music, or his genius for painting, and so on?”
“Yes,” I answered; “and you see how easily and well one can use the word
in that sense.”
Ruth asked: “If the great genius is really one who understands better
than the rest of us, and has a more harmonious vision, how is it that so
many geniuses are incomplete and very imperfect in their personal
lives?”
“I think it is,” I said, “for the same reason that I gave you for
disease in highly developed beings.”
“I see,” said Marian; “it is one part developed at the expense of
another.”
They wanted to know why so many artists were peculiar, erratic,
“Bohemian”—Marian used that word. Virginia spoke again of the
happy-go-lucky people down at the art league.
I said I thought one reason for this manner among artists was that, as
they were always looking for the new, the beautiful—which is ever
new—they had no patience with so-called respectable people, who clung
to old things because they were old, and so these artists often
purposely went to the other extreme.
I said: “You must see that there is the tendency in all of us to make of
life a work of art, to live a complete, beautiful life.”
“I know some people,” said Virginia, “whose lives do not seem to me in
the least artistic.”
“That may be,” I answered, “but the tendency is there to make of life a
complete expression.”
“That isn’t all I mean,” said Marian. “I want to know what is meant by
the artistic temperament.”
“It is in great part,” I said, “a fiction and a false generalization.
Many experts have not the artistic temperament, and many not-artists
have it. As for artists going astray more often than others, if that be
true—which I doubt—there’s a good reason for it. Artists are always
very sensitive—naturally—and so, unless they are very strong-willed,
too, they will be more easily swayed by outside events and their
impressions.”
“I don’t believe every one has genius,” Virginia said. “I know some
people who are perfectly stupid, and don’t understand anything.”
“That is scarcely possible,” I answered, “if they are human beings.”
“Do you mean to say,” asked Henry, “that you know any utterly selfish
person?”
“Yes,” she answered; “or, at least, people who are not interested in
anything worth while outside themselves; people who can walk through an
art gallery and not look at the pictures; who love nothing beautiful.”
“I may be one of those,” said Ruth, “for I do not care for pictures.”
“One’s genius might not be developed in that particular direction,” I
said; “none of us are developed in all directions. But grant, at least,
Virginia, that your most stupid people have undeveloped genius which
might be awakened.”
“All right,” she said.
“Because if you don’t,” I answered, “I shall think your understanding of
those people is very limited. Genius does not necessarily show itself in
relation to art, to the sense of beauty. Genius is in the understanding
a man must have to be a man. How could he have any relations with his
fellows, any intercourse without some understanding?
“But there is one essential difference between the genius of the
looker-on and the genius of the artist; it is that the artist creates,
that he must have talent. No matter how much genius a man may have, if
he does not or cannot express his genius, he is not an artist.”
“Do you think,” asked Marian, “that an artist knows himself to be a
great genius?”
“I think,” I answered her, “that no man ever does a great thing unless
he first believes he can do it.
“You remember, I once said that to understand life well one must be
creative, one must do things, because life is forever creating. And so
the genius who is an artist, who has talent, who creates, by that very
creation understands better than other men. He who can draw a thing sees
it better than he who cannot.”
“Yes,” said Virginia, “the fact that he can draw it proves that he sees
it better.”
“And in learning to draw it,” I went on, “he came to see it better.”
“The great artist,” said Henry, “is one who expresses his idea
perfectly.”
“Then,” Virginia said, “I wonder if I will ever get to be a great
artist. For the thing I draw is never the thing that was in my mind.”
“Now,” said I, “you see the distinction between genius and talent.
Genius is the power of understanding. Talent is the power of expression.
A man may have very little to say, and yet say it wonderfully well. And
another man may have much to say, and marvellous understanding of life,
but not nearly so great power of expression. That is what Florence meant
the other day, when she spoke of ‘Jenny Kissed Me,’ and of ‘Faust.’ But
the man who expresses even the smallest thing well understands, at
least, that thing. The power of expression itself implies understanding
and a sense of unity and harmony. For no matter how well a man may be
able to draw lines and objects, unless he understands composition—which
is the knowledge of harmony and completeness—he cannot paint a good
picture. And no matter how well a man may write English, however perfect
his style may be, unless he understands something of life, of symmetry
and structure, he cannot write a good book.”
Henry said: “Poe expressed himself very well. Was he a genius?”
“Now, stop,” I answered. “Don’t ask, ‘Was he a genius?’ Of course, he
was that. We all have genius. The question is, how much?”
“It seems to me,” said Henry, “that in some way Poe was as great as
Shakespeare.”
“Yes,” I said, “in some ways; and that is a very good example. Poe’s
power of expression may have been as great in some ways as
Shakespeare’s. But just think how immeasurably greater was Shakespeare’s
genius, his understanding, and grasp of life!”
“Poe, for instance,” said Henry, “was a great mathematician, and used
his deductions in his stories.”
The others told Henry this had nothing to do with his genius. They had a
long talk on the relative genius—that is, understanding of life—of Poe
and Hawthorne, and brought up many instances.
Marian said: “Was Milton a great genius?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I suppose he was,” she said, “but I don’t think he had a great
understanding of human life.”
“Have you read ‘Paradise Lost’?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Then you must have noticed his wonderful sympathy with, and
understanding of, the devil himself. He saw the tremendous contrasts of
life, and understood them.”
“I must read that,” said Virginia, “if he wrote with understanding
sympathy of the devil. Don’t you think,” she asked, “that those who
write books for children generally understand life very well, and have
true genius?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “What do you think? How about those artists who write
for children in the Sunday comic papers?”
Now I spoke of the artist in us all, who sees things ever as distinct
wholes, who picks out, as he goes through life, complete visions of
beauty to reproduce in his mind. These visions have to be distant,
separate from himself. For life is so distracting and full of
contradictory passions, so vast, and, as we know it in our limited
lives, so incomplete, that we must get rid of it, we must separate
ourselves, with our universal and unfinished relations, from the perfect
and whole beauty which we wish to see in the artistic vision.
“You must have noticed,” I said, “and you have often heard, that far-off
things are most beautiful. It is because our life, interwoven with
endless distracting circumstances, does not seem to touch those far-off
things.”
“Autumn leaves,” said Marian, “far off look so beautiful, and near by
are full of imperfections.”
Virginia said: “And perfection of detail in a picture, as if the things
were very near and real, does not make it better. It does not seem good.
You know Millet’s ‘Sower,’ at the Metropolitan Museum: when you go
close, it is all streaks.”
“This dimness of detail is for two reasons, in most great pictures,” I
said. “First, the artist often paints a picture with the intention of
having it looked upon from a distance. Second, in the perfect whole,
detail is merged. All must blend and harmonize.”
“I never thought of that,” said Virginia. “The too precise details in a
picture attract a person’s attention, and want to be looked at for their
own sake, and so break in on the harmony and wholeness of the picture.”
“Yes, just so,” I answered. I spoke again of the sublime lie of art—the
untruth which is most true. I said: “I once had an English teacher who
used to tell us that in art one was not to give the truth, but the
impression of truth. Truths often break in and destroy the impression of
that whole truth.
“Now,” I asked, “what is the one, the only object, of art in the world?”
We decided, all of us, that it was complete understanding and sympathy.
Art is a symbol of that completeness for which our whole life longs. One
of them—I think it was Henry—said its aim was progress. I said it was
rather the picturing and prophecy of the end and aim of progress itself.
They had probably heard, I said, of “art for art’s sake,” the cant of
those who believed mere form and expression to be the whole of art, and
left out of account the thing expressed. Virginia misunderstood me to
say: “Art for its own sake,” quite a different thing. So, thinking I
would agree with her, she quoted, with disapproval, an article by Kenyon
Cox, saying: “He who worked for gold sold himself, and he who worked for
fame was utterly lost.” I said I quite agreed with him; that unless one
worked first of all for the sake of expression, and the joy of it, he
was no artist.
“And, meanwhile, his wife and children might be starving,” she answered.
“It is praiseworthy,” I said, “to support one’s wife and children, but
it has nothing to do with art.”
I said a man might well use his expression to earn himself bread; that
it was necessary and natural, and had often even spurred a man on to
work, but that it could not be his first aim if he were an artist. We
spoke of Shakespeare, and of Goldsmith, and of their writing under the
stress of poverty. I pointed out how, nevertheless, these men wrote of
the things they loved and understood, and how the joy of work must have
been their first aim.
I spoke of play, and of art being like play; of the old saying: “Work
first, then play.”
Henry said that was meant for little children.
I told them how scientists tried to explain play by calling it a
preparation for work. Virginia liked that idea. I said that I thought
work a preparation for play, that play, interplay, the joy of creation,
was life itself. The children easily understood play in this sense of
the beloved work. Virginia said her work was all play. I reminded her
that she might have to work hard, but she would do it gladly for the
sake of that play. Marian said her school-work was almost always play.
Ruth said: “I think play and work are the same thing, and that we human
beings have made the distinction of words.”
Art cannot rightly have any object but whole representation, but
expression of the understanding of life. I said that whenever art tried
to be moral—which was rather the business of philosophy—it lost
thereby; that whenever one took sides for a thing, one took sides
against something else, and had lost the completeness and symmetry of
art.
Henry said he thought art ought to teach a lesson.
I answered: “Art ought to show us the whole of life, which is
beautiful.”
Virginia spoke of Dickens’ novels, and said she thought those were best
in which he wrote with an object, and against an abuse.
I answered her that they were best and also worst. They were best
because he described in them the life which he knew and loved. But the
parts of these very good novels which were directed against any people
or institutions were always bad, inartistic, incongruous. As an example
I quoted the dreary dissertations on Chancery in “Bleak House,” and
those who had read it immediately agreed with me.
Henry and Virginia questioned me several times concerning ugly pictures
which were considered “good art.” I told them that a subject not usually
thought beautiful, an old, old woman, for instance, might be made
beautiful by the artist’s insight. I did not go into details, however,
to-day. A great many ugly pictures, such as the work of Teniers, Steen,
and others, seem to me very bad art. But now I spoke to them of Wiertz,
the Belgian, who seems to me no artist at all, and concerning whom they
had both questioned me. I took as an example of bad partisan art his
picture of Napoleon in hell, with crowds of poor people making faces at
him, and pelting him with brimstone. Such a subject in itself is
impossible to art. What could be more unintelligent, petty, scattered
and ugly!
Ruth said she did not see why an artist need understand human nature
especially well unless he was one who treated of human nature; that a
musician, for instance, need not do so. I began my answer, but gave way
to a burst of enthusiasm from Henry.
How, said he, could a musician not understand human nature, he who knew
how to rouse us to the depths with his notes, who could move us to
tears? Surely he knew what he was doing, and the heart which he stirred.
Ruth said she did not see why Shakespeare showed greater understanding
or completeness in his work than Emerson, for instance. Henry thought
the same. I tried to show them that Emerson in his essays was not an
artist—or, at least, not nearly so much of an artist as a
philosopher—that he strove to reach the good, the complete harmony of
the universe, but that he did not give us the vision of a present,
finished, concrete beauty. They both maintained that he did. Henry spoke
of the essays on “Friendship” and “Manners.”
“Have you read the essay on ‘Manners’?” he asked.
“Yes, several times,” I said.
“And doesn’t it give you a picture?” he asked. Ruth added: “And the one
on friendship. I seem to see that friend.”
I owned I did not feel so. I said it gave me an inspiration, an ideal of
conduct, not a picture. “Mind you,” I said, “when I call Emerson more
philosopher than artist, I am not saying philosophy is less than art.”
“No, I understand that,” said Ruth, “but I, for one, when I read
Shakespeare, get not any especial feeling of the completeness or whole
understanding of what I read. Emerson uplifts me much more, and gives me
power to do things.”
“That may be,” I said. “You may rate either as high or as low as you
please, but their genius is different.”
I pointed out, too, how in Emerson’s poetry, with its rare, beautiful
couplets, and its many lapses, the genius and philosopher far outshone
the man of artistic talent. We had not time to go into detail, or to
quote largely, and I did not wish to speak much of literary criticism
and methods at this meeting, for I had planned to do so at the next, so
I think Henry and Ruth went home unconvinced of the artistic superiority
of Shakespeare over Emerson. One might almost as profitably argue who
was a greater man, Beethoven or Napoleon!
Marian asked me whether George Eliot was an artist or a philosopher. I
told her I thought she was both, but that I believed she would have been
more of an artist had she been less a philosopher.
I asked Alfred why he had kept so silent. Did he agree with us?
“Yes,” he said, “I do. It is very interesting. But I don’t talk unless I
disagree.”
EIGHTH MEETING
Henry came several days ago to tell me he would be unable to attend this
meeting, as he was going to Washington. “I will think of the subject we
were going to discuss,” he said.
I opened the meeting with Marian’s paper:
“At a meeting of the Seekers, held on November 22d, we discussed the
relation which our previous discussions had to Art. We set up a standard
for judging Art, and agreed that a good piece of Art is one that makes
us feel that unity and completeness for which we are striving. Two
things are necessary, a good thought and good workmanship. We also said
that details in Art, particularly in painting, are bad because they
distract us, and we don’t see the picture as a whole. I was very glad to
have a standard by which to judge Art.”
I said to her that I hardly thought she could already have that
standard.
“No,” she said, “but I am going to get it.”
Then I read Virginia’s paper:
“Art as it is connected with our previous discussions:
“When an artist dies he leaves behind him all the beautiful ideas he has
put on his canvas, or in his books. To be a true artist one must possess
an idea of the beautiful, and also be sympathetic with all his fellow
beings. Not only humans, but flowers and beasts also. A person who
possesses these qualities is a genius. But to be an artist one must also
have talent. Either he must have a talent for writing, music or
painting, or he cannot express the genius within himself.
“This sympathy, this love, is something we cannot explain. And so we
call it the soul, because it is a puzzle, and we do not know what it is.
Everybody possesses some of it, even the most heartless. It may be the
love of a plant or dumb animal, but still it is love for a fellow
creature. So all of us possess genius, though few of us are artists.”
Next I read Alfred’s paper:
“On Sunday, the 22d, we discussed the subject of art. We said that for a
thing to be high art it must be pleasing to the eye or ear, and complete
in itself; that is, the artist or composer must so construct his work
that it will fully express some idea. In painting a picture an artist
may choose to convey some gruesome idea, and do so perfectly, but that
will not be high art, because it will be displeasing to the eye.
“It may also be applied to books; if the author tells something so well
that it gives the reader a perfect picture of the thought, the writing
may be considered a good one.”
I said I could tell by Alfred’s paper that he had not grasped just what
was the object of art. The children repeated that it symbolized the
unity for which we longed. I asked, did they see why we took up this
subject of art at all, what it had to do with religion? Marian had said,
before the others came, that it was the expression of our religion.
Virginia now used almost the same words, and Alfred, speaking after her,
said it in such a way as to make me believe he understood.
I replied, this was true; art was the service of religion, the
expression of that sense of oneness with the world which can speak only
in creations, because life is an endless creation. Beauty, I said,
seemed to me the perfect symbol of truth, of completeness and symmetry.
I quoted the lines from Keats:
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
“The subject of beauty always puzzles me,” said Ruth, “because beautiful
things so often are not good. Take the ocean, for instance. It is so
beautiful; it gives us above all things the sense of immensity and
harmony. And yet, think how cruel it is! Think of the shipwrecks and the
suffering!”
“It is not the ocean’s fault,” said Virginia. “That is because we are
adventurous and go out in ships.”
“Yes,” I answered, “and we are willing to take the chance and pay the
price. But surely you do not think of the ocean as cruel, as either good
or bad. Beauty is not in anything, but is in the vision of him who
beholds it. It is a momentary vision of the completeness of life.”
“Beauty is always a thing of moments. Don’t you think so?” asked Marian.
“It depends upon you. At one time you may see a thing as beautiful, and
at another time not.”
“Surely,” I said.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that some people cannot appreciate beauty in
one special form, either in music, or painting, or poetry?”
I said: “Our senses are channels through which we get the feeling of
beauty. But no matter whence the feeling comes, it is that same joy. One
man finds it in a picture, and another in a symphony, and another in the
woods. Do you know those two lines by William Blake:
‘Who knows but every bird that cleaves the air
Is an immense world of delight closed by our senses five.’
“There may be other senses than ours which bring the same message. Helen
Keller hears and sees it with her fingers in her world of darkness.
“Throughout the centuries,” I went on, “in all beginnings and primitive
times, art was the expression of religion. The first rude drawings were
religious symbols; drama and the dance and music were religious; and all
the oldest literature in the world, the Vedas, the Bible, and the old
Scandinavian myths were religious books: the Greek drama, and—can you
think of others?”
They brought forth many instances; Marian mentioned the English miracle
plays, and Virginia spoke of American Indian drawings, saying, however,
that they were more often used for communication. I showed her how the
first rude figures of animals, the totems, for instance, were also used
as religious symbols.
I spoke, too, of the way in which art related us with great minds in
ages past. “Ruskin mentions that,” said Ruth and Marian.
“But it is a one-sided relation,” I said, “for we cannot speak to them.”
“I wish we could,” answered Marian. “I so often wish I could ask them
questions.”
We said again how hard it was, when asked, to explain to outsiders the
purpose of our club. Ruth said: “When I try to tell people, they answer:
‘Oh, yes, I suppose you just talk nonsense, and have a good time.’”
Marian said people wondered that she was willing to stay in-doors on
Sunday afternoons.
Virginia said: “I don’t tell any one of it.”
I suggested to them that if one got a perfect standard of beauty in art,
it might be all one would need as a moral standard to make one’s life
beautiful in the same way.
Now we spoke of the novel. I said I had noticed that last week when I
told them of completeness in novels and plays, they seemed not to know
just what I meant. Florence said she knew. “It means,” she said, “that
every word and every person and every incident must count. It must not
be like life, where distracting and unimportant things are always
happening.”
“Just so,” I answered. She had learned all that from brother Arthur.
I went over it more explicitly, citing instances, and then told them
that we were all of us story-tellers, in the sense that we tried to make
every story complete.
“In telling anything that has happened,” I said, “we naturally leave out
anything that has no effect on the story.”
“And,” added Florence, “we unconsciously make up little details that
help to fill out the story.”
“Now,” said Marian, “I think I must forgive some one I know, who is
always exaggerating.”
“I know some one who does it all the time,” said Florence.
“I don’t think that makes it right, though,” Ruth protested.
“No,” I answered, “not right, but not wrong, either. When we realize the
artist’s tendency in us all to turn everything into a story, first, we
will not judge people harshly for doing it, and, second, we will be
careful when we are trying to tell the truth, not to allow ourselves to
be cheated by the artist in us.”
“I think,” said Virginia, “people often miss-tell an event, and get it
all twisted, because they really forget what was said.”
“Of course,” answered Ruth, “one is not to blame for forgetting.”
I said: “I think that most of us, unconsciously, are story-tellers in
both senses. Many of us are constantly telling ourselves stories about
ourselves.”
“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, Marian and Florence. They gave me a hint of those
wonderful romancings. Marian is always beautiful in her stories, “as in
a real novel,” she said. Florence said she was always as homely “as a
mud fence,” but I could see by her expression that none the less she was
always triumphant. Virginia in her stories was accomplished and a great
artist.
I forgot to be one of them for a moment. I said: “Until very lately I,
too, used to tell myself stories about myself.”
“I still do it,” said Ruth.