Art
William Saphier
Physicalusefulness predominates in the make-up of every real piece of craftsmanship. Its lines and the beauty of its decoration make up its value.
Art does not rely on physical usefulness, form, or decoration. It is its suggestiveness, its appeal to the imagination, its drawing out of sympathy or hatred, its arousing of new and deep emotion—this is what gives the fine arts their importance in life. Art should act as a screen for fine tragic acts, for great emotions. Nature should be the pigment for the painter’s brush, but not his aim. He should dilute it with his blood and marrow and fling it on the canvas with determination.
Thus I pondered as I entered the twenty-seventh exhibition of American Oil Paintings and Sculpture at the Chicago Art Institute. Wandering from canvas to canvas, from one prize-winner to another, I felt all my hope for a miracle vanish. They are so real, so true to life, so bereft of imagination, that one wonders why anybody ever took the trouble to paint them.
Just look at these flowers, trees, cows, and nudes. I have seen them many, many times exactly the same way and under the same circumstances in life. They are “pretty” and will undoubtedly make a good decoration in a middle-class home. This may be a worthy thing to do, but why should it be called art? I think this is our punishment for great achievements in the industrial field. No nation can go on building the fastest railroads, the tallest skyscrapers, the largest factories, the fastest automobiles, without paying for it by a loss of its finer æsthetic senses.
But I am getting away from the exhibition. It has become the fashion to be disappointed with exhibitions both here and abroad—and with good reason. As there are few good artists, the chances of getting them on a jury is slight. The result is apparent: good pieces of craftsmanship are hung along with fine pieces of art, and the prizes intended for fine artgo to good craftsmanship. In saying this I do not wish to join the popular sport of hitting the jury and getting a round of applause. But how can one escape these conclusions if he compares the prize-winner,A Nude, by Richard E. Miller, with “Under the Bough,” by Arthur B. Davis, whose rhythmically-moving figures and beautiful colors transport one to fairyland? The figures remind me of Hodler, the foremost painter today in Switzerland, who is sixty years old and younger than the youngest. Or compare the prize withThomas and his Red Coat, by Robert Henri. What simple forms and colors—what a thorough understanding of a child and his world! OrThe Widow, by Charles W. Hawthorne. These are works of great simplicity,understanding, imagination, and individuality; they are monuments to some fine feeling, dream, thought, or incident in the life of their creators.
As for the other prize winners—the disjointed color spots serving as garden flowers and the chocolate box cover-design—I shall not discuss them. The meaning of such stuff and the reason for awarding is too obscure.
Outside the pictures mentioned above the following are worth seeing:The Venetian Blind, by Frederic C. Frieseke;Dance of the Hours, by Louis F. Berneker;Winter Logging, by George Elmer Brown;Through the Trees, by Frank T. Hutchins;The Harbor, by Jonas Lie;The Garden, by Jerome S. Blum;Procession of the Redentore Venice, by Grace Ravlin;The Ox Team, by Chauncey F. Ryder;Smeaton’s Quay, St. Ive’s, by Hayley Lever;The Fledgling, by Grace H. Turnbull.A Hudson River Holiday, by Gifford Beal, looks much like a department store. In fact you may find everything in this exhibition from a flag to a mountain—and all the popular colors. The only thing that is missing is a “For Sale” sign, with a “marked-down” price.
Seven pieces of sculpture by Stanislaw Szukalski, whose work the readers ofThe Little Reviewhad a chance to see reproduced in the last number, make up the most interesting part of the exhibition.
The original obscuring of the works of Grace Ravlin, Grace H. Turnbull, Johansen, and Blum by the hanging committee deserves praise. But I think if they really wanted to do something unusual they might have thought of something better. For instance, hang all the rejected ones in separate rooms, marked “rejected,” and let the visitors see and judge for themselves. This would give the exhibition a bigger meaning. As it is, it means confusion; and confusion asks persistently in this case: are the fine arts anything in particular or just a mixture of craftsmanship, cleverness (the usual companion of emptiness) and some undigested ideas?
Life is a learning to die.—Plato.
Life is a learning to die.—Plato.
Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!—Dostoevsky.
Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!—Dostoevsky.