THE VOCATION OF THE ARTIST: OUTLINE OF A THEORY OF THE RELATION OF ART
TO ETHICS
The three great directions of effort are: to work in the finite; to
create in the finite the semblance of the infinite; to realize through
effort the reality of the infinite. The vocation of the artist is to
create the semblance of the spiritual relation between the parts of
an empirical object. The object may be a vase or a lamp; it may be a
human figure, it may be a group of _dramatis personae_. By introducing
into the discussion of art the idea that a semblance of the spiritual
relation is to be produced by the artist, we get rid at the outset of
the barren formula of unity in variety.
Let me endeavor to elucidate the main ideas that flow from this
definition of the spiritual aim of art.
1. The two points to be discussed are: What is meant by semblance? and
What is meant by the quasi-spiritual relation as subsisting between the
parts of a work of Art?
First, then, there is the semblance of _totality_. The spiritual
relation is characterized by the totality of the parts related. That
totality is realized only in the universal manifold. But a semblance of
totality is furnished in the case of colors by the circumstance that
the chromatic scale is cut off at the bottom and top in consequence
of our inability to perceive the colors below and above; the musical
scale likewise presents a quasi-totality, and the human figure in its
contours presents a thing cut off from its surroundings, and in so far
relatively complete in itself.
Because the spiritual relation involves the idea of the perfect
totality, a relative totality, due to the accidental limitations of our
sensory organs and power of attention, may become a semblance of the
spiritual totality. I say, _may become_. A certain relation must be
established between the parts of the relative totality in order that
the semblance shall result.
One thing is clear; the subject of the work of art must possess
relative completeness, and be capable of being contemplated as
circumscribed and separated off. It must stand out like a tree, or like
an oasis encircled by the desert, or like an island. The subject of art
cannot be a mere length of cloth cut off from the fabric of things as
they reel unceasingly from the loom of time—the mistake of Realism.
The point, emphasized in our third Book, namely, that an empirical
substratum is to be spiritualized, and that ethics consists in
spiritualizing this physical and psychical substratum, applies to
art, but with the difference, that in the case of art the physical or
psychical substratum cannot be spiritualized, but is to be made to take
on the semblance of spirituality.
Now what is meant by this kind of transformation? I can perhaps
explain by using as an illustration the color scheme of a picture.
The transformation appears in the difference between the colors on
the palette and the colors on the canvas. The colors on the palette
represent the empirical substratum, the natural colors; the colors seen
on the canvas show the same natural tints after they have taken on a
new or second nature.
The second nature,—in what does it consist? In the circumstance that
each color on the canvas, by its juxtaposition and its relation to the
rest, is altered in tone and value, and that all the rest are altered
by it. The spiritual relation is a give and take relation actually
carried out. The semblance produced in art is the illusive appearance
of such a relation as seen by the beholder.
We have thus set down two points—the apparent totality, and the
apparent give and take relation between the parts (the second nature
assumed by the parts, the illusory transformation of the substratum).
A third point involved in the second is that each part of a work of
art shall remain invincibly individualized, despite the closeness
of the relation which connects it with the rest. The individual
member of a work of art may never be submerged in the whole, may
never merely convey the abstract idea of unity amid variation. The
“unity in variety” formula is not only empty but misleading, based
on the same misconception which we have noted in dealing with Kant
and with the Pantheists. The unity of a work of art consists in the
reciprocal effect produced by the members on each other. Hence the more
accentuated, the more distinctive the members are, always provided that
the reciprocal relation is maintained, the more artistically satisfying
will be the result. In this manner the work of art will be true to its
essential character as a semblance of the spiritual relation.
I have thus far spoken of the form. In regard to content I have
only remarked that it must be capable of relative detachment. It
must also be capable of interior articulation. The idea that an
empirical substratum is to be transformed will here be found helpful
in determining what is and what is not a fit subject for art. A vase
or a pitcher is a utensil. As such it is a detached thing. Is it
capable of articulation _without destroying_ its utility? If it is, as
the beautiful vases show, it is a fit subject for art to treat. The
embellishment of utensils, of tables, chairs, etc., that is to say,
the giving of artistic form to objects with which we bodily come into
contact, is a means of casting the appearance of the spiritual relation
over these objects, and thus in a fine sense making them congenial to
ourselves as spiritual personalities. This justifies the time spent by
artist artisans on their handiwork, and also justifies our availing
ourselves of their products (provided that the store set by these
symbolic reminders of the spiritual relation do not divert us from the
main business of life, which is to attempt to _realize_ that relation
in human intercourse). The war song sung by a primitive tribe is a
detachable, empirical thing, and possesses natural articulation. It has
its slow beginning, its gradual rise, its paroxysmic culminations, its
wild ecstasy, its final dying down.
The love passion expressed in lyric form has for its basis the natural
ups and downs, dejections and transports characteristic of that passion.
The theme of a tragedy, as Aristotle says, must have a beginning, a
middle, and an end. Repetition (always with a difference), contrast,
apparent triumph, defeat, and somehow a triumph in defeat—whatever
may be the elements with which the tragic poet deals, the crude
substance of them is furnished by the theme itself. And the result
becomes artistic when the articulation is such that each part becomes
a member of an organized whole, that is, when each part exchanges its
first nature for the second nature mentioned above in connection with
painting.[80]
The next point of interest to consider is whether beauty is to
be regarded as the invariable object of art. Relative detachment
and susceptibility to articulation in the manner described are
indispensable. But if tragedy is to be included, beauty cannot be the
exclusive object. Lear, on the heath, the harpy daughters, Lear and
Cordelia perishing together, are not beautiful objects. The task of
the artist is to produce the semblance of the spiritual relation in
any material which is capable of bearing that imprint. In the great
tragedies we are lifted into an exalted mood by the form of the work
even though the subject treated evokes horror—perhaps because of the
very contrast between the form and the subject-matter. Beauty, on
the other hand, is produced when both subject-matter and form are
satisfying to our needs or aspirations. A vase is beautiful when
perfectly adapted to its use and at the same time perfect in form. For
this reason any kind of embellishment, for instance, in architecture
not structurally in place is offensive, while on the other hand mere
structural utility without the formal touch is mechanical. It is not
true that utility itself inevitably flowers into beauty.
It should be added, however, that the artistic expression even of
unsatisfied desires may come within the scope of beauty. The “Lycidas”
is beautiful, Wordsworth’s “Laodamia” is beautiful, the Gothic form of
architecture is beautiful, and so is Keats’ “Ode to the Nightingale,”
and Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind.” In such productions the adequate
expression of the need itself affords relief and induces tranquillity.
The mind ceases to strive toward a beyond longed for, and rests
tranquillized in the longing itself. That it should thus aspire and
long, in consequence of its higher nature, and the assurance of the
existence of this higher nature, as evidenced by the longing, is
peace-giving.
But it is hardly possible to discuss even in the most cursory manner
the subject matter or content of a work of art without drawing
attention to the ideals which at various times have been expressed in
art, and to the function of art in respect to these ideals. For here
the _grandeur_ of the great art as connected with the ultimate aim and
purpose of life appears.
Art in its fictions has endeavored to present to men the solution of
the problem of life, the things most worth striving for. The ideals, of
course, have varied. In the Greek epic the heroes contend around the
walls of wind-swept Ilion. They themselves are wind-swept apparitions.
Life is short; presently they too will pass out of sight, yet their
names and deeds will live after them. Fate is inscrutable. There is no
ulterior meaning in things. To glitter for a time in shining armor, and
then to be remembered in the song of the rhapsodists is alone worth
while. It is this ideal of life that Homer records.
The romantic ideal of feudalism is reflected in the poems of chivalry.
The ideal of the English Renascence is found in Shakespeare. The
religious ideals are expressed in the Hindu temples, in the Parthenon,
in the mediæval cathedrals, and in the poems of Dante and Milton. The
ideals of the oriental monarchs are visibly embodied in the Assyrian
and Babylonian palaces; the ideal of the merchant class in the stones
of Venice, in the architecture of the German and Flemish cities, etc.
The plastic arts especially owe their rise and prosperity to the
princely and religious ideals—to the demand for temples, churches and
palaces suitable for monarchs or merchant princes to dwell and worship
in. The aim of the artificer is to furnish a splendid setting for
princes and divinities.
Mankind at different periods is in labor to give birth to ideals
representing the purpose for which man exists, or the things that make
life worth while, and art _assists in bringing to the birth these
ideals_. It seeks to express them, and in the effort to do so it helps
to develop and clarify them. This, and not merely to give pleasure, is
its _grand_ function.
In an age like the present, in which a new ideal is in the early stages
of formation, art is likely to become, as in fact it has become,
uncertain of its function, and hence apt to lose its direction, either
turning back to the servile reproduction of past art forms, or seeking
to achieve progress in the perfection of technical detail, or in the
ways of subjective impressionism.[81]
The efforts of a serious artist today, in so far as he undertakes to
assist in bringing to the birth a new ideal by his endeavor to express
it, must necessarily be tentative, if not crude. But such as they are
their worth, if wholly sincere, can hardly be overestimated.
In the vocation of the artist, as everywhere, the three-fold reverence
is the capital point. Reverence for the great masters, as shown not in
slavishly copying them, but in understanding the qualities that made
them great, and in delivering from past art the things that are to be
reincorporated and to live on; reverence for those who in different
fields are intent on the problem of art today—all this to prepare the
way for future artists, for the greater art that is to come.
The relation of art to ethics, or to the spiritual life, is now
sufficiently clear. In general it is to produce the semblance of the
spiritual relation, and thereby to rejuvenate the world’s workers, to
give them the joy of relative perfection, and thus to stimulate them to
persevere in the real business of life, which is to approximate toward
actual perfection. The specific task of the artist _at its height_
is to enshrine in his creation the ideals of the age with respect to
the ultimate purpose of human existence, and in the endeavor so to
incorporate them as to assist in defining them.
The dangers of pre-occupation with art, however, must not be passed
over. Just because it creates the illusion of perfection it is apt to
encourage the indolence of our nature, which ever prefers to content
itself with illusion, and to desist from effort. It is on this account
that periods in which art greatly flourishes are apt to lead to the
halting of progress and eventually to decay. A second danger is that
the artist, in applying the ideal of present perfection, is in danger
of selfishly subordinating other persons to himself (cf. Goethe as
a notable example), or of setting up a special kind of morality for
artists.[82]
In a full account of the matter, the different so-called fine arts
should be specifically treated from the point of view of this chapter.
The particular contribution of each to the general purpose of art
should be noted, the distinctions marked between painting, sculpture,
poetry, etc., and in each case the kind of art which is favorable to
the spiritual development of man be discriminated from that which is
hostile to it. Plato attempted to do this in the case of music.
To summarize: What has been attempted in this chapter is a theory
not of art but of the relation of art to ethics. The dominating
thought is this: in a work of art each line, color, sound, word,
must be irreplaceable, and on that account convincing. Each member
must be indispensable in its place and the connection with the rest
inevitable. Substitute for line, color, sound, etc., a life—an ethical
being,—conceive the members to be not a few but in number infinite, and
you have the spiritual ideal, which is the reality whereof the art work
is a semblance. This is the relation of art to ethics—the quality which
we call in art “convincing,” in ethics we call “worth.”
NOTES
As one example architecture may be mentioned. Architecture furnishes
_the envelope for the social life_, the dwelling, the nest of the
family, the workshops that house the vocational life, the public
buildings that provide a habitation for the political life, the
temples, the churches that enshrine the religious life. The relation
of the enshrining dwelling to the inner social life should be the
same as that of the body to the soul in sculpture. That which goes on
within should be significantly indicated externally. The progress
of architecture will depend on its holding fast to this idea, and
changing the outside as the inner life changes. Thus, we have, or
are beginning to have, a conception of the family very different
from that which prevailed at the time when the princely mansions of
the Renaissance were built. To reproduce these princely mansions
because they beautifully expressed the princely idea is a mistake. To
provide a proper dwelling-place for the modern family the architect
should clearly apprehend what functions go on in the family, what the
distribution of functions should be, and the rank to be assigned to
the different functions. There is to be, for instance, in addition
to the ordinary requirements, provision for separate study rooms,
places of retirement, refuges of intellectual solitude for the adult
members; a playroom for children, a place of reunion for the household
religion. The formation of a number of families into a larger group
(_vid. supra_) would help in the solution of this problem.
In like manner the conception of what a religious society should be is
changing. The church-building, the Mosque, the Synagogue, certainly
no longer declare the spirit and the purpose that animate the new
religious fellowships that are forming among us today. The progress of
architecture will thus depend, not on the out of hand invention of new
styles, but on a thorough understanding of _the new kind of life which
is to be domiciled within buildings_, accepting this as the empirical
substratum, and articulating it in accordance with the spiritual
relation of give and take between the parts; and the architect will
assist in clarifying the ideal of the new kind of life that is to
be lived within the buildings by endeavoring to give it outward
expression.
One more remark: The limitations opposed to the artist, for instance
to the sculptor, by the material in which he works, are a helpful
illustration of one of the most important ethical truths. The material
is found to be intractable to the idea. The hardness of the stone,
the veins that run through the marble, the unpropitious qualities of
the wood, are so many hindrances to execution. The value of these
hindrances is that they compel the artist to achieve a more definite
grasp of the ideal itself. Before the attempt to carry it out into
stone, the idea is apt to be vague in the mind of the artist. The same
is true of every ideal conception—that of the author before he writes
a book, that of the social reformer before he attempts to carry his
scheme into practice. And it applies no less to the ethical ideal of
life in general. The empirical analogue or substratum is ductile to a
certain degree, else we could never achieve even partial success. But
it is also hostile and mutinous in many ways, and the fact that it is
so compels us to adapt our ideal to existing empirical requirements,
and to make it more explicit in the process of adapting it.
FOOTNOTES:
[80] Aristotle regards the _Œdipus Rex_ as the most perfect example
of tragedy; let it serve the purpose of illustrating the idea here
proposed. Read the play and get the total impression of it. Analyze it
into its parts. Synthesize after the analysis. You will not fail to
realize how every character, every speech and act, contributes to the
total effect, and how in turn every single factor in the play receives
a new significance from its relation to the rest, while still retaining
its obvious meaning (the meaning it would have when taken out of the
context of the play). Take the first speech of Œdipus as an example.
He is the king solicitous for the welfare of his subjects, to whom
they look up with admiration and gratitude. He is the father of his
people. Read this speech again after you have taken in the entire play,
and note how its color is changed. How the firmness, the fatherly,
protective attitude is now seen to be the outward mask of a fugitive
soul, unsure of itself, haunted by hideous fears.
[81] The use made of pageantry, the revival of English and other
folk-songs, the morris-dances and the like, the attempt to ennoble the
leisure of the industrial workers by leading them back to forms of art
which sprang up centuries ago in foreign countries, is evidence of the
keen desire for art rather than a step in a new direction.
[82] Art, like science, is to be subordinate. The relation between
persons and persons is mankind’s supreme concern. The views above
expressed differ radically from those of Schiller. See his _Æsthetic
Education of Man_.