Modern commercialism does
its best to turn him into a man of business, but that was not his
natural destiny. Originally one with the constructive workman--the
builder, the smith, the carver, the weaver, the potter--he put the
touch of art on his work, the refining play of line and pattern, and he
saw that it was good, with the pleasure and delight of a craftsman. So
use and beauty were one in the old simple days. But we have changed
all that. We have put use in one pigeon-hole and beauty in another, and
it is only by accident that they get mixed.
Now the severance of the artist and the workman--the craftsman--and
the dismemberment, and absorption of the latter to a large extent by
machinery, have had results incalculably injurious to art, whatever
service they may have been in other ways. As to machinery, it is but a
question of adaptation of means to ends, since machinery simply gives
extra hands and feet to humanity; useful enough to do heavy and useful
drudgery, and works of necessity in a hurry--feed, clothe, and warm,
pump and lift weights, for instance--to be the servant and labour-saver
of man, in short, but never his master and profit-grinder, as it has
become, and certainly never intended to take pleasurable art-work out
of his hands, or speciously simulate the workmanship of those hands,
and take, with its variety, its interest and beauty away.
It is a curious thing that while every day we are extending our
railways and pushing our commerce, making travel easier, and opening
up unknown countries to what we are pleased to call the advantages
of civilisation,--while we are facilitating methods of getting about
on the one hand or the other, we are obliterating those interesting
varieties and local distinctions which make travel chiefly interesting;
so that while we increase our facilities of travel we remove its
inducements as fast as we can--at least from the art point of view.