Gossip
Whenever, on a trip abroad, I went into one of the famous galleries to discover my reactions to the great works of art therein exhibited, I was struck by the realization that this was quite impossible. I found that I was confused by all that I heard about these things beforehand. The critics I had been advised to read, the inevitable guide-books, and my friends with their free scraps of information seemed all in a conspiracy to bewilder me; I was jealous of having my privilege of praising and condemning taken away and of being permitted only to ratify.
It is useless to say that one may rid oneself of such encumbrances. Coldness toward the official guides and an active disdain for the guide-books will not solve the problem; for Mr. Baedecker is, after all, one of the last to introduce us to the arts,—we do not arrive at his authoritative though concise eulogies totally uninformed by any means. While one may not have been made ready by intensive courses, the report of fame is not published merely for those who take them, and you cannot escape hearsay and the wealth of criticism that passes on the tide of conversation. Even curt phrases such as, “You must go and see this!” or “Oh, youwouldlove that!” are to me insidious, and the type of gossip which they represent makes a premature effect inevitable. In fact, an educated person wandering in a well-known exhibition needs no guidance, other than names and authors, to recall everything to him.
I suppose those schoolgirls one meets abroad, daughters of the wealthy studying “art” in its habitat, are the worst off in this respect. You see them marching in herds through the museums led by their formidable teachers, stopping to gaze and murmur and look at the people passing while they are furnished with the necessary facts. By the time they are finished with text-books, scrap-books, and, lastly, exhaustive studies of the originals, no saint can hide a toe from them. They know everything, particularly dates. Leonardo was great; the primitives “have such feelingand are so naïve”; the teacher’s favorites are their favorites. I sometimes wonder why they don’t carry it all a step further. Why not organize it? Why not “Three long cheers for Raphael now, girls! One—two—three—?” The middle-aged English maidens who form so large a part of the tourist mob in Italy are another set of victims. Steeped in their tawdry little enthusiasms, they always go at things hard and correctly. If they like a thing, their appreciation is like squirting a hose on it. One sees them make a mistake once in a while and admire an atrocity. Nothing could be more serene than their correction of such mistakes. I saw it happen once before a statue of Hercules. It appears that the god was not doing what he should be; he was looking for a giant to wrestle with instead of sweeping the stables or something of the kind. They had attended to the wrong statue, obviously, but their waste of five important minutes was their only chagrin and the hose was simply switched, perhaps squirting with a little less force now—as though punctured somewhere.
Granted, at any rate, that you do not come empty handed to the feast, some are of the opinion that if you have studied an object, it is only reasonable to suppose that you will be the more interested: that research enhances its appeal. This appears to be logical. A full appreciation is to be achieved only through an understanding of methods—of the points of view required to get at the stirring qualities a thing possesses.
On the other hand, one hears that painting and the rest of the arts hold the mirror up to nature, and it seems strange that we are not furnished handbooks to the current exhibitions of the latter. “You ought to know something about them!” we are told when we go to the galleries. Well, if this predigestion may be furnished us by our betters for our sight-seeing, why may we not have it ready at hand for our days in the country? Why not look up the good and bad points of a sunny day before leaving the house, for instance? Or know from a greater, deeper Ruskin in exactly what the “strength” of winter, as an artist, lies and where to look for his weaknesses? Why, in other words, cannot both types of aesthetic appreciation be dealt with in the same free manner?
Thus the problem is made real by the seeming validity of both points of view. And I do not see a solution.
I believe that the modern idea of education is an enemy of individuality in the average person interested in works of art. Not that any man is insincere, though it goes hard against the grain for him to throw aside the sophistication he has been a long time acquiring and be simple: to kick his education out of the way as it were and make a path for himself. To be caught overtaxing our slim knowledge of the world and thereby to appear ridiculous is no doubt disagreeable enough; but far more do we fight shy of exposing any virgin soil. It seems so silly not to appear well informed, particularly when one has the proof at hand. Besides, it is a temptation in a more complicated sense. Why should not a man bend every effort to see in fine works the things that many minds of a brilliancy sharper than his own have seen? Perhaps it is best just to ratify, or to satisfy ourselves that we are at one with the great concensus of judgments—that all’s well withoursouls, at any rate. But if we come to judge for ourselves, we are as judges who before seeing the evidence have listened to the unanimous verdicts of countless others ranked wiser than themselves.
As I see it, to be in sympathy with truth in this form or in any other is a paradox except by natural inclination. To struggle against it until wereconcileourselves to something that may, or, in the last analysis, may not be so, does not seem entirely satisfactory. And I believe that a person cultivated according to modern standards is unable to arrive at a definite conclusion of the kind in question by following his natural inclination. He may survive the temptation, more subtle in action than in its abstract nakedness, that I have outlined, but if he does so it is a resistance fraught with effort and as such harmful. The very determination of a person to do justice to his individuality spoils the adventure. The joy of a clear reaction is lost: that is the truth of the matter.... If I see this statue by so and so all I have ever heard about it and him flocks in upon me. At once I am all at sea. I am impressed by its reputation; my knowledge of it is large and solid before me. Either I notice things which otherwise would nothave been obvious, or, more probably, I fight my prejudice and go too far in the opposite direction, wildly exclaiming that Iwillbe independent. I am trying to get my balance. I know that this may be done, but if I succeed in it, it is tedious work and to be accomplished only by making a series of involved compensations; and above all, it is hard to keep from doubting the truth of the result. Would I have been so impressed?—I say in my search for a genuine emotion;—if only I were unhampered! The delicate mechanism of my appreciation has been tampered with.
I find that if I go to look at some new work concerning which the criticism of the many is not yet crystallized, it is with relish and a fine sense of relief. I have the same feeling when, after studying under tedious tuition some novel of a great author, I pick up another book of his to read alone. Now then, I wonder, what is he like after all? For I am my own final arbiter whatever happens; and I enjoy to the full my privilege of judging what I see. This new thing at least I face as a free individual, as one would like to face men, shorn of their reputations. I can discover a swift, imperious dislike of it or love it vigorously, and not share any orthodox enthusiasms. Lavish spontaneity is briefly in the throne.
W. T. BISSELL.