Wh a tIsAr t?by Henry Tyrrell.Illustration by Dan Smith.“A criticism of life,” says Matthew Arnold.“The rhythmic creation of beauty,” says Edgar Allan Poe—defining the art of lyric poetry.“The end of art,” says Victor Cousin (combining Plato and Aristotle), “is the expression of moral beauty by the assistance of physical beauty.”But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art and literature of to-day—measure them up against the Sunday newspaper, or “Peter Pan” at the theatre, or picture exhibitions of the Independent Artists and the followers of Matisse—and assuredly there is something wrong, either with the definitions or with the art.Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this following dictum, which comes very close to being invulnerable:“A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a temperament.”This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art is always the same; temperaments differ and become warped. The academician’s temperamental glass is ruled off into formal geometrical patterns, and he sees nature as a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid “impressionist” looks within himself, and away from nature, and “sees things” which don’t exist for anyone else. The true artist gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art comes to him “as easily as lying.”“What the poet writes.He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passedFrom hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.Until the unborn snatch it, crying outIn pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—And that’s success, too.”
by Henry Tyrrell.
Illustration by Dan Smith.
“A criticism of life,” says Matthew Arnold.“The rhythmic creation of beauty,” says Edgar Allan Poe—defining the art of lyric poetry.“The end of art,” says Victor Cousin (combining Plato and Aristotle), “is the expression of moral beauty by the assistance of physical beauty.”But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art and literature of to-day—measure them up against the Sunday newspaper, or “Peter Pan” at the theatre, or picture exhibitions of the Independent Artists and the followers of Matisse—and assuredly there is something wrong, either with the definitions or with the art.Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this following dictum, which comes very close to being invulnerable:“A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a temperament.”This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art is always the same; temperaments differ and become warped. The academician’s temperamental glass is ruled off into formal geometrical patterns, and he sees nature as a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid “impressionist” looks within himself, and away from nature, and “sees things” which don’t exist for anyone else. The true artist gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art comes to him “as easily as lying.”“What the poet writes.He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passedFrom hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.Until the unborn snatch it, crying outIn pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—And that’s success, too.”
“A criticism of life,” says Matthew Arnold.
“The rhythmic creation of beauty,” says Edgar Allan Poe—defining the art of lyric poetry.
“The end of art,” says Victor Cousin (combining Plato and Aristotle), “is the expression of moral beauty by the assistance of physical beauty.”
But apply these and other bromidic definitions to the art and literature of to-day—measure them up against the Sunday newspaper, or “Peter Pan” at the theatre, or picture exhibitions of the Independent Artists and the followers of Matisse—and assuredly there is something wrong, either with the definitions or with the art.
Then turn to Emile Zola, and take from him this following dictum, which comes very close to being invulnerable:
“A work of art is a bit of nature seen through a temperament.”
This takes in all the schools, as well as the fiery, untamed spirits who would break away from schools altogether. Art is always the same; temperaments differ and become warped. The academician’s temperamental glass is ruled off into formal geometrical patterns, and he sees nature as a kind of problem in perspective. The rabid “impressionist” looks within himself, and away from nature, and “sees things” which don’t exist for anyone else. The true artist gazes straight out upon nature, and forgets himself, and art comes to him “as easily as lying.”
“What the poet writes.He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passedFrom hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.Until the unborn snatch it, crying outIn pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—And that’s success, too.”
“What the poet writes.He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passedFrom hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.Until the unborn snatch it, crying outIn pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—And that’s success, too.”
“What the poet writes.
He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits,
And that’s success. If not, the poem’s passed
From hand to hand, and yet from hand to hand.
Until the unborn snatch it, crying out
In pity on their fathers’ being so dull,—
And that’s success, too.”