THE WORK OF ART
According to an old theory the classical drama originated in the
Dionysiac cultus.[148] The artistic development of savage and barbarous
tribes supplies many analogies which strongly support this view. The
simplest drama and the most primitive poetry have in most nations
been connected with orgiastic rites which, from the psychological
point of view, closely resemble the Bacchic ceremonies. But we may go
still further. It has been contended on good grounds that even the
formative arts made their earliest appearance on the occasion of great
public festivals.[149] It might seem that if this view could only be
corroborated by a sufficient body of ethnological evidence, there would
be no need of any further argument in favour of the emotionalistic
interpretation of art. Granted that the simplest manifestations of
all the different arts served primarily as means of heightening a
festive mood, then the psychological origin of the artistic activity
ought to be ascertained by an analysis of high-pitch feeling. The same
mental causes and conditions which called forth the most primitive
manifestations of art, and determined their character, may naturally
be assumed to have influenced in greater or less degree the higher
forms as well. And thus in further support of our view we might simply
refer to the study of a typical exaltation with which the preceding
chapter was concluded.
We have here an apparently easy solution of the problem before us.
But by resorting to it we should expose ourselves to the risk of
mistakes which is inherent in every historical method. Not only is
it impossible, as has already been remarked, to make any positive
assertion as to the purely æsthetic and autotelic character of a given
manifestation: it is almost equally difficult to quote a rite or
practice the interpretation of which, from the emotional standpoint,
is clear and undisputed. Even the wild antics of the Maenads, in spite
of the numerous analogies to them presented by the diseased mental
states of modern man, have been explained by some archæologists as a
stereotyped ritual. The self-wounding and the tearing up of living
animals have been interpreted as different forms of a sacrificial cult;
the frantic gestures and songs as dramatic representations of ancient
myths.[150] It would require too cumbrous an apparatus merely to state
and criticise existing theories on this point. And even if we could
prove that the Bacchantic manifestations may be explained without
reference to religious or commemorative intentions in the dancers, as
purely emotional activities, grave objections would still remain to be
answered. From the medical point of view it might be maintained that
the Dionysiac state, as well as all analogous conditions among savage
and civilised nations, is a purely pathological phenomenon.[151] By
connecting artistic production with these states we should therefore
expose ourselves to the accusation of treating art as an abnormality.
And it would be of no use to appeal to Nietzsche’s brilliant but
unconvincing defence of the position that the ancient Dionysiac orgies
ought really to be considered as splendid disorders of health and
overflowing vigour.[152]
It is therefore necessary to state explicitly that what we have said
about the Dionysiac state must by no means be taken as referring to
actual historic facts known about the bacchanals. The descriptions of
Euripides and other classical authors are valuable as expressions of
the predominant notions of art quite independently of the reality which
may or may not have corresponded to them. The corybantic mania afforded
to the Greek mind a typical simile by which to illustrate that state
of formless excitement which precedes the artistic creation. In the
mythical descriptions of the melancholia of the Thyiads, and in the
sculptural representations of their dances and extravagances, it was
easy to recognise—more by instinct, perhaps, than by reflection—the
same dissatisfaction and the same longing for fuller and deeper
expression which compels the artist to seek in æsthetic production
compensation for the deficiencies of life. And the feeling of
liberation, which in the artist, upon the attainment of artistic form,
supersedes overmastering and inharmonious excitement, seemed explicable
by the analogy of the relief which the mythical Dionysus bestowed upon
his devotees. At a time, therefore, when dancing occupied a prominent
place among the arts, it must have been quite natural to consider the
god of dance and music as an embodiment of the feelings and impulses
of artistic creation. For modern times, however, this poetic parable
has scarcely even an illustrative value. It would be too far-fetched
to treat the simple, lyrical dance and song as a general type of art,
seeing that in real life dancing has long ago been almost entirely
superseded by more complicated forms of artistic activity.
It is, however, only in such direct manifestations as the simplest
song, dance, and poetry that the artistic activity itself is accessible
to our analysis. With regard to those higher forms of art in which
the dramatic and epic elements play an important part, it may indeed
be contended that even they originate in an emotional craving for
expression. And it can be proved, as we have tried to show in the
preceding chapters, that such a theory gives us the best explanation of
the life-preserving influence of artistic creation. But it is not to be
concealed that, as far as painting, sculpture, and the higher forms of
poetry are concerned, this view is exclusively based upon hypothesis.
It cannot be considered as established so long as we have no authentic
information on the feelings and impulses which direct a sculptor or
a painter in his work. The only competent witnesses who can give us
this information—namely, the artists themselves—have generally paid
too little attention to theoretic problems to make any observations on
their own mental states during the task of creation; and even when they
do so they are deterred by a natural sense of propriety from making
any public revelations on a matter which affects their most intimate
emotional life. All the more impertinent would it be for an outsider
to make _a priori_ assertions on the psychical motives for their work.
While entitled to speak with some confidence on the simple, universal
arts, the theoretical observer cannot, with regard to the specialised
crafts, rely upon either experience or sympathetic understanding.
The only safe point of departure is here the objective work. Our
interpretation can be considered as conclusively established only if
we are able to show that the distinctive qualities of the work of
art, as met with in the highest manifestations of art, are such as to
provide some emotional state with the most adequate and most convincing
expression.
The work of art has been the subject of theoretical investigation to
a far greater extent than the artistic impulse. When examining its
distinctive qualities we can therefore constantly avail ourselves
of the researches of earlier writers on æsthetic. There is no need
to search for the problems to be solved nor to justify the scheme
of inquiry. We have to show that our interpretation of the artistic
activity is consistent with the general principles according to which
the value of art-works is estimated. These principles, on the other
hand, can evidently be discovered only by studying the judgments on art
which have been embodied in æsthetical literature. Owing to the mutual
contradictions between the several æsthetic systems, such a study
is indeed not an easy one. But if minor differences are disregarded
it is not impossible to find a common standard on which almost all
writers agree. For while the theories on art, as different from other
departments of life, have been based upon varying philosophical
assumptions, the ideal of excellence in art has, at least in the case
of all real æstheticians, been developed under the influence of a close
familiarity with the best manifestations of living art. Notwithstanding
the ever-varying currents of taste and the individual predilections
which affect even the most impartial judgment, it is thus possible to
point to a common fund of simple and catholic principles of criticism.
As far as the lyrical forms of art are concerned we need not dwell
at any length on the æsthetic requirements which they are generally
expected to fulfil. It is easy to understand that, however one may
explain the purpose of artistic activity and the impulse which leads
to it, the accomplished work of art must always possess some element
of sensual beauty which may attract and hold the attention. If we were
attempting a complete treatment of all æsthetic problems we might
attempt to prove that such qualities appear to a very great extent
as unintentional by-products of artistic expression. The perfect
gracefulness, for example, which forms the distinguishing merit of all
genuine art, is seldom a result of conscious endeavour. As, according
to its nature, pleasure is necessarily accompanied by facilitated
conditions of life, an artistic manifestation will generally be
graceful in the same degree as it expresses pure and unmingled joy.
And even if the feeling which originally called forth a dance, a song,
or a drama is one of pain, its expression will unavoidably acquire
under the influence of artistic form an element of ease. The freedom,
and, still more, the unconsciousness, that characterise the “inspired”
creation may thus clothe with a peculiar grace even the representation
of such mental states as in real life manifest themselves in the
most inharmonious forms.[153] In the same way dignity, the quality
complementary to grace, may be deduced directly from the emotional
conditions of artistic activity.
This explanation does not apply, however, to such special qualities as,
for instance, symmetry and proportion. Neither can it be denied that
these qualities may be of incalculable importance in art as means of
heightening the effectiveness of the work. But we hold that a problem
like that of symmetry belongs to the science of beauty rather than to
the theory of art. By a symmetrical arrangement of its parts, or by a
right proportion between them, an object may indeed become a thing of
beauty; but it acquires an artistic character only in so far as this
symmetry and proportion perform or assist the function of expression.
Even among the most authors who lay most stress on the paramount
importance of form there are few who contend that these abstract
qualities can by themselves bestow the title of art upon a work or a
manifestation.
Quite different is the case of those æsthetic laws which have been
deduced from the arts of description. As the majority of writers on
æsthetic have restricted their attention to works of art in which
nature has been imitated or represented, it is only natural that
artistic merit should be thought to depend on the relation of the copy
to the original. The most simple explanation is undoubtedly that which
is adopted by a large section of the public, viz., that an artistic
manifestation is perfect in proportion as it gives a faithful rendering
of objective nature. For all that has been contended by the opponents
of the realistic movements which predominated in the eighties, we do
not think that many producing authors have been guided in their work
by such narrow notions. In æsthetic literature at least so radical a
realism has been upheld only by a few isolated authors.[154] Ever since
Aristotle’s time it has been laid down that a work of art must be
something other and better than a mere copy. And æsthetic science from
its first beginning has in the main agreed upon the general principles
by which artistic imitation attains perfection. These principles,
formulated with varying clearness in the earlier systems, have found
their most philosophical elaboration in the works of Vischer and Taine.
In his Hegelian terminology the German author puts it that the work
of art must show us, in an æsthetic semblance, the full and whole
presence of an idea which is underlying the things represented. In the
philosophy of Taine, which, by making science its point of departure,
differs so greatly from Hegelianism and yet resembles it so strikingly
in general character, the same thought has been expressed in the
doctrine of dominant qualities.[155] If these criteria are divested of
the technical garb which makes them so inconvenient to handle, they
appear to rest ultimately on a simple observation which may be repeated
in all æsthetic experience. We find in all descriptive art-works a
subordination of qualities supposed to be of inferior importance to
what philosophers of Taine’s school term “la faculté maîtresse.” In
most works too there may be found a relation of the represented thing
to the rest of nature, which in a Hegelian mind may awaken the notion
of a general idea behind the individual phenomenon. But, as we have
already observed, it is a mark of excessive intellectualism to assume
that the desire to discover predominant qualities or hidden ideas is
the impelling force in art-creation. And we shall now endeavour to
show that it is equally one-sided to consider the enjoyment of art
as conditioned by increased intellectual knowledge of individual or
universal phenomena and ideas.
The defects of intellectualistic art-theories are perhaps most manifest
in the system of Taine. Taine himself seems to believe that the
“faculté mère” really exists, and that it can be not only represented
by an artistical treatment of nature, but also discovered by scientific
study; he is consequently unable to make any proper distinction between
the departments of science and art.[156] And, on the other hand, his
own critical studies show us how incompatible is the principle of
dominant faculties with a purely scientific conception of reality.
Too often, in the attempt to deduce every manifestation and every
personality from a determinate, all-explaining and all-conditioning
quality, he loses sight of the rich variety of life, and gains instead
merely a brilliant formula. Thus, however suggestive his criticisms
may be, they are seldom scientifically exact. There is none, however,
of all his admirers who would wish to have anything changed in his
writings on art; for we know that by this very one-sidedness, which
is the source of his scientific shortcomings, he has at the same time
attained his greatest, though perhaps unintentional, triumphs as an
artist.
In illustration of this we need only refer to one instance: his
celebrated description of the lion.[157] Objections may be raised
from the zoological point of view to his selecting the lion as a
representative of animal strength, and from the anatomical point of
view to his deducing its whole configuration from the structure of its
jaws. But it is impossible to deny that precisely by such a one-sided
and exaggerated portrait Taine has succeeded in giving an expression
to his admiration for elementary force better than would have been
possible by a scientifically faithful description. Accordingly Taine’s
lion, in spite of its faults from the point of view of science, remains
a classical illustration of the æsthetic importance of dominant
qualities.
If we try to explain why it is that the subordination of all characters
under one “faculté maîtresse,” although unfavourable to scientific
comprehension, is nevertheless so useful for artistic representation,
we shall be unavoidably led to that distinction between scientific and
artistic purposes which has been overlooked in the intellectualistic
systems of æsthetic. The work of art does not claim to give us, nor
do we expect to receive from it, increased knowledge as to the real
nature or predominant characters of things and events. We only wish to
get the clearest and strongest impression of the feelings with which
an object has been contemplated by the artist. It is therefore to the
psychological conditions for conveying a feeling-state by help of
intellectual mediation that we should look for the explanation of those
laws of artistic composition which Vischer and Taine have interpreted
in a manner exclusively intellectualistic, and therefore unæsthetic.
The desire to fix a passing emotional state—in order to facilitate
either the revival of the same state or its transmission to
outsiders—by help of intellectual elements with which the feelings
have been associated, is not restricted to the purely artistic mental
processes. In religion and in love this endeavour to evade the
transience of feeling is especially evident. And here we may observe
a selection of the intellectual elements and a mode of treating them,
which, although it cannot be called artistic, is nevertheless somewhat
analogous to the selective treatment of nature which takes place in
artistic representation. The institutors of religion have all been
well aware of the fact that it is not immaterial what kind of ideas
and sensations are chosen to embody a feeling. They have understood
how impossible it is to impress an emotional state on the mind by the
mediation of complex conceptions, which, to be fully apperceived,
necessitate a particular activity of the intellectual functions. When
seeking a means of conveying and perpetuating their deepest teaching,
they have always, more instinctively perhaps than by any process of
conscious search, been led to intellectual notions of the simplest
possible kind. A single impression of sight, touch, or even of taste,
may thus, by artificial association, be made the bearer of an emotional
content which could not possibly be conveyed with anything like the
same fulness by a less concentrated medium. In virtue, therefore, of
their very simplicity, the vehicles and symbols of religious ritualism
are the most powerful of all means of emotional suggestion. They offer
us a simple impression which we can easily embrace with our senses,
and by the aid of which we can infuse into our mind a rich complex of
all the moods, such as reverence, ecstasy, and awe, which enter in the
religious state.
In its most abnormally exalted developments love may give rise to a
fetichistic adoration of objects connected with the beloved which
is psychologically analogous to the cults of religion. And the same
tendency to select some single representation or object as vehicle
of a psychical state, which is so manifest in the case of these
high-strung emotions, may also be noticed in connection with feelings
of lower intensity. In all departments of psychical life we may thus
find a corroboration of the assertion, which was already expressed
by Hemsterhuis in his speculations on our desires, which always
aim at “un grand nombre d’idées dans le plus petit espace de temps
possible.”[158] We need only consult our memories—for example, of
landscapes we have seen—to find that the emotional element of the
recollection, our admiration, is always closely bound up with some
single feature of the impression. We may indeed be able to revive the
visual image itself by allowing the mind’s eye gradually to pass along
all its details. But the subjective feelings in which we appropriated
the impression and made it our own will not be resuscitated until we
arrive at one particular detail—a single tree, or perhaps a figure—and
concentrate our attention upon that. The experience of this law of
emotional mechanics teaches us to look with a selective attention on
everything of which we wish to preserve a vivid remembrance. The more
emotional our intuition of a given whole, the greater is always our
desire to concentrate it upon a single impression which supports and
reconstitutes the original vision. The art of arranging great complexes
of intellectual and emotional elements around single focal points, so
to speak, may undoubtedly be greatly developed by exercise. But the
procedure itself does not presuppose any conscious intention. It occurs
almost as an instinctive expedient for escaping the incompatibility
between diffused intellectual attention and strong feeling. On purely
psychological grounds, therefore, we may adopt the aphorism of
Teufelsdröckh: “For the soul, of its own unity, always gives unity to
whatever it looks on with love.”[159]
As the artistic representation of nature, according to our view,
expressly serves the purpose of perpetuating an emotional state, we
should expect to meet with such a unity in every work of descriptive
art. And this assumption may be amply corroborated by reference to
art-history. We need not go for examples to such extreme schools as
that of those modern French painters who endeavour to make every line
in their pictures converge towards a point or a sharp angle. Within
the domain of universally recognised art we may observe how the artist
always tries to create a centre of gravity by accentuating some single
feature in the event, the landscape, or the figure which serves as his
model. The principle is the same as that of which we avail ourselves
when endeavouring to preserve an emotional state in our memory for
future enjoyment. But the procedure must necessarily be somewhat
changed when the task is added of enabling outsiders to partake of the
moods we have experienced. It is not then a matter of indifference
which particular detail of a complex impression we single out as
focal, and in which way we arrange the bulk of the impression around
this focus. Indeed, any random quality, if it is given prominence and
emphasis, may serve as a means of attracting attention to the work.
But if one wishes to impart to spectators the exact emotional mood, of
which a given fragment of nature acts as a representative, it is not
sufficient to attract the attention of the spectators. We must also
induce the spectators to look upon the whole of our model from our
point of view. Instead of the casual connection by which in our own
mind emotional memories may be bound up with some single sensation
memory, we must try to introduce a causal connection which persuades
the outsider to agree with our choice of the focal quality. The
features selected for accentuation are to be made central, not only in
the technical, but also in the logical sense. Figuratively speaking,
it is not enough that the lines in a picture should converge towards a
certain part; this part must also appear to the spectator as the one
in which all other parts have their cause and their explanation. Thus
the artistic imitation of nature will necessarily be connected with a
search for a predominant quality, and an endeavour to represent this
quality as a “faculté mère.” The things and events which are selected
for the embodiment of a given emotional state become displayed in such
a way that their whole being appears to be derived from the one quality
which is most suited to represent this emotional state. The imitation
is transformed into a construction, or rather reconstruction, by which
objective nature is adjusted so as to harmonise with the subjective
point of view.
Such a process of adjusting nature to the requirements of emotional
transmission need not always lead to any definite and concrete work of
art. It may also, as an unrealised tendency, accompany our intuition.
And it is only by virtue of this creative element that the feeling for
nature may be placed on a level with artistic production. If we are to
explain, with Richard Wagner, the æsthetic attention of the layman as
the result of a natural poetic gift (“Natürliche Dichtungsgabe”), we
cannot possibly—as he does—base the artistic value of this attention
on the fact that it is “concentrating” and “isolating.”[160] For so
is necessarily every emotional way of looking at things. Artistic
treatment of nature, on the other hand, whether abortive or carried to
completion, always involves an endeavour to make the concentrated and
isolated view acceptable to others. As we cannot explain the creation
of concrete works of art without reference to a craving for social
expression, so we cannot distinguish the artistic from the non-artistic
intuition without assuming a tendency—unconscious and unintentional
it may be, but none the less powerful—to socialise the emotional
content, which is connected with a given intuition. The potential poet
or painter, whose embryo work is bound to remain for ever a fact only
of his own experience, is seldom apt to realise the purpose of his
endeavour; he is not aware that he is composing a poem or a picture
for himself as spectator or audience. Instinctively, however, he
pursues in the adjusting of his intuition an end which is essentially
similar to that of the actually creating artist. In both these cases
of creation the impelling motive is, we believe, an emotional one. And
in both cases the creative activity aims at making an emotional mood
independent of the accidental and individual conditions under which it
originally appeared. Instead of an intuition, the emotional content of
which is concentrated in a conventional symbol, comprehensible only to
the initiated, or in arbitrary centres of association, significant only
for those by whom they have been selected, the artistic imagination
tries to construct an intuition which, if embodied in external form,
would by its own force impress itself, with all its accompanying
emotional elements, upon any spectator. It tends, in short, whether
consciously or unconsciously, to perpetuate and to transmit a complex
of feeling.
We may now understand why it is that the artistic activity has so
often been interpreted in an intellectualistic spirit. The search
for an all-conditioning and all-explaining “faculté mère” by the
help of which to convey in the most forcible way a representation of
things and events, may, of course, easily be taken for an endeavour
to discover the real nature of these things and events. And, in point
of fact, every artist who has a true and keen eye for nature and life
will necessarily light upon qualities which, while affording the most
appropriate centre of gravity for his representation, are, also in
the intellectualistic sense, explanatory of the subjects represented.
By making every feature of his model converge towards this selected
quality, he may thus produce an imitation which, even if it deviates
from the visible reality, may appear truer than this reality itself. In
proportion as his representation thus convinces us of its conformity
with the actual or essential nature of things, it will, other things
being equal, elicit a readier response from the spectator. It is only
natural, therefore, that the very works which have exercised the most
powerful influence on mankind should afford apparent support to the
views of intellectualistic philosophers. Nor can it be wondered at
that critics, in apportioning censure and praise, have attached so
great an importance to the degree of exactness with which a work of art
represents things or ideas.
Such an attitude on the part of art-judges becomes the more explicable
when one takes into account the historical conditions under which the
several forms of descriptive art have developed. Poetic and pictorial
representation have both been extensively used for intellectual
purposes. And it cannot be expected that the essential aims of artistic
activity—as they appear to us when we theoretically distinguish this
activity from other forms of life—should be clearly comprehended as
long as the concrete works serve a non-æsthetic purpose. In proportion,
however, as more exact and convenient methods replace the poetic and
pictorial means of thought-conveyance, art will become freer to realise
its own ends and consequently be judged more and more on its intrinsic
merits. As rhythmic form and rhyme gained in distinctly artistic
character from the time when the invention of systems of writing
relieved them from the mnemonic task of preserving a record of events,
so an æsthetic emancipation of the formative arts will necessarily
follow as a result of increased efficiency in the mechanical means of
recording sights. And in point of fact recent movements in art have
already shown us how painting has grown more conscious of its essential
aims, from being compelled to give up competition with instantaneous
photography.
It is only the most narrow forms, however, of naturalistically
imitative art that are thus made superfluous by scientific inventions.
Those artists whose aim is, not to attain the level of nature by
servile imitation, but to rival it by idealisation, will always be
able to point to their task of representing _essential_ qualities as
one which remains for ever a prerogative of artistic production. But
there are other signs which make us believe that even this form of
intellectualistic purpose will gradually lose importance for creators
as well as for spectators. The currents of thought which now prevail
are scarcely such as to favour the continuance of professedly or
covertly metaphysical doctrines of art. And even if philosophical
opinion, which, after all, only has to do with the secondary
justification of feelings and impulses, had remained unchanged ever
since Hegel’s time, the changes which have taken place in the very
personality of modern man could not but exercise an important influence
on the production and estimation of art.
The intellectualistic illusion that every artistic representation
has something to teach us about the essential nature of the things
represented, can only arise on condition of there being a certain
agreement between the world-view of the artist and that of his
public. It presupposes a certain uniformity in the intellectual make
of the individual creators and spectators. This condition, however,
is fulfilled less than ever in modern life. By the influence of
the increasing division of labour, characters become more and more
differentiated; and these different characters naturally develop
different ways of looking at things. The deviations from actual
nature which are to be met with in the work of an individual artist
have therefore a poor chance of convincing each individual spectator
that they are in conformity with essential reality, as he is apt to
conceive it from his individual point of view. Instead of the “eternal
truths” so often spoken of in earlier æsthetic literature, we now
read about the “illusions particulières” of the several artists. This
sceptical attitude would of course exclude all vivid æsthetic life
if the motives of artistic production and enjoyment were such as
intellectualistic authors declare them to be. It cannot be observed,
however, that the changed conceptions of art-activity have exercised
any influence on the practice of artists. The same eagerness with which
works were created when they were thought to represent the essential
nature of things is now displayed by those who are endeavouring to
produce works which often do not even pretend to give more than their
personal impressions. And the critical public has shown itself
ready to adopt a corresponding attitude in estimating the value of
artistic manifestations. It no longer lays the chief stress on the
intellectualistic requirement that artistic representation should be
true to nature. It demands before all that the work of art should
give a faithful rendering of the feelings with which the represented
fragment of nature has been comprehended by the artist. Sincerity, as
involving poetical truthfulness, thus becomes the chief claim which is
set up for a work of modern art.
It may be objected that the principles of art-criticism which now
prevail are too closely bound up with a transient movement to
be adduced as proof in a discussion of art in general. When the
contemporary current of subjectivism has been succeeded by new schools
of art, the claim for objective veracity may again acquire greater
importance. We have no desire to contend that such an evolution
would be wholly regrettable. It is impossible in estimating works
of art to put aside all logical and ethical considerations; and
attachment to truth is too ineradicable an ethical instinct not to
influence—consciously or unconsciously—our æsthetic judgments. But
although it is neither possible nor desirable to exclude regard for
intellectualistic elements, it may be theoretically advantageous to
emphasise the distinct character of the æsthetic judgment. Modern
criticism, as it has developed under the influence of modern subjective
art, exhibits, we believe, the essentially artistic way of enjoying and
estimating art. Although this attitude, owing to different influences,
has been now more, now less, strictly maintained in various periods of
art history, it has always been adhered to by all who enjoy art for
its own sake. Whenever we regard a work of art without any secondary
motive, we are not concerned with the objective realities which it
depicts. We are not interested in the historic Laura whose praises we
read in a poem. For all we care she may in reality have been lame, and
red-haired, and hump-backed. We are quite contented if we receive a
faithful impression of the beauty with which she charmed her poet.
When it has been proved that the rules governing the artistic
adjustment of reality, which have been stated and vindicated on the
basis of intellectualistic theories, may be equally well deduced from
an emotionalistic interpretation, the argument can easily be extended
so as to cover the principles governing the selection of subjects and
motives for artistic representation. It is required in the Hegelian
æsthetic that every single phenomenon which is represented in a work
of art should suggest the presence of a greater and more universal
idea.[161] In Goethe’s theory of style in art we meet with the same
claim—which is closely connected with his general philosophy of
nature—that every individual form or movement should have something to
tell us about the world-process.[162] And when Taine tries to lay down
a scale of gradation for the relative value of works of art, he assigns
the highest place to those works in which the qualities exhibited
are, firstly, as remarkable and essential as possible, and in which,
secondly, these remarkable and essential qualities have been made as
predominant as possible.[163] It can easily be seen that the reasoning
which is here applied to the choice between different things is exactly
the same which was used with regard to the different features of
the same thing; and the psychological interpretation is, therefore,
also the same in both cases. As the craving for the fullest and most
adequate expression of an emotional state influences the artist in his
representation of a given fragment of nature or life, so this craving
must also influence his selection of the model to be represented. Owing
to variations in temperament and æsthetic predilections the relative
significance of these two aspects may be differently estimated in
different art-schools. But the main principle cannot be invalidated
by the fact that, for example, in French art and French æsthetic the
definiteness is emphasised at the cost, perhaps, of richness, while
in English art suggestiveness is often allowed to make up for lack of
concentration.[164] A catholic theory must necessarily account for all
the varying æsthetic ideals which have influenced artistic production.
Although it must be considered as essentially non-æsthetic to contend,
as Mr. Ruskin did at one time, that “that art is greatest which conveys
to the mind of the spectator by any means whatsoever the greatest
number of the greatest ideas,”[165] it must, on the other hand, be
admitted that an individual thing is adequate as a means of conveying
the fulness of feeling only if through this individual thing there can
be suggested a multitude of other things recalled and represented.
Without assuming the philosophical principles from which Taine has
derived his theory of the ideal in art, we may therefore understand
and accept his scale of gradation of the relative value of works of
art. And similarly we may interpret in an emotionalistic way all
the rules of artistic composition and of conventionalising treatment
of nature which have been proposed by intellectualistic authors on
æsthetic. The nude figure in painting and sculpture, as well as the
simple mythological themes in poetry and literature, will thus for
ever retain their pre-eminence as subjects of artistic treatment. But
this pre-eminence does not depend for its justification upon the fact
that they give us an incarnation of the philosophical notion of the
ideal man. It is sufficiently accounted for by their power of conveying
a fuller and richer emotional content than any individually defined
motive. Thus it can be explained why even spectators who have almost
completely outgrown—or, if the expression is preferred, have fallen
away from—idealistic ways of _thought_ are nevertheless ready to
appreciate the idealistic _feeling_ in the art of Puvis de Chavannes.
It cannot be denied, however, that those motives which in the Hegelian
æsthetic are considered as beautiful _par excellence_ have been
relatively neglected in modern art. To some extent this circumstance
may be explained by the notion which is gaining more and more ground
in the public mind—to wit, that in every single phenomenon we may
see a _résumé_ of the whole process of evolution. For it is evident
that a spectator who has once adopted this philosophical way of
looking at things may find even a well-represented piece of still-life
quite as rich and æsthetically saturated as a painting of the most
universal motive. A more important cause, however, is to be found in
the fact that modern art, when endeavouring to convey large and full
contents by single vehicle-impressions, has learned to avail itself of
vehicles which cannot, properly speaking, be called either typical or
representative. In literature especially we may observe that authors
dwell with instinctive predilection on the description of scenes and
events which open our eyes to large views behind them. It would be
impossible to characterise all such favourite motives as beautiful; it
is also often difficult to show that there is any general idea embodied
in them. But they have invariably the quality of being emotional
centres, in which a multiplicity of feelings and sensations has been
united. By this quality they become apt to serve the purposes which are
essential to the artistic craving; and by the same quality they satisfy
the requirement of fullest possible enjoyment which is made by the
spectator. What we demand of the perfect work of art is—to resort to an
often-used image—that it shall be as a shell, which we may lift in our
hand and bring to our ear, but in which, notwithstanding its smallness,
we may hear the roaring and singing of the sea.