CHAPTER IXTHE WORK OF ART
According to an old theory the classical drama originated in the Dionysiac cultus.[148]The artistic development of savage and barbarous tribes supplies many analogies which strongly support this view. The simplest drama and the most primitive poetry have in most nations been connected with orgiastic rites which, from the psychological point of view, closely resemble the Bacchic ceremonies. But we may go still further. It has been contended on good grounds that even the formative arts made their earliest appearance on the occasion of great public festivals.[149]It might seem that if this view could only be corroborated by a sufficient body of ethnological evidence, there would be no need of any further argument in favour of the emotionalistic interpretation of art. Granted that the simplest manifestations of all the different arts served primarily as means of heightening a festive mood, then the psychological origin of the artistic activity ought to be ascertained by an analysis of high-pitch feeling. The same mental causes and conditions which called forth the most primitive manifestations of art, and determined their character, may naturally beassumed to have influenced in greater or less degree the higher forms as well. And thus in further support of our view we might simply refer to the study of a typical exaltation with which the preceding chapter was concluded.
We have here an apparently easy solution of the problem before us. But by resorting to it we should expose ourselves to the risk of mistakes which is inherent in every historical method. Not only is it impossible, as has already been remarked, to make any positive assertion as to the purely æsthetic and autotelic character of a given manifestation: it is almost equally difficult to quote a rite or practice the interpretation of which, from the emotional standpoint, is clear and undisputed. Even the wild antics of the Maenads, in spite of the numerous analogies to them presented by the diseased mental states of modern man, have been explained by some archæologists as a stereotyped ritual. The self-wounding and the tearing up of living animals have been interpreted as different forms of a sacrificial cult; the frantic gestures and songs as dramatic representations of ancient myths.[150]It would require too cumbrous an apparatus merely to state and criticise existing theories on this point. And even if we could prove that the Bacchantic manifestations may be explained without reference to religious or commemorative intentions in the dancers, as purely emotional activities, grave objections would still remain to be answered. From the medical point of view it might be maintained that the Dionysiac state, as well as all analogous conditions among savage and civilised nations, is a purely pathological phenomenon.[151]By connecting artistic production with these states we should therefore expose ourselves to the accusation of treating art as an abnormality. And it would be of no use to appeal to Nietzsche’s brilliant but unconvincing defence of the position that the ancient Dionysiac orgies ought really to be considered as splendid disorders of health and overflowing vigour.[152]
It is therefore necessary to state explicitly that what we have said about the Dionysiac state must by no means be taken as referring to actual historic facts known about the bacchanals. The descriptions of Euripides and other classical authors are valuable as expressions of the predominant notions of art quite independently of the reality which may or may not have corresponded to them. The corybantic mania afforded to the Greek mind a typical simile by which to illustrate that state of formless excitement which precedes the artistic creation. In the mythical descriptions of the melancholia of the Thyiads, and in the sculptural representations of their dances and extravagances, it was easy to recognise—more by instinct, perhaps, than by reflection—the same dissatisfaction and the same longing for fuller and deeper expression which compels the artist to seek in æsthetic production compensation for the deficiencies of life. And the feeling of liberation, which in the artist, upon the attainment of artistic form, supersedes overmastering and inharmonious excitement, seemed explicable by the analogy of the relief which the mythical Dionysus bestowed upon his devotees. At a time, therefore, when dancing occupied a prominent place among the arts, it must have been quite natural to consider the god of dance and music as an embodiment of thefeelings and impulses of artistic creation. For modern times, however, this poetic parable has scarcely even an illustrative value. It would be too far-fetched to treat the simple, lyrical dance and song as a general type of art, seeing that in real life dancing has long ago been almost entirely superseded by more complicated forms of artistic activity.
It is, however, only in such direct manifestations as the simplest song, dance, and poetry that the artistic activity itself is accessible to our analysis. With regard to those higher forms of art in which the dramatic and epic elements play an important part, it may indeed be contended that even they originate in an emotional craving for expression. And it can be proved, as we have tried to show in the preceding chapters, that such a theory gives us the best explanation of the life-preserving influence of artistic creation. But it is not to be concealed that, as far as painting, sculpture, and the higher forms of poetry are concerned, this view is exclusively based upon hypothesis. It cannot be considered as established so long as we have no authentic information on the feelings and impulses which direct a sculptor or a painter in his work. The only competent witnesses who can give us this information—namely, the artists themselves—have generally paid too little attention to theoretic problems to make any observations on their own mental states during the task of creation; and even when they do so they are deterred by a natural sense of propriety from making any public revelations on a matter which affects their most intimate emotional life. All the more impertinent would it be for an outsider to makea prioriassertions on the psychical motives for their work. While entitled to speak with some confidence on the simple,universal arts, the theoretical observer cannot, with regard to the specialised crafts, rely upon either experience or sympathetic understanding. The only safe point of departure is here the objective work. Our interpretation can be considered as conclusively established only if we are able to show that the distinctive qualities of the work of art, as met with in the highest manifestations of art, are such as to provide some emotional state with the most adequate and most convincing expression.
The work of art has been the subject of theoretical investigation to a far greater extent than the artistic impulse. When examining its distinctive qualities we can therefore constantly avail ourselves of the researches of earlier writers on æsthetic. There is no need to search for the problems to be solved nor to justify the scheme of inquiry. We have to show that our interpretation of the artistic activity is consistent with the general principles according to which the value of art-works is estimated. These principles, on the other hand, can evidently be discovered only by studying the judgments on art which have been embodied in æsthetical literature. Owing to the mutual contradictions between the several æsthetic systems, such a study is indeed not an easy one. But if minor differences are disregarded it is not impossible to find a common standard on which almost all writers agree. For while the theories on art, as different from other departments of life, have been based upon varying philosophical assumptions, the ideal of excellence in art has, at least in the case of all real æstheticians, been developed under the influence of a close familiarity with the best manifestations of living art. Notwithstanding the ever-varying currents of taste and the individual predilections which affect even the mostimpartial judgment, it is thus possible to point to a common fund of simple and catholic principles of criticism.
As far as the lyrical forms of art are concerned we need not dwell at any length on the æsthetic requirements which they are generally expected to fulfil. It is easy to understand that, however one may explain the purpose of artistic activity and the impulse which leads to it, the accomplished work of art must always possess some element of sensual beauty which may attract and hold the attention. If we were attempting a complete treatment of all æsthetic problems we might attempt to prove that such qualities appear to a very great extent as unintentional by-products of artistic expression. The perfect gracefulness, for example, which forms the distinguishing merit of all genuine art, is seldom a result of conscious endeavour. As, according to its nature, pleasure is necessarily accompanied by facilitated conditions of life, an artistic manifestation will generally be graceful in the same degree as it expresses pure and unmingled joy. And even if the feeling which originally called forth a dance, a song, or a drama is one of pain, its expression will unavoidably acquire under the influence of artistic form an element of ease. The freedom, and, still more, the unconsciousness, that characterise the “inspired” creation may thus clothe with a peculiar grace even the representation of such mental states as in real life manifest themselves in the most inharmonious forms.[153]In the same way dignity, the quality complementary to grace, may be deduced directly from the emotional conditions of artistic activity.
This explanation does not apply, however, to such special qualities as, for instance, symmetry and proportion. Neither can it be denied that these qualities may be of incalculable importance in art as means of heightening the effectiveness of the work. But we hold that a problem like that of symmetry belongs to the science of beauty rather than to the theory of art. By a symmetrical arrangement of its parts, or by a right proportion between them, an object may indeed become a thing of beauty; but it acquires an artistic character only in so far as this symmetry and proportion perform or assist the function of expression. Even among the most authors who lay most stress on the paramount importance of form there are few who contend that these abstract qualities can by themselves bestow the title of art upon a work or a manifestation.
Quite different is the case of those æsthetic laws which have been deduced from the arts of description. As the majority of writers on æsthetic have restricted their attention to works of art in which nature has been imitated or represented, it is only natural that artistic merit should be thought to depend on the relation of the copy to the original. The most simple explanation is undoubtedly that which is adopted by a large section of the public, viz., that an artistic manifestation is perfect in proportion as it gives a faithful rendering of objective nature. For all that has been contended by the opponents of the realistic movements which predominated in the eighties, we do not think that many producing authors have been guided in their work by such narrow notions. In æsthetic literature at least so radical a realism has been upheld only by a few isolated authors.[154]Ever since Aristotle’s timeit has been laid down that a work of art must be something other and better than a mere copy. And æsthetic science from its first beginning has in the main agreed upon the general principles by which artistic imitation attains perfection. These principles, formulated with varying clearness in the earlier systems, have found their most philosophical elaboration in the works of Vischer and Taine. In his Hegelian terminology the German author puts it that the work of art must show us, in an æsthetic semblance, the full and whole presence of an idea which is underlying the things represented. In the philosophy of Taine, which, by making science its point of departure, differs so greatly from Hegelianism and yet resembles it so strikingly in general character, the same thought has been expressed in the doctrine of dominant qualities.[155]If these criteria are divested of the technical garb which makes them so inconvenient to handle, they appear to rest ultimately on a simple observation which may be repeated in all æsthetic experience. We find in all descriptive art-works a subordination of qualities supposed to be of inferior importance to what philosophers of Taine’s school term “la faculté maîtresse.” In most works too there may be found a relation of the represented thing to the rest of nature, which in a Hegelian mind may awaken the notion of a general idea behind the individual phenomenon. But, as we have already observed, it is a mark of excessive intellectualism to assume that the desire to discover predominant qualities or hidden ideas is the impelling force in art-creation. And we shall now endeavour to show that it is equallyone-sided to consider the enjoyment of art as conditioned by increased intellectual knowledge of individual or universal phenomena and ideas.
The defects of intellectualistic art-theories are perhaps most manifest in the system of Taine. Taine himself seems to believe that the “faculté mère” really exists, and that it can be not only represented by an artistical treatment of nature, but also discovered by scientific study; he is consequently unable to make any proper distinction between the departments of science and art.[156]And, on the other hand, his own critical studies show us how incompatible is the principle of dominant faculties with a purely scientific conception of reality. Too often, in the attempt to deduce every manifestation and every personality from a determinate, all-explaining and all-conditioning quality, he loses sight of the rich variety of life, and gains instead merely a brilliant formula. Thus, however suggestive his criticisms may be, they are seldom scientifically exact. There is none, however, of all his admirers who would wish to have anything changed in his writings on art; for we know that by this very one-sidedness, which is the source of his scientific shortcomings, he has at the same time attained his greatest, though perhaps unintentional, triumphs as an artist.
In illustration of this we need only refer to one instance: his celebrated description of the lion.[157]Objections may be raised from the zoological point of view to his selecting the lion as a representative of animal strength, and from the anatomical point of view to his deducing its whole configuration from the structure of its jaws. But it is impossible to deny that precisely bysuch a one-sided and exaggerated portrait Taine has succeeded in giving an expression to his admiration for elementary force better than would have been possible by a scientifically faithful description. Accordingly Taine’s lion, in spite of its faults from the point of view of science, remains a classical illustration of the æsthetic importance of dominant qualities.
If we try to explain why it is that the subordination of all characters under one “faculté maîtresse,” although unfavourable to scientific comprehension, is nevertheless so useful for artistic representation, we shall be unavoidably led to that distinction between scientific and artistic purposes which has been overlooked in the intellectualistic systems of æsthetic. The work of art does not claim to give us, nor do we expect to receive from it, increased knowledge as to the real nature or predominant characters of things and events. We only wish to get the clearest and strongest impression of the feelings with which an object has been contemplated by the artist. It is therefore to the psychological conditions for conveying a feeling-state by help of intellectual mediation that we should look for the explanation of those laws of artistic composition which Vischer and Taine have interpreted in a manner exclusively intellectualistic, and therefore unæsthetic.
The desire to fix a passing emotional state—in order to facilitate either the revival of the same state or its transmission to outsiders—by help of intellectual elements with which the feelings have been associated, is not restricted to the purely artistic mental processes. In religion and in love this endeavour to evade the transience of feeling is especially evident. And here we may observe a selection of the intellectual elements and a mode of treating them, which, although it cannot becalled artistic, is nevertheless somewhat analogous to the selective treatment of nature which takes place in artistic representation. The institutors of religion have all been well aware of the fact that it is not immaterial what kind of ideas and sensations are chosen to embody a feeling. They have understood how impossible it is to impress an emotional state on the mind by the mediation of complex conceptions, which, to be fully apperceived, necessitate a particular activity of the intellectual functions. When seeking a means of conveying and perpetuating their deepest teaching, they have always, more instinctively perhaps than by any process of conscious search, been led to intellectual notions of the simplest possible kind. A single impression of sight, touch, or even of taste, may thus, by artificial association, be made the bearer of an emotional content which could not possibly be conveyed with anything like the same fulness by a less concentrated medium. In virtue, therefore, of their very simplicity, the vehicles and symbols of religious ritualism are the most powerful of all means of emotional suggestion. They offer us a simple impression which we can easily embrace with our senses, and by the aid of which we can infuse into our mind a rich complex of all the moods, such as reverence, ecstasy, and awe, which enter in the religious state.
In its most abnormally exalted developments love may give rise to a fetichistic adoration of objects connected with the beloved which is psychologically analogous to the cults of religion. And the same tendency to select some single representation or object as vehicle of a psychical state, which is so manifest in the case of these high-strung emotions, may also be noticed in connection with feelings of lower intensity. In all departments of psychical life we may thus find a corroborationof the assertion, which was already expressed by Hemsterhuis in his speculations on our desires, which always aim at “un grand nombre d’idées dans le plus petit espace de temps possible.”[158]We need only consult our memories—for example, of landscapes we have seen—to find that the emotional element of the recollection, our admiration, is always closely bound up with some single feature of the impression. We may indeed be able to revive the visual image itself by allowing the mind’s eye gradually to pass along all its details. But the subjective feelings in which we appropriated the impression and made it our own will not be resuscitated until we arrive at one particular detail—a single tree, or perhaps a figure—and concentrate our attention upon that. The experience of this law of emotional mechanics teaches us to look with a selective attention on everything of which we wish to preserve a vivid remembrance. The more emotional our intuition of a given whole, the greater is always our desire to concentrate it upon a single impression which supports and reconstitutes the original vision. The art of arranging great complexes of intellectual and emotional elements around single focal points, so to speak, may undoubtedly be greatly developed by exercise. But the procedure itself does not presuppose any conscious intention. It occurs almost as an instinctive expedient for escaping the incompatibility between diffused intellectual attention and strong feeling. On purely psychological grounds, therefore, we may adopt the aphorismof Teufelsdröckh: “For the soul, of its own unity, always gives unity to whatever it looks on with love.”[159]
As the artistic representation of nature, according to our view, expressly serves the purpose of perpetuating an emotional state, we should expect to meet with such a unity in every work of descriptive art. And this assumption may be amply corroborated by reference to art-history. We need not go for examples to such extreme schools as that of those modern French painters who endeavour to make every line in their pictures converge towards a point or a sharp angle. Within the domain of universally recognised art we may observe how the artist always tries to create a centre of gravity by accentuating some single feature in the event, the landscape, or the figure which serves as his model. The principle is the same as that of which we avail ourselves when endeavouring to preserve an emotional state in our memory for future enjoyment. But the procedure must necessarily be somewhat changed when the task is added of enabling outsiders to partake of the moods we have experienced. It is not then a matter of indifference which particular detail of a complex impression we single out as focal, and in which way we arrange the bulk of the impression around this focus. Indeed, any random quality, if it is given prominence and emphasis, may serve as a means of attracting attention to the work. But if one wishes to impart to spectators the exact emotional mood, of which a given fragment of nature acts as a representative, it is not sufficient to attract the attention of the spectators. We must also induce the spectators to look upon the whole of our model from our point of view. Instead of the casual connection by which in our own mind emotionalmemories may be bound up with some single sensation memory, we must try to introduce a causal connection which persuades the outsider to agree with our choice of the focal quality. The features selected for accentuation are to be made central, not only in the technical, but also in the logical sense. Figuratively speaking, it is not enough that the lines in a picture should converge towards a certain part; this part must also appear to the spectator as the one in which all other parts have their cause and their explanation. Thus the artistic imitation of nature will necessarily be connected with a search for a predominant quality, and an endeavour to represent this quality as a “faculté mère.” The things and events which are selected for the embodiment of a given emotional state become displayed in such a way that their whole being appears to be derived from the one quality which is most suited to represent this emotional state. The imitation is transformed into a construction, or rather reconstruction, by which objective nature is adjusted so as to harmonise with the subjective point of view.
Such a process of adjusting nature to the requirements of emotional transmission need not always lead to any definite and concrete work of art. It may also, as an unrealised tendency, accompany our intuition. And it is only by virtue of this creative element that the feeling for nature may be placed on a level with artistic production. If we are to explain, with Richard Wagner, the æsthetic attention of the layman as the result of a natural poetic gift (“Natürliche Dichtungsgabe”), we cannot possibly—as he does—base the artistic value of this attention on the fact that it is “concentrating” and “isolating.”[160]For so is necessarily every emotional wayof looking at things. Artistic treatment of nature, on the other hand, whether abortive or carried to completion, always involves an endeavour to make the concentrated and isolated view acceptable to others. As we cannot explain the creation of concrete works of art without reference to a craving for social expression, so we cannot distinguish the artistic from the non-artistic intuition without assuming a tendency—unconscious and unintentional it may be, but none the less powerful—to socialise the emotional content, which is connected with a given intuition. The potential poet or painter, whose embryo work is bound to remain for ever a fact only of his own experience, is seldom apt to realise the purpose of his endeavour; he is not aware that he is composing a poem or a picture for himself as spectator or audience. Instinctively, however, he pursues in the adjusting of his intuition an end which is essentially similar to that of the actually creating artist. In both these cases of creation the impelling motive is, we believe, an emotional one. And in both cases the creative activity aims at making an emotional mood independent of the accidental and individual conditions under which it originally appeared. Instead of an intuition, the emotional content of which is concentrated in a conventional symbol, comprehensible only to the initiated, or in arbitrary centres of association, significant only for those by whom they have been selected, the artistic imagination tries to construct an intuition which, if embodied in external form, would by its own force impress itself, with all its accompanying emotional elements, upon any spectator. It tends, in short, whether consciously or unconsciously, to perpetuate and to transmit a complex of feeling.
We may now understand why it is that the artisticactivity has so often been interpreted in an intellectualistic spirit. The search for an all-conditioning and all-explaining “faculté mère” by the help of which to convey in the most forcible way a representation of things and events, may, of course, easily be taken for an endeavour to discover the real nature of these things and events. And, in point of fact, every artist who has a true and keen eye for nature and life will necessarily light upon qualities which, while affording the most appropriate centre of gravity for his representation, are, also in the intellectualistic sense, explanatory of the subjects represented. By making every feature of his model converge towards this selected quality, he may thus produce an imitation which, even if it deviates from the visible reality, may appear truer than this reality itself. In proportion as his representation thus convinces us of its conformity with the actual or essential nature of things, it will, other things being equal, elicit a readier response from the spectator. It is only natural, therefore, that the very works which have exercised the most powerful influence on mankind should afford apparent support to the views of intellectualistic philosophers. Nor can it be wondered at that critics, in apportioning censure and praise, have attached so great an importance to the degree of exactness with which a work of art represents things or ideas.
Such an attitude on the part of art-judges becomes the more explicable when one takes into account the historical conditions under which the several forms of descriptive art have developed. Poetic and pictorial representation have both been extensively used for intellectual purposes. And it cannot be expected that the essential aims of artistic activity—as they appear to us when we theoretically distinguish this activity fromother forms of life—should be clearly comprehended as long as the concrete works serve a non-æsthetic purpose. In proportion, however, as more exact and convenient methods replace the poetic and pictorial means of thought-conveyance, art will become freer to realise its own ends and consequently be judged more and more on its intrinsic merits. As rhythmic form and rhyme gained in distinctly artistic character from the time when the invention of systems of writing relieved them from the mnemonic task of preserving a record of events, so an æsthetic emancipation of the formative arts will necessarily follow as a result of increased efficiency in the mechanical means of recording sights. And in point of fact recent movements in art have already shown us how painting has grown more conscious of its essential aims, from being compelled to give up competition with instantaneous photography.
It is only the most narrow forms, however, of naturalistically imitative art that are thus made superfluous by scientific inventions. Those artists whose aim is, not to attain the level of nature by servile imitation, but to rival it by idealisation, will always be able to point to their task of representingessentialqualities as one which remains for ever a prerogative of artistic production. But there are other signs which make us believe that even this form of intellectualistic purpose will gradually lose importance for creators as well as for spectators. The currents of thought which now prevail are scarcely such as to favour the continuance of professedly or covertly metaphysical doctrines of art. And even if philosophical opinion, which, after all, only has to do with the secondary justification of feelings and impulses, had remained unchanged ever since Hegel’s time, the changes which have taken place in the verypersonality of modern man could not but exercise an important influence on the production and estimation of art.
The intellectualistic illusion that every artistic representation has something to teach us about the essential nature of the things represented, can only arise on condition of there being a certain agreement between the world-view of the artist and that of his public. It presupposes a certain uniformity in the intellectual make of the individual creators and spectators. This condition, however, is fulfilled less than ever in modern life. By the influence of the increasing division of labour, characters become more and more differentiated; and these different characters naturally develop different ways of looking at things. The deviations from actual nature which are to be met with in the work of an individual artist have therefore a poor chance of convincing each individual spectator that they are in conformity with essential reality, as he is apt to conceive it from his individual point of view. Instead of the “eternal truths” so often spoken of in earlier æsthetic literature, we now read about the “illusions particulières” of the several artists. This sceptical attitude would of course exclude all vivid æsthetic life if the motives of artistic production and enjoyment were such as intellectualistic authors declare them to be. It cannot be observed, however, that the changed conceptions of art-activity have exercised any influence on the practice of artists. The same eagerness with which works were created when they were thought to represent the essential nature of things is now displayed by those who are endeavouring to produce works which often do not even pretend to give more than their personal impressions. And the critical public has shown itselfready to adopt a corresponding attitude in estimating the value of artistic manifestations. It no longer lays the chief stress on the intellectualistic requirement that artistic representation should be true to nature. It demands before all that the work of art should give a faithful rendering of the feelings with which the represented fragment of nature has been comprehended by the artist. Sincerity, as involving poetical truthfulness, thus becomes the chief claim which is set up for a work of modern art.
It may be objected that the principles of art-criticism which now prevail are too closely bound up with a transient movement to be adduced as proof in a discussion of art in general. When the contemporary current of subjectivism has been succeeded by new schools of art, the claim for objective veracity may again acquire greater importance. We have no desire to contend that such an evolution would be wholly regrettable. It is impossible in estimating works of art to put aside all logical and ethical considerations; and attachment to truth is too ineradicable an ethical instinct not to influence—consciously or unconsciously—our æsthetic judgments. But although it is neither possible nor desirable to exclude regard for intellectualistic elements, it may be theoretically advantageous to emphasise the distinct character of the æsthetic judgment. Modern criticism, as it has developed under the influence of modern subjective art, exhibits, we believe, the essentially artistic way of enjoying and estimating art. Although this attitude, owing to different influences, has been now more, now less, strictly maintained in various periods of art history, it has always been adhered to by all who enjoy art for its own sake. Whenever we regard a work of art without any secondary motive, we are not concerned with the objective realities which it depicts. We are not interested in the historic Laura whose praises we read in a poem. For all we care she may in reality have been lame, and red-haired, and hump-backed. We are quite contented if we receive a faithful impression of the beauty with which she charmed her poet.
When it has been proved that the rules governing the artistic adjustment of reality, which have been stated and vindicated on the basis of intellectualistic theories, may be equally well deduced from an emotionalistic interpretation, the argument can easily be extended so as to cover the principles governing the selection of subjects and motives for artistic representation. It is required in the Hegelian æsthetic that every single phenomenon which is represented in a work of art should suggest the presence of a greater and more universal idea.[161]In Goethe’s theory of style in art we meet with the same claim—which is closely connected with his general philosophy of nature—that every individual form or movement should have something to tell us about the world-process.[162]And when Taine tries to lay down a scale of gradation for the relative value of works of art, he assigns the highest place to those works in which the qualities exhibited are, firstly, as remarkable and essential as possible, and in which, secondly, these remarkable and essential qualities have been made as predominant as possible.[163]It can easily be seen that the reasoning which is here applied to the choice between different things is exactly the samewhich was used with regard to the different features of the same thing; and the psychological interpretation is, therefore, also the same in both cases. As the craving for the fullest and most adequate expression of an emotional state influences the artist in his representation of a given fragment of nature or life, so this craving must also influence his selection of the model to be represented. Owing to variations in temperament and æsthetic predilections the relative significance of these two aspects may be differently estimated in different art-schools. But the main principle cannot be invalidated by the fact that, for example, in French art and French æsthetic the definiteness is emphasised at the cost, perhaps, of richness, while in English art suggestiveness is often allowed to make up for lack of concentration.[164]A catholic theory must necessarily account for all the varying æsthetic ideals which have influenced artistic production. Although it must be considered as essentially non-æsthetic to contend, as Mr. Ruskin did at one time, that “that art is greatest which conveys to the mind of the spectator by any means whatsoever the greatest number of the greatest ideas,”[165]it must, on the other hand, be admitted that an individual thing is adequate as a means of conveying the fulness of feeling only if through this individual thing there can be suggested a multitude of other things recalled and represented.
Without assuming the philosophical principles from which Taine has derived his theory of the ideal in art, we may therefore understand and accept his scale of gradation of the relative value of works of art. Andsimilarly we may interpret in an emotionalistic way all the rules of artistic composition and of conventionalising treatment of nature which have been proposed by intellectualistic authors on æsthetic. The nude figure in painting and sculpture, as well as the simple mythological themes in poetry and literature, will thus for ever retain their pre-eminence as subjects of artistic treatment. But this pre-eminence does not depend for its justification upon the fact that they give us an incarnation of the philosophical notion of the ideal man. It is sufficiently accounted for by their power of conveying a fuller and richer emotional content than any individually defined motive. Thus it can be explained why even spectators who have almost completely outgrown—or, if the expression is preferred, have fallen away from—idealistic ways ofthoughtare nevertheless ready to appreciate the idealisticfeelingin the art of Puvis de Chavannes.
It cannot be denied, however, that those motives which in the Hegelian æsthetic are considered as beautifulpar excellencehave been relatively neglected in modern art. To some extent this circumstance may be explained by the notion which is gaining more and more ground in the public mind—to wit, that in every single phenomenon we may see arésuméof the whole process of evolution. For it is evident that a spectator who has once adopted this philosophical way of looking at things may find even a well-represented piece of still-life quite as rich and æsthetically saturated as a painting of the most universal motive. A more important cause, however, is to be found in the fact that modern art, when endeavouring to convey large and full contents by single vehicle-impressions, has learned to avail itself of vehicles which cannot, properly speaking, be called either typical or representative. In literature especially we may observe that authors dwell with instinctive predilection on the description of scenes and events which open our eyes to large views behind them. It would be impossible to characterise all such favourite motives as beautiful; it is also often difficult to show that there is any general idea embodied in them. But they have invariably the quality of being emotional centres, in which a multiplicity of feelings and sensations has been united. By this quality they become apt to serve the purposes which are essential to the artistic craving; and by the same quality they satisfy the requirement of fullest possible enjoyment which is made by the spectator. What we demand of the perfect work of art is—to resort to an often-used image—that it shall be as a shell, which we may lift in our hand and bring to our ear, but in which, notwithstanding its smallness, we may hear the roaring and singing of the sea.