PART II: ABOUT PAINTING

V. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING OF COLOUR

To let the eye stray over a palette, splashed with many colours,

produces a dual result. In the first place one receives a PURELY

PHYSICAL IMPRESSION, one of pleasure and contentment at the

varied and beautiful colours. The eye is either warmed or else

soothed and cooled. But these physical sensations can only be of

short duration. They are merely superficial and leave no lasting

impression, for the soul is unaffected. But although the effect

of the colours is forgotten when the eye is turned away, the

superficial impression of varied colour may be the starting point

of a whole chain of related sensations.

On the average man only the impressions caused by very familiar

objects, will be purely superficial. A first encounter with any

new phenomenon exercises immediately an impression on the soul.

This is the experience of the child discovering the world, to

whom every object is new. He sees a light, wishes to take hold of

it, burns his finger and feels henceforward a proper respect for

flame. But later he learns that light has a friendly as well as

an unfriendly side, that it drives away the darkness, makes the

day longer, is essential to warmth, cooking, play-acting. From

the mass of these discoveries is composed a knowledge of light,

which is indelibly fixed in his mind. The strong, intensive

interest disappears and the various properties of flame are

balanced against each other. In this way the whole world becomes

gradually disenchanted. It is realized that trees give shade,

that horses run fast and motor-cars still faster, that dogs bite,

that the figure seen in a mirror is not a real human being.

As the man develops, the circle of these experiences caused by

different beings and objects, grows ever wider. They acquire an

inner meaning and eventually a spiritual harmony. It is the same

with colour, which makes only a momentary and superficial

impression on a soul but slightly developed in sensitiveness. But

even this superficial impression varies in quality. The eye is

strongly attracted by light, clear colours, and still more

strongly attracted by those colours which are warm as well as

clear; vermilion has the charm of flame, which has always

attracted human beings. Keen lemon-yellow hurts the eye in time

as a prolonged and shrill trumpet-note the ear, and the gazer

turns away to seek relief in blue or green.

But to a more sensitive soul the effect of colours is deeper and

intensely moving. And so we come to the second main result of

looking at colours: THEIR PSYCHIC EFFECT. They produce a

corresponding spiritual vibration, and it is only as a step

towards this spiritual vibration that the elementary physical

impression is of importance.

Whether the psychic effect of colour is a direct one, as these last few

lines imply, or whether it is the outcome of association, is perhaps

open to question. The soul being one with the body, the former may well

experience a psychic shock, caused by association acting on the latter.

For example, red may cause a sensation analogous to that caused by

flame, because red is the colour of flame. A warm red will prove

exciting, another shade of red will cause pain or disgust through

association with running blood. In these cases colour awakens a

corresponding physical sensation, which undoubtedly works upon the soul.

If this were always the case, it would be easy to define by

association the effects of colour upon other senses than that of

sight. One might say that keen yellow looks sour, because it

recalls the taste of a lemon.

But such definitions are not universally possible. There are many

examples of colour working which refuse to be so classified. A

Dresden doctor relates of one of his patients, whom he designates

as an "exceptionally sensitive person," that he could not eat a

certain sauce without tasting "blue," i.e. without experiencing a

feeling of seeing a blue color. [Footnote: Dr. Freudenberg.

"Spaltung der Personlichkeit" (Ubersinnliche Welt. 1908. No. 2,

p. 64-65). The author also discusses the hearing of colour, and

says that here also no rules can be laid down. But cf. L.

Sabanejeff in "Musik," Moscow, 1911, No. 9, where the imminent

possibility of laying down a law is clearly hinted at.] It would

be possible to suggest, by way of explanation of this, that in

highly sensitive people, the way to the soul is so direct and the

soul itself so impressionable, that any impression of taste

communicates itself immediately to the soul, and thence to the

other organs of sense (in this case, the eyes). This would imply

an echo or reverberation, such as occurs sometimes in musical

instruments which, without being touched, sound in harmony with

some other instrument struck at the moment.

But not only with taste has sight been known to work in harmony.

Many colours have been described as rough or sticky, others as

smooth and uniform, so that one feels inclined to stroke them

(e.g., dark ultramarine, chromic oxide green, and rose madder).

Equally the distinction between warm and cold colours belongs to

this connection. Some colours appear soft (rose madder), others

hard (cobalt green, blue-green oxide), so that even fresh from

the tube they seem to be dry.

The expression "scented colours" is frequently met with. And

finally the sound of colours is so definite that it would be hard

to find anyone who would try to express bright yellow in the bass

notes, or dark lake in the treble.

[Footnote: Much theory and practice have been devoted to this

question. People have sought to paint in counterpoint. Also

unmusical children have been successfully helped to play the

piano by quoting a parallel in colour (e.g., of flowers). On

these lines Frau A. Sacharjin-Unkowsky has worked for several

years and has evolved a method of "so describing sounds by

natural colours, and colours by natural sounds, that colour could

be heard and sound seen." The system has proved successful for

several years both in the inventor's own school and the

Conservatoire at St. Petersburg. Finally Scriabin, on more

spiritual lines, has paralleled sound and colours in a chart not

unlike that of Frau Unkowsky. In "Prometheus" he has given

convincing proof of his theories. (His chart appeared in "Musik,"

Moscow, 1911, No. 9.)]

[Footnote: The converse question, i.e. the colour of sound, was

touched upon by Mallarme and systematized by his disciple Rene

Ghil, whose book, Traite du Verbe, gives the rules for

"l'instrumentation verbale."--M.T.H.S.]

The explanation by association will not suffice us in many, and

the most important cases. Those who have heard of chromotherapy

will know that coloured light can exercise very definite

influences on the whole body. Attempts have been made with

different colours in the treatment of various nervous ailments.

They have shown that red light stimulates and excites the heart,

while blue light can cause temporary paralysis. But when the

experiments come to be tried on animals and even plants, the

association theory falls to the ground. So one is bound to admit

that the question is at present unexplored, but that colour can

exercise enormous influence over the body as a physical organism.

No more sufficient, in the psychic sphere, is the theory of

association. Generally speaking, colour is a power which directly

influences the soul. Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the

hammers, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is

the hand which plays, touching one key or another, to cause

vibrations in the soul.

IT IS EVIDENT THEREFORE THAT COLOUR HARMONY MUST REST ONLY ON A

CORRESPONDING VIBRATION IN THE HUMAN SOUL; AND THIS IS ONE OF THE

GUIDING PRINCIPLES OF THE INNER NEED.

[Footnote: The phrase "inner need" (innere Notwendigkeit) means

primarily the impulse felt by the artist for spiritual

expression. Kandinsky is apt, however, to use the phrase

sometimes to mean not only the hunger for spiritual expression,

but also the actual expression itself.--M.T.H.S.]

VI. THE LANGUAGE OF FORM AND COLOUR

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with

concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and

spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his

affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Mark the

music. (The Merchant of Venice, Act v, Scene I.)

Musical sound acts directly on the soul and finds an echo there because,

though to varying extents, music is innate in man.

[Footnote: Cf. E. Jacques-Dalcroze in The Eurhythmics of

Jacques-Dalcroze. London, Constable.--M.T.H.S.]

"Everyone knows that yellow, orange, and red suggest ideas of joy and

plenty" (Delacroix). [Footnote: Cf. Paul Signac, D'Eugene Delacroix au

Neo-Impressionisme. Paris. Floury. Also compare an interesting article

by K. Schettler: "Notizen uber die Farbe." (Decorative Kunst, 1901,

February).]

These two quotations show the deep relationship between the arts,

and especially between music and painting. Goethe said that

painting must count this relationship her main foundation, and by

this prophetic remark he seems to foretell the position in which

painting is today. She stands, in fact, at the first stage of the

road by which she will, according to her own possibilities, make

art an abstraction of thought and arrive finally at purely

artistic composition. [Footnote: By "Komposition" Kandinsky here

means, of course, an artistic creation. He is not referring to

the arrangement of the objects in a picture.--M.T.H.S.]

Painting has two weapons at her disposal:

1. Colour.

2. Form.

Form can stand alone as representing an object (either real or

otherwise) or as a purely abstract limit to a space or a surface.

Colour cannot stand alone; it cannot dispense with boundaries of some

kind. [Footnote: Cf. A. Wallace Rimington. Colour music (OP. CIT.) where

experiments are recounted with a colour organ, which gives symphonies of

rapidly changing colour without boundaries--except the unavoidable ones

of the white curtain on which the colours are reflected.--M.T.H.S.] A

never-ending extent of red can only be seen in the mind; when the word

red is heard, the colour is evoked without definite boundaries. If such

are necessary they have deliberately to be imagined. But such red, as is

seen by the mind and not by the eye, exercises at once a definite and an

indefinite impression on the soul, and produces spiritual harmony. I say

"indefinite," because in itself it has no suggestion of warmth or cold,

such attributes having to be imagined for it afterwards, as

modifications of the original "redness." I say "definite," because the

spiritual harmony exists without any need for such subsequent attributes

of warmth or cold. An analogous case is the sound of a trumpet which one

hears when the word "trumpet" is pronounced. This sound is audible to

the soul, without the distinctive character of a trumpet heard in the

open air or in a room, played alone or with other instruments, in the

hands of a postilion, a huntsman, a soldier, or a professional musician.

But when red is presented in a material form (as in painting) it

must possess (1) some definite shade of the many shades of red

that exist and (2) a limited surface, divided off from the other

colours, which are undoubtedly there. The first of these

conditions (the subjective) is affected by the second (the

objective), for the neighbouring colours affect the shade of red.

This essential connection between colour and form brings us to

the question of the influences of form on colour. Form alone,

even though totally abstract and geometrical, has a power of

inner suggestion. A triangle (without the accessory consideration

of its being acute-or obtuse-angled or equilateral) has a

spiritual value of its own. In connection with other forms, this

value may be somewhat modified, but remains in quality the same.

The case is similar with a circle, a square, or any conceivable

geometrical figure. [Footnote: The angle at which the triangle

stands, and whether it is stationary or moving, are of importance

to its spiritual value. This fact is specially worthy of the

painter's consideration.] As above, with the red, we have here a

subjective substance in an objective shell.

The mutual influence of form and colour now becomes clear. A

yellow triangle, a blue circle, a green square, or a green

triangle, a yellow circle, a blue square--all these are different

and have different spiritual values.

It is evident that many colours are hampered and even nullified

in effect by many forms. On the whole, keen colours are well

suited by sharp forms (e.g., a yellow triangle), and soft, deep

colours by round forms (e.g., a blue circle). But it must be

remembered that an unsuitable combination of form and colour is

not necessarily discordant, but may, with manipulation, show the

way to fresh possibilities of harmony.

Since colours and forms are well-nigh innumerable, their

combination and their influences are likewise unending. The

material is inexhaustible.

Form, in the narrow sense, is nothing but the separating line

between surfaces of colour. That is its outer meaning. But it has

also an inner meaning, of varying intensity, [Footnote: It is

never literally true that any form is meaningless and "says

nothing." Every form in the world says something. But its message

often fails to reach us, and even if it does, full understanding

is often withheld from us.] and, properly speaking, FORM IS THE

OUTWARD EXPRESSION OF THIS INNER MEANING. To use once more the

metaphor of the piano--the artist is the hand which, by playing

on this or that key (i.e., form), affects the human soul in this

or that way. SO IT IS EVIDENT THAT FORM-HARMONY MUST REST ONLY ON

A CORRESPONDING VIBRATION OF THE HUMAN SOUL; AND THIS IS A SECOND

GUIDING PRINCIPLE OF THE INNER NEED.

The two aspects of form just mentioned define its two aims. The

task of limiting surfaces (the outer aspect) is well performed if

the inner meaning is fully expressed.

[Footnote: The phrase "full expression" must be clearly

understood. Form often is most expressive when least coherent. It

is often most expressive when outwardly most imperfect, perhaps

only a stroke, a mere hint of outer meaning.]

The outer task may assume many different shapes; but it will

never fail in one of two purposes: (1) Either form aims at so

limiting surfaces as to fashion of them some material object; (2)

Or form remains abstract, describing only a non-material,

spiritual entity. Such non-material entities, with life and value

as such, are a circle, a triangle, a rhombus, a trapeze, etc.,

many of them so complicated as to have no mathematical

denomination.

Between these two extremes lie the innumerable forms in which

both elements exist; with a preponderance either of the abstract

or the material. These intermediate forms are, at present, the

store on which the artist has to draw. Purely abstract forms are

beyond the reach of the artist at present; they are too

indefinite for him. To limit himself to the purely indefinite

would be to rob himself of possibilities, to exclude the human

element and therefore to weaken his power of expression.

On the other hand, there exists equally no purely material form.

A material object cannot be absolutely reproduced. For good or

evil, the artist has eyes and hands, which are perhaps more

artistic than his intentions and refuse to aim at photography

alone. Many genuine artists, who cannot be content with a mere

inventory of material objects, seek to express the objects by

what was once called "idealization," then "selection," and which

tomorrow will again be called something different.

[Footnote: The motive of idealization is so to beautify the organic form

as to bring out its harmony and rouse poetic feeling. "Selection" aims

not so much at beautification as at emphasizing the character of the

object, by the omission of non-essentials. The desire of the future will

be purely the expression of the inner meaning. The organic form no

longer serves as direct object, but as the human words in which a divine

message must be written, in order for it to be comprehensible to human

minds.]

The impossibility and, in art, the uselessness of attempting to

copy an object exactly, the desire to give the object full

expression, are the impulses which drive the artist away from

"literal" colouring to purely artistic aims. And that brings us

to the question of composition. [Footnote: Here Kandinsky means

arrangement of the picture.--M.T.H.S.]

Pure artistic composition has two elements:

1. The composition of the whole picture.

2. The creation of the various forms which, by standing in

different relationships to each other, decide the composition of

the whole. [Footnote: The general composition will naturally

include many little compositions which may be antagonistic to

each other, though helping--perhaps by their very antagonism--the

harmony of the whole. These little compositions have themselves

subdivisions of varied inner meanings.] Many objects have to be

considered in the light of the whole, and so ordered as to suit

this whole. Singly they will have little meaning, being of

importance only in so far as they help the general effect. These

single objects must be fashioned in one way only; and this, not

because their own inner meaning demands that particular

fashioning, but entirely because they have to serve as building

material for the whole composition. [Footnote: A good example is

Cezanne's "Bathing Women," which is built in the form of a

triangle. Such building is an old principle, which was being

abandoned only because academic usage had made it lifeless. But

Cezanne has given it new life. He does not use it to harmonize

his groups, but for purely artistic purposes. He distorts the

human figure with perfect justification. Not only must the whole

figure follow the lines of the triangle, but each limb must grow

narrower from bottom to top. Raphael's "Holy Family" is an

example of triangular composition used only for the harmonizing

of the group, and without any mystical motive.]

So the abstract idea is creeping into art, although, only

yesterday, it was scorned and obscured by purely material ideals.

Its gradual advance is natural enough, for in proportion as the

organic form falls into the background, the abstract ideal

achieves greater prominence.

But the organic form possesses all the same an inner harmony of

its own, which may be either the same as that of its abstract

parallel (thus producing a simple combination of the two

elements) or totally different (in which case the combination may

be unavoidably discordant). However diminished in importance the

organic form may be, its inner note will always be heard; and for

this reason the choice of material objects is an important one.

The spiritual accord of the organic with the abstract element may

strengthen the appeal of the latter (as much by contrast as by

similarity) or may destroy it.

Suppose a rhomboidal composition, made up of a number of human

figures. The artist asks himself: Are these human figures an

absolute necessity to the composition, or should they be replaced

by other forms, and that without affecting the fundamental

harmony of the whole? If the answer is "Yes," we have a case in

which the material appeal directly weakens the abstract appeal.

The human form must either be replaced by another object which,

whether by similarity or contrast, will strengthen the abstract

appeal, or must remain a purely non-material symbol. [Footnote:

Cf. Translator's Introduction, pp. xviii and xx.--M.T.H.S.]

Once more the metaphor of the piano. For "colour" or "form"

substitute "object." Every object has its own life and therefore

its own appeal; man is continually subject to these appeals. But

the results are often dubbed either sub--or super-conscious.

Nature, that is to say the ever-changing surroundings of man,

sets in vibration the strings of the piano (the soul) by

manipulation of the keys (the various objects with their several

appeals).

The impressions we receive, which often appear merely chaotic,

consist of three elements: the impression of the colour of the

object, of its form, and of its combined colour and form, i.e. of

the object itself.

At this point the individuality of the artist comes to the front

and disposes, as he wills, these three elements. IT IS CLEAR,

THEREFORE, THAT THE CHOICE OF OBJECT (i.e. OF ONE OF THE ELEMENTS

IN THE HARMONY OF FORM) MUST BE DECIDED ONLY BY A CORRESPONDING

VIBRATION IN THE HUMAN SOUL; AND THIS IS A THIRD GUIDING

PRINCIPLE OF THE INNER NEED.

The more abstract is form, the more clear and direct is its

appeal. In any composition the material side may be more or less

omitted in proportion as the forms used are more or less

material, and for them substituted pure abstractions, or largely

dematerialized objects. The more an artist uses these abstracted

forms, the deeper and more confidently will he advance into the

kingdom of the abstract. And after him will follow the gazer at

his pictures, who also will have gradually acquired a greater

familiarity with the language of that kingdom.

Must we then abandon utterly all material objects and paint

solely in abstractions? The problem of harmonizing the appeal of

the material and the non-material shows us the answer to this

question. As every word spoken rouses an inner vibration, so

likewise does every object represented. To deprive oneself of

this possibility is to limit one's powers of expression. That is

at any rate the case at present. But besides this answer to the

question, there is another, and one which art can always employ

to any question beginning with "must": There is no "must" in art,

because art is free.

With regard to the second problem of composition, the creation of

the single elements which are to compose the whole, it must be

remembered that the same form in the same circumstances will

always have the same inner appeal. Only the circumstances are

constantly varying. It results that: (1) The ideal harmony alters

according to the relation to other forms of the form which causes

it. (2) Even in similar relationship a slight approach to or

withdrawal from other forms may affect the harmony. [Footnote:

This is what is meant by "an appeal of motion." For example, the

appeal of an upright triangle is more steadfast and quiet than

that of one set obliquely on its side.] Nothing is absolute.

Form-composition rests on a relative basis, depending on (1) the

alterations in the mutual relations of forms one to another, (2)

alterations in each individual form, down to the very smallest.

Every form is as sensitive as a puff of smoke, the slightest

breath will alter it completely. This extreme mobility makes it

easier to obtain similar harmonies from the use of different

forms, than from a repetition of the same one; though of course

an exact replica of a spiritual harmony can never be produced. So

long as we are susceptible only to the appeal of a whole

composition, this fact is of mainly theoretical importance. But

when we become more sensitive by a constant use of abstract forms

(which have no material interpretation) it will become of great

practical significance. And so as art becomes more difficult, its

wealth of expression in form becomes greater and greater. At the

same time the question of distortion in drawing falls out and is

replaced by the question how far the inner appeal of the

particular form is veiled or given full expression. And once more

the possibilities are extended, for combinations of veiled and

fully expressed appeals suggest new LEITMOTIVEN in composition.

Without such development as this, form-composition is impossible.

To anyone who cannot experience the inner appeal of form (whether

material or abstract) such composition can never be other than

meaningless. Apparently aimless alterations in form-arrangement

will make art seem merely a game. So once more we are faced with

the same principle, which is to set art free, the principle of

the inner need.

When features or limbs for artistic reasons are changed or

distorted, men reject the artistic problem and fall back on the

secondary question of anatomy. But, on our argument, this

secondary consideration does not appear, only the real, artistic

question remaining. These apparently irresponsible, but really

well-reasoned alterations in form provide one of the storehouses

of artistic possibilities.

The adaptability of forms, their organic but inward variations,

their motion in the picture, their inclination to material or

abstract, their mutual relations, either individually or as parts

of a whole; further, the concord or discord of the various

elements of a picture, the handling of groups, the combinations

of veiled and openly expressed appeals, the use of rhythmical or

unrhythmical, of geometrical or non-geometrical forms, their

contiguity or separation--all these things are the material for

counterpoint in painting.

But so long as colour is excluded, such counterpoint is confined

to black and white. Colour provides a whole wealth of

possibilities of her own, and when combined with form, yet a

further series of possibilities. And all these will be

expressions of the inner need.

The inner need is built up of three mystical elements: (1) Every

artist, as a creator, has something in him which calls for

expression (this is the element of personality). (2) Every

artist, as child of his age, is impelled to express the spirit of

his age (this is the element of style)--dictated by the period

and particular country to which the artist belongs (it is

doubtful how long the latter distinction will continue to exist).

(3) Every artist, as a servant of art, has to help the cause of

art (this is the element of pure artistry, which is constant in

all ages and among all nationalities).

A full understanding of the first two elements is necessary for a

realization of the third. But he who has this realization will

recognize that a rudely carved Indian column is an expression of

the same spirit as actuates any real work of art of today.

In the past and even today much talk is heard of "personality" in

art. Talk of the coming "style" becomes more frequent daily. But

for all their importance today, these questions will have

disappeared after a few hundred or thousand years.

Only the third element--that of pure artistry--will remain for

ever. An Egyptian carving speaks to us today more subtly than it

did to its chronological contemporaries; for they judged it with

the hampering knowledge of period and personality. But we can

judge purely as an expression of the eternal artistry.

Similarly--the greater the part played in a modern work of art by

the two elements of style and personality, the better will it be

appreciated by people today; but a modern work of art which is

full of the third element, will fail to reach the contemporary

soul. For many centuries have to pass away before the third

element can be received with understanding. But the artist in

whose work this third element predominates is the really great

artist.

Because the elements of style and personality make up what is

called the periodic characteristics of any work of art, the

"development" of artistic forms must depend on their separation

from the element of pure artistry, which knows neither period nor

nationality. But as style and personality create in every epoch

certain definite forms, which, for all their superficial

differences, are really closely related, these forms can be

spoken of as one side of art--the SUBJECTIVE. Every artist

chooses, from the forms which reflect his own time, those which

are sympathetic to him, and expresses himself through them. So

the subjective element is the definite and external expression of

the inner, objective element.

The inevitable desire for outward expression of the OBJECTIVE

element is the impulse here defined as the "inner need." The

forms it borrows change from day to day, and, as it continually

advances, what is today a phrase of inner harmony becomes

tomorrow one of outer harmony. It is clear, therefore, that the

inner spirit of art only uses the outer form of any particular

period as a stepping-stone to further expression.

In short, the working of the inner need and the development of

art is an ever-advancing expression of the eternal and objective

in the terms of the periodic and subjective.

Because the objective is forever exchanging the subjective

expression of today for that of tomorrow, each new extension of

liberty in the use of outer form is hailed as the last and

supreme. At present we say that an artist can use any form he

wishes, so long as he remains in touch with nature. But this

limitation, like all its predecessors, is only temporary. From

the point of view of the inner need, no limitation must be made.

The artist may use any form which his expression demands; for his

inner impulse must find suitable outward expression.

So we see that a deliberate search for personality and "style" is

not only impossible, but comparatively unimportant. The close

relationship of art throughout the ages, is not a relationship in

outward form but in inner meaning. And therefore the talk of

schools, of lines of "development," of "principles of art," etc.,

is based on misunderstanding and can only lead to confusion.

The artist must be blind to distinctions between "recognized" or

"unrecognized" conventions of form, deaf to the transitory

teaching and demands of his particular age. He must watch only

the trend of the inner need, and hearken to its words alone. Then

he will with safety employ means both sanctioned and forbidden by

his contemporaries. All means are sacred which are called for by

the inner need. All means are sinful which obscure that inner

need.

It is impossible to theorize about this ideal of art. In real art

theory does not precede practice, but follows her. Everything is,

at first, a matter of feeling. Any theoretical scheme will be

lacking in the essential of creation--the inner desire for

expression--which cannot be determined. Neither the quality of

the inner need, nor its subjective form, can be measured nor

weighed.

[Footnote: The many-sided genius of Leonardo devised a system of

little spoons with which different colours were to be used, thus

creating a kind of mechanical harmony. One of his pupils, after

trying in vain to use this system, in despair asked one of his

colleagues how the master himself used the invention. The

colleague replied: "The master never uses it at all."

(Mereschowski, LEONARDO DA VINCI).]

Such a grammar of painting can only be temporarily guessed at,

and should it ever be achieved, it will be not so much according

to physical rules (which have so often been tried and which today

the Cubists are trying) as according to the rules of the inner

need, which are of the soul.

The inner need is the basic alike of small and great problems in

painting. We are seeking today for the road which is to lead us

away from the outer to the inner basis.

[Footnote: The term "outer," here used, must not be confused with

the term "material" used previously. I am using the former to

mean "outer need," which never goes beyond conventional limits,

nor produces other than conventional beauty. The "inner need"

knows no such limits, and often produces results conventionally

considered "ugly." But "ugly" itself is a conventional term, and

only means "spiritually unsympathetic," being applied to some

expression of an inner need, either outgrown or not yet attained.

But everything which adequately expresses the inner need is

beautiful.]

The spirit, like the body, can be strengthened and developed by

frequent exercise. Just as the body, if neglected, grows weaker

and finally impotent, so the spirit perishes if untended. And for

this reason it is necessary for the artist to know the starting

point for the exercise of his spirit.

The starting point is the study of colour and its effects on men.

There is no need to engage in the finer shades of complicated

colour, but rather at first to consider only the direct use of

simple colours.

To begin with, let us test the working on ourselves of individual

colours, and so make a simple chart, which will facilitate the

consideration of the whole question.

Two great divisions of colour occur to the mind at the outset:

into warm and cold, and into light and dark. To each colour there

are therefore four shades of appeal--warm and light or warm and

dark, or cold and light or cold and dark.

Generally speaking, warmth or cold in a colour means an approach

respectively to yellow or to blue. This distinction is, so to

speak, on one basis, the colour having a constant fundamental

appeal, but assuming either a more material or more non-material

quality. The movement is an horizontal one, the warm colours

approaching the spectator, the cold ones retreating from him.

The colours, which cause in another colour this horizontal

movement, while they are themselves affected by it, have another

movement of their own, which acts with a violent separative

force. This is, therefore, the first antithesis in the inner

appeal, and the inclination of the colour to yellow or to blue,

is of tremendous importance.

The second antithesis is between white and black; i.e., the

inclination to light or dark caused by the pair of colours just

mentioned. These colours have once more their peculiar movement

to and from the spectator, but in a more rigid form (see Fig. 1).

FIGURE I

First Pair of antitheses. (inner appeal acting on

A and B. the spirit)

A. Warm Cold

Yellow Blue = First antithesis

Two movements:

(i) horizontal

Towards the spectator <-----<<< >>>-----> Away from the spectator

(bodily) (spiritual)

Yellow Blue

(ii) Ex- and concentric

B. Light Dark

White Black = Second Antithesis

Two movements:

(i) discordant

Eternal discord, but with Absolute discord, devoid

possibilities for the White Black of possibilities for the

future (birth) future (death)

(ii) ex-and concentric, as in case of yellow and blue, but

more rigid.

Yellow and blue have another movement which affects the first

antithesis--an ex-and concentric movement. If two circles are

drawn and painted respectively yellow and blue, brief

concentration will reveal in the yellow a spreading movement out

from the centre, and a noticeable approach to the spectator. The

blue, on the other hand, moves in upon itself, like a snail

retreating into its shell, and draws away from the spectator.

[Footnote: These statements have no scientific basis, but are

founded purely on spiritual experience.]

In the case of light and dark colours the movement is emphasized.

That of the yellow increases with an admixture of white, i.e., as

it becomes lighter. That of the blue increases with an admixture

of black, i.e., as it becomes darker. This means that there can

never be a dark-coloured yellow. The relationship between white

and yellow is as close as between black and blue, for blue can be

so dark as to border on black. Besides this physical

relationship, is also a spiritual one (between yellow and white

on one side, between blue and black on the other) which marks a

strong separation between the two pairs.

An attempt to make yellow colder produces a green tint and checks

both the horizontal and excentric movement. The colour becomes

sickly and unreal. The blue by its contrary movement acts as a

brake on the yellow, and is hindered in its own movement, till

the two together become stationary, and the result is green.

Similarly a mixture of black and white produces gray, which is

motionless and spiritually very similar to green.

But while green, yellow, and blue are potentially active, though

temporarily paralysed, in gray there is no possibility of

movement, because gray consists of two colours that have no

active force, for they stand the, one in motionless discord, the

other in a motionless negation, even of discord, like an endless

wall or a bottomless pit.

Because the component colours of green are active and have a

movement of their own, it is possible, on the basis of this

movement, to reckon their spiritual appeal.

The first movement of yellow, that of approach to the spectator

(which can be increased by an intensification of the yellow), and

also the second movement, that of over-spreading the boundaries,

have a material parallel in the human energy which assails every

obstacle blindly, and bursts forth aimlessly in every direction.

Yellow, if steadily gazed at in any geometrical form, has a

disturbing influence, and reveals in the colour an insistent,

aggressive character. [Footnote: It is worth noting that the

sour-tasting lemon and shrill-singing canary are both yellow.]

The intensification of the yellow increases the painful

shrillness of its note.

[Footnote: Any parallel between colour and music can only be

relative. Just as a violin can give various shades of tone,--so

yellow has shades, which can be expressed by various instruments.

But in making such parallels, I am assuming in each case a pure

tone of colour or sound, unvaried by vibration or dampers, etc.]

Yellow is the typically earthly colour. It can never have

profound meaning. An intermixture of blue makes it a sickly

colour. It may be paralleled in human nature, with madness, not

with melancholy or hypochondriacal mania, but rather with violent

raving lunacy.

The power of profound meaning is found in blue, and first in its

physical movements (1) of retreat from the spectator, (2) of

turning in upon its own centre. The inclination of blue to depth

is so strong that its inner appeal is stronger when its shade is

deeper.

Blue is the typical heavenly colour.

[Footnote: ...The halos are golden for emperors and prophets

(i.e. for mortals), and sky-blue for symbolic figures (i.e.

spiritual beings); (Kondakoff, Histoire de l'An Byzantine

consideree principalement dans les miniatures, vol. ii, p. 382,

Paris, 1886-91).]

The ultimate feeling it creates is one of rest.

[Footnote: Supernatural rest, not the earthly contentment of

green. The way to the supernatural lies through the natural. And

we mortals passing from the earthly yellow to the heavenly blue

must pass through green.]

When it sinks almost to black, it echoes a grief that is hardly

human.

[Footnote: As an echo of grief violet stand to blue as does green

in its production of rest.]

When it rises towards white, a movement little suited to it, its

appeal to men grows weaker and more distant. In music a light

blue is like a flute, a darker blue a cello; a still darker a

thunderous double bass; and the darkest blue of all-an organ.

A well-balanced mixture of blue and yellow produces green. The

horizontal movement ceases; likewise that from and towards the

centre. The effect on the soul through the eye is therefore

motionless. This is a fact recognized not only by opticians but

by the world. Green is the most restful colour that exists. On

exhausted men this restfulness has a beneficial effect, but after

a time it becomes wearisome. Pictures painted in shades of green

are passive and tend to be wearisome; this contrasts with the

active warmth of yellow or the active coolness of blue. In the

hierarchy of colours green is the "bourgeoisie"-self-satisfied,

immovable, narrow. It is the colour of summer, the period when

nature is resting from the storms of winter and the productive

energy of spring (cf. Fig. 2).

Any preponderance in green of yellow or blue introduces a

corresponding activity and changes the inner appeal. The green

keeps its characteristic equanimity and restfulness, the former

increasing with the inclination to lightness, the latter with the

inclination to depth. In music the absolute green is represented

by the placid, middle notes of a violin.

Black and white have already been discussed in general terms.

More particularly speaking, white, although often considered as

no colour (a theory largely due to the Impressionists, who saw no

white in nature as a symbol of a world from which all colour as a

definite attribute has disappeared).

[Footnote: Van Gogh, in his letters, asks whether he may not

paint a white wall dead white. This question offers no difficulty

to the non-representative artist who is concerned only with the

inner harmony of colour. But to the impressionist-realist it

seems a bold liberty to take with nature. To him it seems as

outrageous as his own change from brown shadows to blue seemed to

his contemporaries. Van Gogh's question marks a transition from

Impressionism to an art of spiritual harmony, as the coming of

the blue shadow marked a transition from academism to

Impressionism. (Cf. The Letters of Vincent van Gogh. Constable,

London.)]

This world is too far above us for its harmony to touch our

souls. A great silence, like an impenetrable wall, shrouds its

life from our understanding. White, therefore, has this harmony

of silence, which works upon us negatively, like many pauses in

music that break temporarily the melody. It is not a dead

silence, but one pregnant with possibilities. White has the

appeal of the nothingness that is before birth, of the world in

the ice age.

A totally dead silence, on the other hand, a silence with no

possibilities, has the inner harmony of black. In music it is

represented by one of those profound and final pauses, after

which any continuation of the melody seems the dawn of another

world. Black is something burnt out, like the ashes of a funeral

pyre, something motionless like a corpse. The silence of black is

the silence of death. Outwardly black is the colour with least

harmony of all, a kind of neutral background against which the

minutest shades of other colours stand clearly forward. It

differs from white in this also, for with white nearly every

colour is in discord, or even mute altogether.

[Footnote: E.g. vermilion rings dull and muddy against white, but

against black with clear strength. Light yellow against white is

weak, against black pure and brilliant.]

Not without reason is white taken as symbolizing joy and spotless

purity, and black grief and death. A blend of black and white

produces gray which, as has been said, is silent and motionless,

being composed of two inactive colours, its restfulness having

none of the potential activity of green. A similar gray is

produced by a mixture of green and red, a spiritual blend of

passivity and glowing warmth.

[Footnote: Gray = immobility and rest. Delacroix sought to

express rest by a mixture of green and red (cf. Signac, sup.

cit.).]

The unbounded warmth of red has not the irresponsible appeal of

yellow, but rings inwardly with a determined and powerful

intensity. It glows in itself, maturely, and does not distribute

its vigour aimlessly (see Fig. 2).

The varied powers of red are very striking. By a skillful use of

it in its different shades, its fundamental tone may be made warm

or cold.

[Footnote: Of course every colour can be to some extent varied

between warm and cold, but no colour has so extensive a scale of

varieties as red.]

Light warm red has a certain similarity to medium yellow, alike

in texture and appeal, and gives a feeling of strength, vigour,

determination, triumph. In music, it is a sound of trumpets,

strong, harsh, and ringing.

Vermilion is a red with a feeling of sharpness, like glowing

steel which can be cooled by water. Vermilion is quenched by

blue, for it can support no mixture with a cold colour. More

accurately speaking, such a mixture produces what is called a

dirty colour, scorned by painters of today. But "dirt" as a

material object has its own inner appeal, and therefore to avoid

it in painting, is as unjust and narrow as was the cry of

yesterday for pure colour. At the call of the inner need that

which is outwardly foul may be inwardly pure, and vice versa.

The two shades of red just discussed are similar to yellow,

except that they reach out less to the spectator. The glow of red

is within itself. For this reason it is a colour more beloved

than yellow, being frequently used in primitive and traditional

decoration, and also in peasant costumes, because in the open air

the harmony of red and green is very beautiful. Taken by itself

this red is material, and, like yellow, has no very deep appeal.

Only when combined with something nobler does it acquire this

deep appeal. It is dangerous to seek to deepen red by an

admixture of black, for black quenches the glow, or at least

reduces it considerably.

But there remains brown, unemotional, disinclined for movement.

An intermixture of red is outwardly barely audible, but there

rings out a powerful inner harmony. Skillful blending can produce

an inner appeal of extraordinary, indescribable beauty. The

vermilion now rings like a great trumpet, or thunders like a

drum.

Cool red (madder) like any other fundamentally cold colour, can

be deepened--especially by an intermixture of azure. The

character of the colour changes; the inward glow increases, the

active element gradually disappears. But this active element is

never so wholly absent as in deep green. There always remains a

hint of renewed vigour, somewhere out of sight, waiting for a

certain moment to burst forth afresh. In this lies the great

difference between a deepened red and a deepened blue, because in

red there is always a trace of the material. A parallel in music

are the sad, middle tones of a cello. A cold, light red contains

a very distinct bodily or material element, but it is always

pure, like the fresh beauty of the face of a young girl. The

singing notes of a violin express this exactly in music.

Warm red, intensified by a suitable yellow, is orange. This blend

brings red almost to the point of spreading out towards the

spectator. But the element of red is always sufficiently strong

to keep the colour from flippancy. Orange is like a man,

convinced of his own powers. Its note is that of the angelus, or

of an old violin.

Just as orange is red brought nearer to humanity by yellow, so

violet is red withdrawn from humanity by blue. But the red in

violet must be cold, for the spiritual need does not allow of a

mixture of warm red with cold blue.

Violet is therefore both in the physical and spiritual sense a

cooled red. It is consequently rather sad and ailing. It is worn

by old women, and in China as a sign of mourning. In music it is

an English horn, or the deep notes of wood instruments (e.g. a

bassoon).

[Footnote: Among artists one often hears the question, "How are

you?" answered gloomily by the words "Feeling very violet."]

The two last mentioned colours (orange and violet) are the fourth

and last pair of antitheses of the primitive colours. They stand

to each other in the same relation as the third antitheses--green

and red--i.e., as complementary colours (see Fig. 2).

FIGURE II

Second Pair of antitheses (physical appeal of complementary

C and D colours)

C. Red Green = Third antithesis

Movement of the spiritually extinguished

First antithesis

Motion within itself [CIRCLE] = Potentiality of motion

= Motionlessness

Red

Ex-and concentric movements are absent

In optical blend = Gray

In mechanical blend of white and black = Gray

D. Orange Violet = Fourth antithesis

Arise out of the first antithesis from:

1. Active element of the yellow in red = Orange

2. Passive element of the blue in red = Violet

<---Orange---Yellow<--<--<--Red-->-->-->Blue---Violet--->

In excentric Motion within In Concentric

direction itself direction

As in a great circle, a serpent biting its own tail (the symbol

of eternity, of something without end) the six colours appear

that make up the three main antitheses. And to right and left

stand the two great possibilities of silence--death and birth

(see Fig. 3).

FIGURE III.

A

Yellow

/ \

/ \

/ \

D C

B Orange Green B

White | | Black

| |

| |

C D

Red Violet

\ /

\ /

\ A /

Blue

The antitheses as a circle between two poles, i.e., the life of

colours between birth and death.

(The capital letters designate the pairs of antitheses.)

It is clear that all I have said of these simple colours is very

provisional and general, and so also are those feelings (joy,

grief, etc.) which have been quoted as parallels of the colours.

For these feelings are only the material expressions of the soul.

Shades of colour, like those of sound, are of a much finer

texture and awake in the soul emotions too fine to be expressed

in words. Certainly each tone will find some probable expression

in words, but it will always be incomplete, and that part which

the word fails to express will not be unimportant but rather the

very kernel of its existence. For this reason words are, and will

always remain, only hints, mere suggestions of colours. In this

impossibility of expressing colour in words with the consequent

need for some other mode of expression lies the opportunity of

the art of the future. In this art among innumerable rich and

varied combinations there is one which is founded on firm fact,

and that is as follows. The actual expression of colour can be

achieved simultaneously by several forms of art, each art playing

its separate part, and producing a whole which exceeds in

richness and force any expression attainable by one art alone.

The immense possibilities of depth and strength to be gained by

combination or by discord between the various arts can be easily

realized.

It is often said that admission of the possibility of one art

helping another amounts to a denial of the necessary differences

between the arts. This is, however, not the case. As has been

said, an absolutely similar inner appeal cannot be achieved by

two different arts. Even if it were possible the second version

would differ at least outwardly. But suppose this were not the

case, that is to say, suppose a repetition of the same appeal

exactly alike both outwardly and inwardly could be achieved by

different arts, such repetition would not be merely superfluous.

To begin with, different people find sympathy in different forms

of art (alike on the active and passive side among the creators

or the receivers of the appeal); but further and more important,

repetition of the same appeal thickens the spiritual atmosphere

which is necessary for the maturing of the finest feelings, in

the same way as the hot air of a greenhouse is necessary for the

ripening of certain fruit. An example of this is the case of the

individual who receives a powerful impression from constantly

repeated actions, thoughts or feelings, although if they came

singly they might have passed by unnoticed. [Footnote: This idea

forms, of course, the fundamental reason for advertisement.] We

must not, however, apply this rule only to the simple examples of

the spiritual atmosphere. For this atmosphere is like air, which

can be either pure or filled with various alien elements. Not

only visible actions, thoughts and feelings, with outward

expression, make up this atmosphere, but secret happenings of

which no one knows, unspoken thoughts, hidden feelings are also

elements in it. Suicide, murder, violence, low and unworthy

thoughts, hate, hostility, egotism, envy, narrow "patriotism,"

partisanship, are elements in the spiritual atmosphere.

[Footnote: Epidemics of suicide or of violent warlike feeling,

etc., are products of this impure atmosphere.]

And conversely, self-sacrifice, mutual help, lofty thoughts,

love, un-selfishness, joy in the success of others, humanity,

justness, are the elements which slay those already enumerated as

the sun slays the microbes, and restore the atmosphere to purity.

[Footnote: These elements likewise have their historical

periods.]

The second and more complicated form of repetition is that in

which several different elements make mutual use of different

forms. In our case these elements are the different arts summed

up in the art of the future. And this form of repetition is even

more powerful, for the different natures of men respond to the

different elements in the combination. For one the musical form

is the most moving and impressive; for another the pictorial, for

the third the literary, and so on. There reside, therefore, in

arts which are outwardly different, hidden forces equally

different, so that they may all work in one man towards a single

result, even though each art may be working in isolation.

This sharply defined working of individual colours is the basis

on which various values can be built up in harmony. Pictures will

come to be painted--veritable artistic arrangements, planned in

shades of one colour chosen according to artistic feeling. The

carrying out of one colour, the binding together and admixture of

two related colours, are the foundations of most coloured

harmonies. From what has been said above about colour working,

from the fact that we live in a time of questioning, experiment

and contradiction, we can draw the easy conclusion that for a

harmonization on the basis of individual colours our age is

especially unsuitable. Perhaps with envy and with a mournful

sympathy we listen to the music of Mozart. It acts as a welcome

pause in the turmoil of our inner life, as a consolation and as a

hope, but we hear it as the echo of something from another age

long past and fundamentally strange to us. The strife of colours,

the sense of balance we have lost, tottering principles,

unexpected assaults, great questions, apparently useless

striving, storm and tempest, broken chains, antitheses and

contradictions, these make up our harmony. The composition

arising from this harmony is a mingling of colour and form each

with its separate existence, but each blended into a common life

which is called a picture by the force of the inner need. Only

these individual parts are vital. Everything else (such as

surrounding conditions) is subsidiary. The combination of two

colours is a logical outcome of modern conditions. The

combination of colours hitherto considered discordant, is merely

a further development. For example, the use, side by side, of red

and blue, colours in themselves of no physical relationship, but

from their very spiritual contrast of the strongest effect, is

one of the most frequent occurrences in modern choice of harmony.

[Footnote: Cf. Gauguin, Noa Noa, where the artist states his

disinclination when he first arrived in Tahiti to juxtapose red

and blue.] Harmony today rests chiefly on the principle of

contrast which has for all time been one of the most important

principles of art. But our contrast is an inner contrast which

stands alone and rejects the help (for that help would mean

destruction) of any other principles of harmony. It is

interesting to note that this very placing together of red and

blue was so beloved by the primitive both in Germany and Italy

that it has till today survived, principally in folk pictures of

religious subjects. One often sees in such pictures the Virgin in

a red gown and a blue cloak. It seems that the artists wished to

express the grace of heaven in terms of humanity, and humanity in

terms of heaven. Legitimate and illegitimate combinations of

colours, contrasts of various colours, the over-painting of one

colour with another, the definition of coloured surfaces by

boundaries of various forms, the overstepping of these

boundaries, the mingling and the sharp separation of surfaces,

all these open great vistas of artistic possibility.

One of the first steps in the turning away from material objects

into the realm of the abstract was, to use the technical artistic

term, the rejection of the third dimension, that is to say, the

attempt to keep a picture on a single plane. Modelling was

abandoned. In this way the material object was made more abstract

and an important step forward was achieved--this step forward

has, however, had the effect of limiting the possibilities of

painting to one definite piece of canvas, and this limitation has

not only introduced a very material element into painting, but

has seriously lessened its possibilities.

Any attempt to free painting from this material limitation

together with the striving after a new form of composition must

concern itself first of all with the destruction of this theory

of one single surface--attempts must be made to bring the picture

on to some ideal plane which shall be expressed in terms of the

material plane of the canvas. [Footnote: Compare the article by

Le Fauconnier in the catalogue of the second exhibition of the

Neue Kunstlervereinigung, Munich, 1910-11.] There has arisen out

of the composition in flat triangles a composition with plastic

three-dimensional triangles, that is to say with pyramids; and

that is Cubism. But there has arisen here also the tendency to

inertia, to a concentration on this form for its own sake, and

consequently once more to an impoverishment of possibility. But

that is the unavoidable result of the external application of an

inner principle.

A further point of great importance must not be forgotten. There

are other means of using the material plane as a space of three

dimensions in order to create an ideal plane. The thinness or

thickness of a line, the placing of the form on the surface, the

overlaying of one form on another may be quoted as examples of

artistic means that may be employed. Similar possibilities are

offered by colour which, when rightly used, can advance or

retreat, and can make of the picture a living thing, and so

achieve an artistic expansion of space. The combination of both

means of extension in harmony or concord is one of the richest

and most powerful elements in purely artistic composition.

VII. THEORY

From the nature of modern harmony, it results that never has

there been a time when it was more difficult than it is today to

formulate a complete theory, [Footnote: Attempts have been made.

Once more emphasis must be laid on the parallel with music. For

example, cf. "Tendances Nouvelles," No. 35, Henri Ravel: "The

laws of harmony are the same for painting and music."] or to lay

down a firm artistic basis. All attempts to do so would have one

result, namely, that already cited in the case of Leonardo and

his system of little spoons. It would, however, be precipitate to

say that there are no basic principles nor firm rules in

painting, or that a search for them leads inevitably to

academism. Even music has a grammar, which, although modified

from time to time, is of continual help and value as a kind of

dictionary.

Painting is, however, in a different position. The revolt from

dependence on nature is only just beginning. Any realization of

the inner working of colour and form is so far unconscious. The

subjection of composition to some geometrical form is no new idea

(cf. the art of the Persians). Construction on a purely abstract

basis is a slow business, and at first seemingly blind and

aimless. The artist must train not only his eye but also his

soul, so that he can test colours for themselves and not only by

external impressions.

If we begin at once to break the bonds which bind us to nature,

and devote ourselves purely to combination of pure colour and

abstract form, we shall produce works which are mere decoration,

which are suited to neckties or carpets. Beauty of Form and

Colour is no sufficient aim by itself, despite the assertions of

pure aesthetes or even of naturalists, who are obsessed with the

idea of "beauty." It is because of the elementary stage reached

by our painting that we are so little able to grasp the inner

harmony of true colour and form composition. The nerve vibrations

are there, certainly, but they get no further than the nerves,

because the corresponding vibrations of the spirit which they

call forth are too weak. When we remember, however, that

spiritual experience is quickening, that positive science, the

firmest basis of human thought, is tottering, that dissolution of

matter is imminent, we have reason to hope that the hour of pure

composition is not far away.

It must not be thought that pure decoration is lifeless. It has

its inner being, but one which is either incomprehensible to us,

as in the case of old decorative art, or which seems mere

illogical confusion, as a world in which full-grown men and

embryos play equal roles, in which beings deprived of limbs are

on a level with noses and toes which live isolated and of their

own vitality. The confusion is like that of a kaleidoscope, which

though possessing a life of its own, belongs to another sphere.

Nevertheless, decoration has its effect on us; oriental

decoration quite differently to Swedish, savage, or ancient

Greek. It is not for nothing that there is a general custom of

describing samples of decoration as gay, serious, sad, etc., as

music is described as Allegro, Serioso, etc., according to the

nature of the piece.

Probably conventional decoration had its beginnings in nature.

But when we would assert that external nature is the sole source

of all art, we must remember that, in patterning, natural objects

are used as symbols, almost as though they were mere

hieroglyphics. For this reason we cannot gauge their inner

harmony. For instance, we can bear a design of Chinese dragons in

our dining or bed rooms, and are no more disturbed by it than by

a design of daisies.

It is possible that towards the close of our already dying epoch

a new decorative art will develop, but it is not likely to be

founded on geometrical form. At the present time any attempt to

define this new art would be as useless as pulling a small bud

open so as to make a fully blown flower. Nowadays we are still

bound to external nature and must find our means of expression in

her. But how are we to do it? In other words, how far may we go

in altering the forms and colours of this nature?

We may go as far as the artist is able to carry his emotion, and

once more we see how immense is the need for true emotion. A few

examples will make the meaning of this clearer.

A warm red tone will materially alter in inner value when it is

no longer considered as an isolated colour, as something

abstract, but is applied as an element of some other object, and

combined with natural form. The variety of natural forms will

create a variety of spiritual values, all of which will harmonize

with that of the original isolated red. Suppose we combine red

with sky, flowers, a garment, a face, a horse, a tree.

A red sky suggests to us sunset, or fire, and has a consequent

effect upon us--either of splendour or menace. Much depends now

on the way in which other objects are treated in connection with

this red sky. If the treatment is faithful to nature, but all the

same harmonious, the "naturalistic" appeal of the sky is

strengthened. If, however, the other objects are treated in a way

which is more abstract, they tend to lessen, if not to destroy,

the naturalistic appeal of the sky. Much the same applies to the

use of red in a human face. In this case red can be employed to

emphasize the passionate or other characteristics of the model,

with a force that only an extremely abstract treatment of the

rest of the picture can subdue.

A red garment is quite a different matter; for it can in reality

be of any colour. Red will, however, be found best to supply the

needs of pure artistry, for here alone can it be used without any

association with material aims. The artist has to consider not

only the value of the red cloak by itself, but also its value in

connection with the figure wearing it, and further the relation

of the figure to the whole picture. Suppose the picture to be a

sad one, and the red-cloaked figure to be the central point on

which the sadness is concentrated--either from its central

position, or features, attitude, colour, or what not. The red

will provide an acute discord of feeling, which will emphasize

the gloom of the picture. The use of a colour, in itself sad,

would weaken the effect of the dramatic whole. [Footnote: Once

more it is wise to emphasize the necessary inadequacy of these

examples. Rules cannot be laid down, the variations are so

endless. A single line can alter the whole composition of a

picture.] This is the principle of antithesis already defined.

Red by itself cannot have a sad effect on the spectator, and its

inclusion in a sad picture will, if properly handled, provide the

dramatic element. [Footnote: The use of terms like "sad" and

"joyful" are only clumsy equivalents for the delicate spiritual

vibrations of the new harmony. They must be read as necessarily

inadequate.]

Yet again is the case of a red tree different. The fundamental

value of red remains, as in every case. But the association of

"autumn" creeps in.

The colour combines easily with this association, and there is no

dramatic clash as in the case of the red cloak.

Finally, the red horse provides a further variation. The very

words put us in another atmosphere. The impossibility of a red

horse demands an unreal world. It is possible that this

combination of colour and form will appeal as a freak--a purely

superficial and non-artistic appeal--or as a hint of a fairy

story [Footnote: An incomplete fairy story works on the mind as

does a cinematograph film.]--once more a non-artistic appeal. To

set this red horse in a careful naturalistic landscape would

create such a discord as to produce no appeal and no coherence.

The need for coherence is the essential of harmony--whether

founded on conventional discord or concord. The new harmony

demands that the inner value of a picture should remain unified

whatever the variations or contrasts of outward form or colour.

The elements of the new art are to be found, therefore, in the

inner and not the outer qualities of nature.

The spectator is too ready to look for a meaning in a picture--i.e.,

some outward connection between its various parts. Our materialistic age

has produced a type of spectator or "connoisseur," who is not content to

put himself opposite a picture and let it say its own message. Instead

of allowing the inner value of the picture to work, he worries himself

in looking for "closeness to nature," or "temperament," or "handling,"

or "tonality," or "perspective," or what not. His eye does not probe the

outer expression to arrive at the inner meaning. In a conversation with

an interesting person, we endeavour to get at his fundamental ideas and

feelings. We do not bother about the words he uses, nor the spelling of

those words, nor the breath necessary for speaking them, nor the

movements of his tongue and lips, nor the psychological working on our

brain, nor the physical sound in our ear, nor the physiological effect

on our nerves. We realize that these things, though interesting and

important, are not the main things of the moment, but that the meaning

and idea is what concerns us. We should have the same feeling when

confronted with a work of art. When this becomes general the artist will

be able to dispense with natural form and colour and speak in purely

artistic language.

To return to the combination of colour and form, there is another

possibility which should be noted. Non-naturalistic objects in a

picture may have a "literary" appeal, and the whole picture may

have the working of a fable. The spectator is put in an

atmosphere which does not disturb him because he accepts it as

fabulous, and in which he tries to trace the story and undergoes

more or less the various appeals of colour. But the pure inner

working of colour is impossible; the outward idea has the mastery

still. For the spectator has only exchanged a blind reality for a

blind dreamland, where the truth of inner feeling cannot be felt.

We must find, therefore, a form of expression which excludes the

fable and yet does not restrict the free working of colour in any

way. The forms, movement, and colours which we borrow from nature

must produce no outward effect nor be associated with external

objects. The more obvious is the separation from nature, the more

likely is the inner meaning to be pure and unhampered.

The tendency of a work of art may be very simple, but provided it

is not dictated by any external motive and provided it is not

working to any material end, the harmony will be pure. The most

ordinary action--for example, preparation for lifting a heavy

weight--becomes mysterious and dramatic, when its actual purpose

is not revealed. We stand and gaze fascinated, till of a sudden

the explanation bursts suddenly upon us. It is the conviction

that nothing mysterious can ever happen in our everyday life that

has destroyed the joy of abstract thought. Practical

considerations have ousted all else. It is with this fact in view

that the new dancing is being evolved--as, that is to say, the

only means of giving in terms of time and space the real inner

meaning of motion. The origin of dancing is probably purely

sexual. In folk-dances we still see this element plainly. The

later development of dancing as a religious ceremony joins itself

to the preceding element and the two together take artistic form

and emerge as the ballet.

The ballet at the present time is in a state of chaos owing to

this double origin. Its external motives--the expression of love

and fear, etc.--are too material and naive for the abstract ideas

of the future. In the search for more subtle expression, our

modern reformers have looked to the past for help. Isadora Duncan

has forged a link between the Greek dancing and that of the

future. In this she is working on parallel lines to the painters

who are looking for inspiration from the primitives.

[Footnote: Kandinsky's example of Isadora Duncan is not perhaps

perfectly chosen. This famous dancer founds her art mainly upon a

study of Greek vases and not necessarily of the primitive period.

Her aims are distinctly towards what Kandinsky calls

"conventional beauty," and what is perhaps more important, her

movements are not dictated solely by the "inner harmony," but

largely by conscious outward imitation of Greek attitudes. Either

Nijinsky's later ballets: Le Sacre du Printemps, L'Apres-midi

d'un Faune, Jeux, or the idea actuating the Jacques Dalcroze

system of Eurhythmics seem to fall more into line with

Kandinsky's artistic forecast. In the first case "conventional

beauty" has been abandoned, to the dismay of numbers of writers

and spectators, and a definite return has been made to primitive

angles and abruptness. In the second case motion and dance are

brought out of the souls of the pupils, truly spontaneous, at

the call of the "inner harmony." Indeed a comparison between

Isadora Duncan and M. Dalcroze is a comparison between the

"naturalist" and "symbolist" ideals in art which were outlined in

the introduction to this book.--M.T.H.S.]

In dance as in painting this is only a stage of transition. In

dancing as in painting we are on the threshold of the art of the

future. The same rules must be applied in both cases.

Conventional beauty must go by the board and the literary element

of "story-telling" or "anecdote" must be abandoned as useless.

Both arts must learn from music that every harmony and every

discord which springs from the inner spirit is beautiful, but

that it is essential that they should spring from the inner

spirit and from that alone.

The achievement of the dance-art of the future will make possible

the first ebullition of the art of spiritual harmony--the true

stage-composition.

The composition for the new theatre will consist of these three

elements:

(1) Musical movement

(2) Pictorial movement

(3) Physical movement

and these three, properly combined, make up the spiritual

movement, which is the working of the inner harmony. They will be

interwoven in harmony and discord as are the two chief elements

of painting, form and colour.

Scriabin's attempt to intensify musical tone by corresponding use of

colour is necessarily tentative. In the perfected stage-composition the

two elements are increased by the third, and endless possibilities of

combination and individual use are opened up. Further, the external can

be combined with the internal harmony, as Schonberg has attempted in his

quartettes. It is impossible here to go further into the developments of

this idea. The reader must apply the principles of painting already

stated to the problem of stage-composition, and outline for himself the

possibilities of the theatre of the future, founded on the immovable

principle of the inner need.

From what has been said of the combination of colour and form,

the way to the new art can be traced. This way lies today between

two dangers. On the one hand is the totally arbitrary application

of colour to geometrical form--pure patterning. On the other hand

is the more naturalistic use of colour in bodily form--pure

phantasy. Either of these alternatives may in their turn be

exaggerated. Everything is at the artist's disposal, and the

freedom of today has at once its dangers and its possibilities.

We may be present at the conception of a new great epoch, or we

may see the opportunity squandered in aimless extravagance.

[Footnote: On this question see my article "Uber die Formfrage"--in "Der

Blaue Reiter" (Piper-Verlag, 1912). Taking the work of Henri Rousseau as

a starting point, I go on to prove that the new naturalism will not only

be equivalent to but even identical with abstraction.]

That art is above nature is no new discovery. [Footnote: Cf. "Goethe",

by Karl Heinemann, 1899, p. 684; also Oscar Wilde, "De Profundis"; also

Delacroix, "My Diary".] New principles do not fall from heaven, but are

logically if indirectly connected with past and future. What is

important to us is the momentary position of the principle and how best

it can be used. It must not be employed forcibly. But if the artist

tunes his soul to this note, the sound will ring in his work of itself.

The "emancipation" of today must advance on the lines of the inner need.

It is hampered at present by external form, and as that is thrown aside,

there arises as the aim of composition-construction. The search for

constructive form has produced Cubism, in which natural form is often

forcibly subjected to geometrical construction, a process which tends to

hamper the abstract by the concrete and spoil the concrete by the

abstract.

The harmony of the new art demands a more subtle construction

than this, something that appeals less to the eye and more to the

soul. This "concealed construction" may arise from an apparently

fortuitous selection of forms on the canvas. Their external lack

of cohesion is their internal harmony. This haphazard arrangement

of forms may be the future of artistic harmony. Their fundamental

relationship will finally be able to be expressed in mathematical

form, but in terms irregular rather than regular.

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS

The work of art is born of the artist in a mysterious and secret

way. From him it gains life and being. Nor is its existence

casual and inconsequent, but it has a definite and purposeful

strength, alike in its material and spiritual life. It exists and

has power to create spiritual atmosphere; and from this inner

standpoint one judges whether it is a good work of art or a bad

one. If its "form" is bad it means that the form is too feeble in

meaning to call forth corresponding vibrations of the soul.

[Footnote: So-called indecent pictures are either incapable of

causing vibrations of the soul (in which case they are not art)

or they are so capable. In the latter case they are not to be

spurned absolutely, even though at the same time they gratify

what nowadays we are pleased to call the "lower bodily tastes."]

Therefore a picture is not necessarily "well painted" if it

possesses the "values" of which the French so constantly speak.

It is only well painted if its spiritual value is complete and

satisfying. "Good drawing" is drawing that cannot be altered

without destruction of this inner value, quite irrespective of

its correctness as anatomy, botany, or any other science. There

is no question of a violation of natural form, but only of the

need of the artist for such form. Similarly colours are used not

because they are true to nature, but because they are necessary

to the particular picture. In fact, the artist is not only

justified in using, but it is his duty to use only those forms

which fulfil his own need. Absolute freedom, whether from anatomy

or anything of the kind, must be given the artist in his choice

of material. Such spiritual freedom is as necessary in art as it

is in life. [Footnote: This freedom is man's weapon against the

Philistines. It is based on the inner need.]

Note, however, that blind following of scientific precept is less

blameworthy than its blind and purposeless rejection. The former

produces at least an imitation of material objects which may be

of some use.

[Footnote: Plainly, an imitation of nature, if made by the hand

of an artist, is not a pure reproduction. The voice of the soul

will in some degree at least make itself heard. As contrasts one

may quote a landscape of Canaletto and those sadly famous heads

by Denner.--(Alte Pinakothek, Munich.)]

The latter is an artistic betrayal and brings confusion in its

train. The former leaves the spiritual atmosphere empty; the

latter poisons it.

Painting is an art, and art is not vague production, transitory

and isolated, but a power which must be directed to the

improvement and refinement of the human soul--to, in fact, the

raising of the spiritual triangle.

If art refrains from doing this work, a chasm remains unbridged,

for no other power can take the place of art in this activity.

And at times when the human soul is gaining greater strength, art

will also grow in power, for the two are inextricably connected

and complementary one to the other. Conversely, at those times

when the soul tends to be choked by material disbelief, art

becomes purposeless and talk is heard that art exists for art's

sake alone.

[Footnote: This cry "art for art's sake," is really the best

ideal such an age can attain to. It is an unconscious protest

against materialism, against the demand that everything should

have a use and practical value. It is further proof of the

indestructibility of art and of the human soul, which can never

be killed but only temporarily smothered.]

Then is the bond between art and the soul, as it were, drugged

into unconsciousness. The artist and the spectator drift apart,

till finally the latter turns his back on the former or regards

him as a juggler whose skill and dexterity are worthy of

applause. It is very important for the artist to gauge his

position aright, to realize that he has a duty to his art and to

himself, that he is not king of the castle but rather a servant

of a nobler purpose. He must search deeply into his own soul,

develop and tend it, so that his art has something to clothe, and

does not remain a glove without a hand.

THE ARTIST MUST HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, FOR MASTERY OVER FORM IS

NOT HIS GOAL BUT RATHER THE ADAPTING OF FORM TO ITS INNER

MEANING.

[Footnote: Naturally this does not mean that the artist is to

instill forcibly into his work some deliberate meaning. As has

been said the generation of a work of art is a mystery. So long

as artistry exists there is no need of theory or logic to direct

the painter's action. The inner voice of the soul tells him what

form he needs, whether inside or outside nature. Every artist

knows, who works with feeling, how suddenly the right form

flashes upon him. Bocklin said that a true work of art must be

like an inspiration; that actual painting, composition, etc., are

not the steps by which the artist reaches self-expression.]

The artist is not born to a life of pleasure. He must not live

idle; he has a hard work to perform, and one which often proves a

cross to be borne. He must realize that his every deed, feeling,

and thought are raw but sure material from which his work is to

arise, that he is free in art but not in life.

The artist has a triple responsibility to the non-artists: (1) He

must repay the talent which he has; (2) his deeds, feelings, and

thoughts, as those of every man, create a spiritual atmosphere

which is either pure or poisonous. (3) These deeds and thoughts

are materials for his creations, which themselves exercise

influence on the spiritual atmosphere. The artist is not only a

king, as Peladan says, because he has great power, but also

because he has great duties.

If the artist be priest of beauty, nevertheless this beauty is to

be sought only according to the principle of the inner need, and

can be measured only according to the size and intensity of that

need.

THAT IS BEAUTIFUL WHICH IS PRODUCED BY THE INNER NEED, WHICH

SPRINGS FROM THE SOUL.

Maeterlinck, one of the first warriors, one of the first modern

artists of the soul, says: "There is nothing on earth so curious

for beauty or so absorbent of it, as a soul. For that reason few

mortal souls withstand the leadership of a soul which gives to

them beauty." [Footnote: De la beaute interieure.]

And this property of the soul is the oil, which facilitates the

slow, scarcely visible but irresistible movement of the triangle,

onwards and upwards.

IX. CONCLUSION

The first five illustrations in this book show the course of

constructive effort in painting. This effort falls into two

divisions:

(1) Simple composition, which is regulated according to an

obvious and simple form. This kind of composition I call the

MELODIC.

(2) Complex composition, consisting of various forms, subjected

more or less completely to a principal form. Probably the

principal form may be hard to grasp outwardly, and for that

reason possessed of a strong inner value. This kind of

composition I call the SYMPHONIC.

Between the two lie various transitional forms, in which the

melodic principle predominates. The history of the development is

closely parallel to that of music.

If, in considering an example of melodic composition, one forgets

the material aspect and probes down into the artistic reason of

the whole, one finds primitive geometrical forms or an

arrangement of simple lines which help toward a common motion.

This common motion is echoed by various sections and may be

varied by a single line or form. Such isolated variations serve

different purposes. For instance, they may act as a sudden check,

or to use a musical term, a "fermata." [Footnote: E.g., the

Ravenna mosaic which, in the main, forms a triangle. The upright

figures lean proportionately to the triangle. The outstretched

arm and door-curtain are the "fermate."] Each form which goes to

make up the composition has a simple inner value, which has in

its turn a melody. For this reason I call the composition

melodic. By the agency of Cezanne and later of Hodler [Footnote:

English readers may roughly parallel Hodler with Augustus John

for purposes of the argument.--M.T.H.S.] this kind of composition

won new life, and earned the name of "rhythmic." The limitations

of the term "rhythmic" are obvious. In music and nature each

manifestation has a rhythm of its own, so also in painting. In

nature this rhythm is often not clear to us, because its purpose

is not clear to us. We then speak of it as unrhythmic. So the

terms rhythmic and unrhythmic are purely conventional, as also

are harmony and discord, which have no actual existence.

[Footnote: As an example of plain melodic construction with a

plain rhythm, Cezanne's "Bathing Women" is given in this book.]

Complex rhythmic composition, with a strong flavour of the

symphonic, is seen in numerous pictures and woodcuts of the past.

One might mention the work of old German masters, of the

Persians, of the Japanese, the Russian icons, broadsides, etc.

[Footnote: This applies to many of Hodler's pictures.]

In nearly all these works the symphonic composition is not very

closely allied to the melodic. This means that fundamentally

there is a composition founded on rest and balance. The mind

thinks at once of choral compositions, of Mozart and Beethoven.

All these works have the solemn and regular architecture of a

Gothic cathedral; they belong to the transition period.

As examples of the new symphonic composition, in which the

melodic element plays a subordinate part, and that only rarely, I

have added reproductions of four of my own pictures.

They represent three different sources of inspiration:

(1) A direct impression of outward nature, expressed in purely

artistic form. This I call an "Impression."

(2) A largely unconscious, spontaneous expression of inner

character, the non-material nature. This I call an

"Improvisation."

(3) An expression of a slowly formed inner feeling, which

comes to utterance only after long maturing. This I call a

"Composition." In this, reason, consciousness, purpose, play

an overwhelming part. But of the calculation nothing appears,

only the feeling. Which kind of construction, whether

conscious or unconscious, really underlies my work, the

patient reader will readily understand.

Finally, I would remark that, in my opinion, we are fast

approaching the time of reasoned and conscious composition, when

the painter will be proud to declare his work constructive. This

will be in contrast to the claim of the Impressionists that they

could explain nothing, that their art came upon them by

inspiration. We have before us the age of conscious creation, and

this new spirit in painting is going hand in hand with the spirit

of thought towards an epoch of great spiritual leaders.