Not merely philosophy but also the fine arts work at bottom towards the
solution of the problem of existence. For in every mind that once gives
itself up to the purely objective contemplation of nature a desire has
been excited, however concealed and unconscious it may be, to comprehend
the true nature of things, of life and existence. For this alone has
interest for the intellect as such, _i.e._, for the pure subject of
knowledge which has become free from the aims of the will; as for the
subject which knows as a mere individual the aims of the will alone have
interest. On this account the result of the purely objective apprehension
of things is an expression more of the nature of life and existence, more
an answer to the question, “What is life?” Every genuine and successful
work of art answers this question in its own way with perfect correctness.
But all the arts speak only the naive and childish language of perception,
not the abstract and serious language of _reflection_; their answer is
therefore a fleeting image: not permanent and general knowledge. Thus for
_perception_ every work of art answers that question, every painting,
every statue, every poem, every scene upon the stage: music also answers
it; and indeed more profoundly than all the rest, for in its language,
which is understood with absolute directness, but which is yet
untranslatable into that of the reason, the inner nature of all life and
existence expresses itself. Thus all the other arts hold up to the
questioner a perceptible image, and say, “Look here, this is life.” Their
answer, however correct it may be, will yet always afford merely a
temporary, not a complete and final, satisfaction. For they always give
merely a fragment, an example instead of the rule, not the whole, which
can only be given in the universality of the _conception_. For this,
therefore, thus for reflection and in the abstract, to give an answer
which just on that account shall be permanent and suffice for always, is
the task of philosophy. However, we see here upon what the relationship of
philosophy to the fine arts rests, and can conclude from that to what
extent the capacity of both, although in its direction and in secondary
matters very different, is yet in its root the same.
Every work of art accordingly really aims at showing us life and things as
they are in truth, but cannot be directly discerned by every one through
the mist of objective and subjective contingencies. Art takes away this
mist.
The works of the poets, sculptors, and representative artists in general
contain an unacknowledged treasure of profound wisdom; just because out of
them the wisdom of the nature of things itself speaks, whose utterances
they merely interpret by illustrations and purer repetitions. On this
account, however, every one who reads the poem or looks at the picture
must certainly contribute out of his own means to bring that wisdom to
light; accordingly he comprehends only so much of it as his capacity and
culture admit of; as in the deep sea each sailor only lets down the lead
as far as the length of the line will allow. Before a picture, as before a
prince, every one must stand, waiting to see whether and what it will
speak to him; and, as in the case of a prince, so here he must not himself
address it, for then he would only hear himself. It follows from all this
that in the works of the representative arts all truth is certainly
contained, yet only _virtualiter_ or _implicite_; philosophy, on the other
hand, endeavours to supply the same truth _actualiter_ and _explicite_,
and therefore, in this sense, is related to art as wine to grapes. What it
promises to supply would be, as it were, an already realised and clear
gain, a firm and abiding possession; while that which proceeds from the
achievements and works of art is one which has constantly to be reproduced
anew. Therefore, however, it makes demands, not only upon those who
produce its works, but also upon those who are to enjoy them which are
discouraging and hard to comply with. Therefore its public remains small,
while that of art is large.
The co‐operation of the beholder, which is referred to above, as demanded
for the enjoyment of a work of art, depends partly upon the fact that
every work of art can only produce its effect through the medium of the
fancy; therefore it must excite this, and can never allow it to be left
out of the play and remain inactive. This is a condition of the æsthetic
effect, and therefore a fundamental law of all fine arts. But it follows
from this that, through the work of art, everything must not be directly
given to the senses, but rather only so much as is demanded to lead the
fancy on to the right path; something, and indeed the ultimate thing, must
always be left over for the fancy to do. Even the author must always leave
something over for the reader to think; for Voltaire has very rightly
said, “_Le secret d’être ennuyeux, c’est de tout dire_.” But besides this,
in art the best of all is too spiritual to be given directly to the
senses; it must be born in the imagination of the beholder, although
begotten by the work of art. It depends upon this that the sketches of
great masters often effect more than their finished pictures; although
another advantage certainly contributes to this, namely, that they are
completed offhand in the moment of conception; while the perfected
painting is only produced through continued effort, by means of skilful
deliberation and persistent intention, for the inspiration cannot last
till it is completed. From the fundamental æsthetical law we are speaking
of, it is further to be explained why wax figures never produce an
æsthetic effect, and therefore are not properly works of fine art,
although it is just in them that the imitation of nature is able to reach
its highest grade. For they leave nothing for the imagination to do.
Sculpture gives merely the form without the colour; painting gives the
colour, but the mere appearance of the form; thus both appeal to the
imagination of the beholder. The wax figure, on the other hand, gives all,
form and colour at once; whence arises the appearance of reality, and the
imagination is left out of account. Poetry, on the contrary, appeals
indeed to the imagination alone, which it sets in action by means of mere
words.
An arbitrary playing with the means of art without a proper knowledge of
the end is, in every art, the fundamental characteristic of the dabbler.
Such a man shows himself in the pillars that support nothing, aimless
volutes, juttings and projections of bad architecture, in the meaningless
runs and figures, together with the aimless noise of bad music, in the
jingling of the rhymes of senseless poetry, &c.
It follows from the preceding chapter, and from my whole view of art, that
its aim is the facilitating of the knowledge of the Ideas of the world (in
the Platonic sense, the only one which I recognise for the word Idea). The
Ideas, however, are essentially something perceptible, which, therefore,
in its fuller determinations, is inexhaustible. The communication of such
an Idea can therefore only take place on the path of perception, which is
that of art. Whoever, therefore, is filled with the comprehension of an
Idea is justified if he chooses art as the medium of its communication.
The mere conception, on the other hand, is something completely
determinable, therefore exhaustible, and distinctly thought, the whole
content of which can be coldly and dryly expressed in words. Now to desire
to communicate such a conception by means of a work of art is a very
useless circumlocution, indeed belongs to that playing with the means of
art without knowledge of its end which has just been condemned. Therefore
a work of art which has proceeded from mere distinct conceptions is always
ungenuine. If now, in considering a work of plastic art, or in reading a
poem, or in hearing a piece of music (which aims at describing something
definite), we see, through all the rich materials of art, the distinct,
limited, cold, dry conception shine out, and at last come to the front,
the conception which was the kernel of this work, the whole notion of
which consequently consisted in the distinct thinking of it, and
accordingly is absolutely exhausted by its communication, we feel
disgusted and indignant, for we see ourselves deceived and cheated out of
our interest and attention. We are only perfectly satisfied by the
impression of a work of art when it leaves something which, with all our
thinking about it, we cannot bring down to the distinctness of a
conception. The mark of that hybrid origin from mere conceptions is that
the author of a work of art could, before he set about it, give in
distinct words what he intended to present; for then it would have been
possible to attain his whole end through these words. Therefore it is an
undertaking as unworthy as it is absurd if, as has often been tried at the
present day, one seeks to reduce a poem of Shakspeare’s or Goethe’s to the
abstract truth which it was its aim to communicate. Certainly the artist
ought to think in the arranging of his work; but only that thought which
was _perceived_ before it was thought has afterwards, in its
communication, the power of animating or rousing, and thereby becomes
imperishable. We shall not refrain from observing here that certainly the
work which is done at a stroke, like the sketches of painters already
referred to, the work which is completed in the inspiration of its first
conception, and as it were unconsciously dashed off, like the melody which
comes entirely without reflection, and quite as if by inspiration, and
finally, also the lyrical poem proper, the mere song, in which the deeply
felt mood of the present, and the impression of the surroundings, as if
involuntarily, pours itself forth in words, whose metre and rhyme come
about of their own accord—that all these, I say, have the great advantage
of being purely the work of the ecstasy of the moment, the inspiration,
the free movement of genius, without any admixture of intention and
reflection; hence they are through and through delightful and enjoyable,
without shell and kernel, and their effect is much more inevitable than
that of the greatest works of art, of slower and more deliberate
execution. In all the latter, thus in great historical paintings, in long
epic poems, great operas, &c., reflection, intention, and deliberate
selection has had an important part; understanding, technical skill, and
routine must here fill up the gaps which the conception and inspiration of
genius has left, and must mix with these all kinds of necessary
supplementary work as cement of the only really genuinely brilliant parts.
This explains why all such works, only excepting the perfect masterpieces
of the very greatest masters (as, for example, “Hamlet,” “Faust,” the
opera of “Don Juan”), inevitably contain an admixture of something insipid
and wearisome, which in some measure hinders the enjoyment of them. Proofs
of this are the “Messiah,” “_Gerusalemme liberata_,” even “Paradise Lost”
and the “Æneid;” and Horace already makes the bold remark, “_Quandoque
dormitat bonus Homerus_.” But that this is the case is the consequence of
the limitation of human powers in general.
The mother of the useful arts is necessity; that of the fine arts
superfluity. As their father, the former have understanding; the latter
genius, which is itself a kind of superfluity, that of the powers of
knowledge beyond the measure which is required for the service of the
will.