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copyRIGHT, 1926, BY DoubleDAY, PAs E
& COMPANY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED,
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE
COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
FIRST EDITION
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Y ACKNOWLEDGMENT and thanks
are due to those whose names are
given below, who have so kindly supplied
illustrative matter and permitted its repro-
duction.
The wealth of material placed within
reach of the student by such houses as
Alnari, Anderson, Bulloz, Druet, and others
is something for which we can never be too
thankful.
Similarly, the unrivalled facilities offered
by the Metropolitan Museum of New York,
the Victoria and Albert Museum, and others
for the photographic study of the vast field
of art that is not included in Painting and
Sculpture should be trumpeted throughout
the remotest hamlet. Everybody to-day
can have the nucleus of an art gallery at
small expense—at least in tone values.
Unobtainable from any other source,
some of the modern illustrations have been
culled from the magazines listed below,
into the pages of which flow sooner or later
every worthwhile manifestation of art in the
two hemispheres.
To all these, I tender my grateful thanks.
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
Victoria and Albert Museum, London.
Musée des Arts Décoratifs.
Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
Archives Photographiques, Paris.
F. Alnari, Florence.
D. Anderson, Rome.
G. Brogi, Florence.
Bulloz, Paris.
Druet, Paris
Also to Miss B. Boas, Alfred Stieglitz,
Eric Gill, Baldwin Coolidge Boston, Alex
Archipenko, Arthur Young, Fred King, J. B.
Neumans, Prof. Franz Cizek, and the
editors of
International Studio, New York.
The Studio, London.
The Arts Magazine, New York.
The Art Worker, London.
Die Kunst, Munich.
Art et Décoration, Paris.

C O N TENTS
Page
In Explanation e gº g te g * * e tº º g . xix
Chapter
I. Art and Life © & º . . . e e * * , © tº I
II. What Is Beauty?. ſº tº tº * ge ſº g * • wº 6
III. Essentials . tºp gº e tº sº º tº tº & * * ... II
IV. Line, Space, and Notan º ſº e & º tº g tº . I5
W. Rhythm and Other Things . . . * > * ſº e ſº º . I&
VI. Art Structure in the Minor Arts . e g sº ſe ſº sº . 25
VII. Art Structure in Architecture º * * • • wº * . 30
VIII. Art Structure in Sculpture . ge & wº & gº tº gº . 35
DK. Art Structure in Painting . * § • & g º . 42
X. For the Layman in Search of a Theory * e tº g . . SI
Introduction to Plates . ſº sº g e e * > * e * . 63
LIST OF PLATES
PAGE
PLATE I. Simple Line Analysis of Sixteen Compositions . . . . . . . . 65
I. Gill.
2. Marchand.
3. Nash
4. Bourdelle.
5. John.
6. Beato Angelico.
7. Blake.
8. Delville.
9. Rodin.
Io. Reni.
II. Sargent.
12. Nicholson.
I3. East.
I4. Rousseau.
I5. Thomas.
I6. Watson.
PLATE II. Line and Space . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
I. Cocks, various.
2. Late Florentine Relief.
3. Egyptian Relief, Late Old Empire.
4 and 5. Two Treatments of a Rectangle.
6. Main Lines of Modern Design.
7. Acanthus: Traditional usage.
8 and 9. Vase Contours, Occidental and Oriental.
Io, II, and I2. Lines within a Rectangle.
PLATE III. Line and Mass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
I. American “Colonial” Doorway.
2. Taj Mahal.
3. “William and Mary” Chest on Stand.
4. Pier at Rheims, (circa 1225).
5. Italian Chair Leg, 16th Century.
6. West Façade, Notre Dame.
7. Chair Leg, Louis XVI.
8. French Gothic Panelling, 15th Century.
English Cottage, Late 16th Century.
Pavilion, Paris, 1925.
City Gate, Munich.
St. George’s Hall, Liverpool.
:
:
LIST OF PLATES xii
PAGE
PLATE IV. Line and Mass . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
I. The Kutab Minar, Delhi.
The Tom Tower, Oxford.
Southwest Tower, Chartres.
The Proposed Pittsburgh University.
Palazzo Verzi, Verona.
Sheldon Hotel, New York.
:
PLATE W. Light-and-Dark—Silhouette and Shapes . . . . . . . . . 81
I. Woodcut by Eric Gill.
2. English Brass, 1415 A. D.
3. Booksellers' Marks, German, 20th Century.
1 to 9 Details in three values from:
(1) Masolino; (2) Greek Vase, 5th Century B. C.; (3) Toyokuni; (4) Suzanne Valadon;
(5) Moreau; (6) Matisse; (7) Modern Portrait; (8) French Primitive; (9) 17th Century
Italian.
PLATE WI. Light-and-Dark—Simple Values, More Shapes . . . . . . . 85
I. Woodcut, F. Walloton.
2. Screen, Korin.
3. Greek Vase, 5-4th Century B. C.
4. Woodcut, Nicholson.
5. Woodcut, E. Heckel.
6. Linoleum Cut. Arthur Young.
A, B, C, G, H, K–Details in Silhouette.
PLATE VII. Notan–Landscape, 18th to 20th Century. . . . . . . . . . 89
Derain.
Corot.
Cotman.
Mauve.
Gainsborough.
Marin.
i
PLATE VIII. Notan—Various Compositions, Modern (three or four Values) . . 93
I and 4. Derain.
2 and 3. De Segonzac.
5. Moreau.
6. De la Fresnaye.
PLATE IX. Notan—Figure Composition (three Values) . . . . . . . . 97
I. Giotto.
2. Michelangelo.
3. Cézanne.
xiii
Fantin Latour.
Courbet.
Dean Cornwell.
Lefebvre.
Eugene Savage.
:
PLATE X. Notan—Full Values, Various Compositions. Painting Class, Teachers
College
Olive Riley.
Florence Mitchell.
Maryhelen Byers.
Jessie Paul.
Florence Mitchell.
Lynd Ward.
Fred. King.
Grace Riblet.
Anonymous
|
LIST OF PLATES
PAGE
IOI
PLATE XI. Compositions—Various. Line and Notan and Other Values . . . Ios
Portraits by a Child.
Russian Primitive.
Portrait by Matisse.
Decoration, Georgia O'Keeffe.
Composition, “The Storm,” School of Franz Cizek.
Still life, School of Franz Cizek.
Fresnaye.
Picasso.
Lalapie.
PLATE XII. Composite—Major and Minor Arts
Japanese Print.
Venetian Lace, about 16oo.
Stained Glass, R. Seewald.
The Temptation, Flemish, Jan Mabuse.
Still Life, Marsden Hartley.
Woodcut.
Velours. Asia Minor.
i
PLATE XIII. Composite—Major and Minor Arts
Hispano-Moorish Tile.
Cotman, Landscape.
Metal Disc, Merovingian.
Persian Pot.
French Primitive.
i
IO9
II3
LIST OF PLATES
xiv.
Coptic Embroidery
Inlay Marble, Italian, 14th Century.
Greek Vase, 5th Century B. C.
Small Iron Grille, Gothic, 14th Century.
:
PLATE XIV. Minor Arts—Repetition and Rhythm.
I. Gold Disc, Egypt, 6th Century.
2. Linen Fold Panels, Flemish, 15th Century.
3. Door Knocker, Late Gothic German, 17th Century.
4 and 6. Italian Pavements, 13th Century.
5. “Della Robbia” Heraldic Panel, A. D. 1512.
7, 8, and 9. Spanish Tiles, Glazed, I'7th Century.
PLATE XV. Minor Arts—Line and Notan
I. Wood Panel, Gothic, French, 14th Century.
2, 3, and 4. French Lockplates, I5th Century.
Spanish Lockplate, 16th Century.
Chinese Bowl.
Italian Brocade, 15th Century.
Venetian Lace, I'7th Century.
Ivory Crozier, French, 12th Century.
:
PLATE XVI. Minor Arts. Furniture—Line and Proportion .
I. Sheraton Chair, 18th-19th Century.
2. Queen Anne Stool, circa 1715.
3. Hepplewhite Chair, late 18th Century.
4. Stuart Chair, circa 1685.
5. Louis Quinze Bergère, Middle 18th Century.
6. Stuart Child’s Chair, circa 1685.
PLATE XVII. Industrial Art—Line and Space .
Early American Silver.
Lanchester Car, 40 h.p.
Hot Water Jug, Dryad Works.
Cottage Dresser, Heal & Son.
Bronze Doors, Crittal Freeman.
Dressing Chest, Palmer Jones.
i
PLATE XVIII. Minor Arts and Sculpture—Line and Notan
Greek Helmet.
Amida, Kamakura Period.
French Helmet, 14th Century.
Cypriote Vase.
Head of Ephebus, from Olympia.
Greek Black Figure Vase.
i
PAGE
II7
I2 I
I25
I29
I33
XV
PLATE XIX. Minor Arts—Line and Notan .
I. Japanese Fan.
2. Sung Vase, A. D. 960–1280.
PLATE XX. Architecture—Romanesque and Gothic
I. S. Door, St. Pierre at Aulnay, 12th Century.
Romanesque Arch, 12th Century.
Royal Doorway, Chartres.
Finial, Chartres, 13th Century.
Cluster of Pillars, 13th Century French.
Romanesque Capital, 13th Century French.
PLATE XXI. Architecture
Temple of Neptune, Paestum.
Temple of Nike Apteros, Athens.
Parthenon, Athens.
Hindu Sculpture, Odeypore.
Donatello. Musicians' Gallery, Florence.
Butter Tower, Rouen.
PLATE XXII. Architecture and Sculpture . . . .
:
i
I and 3. Winchester Cathedral, 12th and 14th Century—Arches.
2. French Canopied Seat, circa 15oo.
4. Chinese Figures in Wood, T'ang, A. D. 6oo.
5. French Panelling, 15th Century.
6. French Gothic Sculpture, 12th Century.
PLATE XXIII. Sculpture—Comparative
I. Kwannon, Wood, Japanese, 672–686 A. D.
2. Tanagra, 4th Century, Greek.
3. Alexander Archipenko, Woman’s Torso, marble.
4. Leon Underwood, Woman’s Torso.
5. Ivan Mestrovic, Distant Chords.
6. Frank Dobson, Woman’s Torso.
7. Maillol, Pomona.
8. Rodin, The Old Putain. *
9. Maillol, Striding Woman. -
PLATE XXIV. Sculpture—Comparative .
French Capitol, 12th Century.
West African Mask.
Zadekine.
I. Rodin.
2. Cecil Howard.
3. Greek, Early 5th Century B. C.
4. Gérôme.
5. Alexander Archipenko.
6.
7.
8.
LIST OF PLATES
PAGE
I37
I4I
I45
I49
I53
I57
LIST OF PLATES
xvi.
PLATE XXV. Greek Sculpture—6th to 3d Century B. C.
Archaic Figure, Athens, 6th Century B. C.
Throne of Venus, Rome, 5th Century.
Esquiline Venus, Rome.
Theseus, East Pediment of Parthenon, 5th Century B. C.
Votive Statue, Man and Calf, Athens, 6th Century B. C.
Charioteer, East Pediment, Olympia, 5th Century B. C.
i
PLATE XXVI. Sculpture—Modern
I and 2. Alfred Lorcher.
3. Marcel Gimond.
4. Wilhelm Lehmbruck.
5. Franz Metzuer.
6. Georg Kolbe.
PLATE XXVII. Sculpture—Greek and Gothic .
I. French Gothic, Late 13th Century, Louvre.
2. Dancing Figures, Delphi, 5th Century.
3. Venus, Rome, Greek, Late 5th Century.
PLATE XXVIII. Sculpture—Greek Renaissance and Modern
I. Greek, 4th Century. Youth.
2. Michelangelo, Unfinished Statue.
3. Maillol. Sitting Woman.
PLATE XXIX. Painting—Comparative Details .
Duccio.
Pompeian Fresco.
Beato Angelico.
Veronese.
El Greco.
Domenico Morelli.
Roualt.
Pier della Francesca.
Anonymous.
PLATE XXX. Painting and Drawing
Arthur Dove, Decorative Painting.
Robert, Portrait.
Georgia O'Keeffe, Decorative Painting.
Matisse, Sitting Woman.
Rembrandt, Sleeping Woman, Brush Drawing.
Japanese Horse. “Fumpon.”
Boar Galloping, Cave of Altimira.
i
PAGE
I6I
I65
I69
I73
177
I8I
xvii
PLATE XXXI. Painting and Sculpture—Decadent
Padovanino, Orpheus and Eurydice.
Berini, Daphne and Apollo.
Allori, Judith and Holofernes.
The Farnese Bull, detail.
Guido Reni, Atlanta.
Dalou, Bacchus, detail.
i
PLATE XXXII. Painting—Italian.
Pier della Francesca.
Italian Primitive, School of Giotto.
Botticelli, Detail of Spring.
Leonardo da Vinci, St. Jerome.
Michelangelo, Detail of the Flood.
Titian, The Original Sin.
i
PLATE XXXIII. Painting—Four Heads
I. Leonardo da Vinci, Uffizi.
2. Michelangelo, Lybian Sybil, Sistine.
3. Botticelli, Detail of Spring, London.
4. Bellini, Louvre.
PLATE XXXIV. Painting—Modern . . . .
I. Matisse.
2. Degas.
3. Renoir.
4. Van Gogh.
PLATE XXXV. Painting—Landscape, 19th and 20th Centuries
Gloucester Cathedral, Peter de Wint.
Houses, Vlaminck.
Liber Studiorum Plate 2. J. M. W. Turner.
Woodland Glade, Cézanne.
:
PLATE XXXVI. Painting
I. Pieta, School of Avignon, French Primitive.
2. The Entombment, Titian.
LIST OF PLATES
PAGE
I85
189
I93
I97
2OI
205
IN EXPLANATION
T IS not to those who have boldly selected
a candidate or school for their suffrage
that these pages are written; they are
offered to those who hesitate between a dull
content with academic styles and a rash
choice amidst the various 'isms of to-day.
The old standards are gone, and with
them the tame acceptance of pedantic dog-
mas. Art to-day is happily so various in its
manifestations that each one may make a
personal selection, though the choice is a
matter of some difficulty to the amateur.
For something more than two centuries
Tradition built up a dam, holding back the
main current of art, which milled around
in sluggish eddies.
To-day, in a hundred places, the dam is
Cracking. In trickles or in torrents the
pent-up energies are bursting through to
irrigate the desert. Who knows into what
channel the main current will eventually
flow—to be dammed again in some future
generation when the creative urge is
spent?
What I have attempted is to provide a
flexible instrument with which the amateur
and student may examine and appraise each
characteristic phase of art—ancient or
modern.
...” I anticipate no fatally unanimous agree-
ment with the definitions set out in the fol-
lowing chapters.
The principles enlarged upon are those
formulated by the late Professor Arthur
W. Dow in his well-known “Composition.”
They are incorporated here in a form that
will enable the non-professional reader to
grasp with ease the fundamentals of art
Structure.
The chapters are intended to be progres-
sive, leading from simple definitions toward
the more sensitive generalizations that
provide the only medium in which apprecia-
tion can reach its full development, or that
is capable of embracing the widely divergent
forms of modern art.
In the preface to an interesting monograph
upon the mechanical basis of Beato Angeli-
cos compositions occurs this exhortation:
“Let us then for the love of art conduct our
research with no less scientific thorough-
ness”—i. e., no less than that employed
by the mathematician or chemist. At the
other extreme we see a director of an im-
portant public gallery [the Tate] confessing
in the daily press that governors “buy con-
servatively—not knowing what kind of art
may be in vogue to-morrow.” Heaven pre-
serve us from either extremity.
What we hope to furnish in the following
pages is a corridor, a halfway house, a
transition, that shall leave the reader front-
ing the many-faceted art of to-day with some
degree of confidence in his or her own judg-
Iment.
The iconoclasts of the 20th Century have
done a rarely intelligent job; they have over-
thrown only the false gods—Graeco-Roman
divinities, Neo-Classic humbugs, and pretty
tinsel idols of the 18th and 19th centuries.
Thanks to their efforts it is not so difficult
to survey the undying past and compare it
with the living present.
To some readers, already habituated to
startling theories, the illustrations may ap-
pear orthodox, but they should be taken in
conjunction with the brief comments upon
them. As for the others, I hope that after a
IN EXPLANATION
XX
not-too-painful study of the text and plates,
those who still cling to the bad old past will
feel freed from doctrinaire or academic
creeds, yet not quite despoiled of all their
lares and penates. And if here and there
the text smacks of advice I would apologize
in the words of a prince of pedagogues,
for “I give you none that is inconsistent
with your pleasures.”
Acknowledgments to those who have so
kindly supplied illustrative material will
be found at the back of the book. My
thanks are due to all my colleagues in the
Fine Arts Department of Teachers College.
\\
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As to those outside from whom I have bor-
rowed ideas, it may not be invidious to men-
tion names, but a suspicion prevails that in
Some quarters it might be deprecated.
Specifically, the book owes its inception to
the encouragement of my friend, Dr. I. L.
Kandel, and I am particularly obliged to
Dr. George Boas of Johns Hopkins for a
Criticism of the proof.
G. J. C.
Fine Arts Dept.
Teachers College.
Columbia University.

S. L'
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ART AND LIFE
#
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99
If mankind is in revolt to-day, it is against
conditions which have grown more cruel not to
the body but to the soul. The real goad of
human discontent is not that life is hard, but
that it is not beautiful.—J. L. GARVIN.
T FIRST sight it seemed a simple
matter to write a few pertinent and
pleasant pages upon a subject that holds
Such a persistent attraction for mankind
as art.
Its all-pervasiveness, the tenacity with
which it has fastened upon humanity from
Cro-Magnon days, the creative urge of
which it speaks and the love of beauty of
which it cries aloud; all these truths should
help to smooth the path of any writer intent
upon assisting himself and others to a fuller
joy and understanding of art.
At the outset we prayed to be delivered,
in the name of art, from the didactic note;
yet even in the first chapter, the pedagogue
that lurks within us all rears his head to
emit platitude and truism.
The trouble is that the gospel of art
appreciation needs zeal, which at times
begets a solemn habit not altogether cal-
culated to convince others that beauty is
its own excuse for being. But our intention
is to prove that love of art is a sure guide
to life, and art itself at once a medium and
a tool that can fill in the gaps and round
out the contours of our decidedly lopsided
civilization.
* T iſºl.
CHAPTER I
This is by way of apology for any tedious
patches that may follow, and a promise to
confine such solemnities to this first chapter.
In any casual review of things as they are
to-day, we find that despite the heartening
advance in The Visual Arts made during the
last decade, there are multitudes of cities
and towns in which the only beauty left to
us is that of the dawn or the sunset.
Countless myriads pass their lives amidst
drab utilitarian things, each one of which
exerts an impalpable yet cumulative and
irresistible influence upon the inner being.
These myriads are tolerably nourished
and adequately clothed; in the main they
are housed with sanitation; yet, being more
than biological specimens, they cannot live
by bread alone.
Man is still a creature of moods and
passions, desires and aspirations. His
physical well-being and his mental health
are yet bound up with the intangible things
of the spirit. And it is to these incorporeal
and immortal parts that Art ministers.
All very platitudinous, without a doubt,
but it is neglect of such palpable truths that
makes the average industrial city an eye-
sore from suburb to centre.
When we inquire more closely into the
functions of art in everyday life we are at
once impressed by the universality of its
appeal.
Even the most degraded and insensitive

ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 2
respond to art almost as readily as they do
to music. The increasingly common malady
of the “sick soul” is peculiarly susceptible
to treatment by its aid.
The artist and neuropath have already
established contact and have before them
an impressive array of facts. We know
sufficient to prove that almost every visible
thing affects the subconscious for good
or ill, in greater or lesser degree. It is
now a commonplace of information to say
that certain colours have a beneficial and
others a retarding effect upon the progress
of shell-shocked or nerve-shattered patients.
Cases are at times recorded in which sub-
jects are so sensitized to the optical appeal
that they experience actual nausea in the
presence of ugly things; and those not such
as are ordinarily repulsive to the average
person.
The exact reactions of form and colour
upon the mind present an interesting field
for investigation by the psychologist, who
is already delving into these immaterial
mazes, and will doubtless solve the mystery
in due course.
We may be assured that each one of us,
in greater or lesser degree, is susceptible
to these subtle controls. All of us, before
the natural habit of self-protection calloused
our aesthetic perceptions, instinctively
sought beauty—stretched forth a tiny hand
to grasp the sunbeam or the bubble.
Disregarding such connections, which to
some may savour more of the psychic than
the aesthetic, we cannot, after a glance at the
history of art, deny that it is man's nat-
ural heritage.
We see it adhering to him all down the
ages, an invaluable entail from his savage
ancestors. Though at times, and at none
more so than at present, he seems bent
upon dissipating the legacy, it clings to him
still.
It coheres because life itself is still an art
and not yet a mechanical formula. And in
the fullest sense the plastic arts make power-
ful articulations with morality and religion.
The connection need not be unduly
stressed, but in its recurrent rise and fall
as a force in man’s life it has always been a
sign of spiritual health or decay.
The ages that have produced great art
have been commonly marked by a parallel
resurgence of the humanities. This is to
be observed in Greece and even in Egypt,
in mediaeval Europe and Renaissance Italy.
This spirit, which refuses to be narrowed
to any creed, shaped men’s efforts to fine
ends. The Greeks expressed it in the
succinct phrase, “the good and the beauti-
ful.” The mediaeval cathedral builder ex-
ercised it in a devotion which glorified God
and indulged his passionate delight in crafts-
manship.
Art is indeed the only form of worship
that unites mankind, for all the warring
sects have a common ritual here, and its
practice has sent roots so deep into the
texture of life that to stifle such aspirations
is to jeopardize the soul.
And so art remains even to-day a religion
to the artist. Though he shows scant
respect for sacerdotal trappings and makes
no attempt to proselytize, yet every true
artist has something of the messianic fire;
the fire that is rarely seen until put out.
Often ridiculed as a visionary, indulging
himself in imaginary passions, he is more
often a realist who refuses to be contami-
nated by outward forms.
For the true artist life is always a dis-
cipline. Sensing the intimate connection
between the spiritual and the physical
3
health of man, he persists in spite of dis-
enchantment. At his best he scorns rewards,
for he has seen “the artist's vision of life
as an adventure, a challenge, lovely and
harsh, fleeting and strange.” We speak
now of the artist, not of the contriver of
Rnick-knacks, the peddler of leaky pots or
the latitudinarian bedecked in batik. He
resembles these as little as he does the
raffish conception of the movie manager.
He believes in living life to the full but he
also believes in sanity and balance, in self-
imposed restraint, in order and arrange-
ment.
Art or Beauty, or whatever term we use
to denote the spirit, loathes slums and
industrial deserts, ugly churches, jerry-
built houses, gimcrack furniture and cheap
jewellery as much as it despises empty
pictures, tawdry drama, or vacant rhyme.
It knows that all such things are inseparably
connected, that mean streets, on the whole,
breed mean citizens.
Hence the clash of the artist and the
“practical man.” The latter, the “pro-
gressive,” hugs these things to his bosom.
Steeped in the ethics of business, shaped
by the traditions or a hard commercial
exploitation, his taste hopelessly degraded
by contact with machine-made things pro-
duced merely to sell, the “practical man”
walks in a twilight that is not of the gods.
At this point the fair question will take
form: What are we going to do about it all?
The only thing to do is to educate the young,
even if it costs something.
Another platitude, so we make haste to
Say that artists too should take a little inter-
est in education and then we may be blessed
with more men of the stamp of Arthur
Dow or Franz Cizek.
The ideal teacher is no mistaken bigot.
ART AND LIFE
He or she realizes the necessity for modern
mechanical development, for mass produc-
tion and labour-saving devices; is aware
of the futility of the desire to return to
mediaeval crafts, and is too clear-sighted
to indulge in romantic make-believe. In
short, he is sensible of the limitations of
art, yet believes that, like faith, it may move
mountains.
Any observer, taking a perspective view
of the last hundred years, will be convinced
that the mountain begins to move already.
In the last century man directed his energies
toward the mastery of matter. He neglected
the cathedral, but abolished the plague;
whilst he dressed hideously he insisted
upon sanitation.
We may observe him, brushing aside
such seemingly trivial professions as the
arts, embracing science with hitherto un-
known ardour. After bending steam, gas,
and electric energy to his will, he proceeded
to delve into the mysteries of life and death.
He investigates disease, discovers germs
and serums, glands and functions un-
dreamed-of before. Lastly he explores
the recesses of the mind and boldly pushes
on into the realms of the spirit.
^ As was natural, amidst all this feverish
activity, Beauty stood apart and neglected.
The materialistic and commercial plebs,
intent upon exploiting the discoveries of the
savants, attempted to prostitute her in
their service, but she fled them and took
refuge in the hamlets of the peasant and the
tents of the Savage.
Evidently conscious of his shortcomings,
we observe the Victorian indulging in
“Expositions” in London, Paris, Chicago,
and other cities, at which art, such as it
was, appears as an insipid sauce added as
an afterthought to an unappetizing dish.
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 4.
Cast-iron enormities, stuccoed insincerities,
furniture, pottery, printing, and weaving,
et al., claim kinship with art because their
forms are hidden under a mass of mere-
tricious ornament. Craft movements, di-
vorced from actuality, wax and wane.
Meanwhile, commerce goes on piling
up factory and slum and a fabulous wealth,
and with wealth comes leisure, without
which there can be no true appreciation.
Rich men collect bric-à-brac, the antique
comes into fashion, and here and there a
rare plutocrat actually understands some-
thing about beauty, or at least has the sense
to delegate the acquisition of his art treas—
ures to someone who does.
Presently we observe art, often patheti-
cally bedizened, creeping back into the homes
of the rich, displacing the cast-iron fauna,
the plush-covered chairs, overwrought black
walnut, and cut-glass chandeliers, the over-
mantel, the “what—not,” and the heavens
know what.
And in the sphere of commerce art makes
an almost unnoticed entry. Just as soon
as the manufacturer had given up all hope
of making a scullion of her, she reëntered
the factory and put her sign upon products
that seemed to have not the remotest
affinity with her.
Machinery, built solely to function, put
on an austere beauty directly it functioned
superbly.
The manufacturer found, somewhat to
his amazement, that art was not entirely
divorced from utility. He observed that
a pitcher which poured without dripping was
usually a more finely shaped pitcher, just
as an automobile with beautiful lines was a
speedier automobile.
He soon discovered that a fine pattern
upon a rug was as easily woven as a bad
one and sold better, so that even the dullest
were put in the way of conversion.
Already great achievements are to chron-
icle. The engineer, whose pure science
makes contact with the art of the architect,
has been called in to redress the balance
upset by the commercial speculator, the
builder of slums and slovenly factories.
We see bridges and railway terminals
clothing themselves in majesty and beauty.
The architect rises to the heights of his great
profession, and with soaring magic trans-
forms the skylines of the city.
At one end of the scale Chartres is re-
placed by the Chamber of Commerce; at
the other end we see such utilities as bath
taps and aluminum kettles, wash basins
and window fastenings approach the simple
contours and absolute fitness of the utensils
of the “savage.”
T With but a little stretch of the **)
we may visualize the day when Art and
Industry will go forward together, Industry
no longer barren of beauty and Art no
longer forced to live upon her patrimony.
A closer scrutiny is apt to weaken such
an optimistic prediction, for man still hugs
his chains, and all this filters down very
slowly to the masses.
Our newspapers, with few exceptions,
our posters and advertisements are still
things of horror; our theatres in the main
are decorated in execrable taste. Though
our furnishings become more comely and
our stores more stuffed with rich goods,
we may still travel many miles of city
streets and see little to gladden the eye or
lift the heart. Now that wishes are flivvers,
it is high time that art was also put within
the reach of the poor man.
There is little cause for unctuous satis-
faction when we think how man has de-
5
clined from the Parthenon to the Pit Head,
being so hard put to it that he extracts a
sad consolation from the desolate beauty,
compound of mist and smoke and plangent
sun, that mercifully weaves about the hide-
ous freight yard or the mining town.
But the spirit of beauty cannot be inter-
minably enmeshed, and the times seem
ripe for a change.
Yet only those who work with something
of the Franciscan spirit can hope to assist in
the conversion. The apostles of art need
tough hides as well as sensitive souls.
Philistines sit in the seats of the mighty.
ÍMen dead to every aesthetic thrill are to
be encountered in academic halls.
The utilitarian must be shown the dollar
mark without which, to his limited intellect,
no product is genuine. Inertia and indif-
ference must be faced, and no practical
application is to be despised. Yet the
abounding good and lasting worth of art
appreciation for both old and young is that
it points out a lovelier way to life.
It gives to all a means of living more
beautifully and more abundantly.
And now, having assigned such a lofty
rôle to art, I would in turn disavow any claim
to usher in the millennium at the end of
the book.
Love of art, like any other, extracts an
occasional penalty for the boons it grants,
and appreciation and enjoyment are not to
be had for the asking. Pleasures must be
earned before they can be tasted.
The following chapters are but endeavours
to point out certain immutable laws and
establish certain definite standards. There
is no attempt to write around the various
illustrations or give egregious explanations.
The reader sensitive to beauty can dis-
ART AND LIFE
pense with the aid of a critic solely intent
upon expressing himself in luxuriant
prose.
Finally there is no design to standardize
rules and ignore the personal equation that
will always assert itself, often with ad-
vantage and always with justification.
You will not always like the things I
admire, nor I altogether appreciate the
works you care for supremely, for happily
it is “. ordained for each one spot
should prove beloved over all.”
A world agreed to accept the rulings of
any one authority, school or critic—of which
eventuality there is not the slightest reason
to fear—such a world would deprive itself
of much diverse colour and richness, and
of much helpful argument.
There is not, nor can there be, any set
formula for judging things that must be
felt as much as understood. Yet given an
understanding of art structure we shall
neither of us display unseemly emotion
over a magazine cover, mistake the senti-
mental for the aesthetic appeal, or confuse
subject with interpretation and tolerate
again the saccharine inanities of the 19th
Century.
All that is claimed for art structure is that
it provides an aesthetic tonic to tide one
over the period of growing pains in the
study of art. It purifies the taste, streng–
thens the understanding, and enriches life
itself. That is all it can do; and it is
enough.
If instead of a respect for unwritten
and unwriteable laws we substitute an
attorney-like search for flaws, or seek
interpretations that regard the letter and
not the spirit, we shall wear art structure
threadbare and only succeed in stripping
art of all mystery and power.
VVHAT IS EEAUTYP
CHAPTER II
To define beauty, not in the most abstract,
but in the most concrete terms possible, to find
not a universal formula for it, but the formula
which expresses most adequately this or that
special manifestation of it, is the aim of the
true student of aesthetics.—WALTER PATER.
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
—KEATS.
Truth is the shattered mirror strown
In myriad bits; while each believes
His little bit the whole to own.—BURTON.
HE answer to the question, What is
beauty? has had throughout the ages
a rich variety of definition. Beauty, itself
immortal and protean, has assumed by
turns a classic purity, a Byzantine austerity,
and a Gothic animation, but its light
illuminated the workers of the early Renais-
sance much as it lighted, though with less
brilliance, the path of the colonial craftsmen
of America. The more it changed down
the centuries the more it remained the same
thing. To Phidias and Michael Angelo
beauty was deified in the human form.
Suger worshipped beauty in a vast cathe-
dral, much as a Sung potter loved it in an
exquisite bowl, Constable in a quiet land-
scape, an Indian in a patterned blanket.
In all its manifold ebullitions it is the ex-
pression of man’s joy in life, his ecstasy
in creation.
The answer to the question will then de-
pend upon time and place, and no exactitude
is possible, but a knowledge of art structure
will enable us to recognize the kindred
attributes of beauty running through Oc-
cidental and Oriental art, as through Poly-
nesian and North American craft work.
They who instinctively react to fine art
need no definition, but the vast number of
potential converts must be given some de-
scription of the characteristics of beauty.
A slight examination of previous defini-
tions emphasizes the futility of any attempt
to be didactic.
The wise men who in the past have de-
bated the question have defined it in various
forms, moulded by their philosophies and
coloured by the ideals of their times. The
Greeks of the 5th Century B.C. could con-
ceive of no beauty without order, balance,
and arrangement. Plato in his discourses
links together the good and the beautiful.
He indicates a belief in the mechanical
basis of beauty.
In the Middle Ages men, under the power-
ful stimulus of the Church and religion,
manifested their understanding of beauty
in countless ways, but were little given to
writing upon aesthetics. About 1600 A.D.
we find Bacon writing, “There is no excel-
lent beauty that hath not a strangeness in
the proportion.” That seems a happy
definition, for beauty is at the opposite pole
from the commonplace. Goethe says in
effect that words are inadequate to express
the meaning of beauty, but insists that
attempts to do so help the understanding.

Schopenhauer has recorded some clear
thoughts upon the subject, though he, like
all the others, cannot exactly define such
an evasive quality. He says that all things,
in nature, animate or inanimate, are beauti-
ful if we can look upon them objectively.
Association of thought sometimes hinders
the perception of beauty; that we derive
pleasure and enjoyment from the beautiful
—apart from any connection it has with our
personal aims; that we can appreciate only
through our intelligence, not through our
will.
The psychologist says that a thing is
beautiful through its harmony with our
senses. In short, it moves and thrills
us inasmuch as we can enter into its
spirit. The modern expert in aesthetics is
inclined to hold the opinion that the eyes
and instincts alone understand and ap-
preciate art. Each investigator gives us
some clue and all together help to build
up a truthful definition of that elusive yet
palpable thing we call beauty. Happily, we
do not need to worry about the psychology
of beauty, all we need to be able to do is
to apprehend it, and proclaim it when we
see it; and, not less, to condemn its absence.
Yet there are so many who are insensitive,
who are not moved or pleased in the pres–
ence of things beautiful, it is imperative
that those who can feel its power should be
able to explain, as clearly as may be, just
what arrangements of line and form, tone
and colour have for them particular signifi-
cance; even, if possible, to indicate some-
thing of their reactions.
Then we must also remember that some
may react to trivial art, as to poor music
or doggerel verse, and so at first, at the
risk of dullness, we shall have to stress those
qualities for which we must look, and without
WHAT IS BEAUTY2
which a picture or a statue, a rug or a vase,
though faultlessly made and technically per-
fect, may fail to reach the standards of fine
art.
The definitions that are given in the fol-
lowing pages are advanced in the hope of
clearing up elementary doubts as to funda-
mentals.
With those incorruptibles who boldly
state that they “know what they like” (to
whom, variously, Turner, Whistler, and
Gauguin replied, “So does a cow”) and
those perfervid emotionalists to whom a
rule is a rank affront, we have no concern;
to the intelligent amateur who has already
developed the faculty of appreciation some
apology for rudimentary definitions may be
at times necessary. But they are intended
for those who admit, without shame, a de-
ficiency in their understanding of the plastic
arts—just as I candidly confess to an entire
ignorance of counterpoint, hydrodynamics,
and lots of other things—who at the same
time are interested enough to run through
these rudiments of art before posting on to
more attractive definitions and develop-
ments.
Lines and shapes and tones are compara-
tively simple matters to deal with; things
may be asserted about them with some show
of authority. It is the intangible and emo-
tional qualities, growing out of the infinite
variety of arrangements of these elements,
which we can only apprehend when we are
convinced of the need for such arrange-
ments, that are subject to no rules.
Roerich’s formula for the judgment of
beauty is: “Through intuition, upon the
basis of many personal experiences, without
conventionalities or prejudices.” Our defi-
nitions are for those who have let intuition
languish, as so many must.
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 8
“Rules,” says Robert Henri, “are only
for mechanics”; our rules are for the artisan
who will develop into a robust art lover.
Always we must remember the spirit: as
the mathematician, building upon fictitious
quantities, arrives at truth, conversely we
build out of rudimentary truths the intangi-
ble thing called beauty. It is at all times
necessary to liberate and restore intuitions
that have been overlaid and stifled, and if we
look upon our rules as crutches for crippled
perceptions, these will the sooner be found
to take flight unaided.
On top of all the rules must be the spirit,
the imagination; those impalpabilities of
which fine art is all compact.* “Tell me
where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in
the head?” In his sonnets Shakespeare
makes a shrewd guess at the seat of some at
least of the emotions ordinarily stirred by
beauty. Artists are still questing and doubt-
ing.
How many artists have wondered and
questioned where art has its home and have
striven hard to re-create beauty in their own
works. All have come to the conclusion
that beauty can be called forth only by the
imagination. The imagination that reaches
down into the essence of things—not the
sight that sees only the surface qualities,
pleasing though these may be. Keats in
his poetry repeatedly links beauty and truth.
In a letter he writes: “What the imagination
seizes as beauty must be truth.” Artist and
poets alike mean the inner and abiding truth.
To give our first simple illustration: if an
artist wishes to paint or carve a lion he may
go to a museum of natural history—too fre-
quently he does—and study mounted speci-
*The serious student, who desires something more than this
slight examination of an elusive and baffling quality, might begin
with Bosanquet’s “History of AEsthetic.”
mens. But his presentation will surely be
that of mere stuffed skin. He may make
sketches at the zoo, and so achieve more
“lifelike” results, but danger lies there
also, for superficial traits or anatomical de-
tail alone will fail hopelessly to conjure up an
idea of the power and majesty of the king
of beasts in the mind of the spectator. To
convey the suggestion of latent strength,
of springing muscle, of claw and fang, he
must study the lion at first hand. The an–
cient Assyrian, who hunted the lion with
bow and spear, knew how to depict him
with spirit in his bas-reliefs.
We do not suggest that to give adequate
expression to the subject the artist must go
lion-hunting. But he must be thinking of
those qualities that are typical of feline
power and ferocity, rather than of mane
and muscle, wrinkles and skin. He has the
whole of art history to study, and yet how
many modern lions lack the simple direct-
ness, the “terrific” qualities of an heraldic
“leopard,” whose creator had probably
never seen a lion yet cherished a clear con-
viction of leonine qualities and was not ham-
pered with ideas about truth to nature.
This is a digression, but it is this insistence
upon the spirit of the thing and not upon the
letter that is one of the chief attributes of
beauty or art. Before summing up with an
attempt lightly to define beauty, we will try
to answer another hackneyed phrase that
springs automatically to the lips of those who
do not understand or else derive little joy
from art.
That query invariably takes this form,
“What good is it?” The answer is, frankly,
“None, to the questioner, or to those sharing
his point of view.” When you read those
lines from Keats's “Ode on a Grecian Urn,”
at the top of this chapter, you did not demand
9
that they do something tangible or practical
for you. If you are sensitive to beauty they
pleased you, coloured your thoughts more
glowingly, left you, spiritually, a little—even
if never so little—refreshed. That was
their justification, and beauty needs none
other. Music, poetry, art, none contributes
directly to our physical and material well-
being. All we can say is that the non-
corporeal part of man, the psychic element,
is better for having read or heard or seen a
noble poem, a lovely strain of music, or a
work of fine art. Only a Philistine will de-
mand more. Schopenhauer has a charming
little parable in which he likens the rôle of
the fine arts in life to that of the poppy, the
cornflower, and the daisy amidst the long
stems of the wheat. But for their presence
there would be only a wilderness of stalks.
The farmer may justly take exception here,
but the poet would agree. Primarily the
function of art is to increase the joy of
living.
Yet as nothing stands alone, so too beauty
in art has its declensions. It falls insensibly
by degrees from what are termed the fine
arts—architecture, painting, sculpture, to
the practical arts—through tapestry, furni-
ture, pottery, metal work, printing, etc.—
we are gradually led to the articles of every-
day use, and it is there that the art enthusi-
ast may make contact with the practical man,
for each of these things may have in them
Something of the quality of fine art, i.e.,
beauty. Through such things the teacher
and the pupil may work upon the mass of
incomprehension that confronts them in
their everyday contacts. They may attack
the problem from the bottom as well as the
top. Many people who readily admit a lack
of finer appreciation in regard to poetry, who
freely confess to having “no ear for music,”
WHAT IS BEAUTY2
are nevertheless inclined to presume that
the possession of normal sight automatically
enables them to judge a work of art. With
them not only is seeing believing, but under-
standing also. They forget that their critical
faculties have too frequently fallen into dis-
use and that their perception of beauty is
Overgrown and distorted by a film of wrong
opinions or ideas painfully acquired from
books, professors, and everyday contacts.
As J. Harvey Robinson has so convincingly
demonstrated it is, unhappily, the wrong
ideas to which we cling most obstinately, for
none of us likes to discard things we toiled
for, nor do we like to admit that we have
cherished false notions. We must our-
Selves approach the study of art apprecia-
tion with an open mind and try to insure a
like attitude in others.
To sum up; beauty is inherent in all
created things, but the artist, despite long-
held beliefs, does not “hold up a mirror to
nature.” The camera has at last taught
him the futility of that. He seeks to inter-
pret nature or he seeks to embody, in paint-
ing, sculpture, architecture, and the crafts,
ideas and ideals which have stirred his finer
feelings. Poetry, it has been said, is
“Emotion remembered in tranquillity”—and
the beauty sought by the artist has the same
quality, though expressed in two or three
dimensions in many different materials. To
the artist, beauty consists in a fine arrange-
ment of line and tone, mass and colour.
It may be discovered in a simple brush
drawing in line or in a noble orchestration
of all these elements. It depends not upon
the subject treated but upon its treatment.
It may be felt in an abstract composition of
shapes and tones. It may be absent from a
very cleverly painted landscape or an ac-
curate study of a beautiful figure. A photo-
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
10
graph may have fine art qualities, just as a
faithful imitation in paint may lack every
quality of art.
Beauty is essentially of the spirit, liberated
and living, and refuses to submit to exact
diagnosis, but we may train our faculties to
apprehend it.
It is, as Michael Angelo said, a kind of
music, but it stirs no chords in those who
ask first for a beautiful subject and are blind
to the manner and style of the artist’s in-
terpretation. Throughout our studies, we
must keep that in mind, and try to sensitize
ourselves to the appeal of fine lines and
shapes, of beautiful notan” and colour. An
understanding of these essential qualities is
a prerequisite to art appreciation.
*Notan is the Japanese name for Light-Dark and was first used
by Professor Dow to distinguish the pattern of light and dark as
opposed to light and shade.
Lºu 9&



ESSENTIALS
3. ,”
à W
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(ſūſīllū
CHAPTER III
y !?
dº...Heaſlºeº-Cºëthiu.
The true purpoes of art teaching is the edu-
cation of the whole people for appreciation.—
ARTHUR WESLEY Dow.
N THIS chapter we intend to discuss more
fully those all-important qualities of Line
and Space and Light-and-Dark or, as we
shall in future term it, Notan. Unless a
drawing or a painting, a piece of sculpture,
or any architectural group possesses fine
line, fine space, and fine notan, beauty or a
true art quality will be lacking.
Before examining each of these qualities
in detail we must digress a little to explain
why it is that to-day we consider poor somuch
painting and sculpture that but a few years
ago was looked upon as the work of genius.
The reason lies primarily in their lack of any
fine quality of line, space, and notan, and
the cause of such deficiency is easily ex-
plained. For three hundred years or more,
since the High Renaissance, artists have
been, almost invariably, trying to imitate
nature or work in the classic tradition.
There were artists who accomplished great
work despite its shackles, as Claude and
Poussin. Others like Lancret and Watteau
at times show flashes of a style that owes
but little to the Schools. An outstanding
figure like El Greco allows his personality
free rein.
But, to summarize baldly, for three cen-
turies schools rise and fall, all of them,
whether Classical, Artificial, Romanticist,
Naturalistic, Imitative or Realistic, out of
touch with the true traditions of Art; all of
them mostly concerned with outward forms
or content with second-hand styles.
In the late 18th Century, Blake, who
used to design his figures rather than copy
them from life, sensed the falseness of
this imitative method. In an age when
the majority of artists were preoccupied
with neo-classic futilities or engaged in
the production of dull transcripts of nature,
he stated bluntly that copying the model
was not art. But the mass of artists re-
quired another full hundred years before
they saw the truth of Blake's simple asser-
tion. They went on intent upon imitating
nature, or using formulas ready to hand,
and in the majority of cases neglected
all the essentials of beauty in the pur-
suit of a wrong ideal. So universal was
the habit and so ingrained is the tradition—
which is, by modern artists, termed aca-
demic—that even now many artists, and
more who are not artists, feel quite ag-
grieved or even insulted when any one sug-
gests that a faithful portrayal of facts is not
art. Many of the artists who worked in the
17th, 18th, and 19th centuries were pos-
sessed of a very great genius—and we shall
always admire their works; but on the whole
the academic ideal was false, and undoubt-
edly it has been the cause of the decadence
of art. Other things, such as neglect of all
other methods of expression for that of
painting and sculpture, a stupid estimation





11
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 12
of the crafts, and also of the industries into
which art largely enters—and a decay of the
schools and guilds; all these causes also
contributed to the decline.
A little thought will convince us that truth
to nature means to the artist something
quite other than a photographic presentation,
for which purpose the modern artist feels a
camera is more suited than the human eye
and hand. We know that even when an
artist is striving consciously to copy a land-
scape he does modify and select forms. He
eliminates unnecessary details and attempts
to “compose” his trees, sky, and other fea-
tures, such as animals or figures, should they
be introduced into his landscape. He does
much the same in figure painting; he groups
his figures and thinks of line arrangements.
All will concede that this is the first step
in composition. The modern artist con-
tends that this should be carried still further.
That the picture should be so designed or
organized that there will be in it an abiding
art quality quite irrespective of the subject.
He demands first that a painting or a sculp-
tured form shall be fine in line and light-and-
dark.
The Japanese and Chinese never forgot
this, and many of their early landscape art-
ists achieved this fine arrangement in their
drawings. It is this same accomplishment
on the part of Cotman which ranks him, in
the estimation of many artists, as Superior
to Turner as a master of composition. It is
the reason why we prefer Claude Lorraine
to Van Ruisdael and rate Paul Potter so
much more highly than Rosa Bonheur or
Landseer. *
To keep for a little to a comparison of
landscape painting, an artist does occasion-
ally find that nature has arranged herself in
a manner to suit all the requirements of a
fine picture, so that, as in Corot's landscapes,
only a little adjustment seems necessary.
But Corot himself acknowledged the neces-
sity for simplification, for he painted usually
in the morning when the mists were still
softening outlines and separating masses.
He said that the noonday sun disclosed too
much.
The modern artist, however, does not al-
ways choose a subject that is already beauti-
ful; he is ambitious to find and depict beauty
in scenes that are not “picturesque.” He
attempts to seize upon the beauty of which
he is conscious and by so arranging his lines
and masses, tones and colours, hopes that
they will by their movement and interplay
suggest something of his inner feelings as he
regarded his subject.
The conventional artist looks upon a
landscape painting more as a pictorial
map-making. He imagines that a faithful
rendering of optical effects will stimulate
emotions similar to those felt by himself as he
painted the scene. When seeking to arouse
our emotions the poet goes about his work
very differently. In rhythmic and moving
words he shapes images which excite our
thoughts and kindle our imagination. He
does not attempt a careful description of the
events or objects which moved him to com-
pose his verse.
The modern artist has something of the
same intent: he seeks to touch responsive
chords within our natures, not to play merely
upon optic nerves. The inspired artist does
this almost unconsciously, the uninspired
will never achieve it. The academic artist
merely paints trees and hills and clouds, and
is only concerned with copying the tree with
its leaves and bark, the hills with their fields
and rocks, and the sky with its big and little
clouds, hoping to make them look real. The
*\}
13
artist of the later school will seek not sur-
face qualities but structural values. He will
strip his trees of all but essential shapes and
lines of growth, he thinks of the eternal
qualities of hills, their mass and weight, not
merely geological formations and topographi-
cal detail. These are the two extremes, and
we shall always find intermediate types.
Naturally it will not be so easy to understand
a picture painted in what is called the post-
impressionist manner as to grasp the mean-
ing of a realistic or orthodox landscape, for all
of us are instinctively conventional, and new
ways of painting antagonize us as readily as
do different ways of thinking or strange
modes of dress. But those who are mentally
alert will at least try to understand the mod-
ernist landscape or any other work of art by
sincere artists of to-day. The effort is worth
making, for the beauty of the fine post-
impressionist picture is abiding, and grows
more apparent with time, whereas the other
merely depends upon a passing mood, which
if fixed soon becomes tedious.
When we see a picture of any kind that
we do not like we should be tolerant enough
at least to admit that it may be because we
do not understand it, and to make an attempt
to do so before condemning it. And it is
just here where lies the importance of those
principles of line and space and notan. We
cannot appreciate to the full a fine picture
nor confidently condemn a bad one unless
we have faith in our judgment, and an as-
Surance that our method of looking at a
picture and criticizing it is right. For that
reason alone, we must first understand what
is meant by good line, fine notan, and later
colour. There is also, it is to be remem-
bered, the nót inconsiderable increase of
enjoyment and permanent pleasure that will
derive from such an understanding.
ESSENTIALS
Let us recollect from the outset that we
cannot be dogmatic about it. Though we
can readily tell good from bad and the less
good from the mediocre, yet few have the
trained appreciation that can afford to adopt
an omniscient or contemptuous attitude.
It is probable that few Occidentals have an
appreciation for Oriental art as keen as that
of the cultured Chinese or Japanese who en-
couraged or produced it. But our faculties
may be developed. Often those who com-
mence with a distaste or a lack of interest in
Eastern art forms find that, given an under-
standing of line and notan, their regard for
it grows, and grows naturally at the expense
of their earlier and mistaken liking for realis-
tic art. To those of you who are already
upon the right road to appreciation, such
things will be apparent, and their elabora-
tion seem tedious, but they are restated for
the benefit of those who have yet to be con-
vinced.
Pictures divide up, broadly, into two
classes, those that are illustrations and those
that are decorations; those that give a pic-
torial record of facts and those that are com-
posed with a regard for first principles, i.e.,
line and notan. Many will like a picture for
the story it tells, but if it lacks the essential
qualities it may be twenty yards long and ten
yards high and yet be merely an illustration.
On the other hand, it may be, to those who
demand facts, but one square foot of unin-
telligible line and colour arrangement, and
yet rank as fine art.
Remembering the difficulty and stupidity
of being too positive, we shall realize that
these extremes merge together toward the
centre, and we cannot draw a hard-and-
fast line between them. An illustration in
a magazine may have all the finer qualities
and yet give an adequate idea of the scene
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
14
or things depicted (Turner’s “Liber Stu-
diorum” and Daumier’s illustrations), and
a big historical fresco may lack everything
but a certain mechanical skill in drawing and
painting. To illustrate this point, the well-
known picture of Washington Crossing the
Delaware in the Metropolitan Museum of
Art in New York is considered very bad art
by artists. The fact that it depicts a great
and noble character and a splendid episode
inclines all who take a just pride in Ameri-
can history to view it subjectively. This pre-
vents a balanced judgment of it as a work of
art. Actually it is but an illustration, and
not a very good one at that. Even as a
truthful presentation of facts it is sadly
astray, and there is an unreal and theatrical
atmosphere about it. But we should not
for that reason condemn it in unthinking
terms or in a manner to hurt the suscepti-
bilities of those innocent souls who are really
reacting to their ideas of patriotism or their
appreciation of and regard for Washington's
great qualities. Respect for such things are,
we know, essential to the well-being of any
nation, and such themes most worthy to in-
spire poets and artists.
If we antagonize those who mistakenly re-
act to subject and not interpretation, we are
not likely to make converts. We can be
better employed in showing them how nobly
Hokusai treated such themes in his cheap
G - ºr ca. º. is tº tº
* ~ ºn c q x we
ar: CºbºkesPlane. fº
prints of the glories of old China and Japan
It has been well said that it is not the mater-
ial that makes art; neither is it the subject.
The great artist may take humble or even
ignoble matter, and by his power over his
medium and his realization of essentials he
may translate such things into works of
great art. Japanese prints and Dutch
Genre abound in such treatments. Cézanne
was far happier depicting cardplayers than
classical themes and modern art delights to
take an “ugly” subject and organize it in a
fine manner.
Historical pictures are notoriously bad art.
Indeed, the more lofty his subject the less
likely the artist seems to be able to attain
Success with it. Only in great ages, such
as the Periclean, have artists achieved com—
plete success with great themes, and there
will always be certain subjects that are un-
paintable, and only to be apprehended in
epic form. But we can end this digression
with one indisputable assertion, when we
Say that no artist can succeed who thinks
more of his subject matter than of its
interpretation.
We have now said enough to empha-
size the danger of looking first for a fine
or pretty subject if we are in earnest in
the pursuit of appreciation. Let us get down
to the examination of line and space and
notan.
* ~...
tº ſº->


LINE, SPACE, AND NOTAN
|\\
*_*
Teaching is only of whither and how to go.
The vision is the work of him who hath willed
to see.—PLOTINUS.
INE, in its simplest form, is seen in the
brush work of the Chinese and Japa-
nese. It deals there with outlines and con-
tours, with lines of structure and those ex-
pressive of movement. We see it in such
things as the growth of a tree, the movement
of a fish through the water, or the contour of
hills, in waves or clouds or costumes. In
the drawing of a head or the silhouette of a
cathedral, we speak of line or contour. It
is present in a Gothic statue or an Indian
bowl. Successful pictures are built up upon
a series of lines, not always visible—in bad
pictures lines of composition are either ab-
sent or so weak that they do not function,
or perhaps so insistent that they become
mannered. Only a careful examination and
a thoughtful comparison will enable us to de-
termine where mannerism creeps in to the
detriment of quality. Some of the painters
of the Renaissance, some Gothic sculptors,
and many Japanese artists use lines in a
strongly marked and easily recognizable way,
which is yet individual and fine. But usually
any noticeable sameness about line indicates
weakness or poverty of ideas. Lines have
other functions than those of defining out-
lines or contours, or giving direction—they
cut up the field into shapes or spaces.
Therefore, good line and good space, the
CHAPTER IV
º º Plaung Cady Apo 15 Centuſ. Autº:
fundamental and primary qualities of any
work of art, are very closely connected.
The illustrations will give a fair idea of
what we mean.
Fine spacing, dependent upon line ar-
rangement, consists of a beautiful organi-
zation of shapes within the painted or
decorated field. We use not only our eyes
but our feelings to appreciate such things.
We instinctively say that certain lines or
shapes are ugly or pretty, even if we have no
great appreciation of beauty. If we start to
analyse such things our understanding and
appreciation grow. We admire the sug-
gestion of strength and facility in a line, and
dislike uncertainty or weakness. We re-
spond to an orderly arrangement of shapes
and are repelled by confusion. We find
that any fine drawing has power and freedom
in its line and a satisfying, though usually not
obvious, organization of its shapes.
The illustrations show subjects in which
these qualities are present or absent. From
such beginnings we may build up our sensi-
tivity to fine line and space, using every bit
of material we can find to emphasize these
necessary things. The simple lines of an In-
dian bowl may be compared with the stupid
contours of a 19th Century vase. Chinese
pottery of the Sung and Ming period may be
contrasted with the faience of Sèvres. (We
need not consider the decoration in such
illustrations, for this is added, and does not



15
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 16
enter into line problems.) Japanese and
Chinese ink drawings may serve as examples
of fine line, or drawings by such masters as
Leonardo or Botticelli or Holbein. A fine
understanding of line and space is apparent
in everything made by the ancient Greeks,
but we might at first confine our attention
to their temples, and such details as capitals
and mouldings, and to their pottery.
We see magnificent examples of line and
space in Gothic cathedrals, though here we
can with advantage substitute the word
“mass” for “space.” In the placing of their
masses the Gothic builders show to what
heights fine spacing may be carried, and
their arrangement of such details as win-
dows and doors is done in a masterly man-
ner; it is all fine spacing. The architects of
the modern skyscrapers often show like qual-
ities and are the first to acknowledge the
debt they owe to the often nameless geniuses
who planned and built the mediaeval cathe-
drals, and showed such superb judgment in
the arrangement of their lines and masses.
We cannot say that one line is ugly and
another beautiful, one space fine and another
unsightly, until they belong to some definite
organization, for everything depends upon
the relative position and proportions of such
lines and spaces within a composition,
whether the frame be a building or a vase, a
rug or a picture.
Spacing, good or bad, in its most elemen-
tary form is discovered in such humble fab-
rics as shirtings, tartans, ginghams, and other
striped goods. Greek vases and Persian
pots show beautiful choices in the use of
horizontal bands wherewith to break up the
field of the vessel, and from such sources we
may proceed upward to the portico of a
temple or the façade of a church.
Good spacing of such simple units as
horizontal and vertical lines in turn leads
to the right placement of ornament. We see
the pleasant spotting of free brushwork be—
tween bands on vases giving a spirited light-
and-dark. The shadows thrown by the
cornices, portico, doors, and windows of a
building are in the same way the result of
fine selection and proportion and placement
of the various lines of the composition, and
lead to fine notan.
But we have said enough to convince the
open-minded of the vital need for such
things as fine line and space in any work of
art, and of the fallacy of looking for fine sub-
jects rather than fine treatments.
Line, space, light-and-dark, and colour—
that is the order in which it is best to study
works of art. We may now go on to no-
tan. Fine notan may be discovered in the
opposing masses of light and dark in a Mexi-
can jar or a Greek vase. It may be seen in
a still life of Cézanne or in one of Rem-
brandt’s portrait groups. But light-and-
shade, by which we refer to the accidental
light and shadows cast upon objects by the
sun or artificial light, does not mean the
same thing as notan. Light-and-shade may
be used, as Rembrandt often used it in his
famous paintings, to serve the purpose of a
fine light-and-dark arrangement, or it may
actually constitute fine notan, as in the
sculpture from the Parthenon. But we
must beware of mixing the terms. One of
the primary causes of the decay of painting
has been the artist’s mistaken evaluation of
light-and-shade, a mistake bound up with his
false ideal of “truth to nature.” In giving
the shadows of his subjects he lost the sub-
stance, just as in an attempt to reproduce
external qualities he lost the spirit, of art.
It is not difficult to realize what notan is, but
it is less easy to recognize it. We must
17
refer again and again to the illustrations.
The most direct examples of notan in two
values are to be seen in such things as
Coptic embroideries or linoleum cuts, in
Greek vases and Chinese pottery or carving.
Wash or sepia drawings by old masters both
Eastern and Western will lead us on to more
subtle arrangements of light-and-dark into
which more than two values enter. Japa-
nese prints, Chinese paintings and screens,
the Italian primitives, Persian rugs,
Modernist painting, Aztec sculpture. In-
deed, there is no limit to the field from which
we may gather our illustrative material.
The chief point is to proceed steadily, from
the simple to the complex, and to appreciate
as we go, sticking at first to strongly con-
trasted examples so that other qualities of
tone and colour may not confuse our ideas.
Our primary aim is to develop a true sense
of values; to distinguish fine notan from
commonplace arrangements of light-and-
dark. In the formation of such an apprecia-
tion, we must necessarily be swayed by the
judgment of history. For though popular
verdicts are usually hasty or mistaken, and
though the most arrogant critic may fail in
understanding, the judgment of the ages
does gradually winnow the grain from the
chaff. Historical perspective is a great aid to
a sound estimate of true values. We are not
here speaking of collectors’ or dealers’ val-
ues, which are invariably based on fashion or
artificial inflations and have usually but a re-
mote connection with a-sthetics. We mean
the values implied in the verdict of cultivated
opinion, as rendered by artists and critics
and intelligent and enthusiastic amateurs.
The study of such admittedly fine examples
leads us to an appreciation of fine notan, and
to a better understanding of modern art.
We cannot define notan with the precision
LINE, SPACE, AND NOTAN
of a mathematical formula; all we can do is to
point out its presence in fine work and note
its absence in poor work, whether it be a
temple or a chair, in weaving or on pottery,
in sculpture or painting. All we can say is
that in excellent examples of notan we get
beautiful and subtle adjustments of light
and dark shapes, a stimulating and pleasing
arrangement of light areas and dark areas.
If we try to analyze it closely we find that
in fine work there is a vigorous and lively
style, an absence of weakness or indecision
in the spotting in of the blacks that speak
of a bold and masterly handling. But
that does not go far to explain it, though
it makes us more conscious of the lack of
Such qualities. If we examine Corot's land-
scapes, we may note the effective way in
which the slender dark trees cut across the
major patch of light, also how small inter-
esting shapes of light are well placed amid
the larger masses of dark. This gives us
somethingtangible to work upon. If we take
Rembrandt's pictures and eliminate all rep-
resentational features—such as faces, hands,
etc.—we still have a magnificent pattern of
light-and-dark, a very skillfully contrived
arrangement of notan. A still more con-
vincing experiment would be to take a fine
example, say from the Italian primitives, and
make a careful study of it, then make a draw-
ing and attempt to alter the relative values
or positions of the light and dark shapes.
The result is almost invariably to destroy
the distinction and charm of the original.
In all splendid examples, whether from the
fine arts or their equally worthy parents, the
crafts, we find a sound organization of notan,
consisting of a balance and contrast, an oppo-
sition and interplay of shapes and tones that
have an orchestral quality, and a power to
charm and please analogous to that of music.
RHYTHM AND OTHER THINGS
CHAPTER V
i. ſºul...ſºlºilºlºſ,
º
In the end it will all depend upon the power
a man has in himself; and just as no food or
medicine will bestow or take the place of vital
energy, so no book or study can give a man a
mind of his own.—SCHOPENHAUER.
N THE preceding paragraph, we men-
tioned Balance and Opposition among
other secondary principles that enter into the
composition of fine pictures or temples,
beautiful statuary, pottery or textiles.
We need to examine into their origins and
applications. Such an investigation is es—
sential for the art student, and with the
majority of people it helps toward an under-
standing and a fuller appreciation and en-
joyment of art.
This leads us into another digression,
speculative yet interesting, as to how far
such principles of composition were con-
sciously understood by the old masters of
antiquity and the Middle Ages.
Penrose has shown how the subtle almost
imperceptible curves of the Parthenon—the
Echinus, Entasis, Stylobate, and Entablature
may be reduced to mathematical ratios. Un-
doubtedly the Greeks had a very clear idea
of what they wanted to do when planning a
temple. Unfortunately, they have left no
record of such formulas. Recently the late
Professor Hambidge devised a system,
which he called Dynamic Symmetry, built
upon the proportionals of rectangles and
their diagonals. Very few artists accepted
it as a working basis, and such examples of
18
sº L.
art as have been produced by its aid seem
set and formal and lacking in freedom, a
criticism that may be directed at certain
Greek temples or vase shapes. A Scandina-
vian, Architect, F. Macody Lund, in his “Ad
Quadratum,” has also produced a system
into which circles, rectangles, and triangles
enter; by which he claims that mediaeval
architects reduced the designing of cathe-
drals to a science.
The late Professor Dow, whose work in
art education has left a lasting impress upon
American schools and whose influence is felt
as far off as China and Japan, contended
that art can never be scientific. His attitude
was that one should seek first principles
without forgetting those imponderables that
go to the completion of a work of art—that
spirit or genius, without which any art form
lacks life. His contention was that in get-
ting back to first principles and rediscovering
the beaten tracks followed by the old mas-
ters, great and small, we were more likely to
recapture the vision which they so clearly
had, and which has been almost completely
lost sight of in the last three hundred years.
And this seems a sane and intelligent way
of looking at things, for obviously art is not
science. Any set of laws, to produce art,
must be flexible and living, susceptible
to adjustments in each age. Art leans
toward freedom of expression, untrammelled
choice of line and shape; emotion and
imaginative power are called into play as in

19
poetry and music. What we should re-
member is that transitions occur all down
the line; that one form emerges from a pre-
ceding form and enters into another, often
with imperceptible gradations. Bridge-
building is a pure science often resulting in
splendid forms which are only obscured by
added decoration. Architects must make a
definitely intellectual approach to the prob-
lems of modern construction; but they tem-
per the coldness of such methods with a
regard for fine design. The landscape archi-
tect moves trees and rocks, and deflects
streams with but small regard for science—
if we except arboriculture and the law of
gravity—but he has a thorough understand-
ing of fine line and good placement and a
knowledge of perspective and its implica-
tions. A sculptor is more trammelled than
a painter in placing his masses, but both are
comparatively free agents if we contrast
their technique with that of a designer of
furniture. The emotional and the scientific
approach to art have both been widely
broadcast of late, and we have to realize the
dangerous enthusiasm of a man with a the-
ory, a zeal which is likely to brush aside all
others that do not confirm to the true belief.
But no one system yet devised will produce
art or imbue art students with artistry, nor
will mere reading give one appreciation. It
will, however, help toward understanding,
and assist in tearing down some of the rank
fallacies that have so overgrown the struc-
ture of art since the High Renaissance.
All of us, whatever our private theories,
admit that the old fellows who made Greek
vases or Gothic cathedrals, Sicilian brocades
or Windsor chairs knew much more about
art structure than we do to-day, and instead
of So much vocal dispute about aesthetics we
can be more profitably employed in search-
RHYTHM AND OTHER THINGS
ing out the secrets of their success, and
probing down to the laws that, consciously
or unconsciously, they all obeyed. We as-
suredly agree with Bacon, who said, ap-
propos of painting, that an artist “must do it
by a kind of felicity as a musician composes
a piece of music.” But this does not pre-
suppose an undisciplined and emotional
approach to our art problems. And again,
that inability to draw clear lines of demarca-
tion must not be lost sight of. Thomas
Burt, in the “Memoirs of a Wheelwright,”
tells us how the old-time artisan made his
wheels by instinct or rule of thumb, knowing
to a shade the size and camber of spokes,
the right size of felloes, hub, or tire, so that
he produced a wheel which was finely shaped
yet adequate for its purpose. The old chair
maker, turning his wood upon a foot lathe,
had this same gift, so that to-day we collect
their ancient chairs and treasure them as
works of art in museums. This innate
sense of fine line and proportion was a sort
of instinct that had its roots in tradition and
derived its strength from the old custom of
apprenticeship in the crafts. We see it de-
scending throughout the ages. Gothic cathe-
drals went through the same development
as chairs and tables. We note the massive
and heavy Romanesque giving place to the
slender upshooting Gothic. As the old
builders gained experience their forms in-
creased in beauty until, as seems inevitable,
facility obscured taste and Gothic purity of
line took on a flamboyant and restless char-
acter only arrested by a change of style.
These old masters were so concerned with
works that they left no writings upon the
subject of their labours. Whether they had
a system is doubtful, but we do know that
the average prelate or educated layman in the
Middle Ages was capable of designing his
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 20
own house or church or making fit and comely
additions to buildings already in existence.
Not only that, but the masons and carpenters
of those days had an innate taste which for
centuries put a curb on their uncommon tech-
nical skill, so that craftsmanship and fine art
were blended into a splendid whole. We see
something of the same happy consummation
in early American history. Gentlemen in
Virginia designed their own stately homes
and had apparently no difficulty in finding
artisans of right feeling to carry out their
ideas. To-day such achievements are im—
possible.
What has happened is that the mechanical
revolution has interposed an impenetrable
wall between those ages of fine taste and the
times in which we move. The handicrafts
have decayed and the machine has crushed
out of the workman of to-day all feeling for
beauty. The fine arts, nourished in the
fertile soil of the crafts, inevitably decayed
with them.
We cannot recreate the handicrafts that
were the nurseries of great artists. What
we can do is to attempt to get back to those
first principles which upon examination we
see so clearly in the works of the old mas-
ters, great and small, and which, whether
they were conscious or unconscious of them,
they felt and expressed in all their produc-
tions. All this, of course, if but too trite and
true, but many have yet to be convinced of
the necessity for revising their aesthetic
standards. Whether even a regard for first
principles will eventually produce living art
without a revival of arts and crafts is a moot
point. We cannot think that systems and
formulas will succeed in doing so. The
question as to their use by the masters of
antiquity is at any rate merely academic, and
we are of the opinion that these ancient prac-
titioners were not conscious of laws and
formulas but, like the old wheelwrights, they
“felt it in their bones.”
To return to our theme: We can again as-
sert with conviction that a neglect of those
principles of line, space, and notan, redis-
covered by Professor Fenollosa and per-
fected and made intelligible by Professor A.
W. Dow, will always result in loss of power.
Regard for such fundamentals will always
accelerate our progress if we are engaged in
the production of objects into which art en-
ters; and into how few should it not?
Stated briefly and alphabetically, the
secondary principles that apply most obvi-
ously to all art products are, Balance and
Symmetry; Contrast or Opposition, Repeti-
tion, Radiation, Subordination, and Transi–
tion. One or all or several of these principles
may be seen in every work of art, and all
together, with the larger trinity of line,
Space, and notan, they go to build up that
quality we call Rhythm.
This quality of rhythm is to be found in
greater or lesser degree in every work of
art. It is noticeably present in poetry and
music. It constitutes the poetry of motion
in dancing. It is of such great importance
that it will be better to examine it in detail
before we speak of the lesser principles enu-
merated above.
The simplest rhythm of sound is that of a
train in motion; its regular monotonous ca-
dence soothes and lulls to sleep. Conversely,
the rhythm of a drum stirs to action. Dance
music moves children, and many adults, to
almost unconscious rhythms of the legs,
arms, and body. When reading poetry,
though we may sit still in a chair, our spirit
seems to move in subtle unison with the ca-
dence of the verse, though it may be the stac-
21
cato tempo of some forms of vers libre. The
veritable poetry of Whitman has a strange
rhythm built up of simple repeats. Absence
of rhythm results in dissonance, in jerky
and unfinished movements; a suggestion of
premature finish and sudden restarting—a
sense of incompleteness. Through long
abuse our eyes have become, in sheer self-
defence, insensitive to a lack of rhythm in
objects of everyday use, in the arrangement
of our homes; in the architecture of our
streets. The optical sense gets calloused
in the same manner that the auditory nerves
of a boiler maker or riveter become, in self-
protection, less sensitive to the uproar about
them. But we should remember that there
are still people who thrill to the appeal of
rhythm in a picture as keenly as most people
do to music.
Rhythm is, in short, that sense of com-
pleted movement, without beginning and
without end—a fusion of line and form
and colour into one moving entity, that the
senses feel in any accomplished work of art.
Rhythm leads the eye in a gay and happy
manner about a picture, over a statue, along
a border, leaving us excited, or soothed, or
curious, according to the movement of the
particular work of art.
Test this feeling for yourself. Look at a
photograph of the Parthenon and then at one
of Salisbury Cathedral. Compare your sen-
sations as you examine a picture by Monet
and one by Cotman—a Coptic embroidery
and a piece of 18th Century French brocade,
a Gothic capital and a modern Viennese
figure; any of a thousand fine art forms.
Divorced as most of us are from the actual
production of works of art, and with our
senses debilitated by a decidedly unlovely
civilization, we cannot expect instant ap-
preciation. But to apprehend rhythm in art
RHYTHM AND OTHER THINGS
is to enter into a large and gracious heritage,
and one of which we can never be despoiled.
Having sensed something of rhythm, we
will go on to examine those secondary quali-
ties that, singly or collectively, go to make
up a design, whether it be a simple border
or a complex group of sculpture. As before
stated they are: Balance and Symmetry;
Contrast and Opposition; Repetition; Radi-
ation; Subordination; Transition. We can-
not arrange them in order of merit, though
of them all probably contrast and opposition
are the most vital principles necessary to
the “life” of a composition. All these quali-
ties may be exhibited in widely divergent
ways in different works of art. They may
be plainly stated, or suggested with a sub-
tlety that almost defies analysis.
Repetition. This may take on the sim-
plicity of a woven pattern, from an Indian
blanket or a Gothic moulding, or assume the
intricacy of the Frieze of the Horsemen from
the Parthenon. It is seen plainly in every
all-over pattern, as in parquet floors and
Moorish tiling—in brocades and wall papers;
upon the fine spacing of the repeat depends
the quality of the rhythm. Repetition is
seen in the rows of columns in a classic
temple or the massive piers of a bridge and
in the cloisters of a mediaeval abbey. In
these last examples simple repetition is en-
dowed with a mysterious charm by the
modifying effects of perspective.
In painting and sculpture, on the other
hand, repetition must never be too obvious.
Certain lines echo and repeat as in the vari-
ous friezes from Delphi and the Parthenon,
giving fine, easily sensed, marching rhythms,
leading the eye along with the main archi-
tectural lines. But in a single picture, or a
group in the round, the lines and masses are
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 22
built up into a moving whole, so that they
echo a definite yet not strident note through-
out the composition, much as certain over-
tones softly weave together the varied
chords of a harmonious refrain. The me-
chanical repeats of a pattern would be en-
tirely out of place in a picture or statue, just
as carelessly irregular movement would
spoil a simple border or a cretonne. A pat-
tern need not repeat within definite geomet-
rical lines, but if the movement or rhythm
is to be fine the masses must be well spaced
and the irregularity well under control. Rep-
etition thus imparts a sense of order to a
work of art, though this may be obvious,
as in a pattern or border, or felt rather than
seen, as in fine pictures or sculpture, for Rep-
etition is the foundation of Rhythm. Rep-
etition sometimes merges into transition.
Transition in its simplest form would be
seen in the anthemion or honeysuckle orna-
ment. In effect, it is the passing from One
movement or shape into another. We see
transitions beautifully achieved in Greek
sculpture. It shows in architecture, as
where the curve of a spandrel conducts
the eye from a vertical to a horizontal line;
it is seen in the clever adjustments of planes
and masses where a polygonal spire is fitted
to a square tower. In sculpture and paint-
ing, it is seen in both line and plane move-
ments; as from sharp accents to soft tones;
from large to small masses, or the reverse.
Radiation is also seen at its simplest in
the antefix: obviously in a rose window.
It may be from a centre or a point, and every
arrangement of drapery on classic and
Gothic statuary shows it to a noticeable de-
gree. Usually one chief point of radiation
dominates all the others.
In many pictures lines converge upon or
radiate from important points in the Com-
position, though in a subtle and unexcep-
tionable manner. Radiation may be that
of straight lines or curves, and it may
be entirely absent from a fine composition.
Balance, however, must be present in one
form or another, symmetrical or asymmetri-
cal, and consists in a nice adjustment of
weight, tone, colour, and plane. In orna-
ment it is more usually a symmetrical ar-
rangement that is used, each side of a centre
line being very much the same in line and
space and weight. The stele crest shows
exact symmetry and a more subtle symme-
try is seen in the “Ludovisi Throne.” In
pictures we may get a balance of almost
similar weights, or a balance made up of
strong contrasts. Tone and colour enter
very largely into balance. A small dark
shape against a light ground will balance a
much larger mass of dark against middle
tone. A bright spot of colour will give
equipoise to a neutral patch; a figure will
balance a tree or a building. We readily
recognize lack of balance when we find in
some pictures that the weight or the chief
point of interest is placed noticeably to the
side, or the top, or appears wedged into a
a corner, so that there is a lack of stability
about it and the eye reverts to a spot outside
the normal field of vision and the rhythm
seems broken or lost.
Contrast and Opposition are two very im-
portant principles. We get many varieties
of them in line, space, notan, and colour.
Contrast and Opposition are naturally inter-
changeable terms now and then, but we may
have an opposition of similar lines, curved
or straight, or find contrast without opposi-
tion, as of long and short lines or different
areas of the same tone or colour. Together
they enter into the other principles. Rep-
etition without contrast becomes merely
23
tiresome; a balance made up of oppositions
is always more stimulating than one of simi-
lar masses and tones and colours.
We get simple sharp contrasts in the use,
in a rug, of a meander and a zigzag-Or in
architecture of a half round upon a plinth;
decorated with guilloche and fret. More
refined contrasts, both of profile and of space,
develop in mouldings. In turnery such as is
found on 17th Century chairs and tables
much use is made of effective oppositions.
The diversity of long and short, wide and
narrow letters, and of words of different
lengths, constitutes the charm of all fine
lettering. We find the Italian primitives
alive to the various uses of contrast. In
landscape, as in architectural backgrounds,
upright and horizontal lines are used to
steady and bind the composition. In a
good chair we get simple and satisfactory
oppositions. In Sicilian brocades we get
another form of contrast—the counter-
change, as in inlay and in floor cover-
ings. The Chinese knew its value when,
for instance, they placed a celadon vase of
pure contour upon a highly carved base of
ebony.
Dignified contrasts run all through the
friezes from the Parthenon, not only of line
and space, but of texture. In reliefs from
the Mausoleum of Halicarnossos aggressive
oppositions of line are used to emphasize the
clash of warring Amazon and Greek. With-
out contrast of tones we can have no fine
notan. The endless contrasts of tone plus
colour will readily suggest themselves. We
need specify no more. Absence of contrast
at once suggests dullness and monotony,
for even the faint gray wash drawings of the
Chinese have interesting and different lines
and spaces to charm the eye. In short, op-
Vosition and contrast are the condiments
RHYTHM AND OTHER THINGS
of art, they give a savour to ornament and
decoration; without them a work appears
tame and stale.
Subordination is another principle most
clearly seen in architecture. The grouping
of less important masses about a central
feature, the concentration of effect in the
east end of a cathedral (an effect into which
transition enters also), the flanking of a
main entrance by smaller doorways—these
and other examples readily occur. In the
works of the Italian primitives this quality
of subordination is often splendidly ob-
served. Three or even more incidents may
be depicted in one picture and yet the prin-
cipal feature holds its own in an admirable
manner. Other instances of subordination
will suggest themselves. A single figure
may depend for its effect upon one chief line
to which all the others are contributory, and
here the principles of radiation and transi–
tion may also enter into the general scheme.
In Greek sculpture the arrangement of the
figures in the temple pediments all show a
very adequate treatment of this principle
of subordination. It is less easily seen in
individual groups and in some, as in the
Tyrannicides or the Wrestlers, it is absent—
without detracting from the merits of these
works. But its omission in such works as
the Farnese Bull contributes largely to the
confusion and unpleasantness of this in-
ferior work. In conclusion, it will be found
that all these principles have their uses and
abuses.
We do not suggest that those who wish to
appreciate a picture or statue or a fine piece
of handicraft should at once look for the
principles mentioned above. To do so
would be to substitute a somewhat cold and
theoretical method of approach, more likely
to chill the Sensitivity and prevent the emo-
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 24
tions from reacting freely to whatever fine
yet undefinable quality the work possessed.
But we do suggest that those works that are
bad or mediocre always fail through lack of
attention to these principles. Firstly, through
absence of any fine quality of line, space, and
notan; secondly, through the neglect of those
lesser yet still important principles we have
elaborated above.
Another assertion we venture upon is that
a thorough understanding of these things is
essential to the progress of the average art
student, and not inimical to those who are
not average. To those who paint or carve
“as the bird sings” such things are immate-
rial; they too, like the antique craftsman,
feel it in their bones, as do those few fortu-
nates who instinctively react to fine art and
recoil from the bad—perhaps we should
say unfortunates, there being so much of the
latter kind of art. But for the great major-
ity of us, shut off from the primitives by four
or five hundred years of, on the whole, steady
decadence from the principles of art struc-
ture, as applied to painting and sculpture,
and separated from our 18th Century an-
cestors by a wall of mechanical development,
an understanding of these fundamentals is
an essential factor in appreciation. We
have in our experience to retrace the steps
by which, consciously or unconsciously, the
old masters built up their superb reliefs or
frescoes, or produced their stately homes,
their beautiful brocades, or their simple,
ever-satisfying furniture. We have to make
a conscious, analytical, and intellectual ex-
amination of laws of which they were per-
haps only dimly conscious. By so doing we
may span the inartistic gulf that stretches
between them and us, so that across this
bridge of understanding we may enter into
their great legacy and hand on, maybe en-
larged and improved, the precious heritage
of art appreciation.

ART STRUCTURE IN MINOR ARTS
{
The most insignificant man can be complete
if he works within the limits of his capacities.
—GOETHE.
Being simple, they did not go far wrong;
they beheld truths which our intelligence
hides from us.-ANATOLE FRANCE.
HIS vast field of the minor arts has no
perceptible boundaries. In it we dis-
cover the works of the fine craftsman, who
may be a more remarkable artist than many
a painter, and it includes the products of the
humblest artisan.
A list of such things alone would make a
slender volume, and it would comprise such
minutiae as meat skewers and teaspoons,
and range up to spinets and Persian rugs.
It amply rewards the most casual ex-
plorer, for it is in this region that art makes
its most intimate contact with humanity.
We can examine but a few of its products,
but a pleasant ramble through it provides the
most attractive approach to the fine arts.
Pater somewhere suggests that the shapes
of ancient vessels and implements are of
such perfection that Nature herself might
have produced them had such things grown
like fruit. Actually such objects were de-
veloped in a manner not dissimilar to the
evolution of natural forms. Primitive man
shaped and fashioned them with a single eye
to their utility, yet in a mysterious way he
informed his weapons and utensils with a
quality of beauty that is one with Nature.
Even his inscrutable urge to decorate did
CHAPTER VI
not interfere with this splendid quality until
late in his development, and until the com-
ing of the machine the products of all good
craftsmen possessed it in some degree.
Each of the things he made so well and featly
had the beauty of fitness, the rightness of
contour, the balance of line and shape that
every hand-made object possesses if it
functions perfectly. Even the products of
the lowly artisan have the beauty that is
never absent from honest work.
This virtue seems to have something pre-
adamite about it, and it withers at the first
touch of Western civilization. It is, indeed,
like innocence, of which the possessor must
remain unaware if it is to be preserved.
We see the aborigine bartering with cheer—
ful unconcern his most finished household
gods for trumpery beads and mirrors.
Similarly we may observe the village chair-
maker looking with longing eyes at the em-
bossed atrocities of the manufacturer.
Primitive man was happily without such
temptations. He shaped and fashioned his
flints, tools, weapons, and utensils with such
loving care that something of himself passed
into them. It was natural that he should
give such things names and attribute virtues
to them, for he had indeed given them life.
For centuries we see the same spirit pre-
vailing in the crafts of the potter, the smith,
the chairmaker, the enameller, the glass-
worker, and the weaver. We observe their
forms and shapes, generated through no af-

25
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
26
fectation for art, but developing logically out
of their knowledge of their craft. They ex-
plored all the possibilities and observed the
limitations of their mediums, conducting an
intelligent search for a practical solution to
meet the necessities of each case, whether
it was a window or a grille, a chair to sit in,
a sword to grasp, a beaker to drink from, or
a helmet to fight in.
The craftsman could draw no veil of mys-
tery or sentiment between his product and
his patron. As a workman he contemplated
life from a lower altitude than the artist, but
what he set out to do he realized with the
precision of a master. Being a good crafts-
man, he worked as rapidly, as economically,
and as soundly as might be, never wasting
effort or material. But any examination of
his products convinces us that he did not
look on his work as a dull and routine task,
but as something into which he could throw
the ardour and the interest, and at times the
creative impulse, of an authentic artist.
If we examine a craft like the armourer’s,
into which in its prime went a tremendous
amount of mediaeval talent, we find that the
period during which serviceability was the
first consideration provides the finest ex-
amples. There is a perfect balance of
aesthetics and technique. The purely curv-
ing surfaces of a hauberk or a helmet, that
make the ovoid forms of some modern Sculp-
ture look tame and vacant, were perfectly
designed to deflect blows of Sword or mace.
In section a helmet will show an economy of
material and a saving or weight combined
with the utmost strength in the exposed
areas and working parts that remind us of
Nature's solutions in the shell of a snail or
the armour of a lobster.
If we turn to the products of the potter or
the glass worker, we see a similar blending
of art and utility. The full-bellied wine jug,
the beaker or bottle, the phial or the drug
pot, each has its individual shape, its char-
acteristic line, its special use that was never
divorced from beauty. It is not until pot-
tery, artificially encouraged, turned to the
making of vases for decorative purposes that
the decline sets in.
Only the Orientals could succeed in mak-
ing a vase for beauty’s sake. But then the
Chinese were decadent enough to admire
flower arrangements when the denizens of
Europe were still enjoying “the flesh of
swine and sickly mead.” But what can
you expect from people that, as Havelock
Ellis points out, used gunpowder for a thou-
sand years without discovering what a splen-
did medium it was for exterminating each
other?
However, so long as men worked with
their hands, and with their hearts and heads
in their work, we see the same intimate
beauty in the crafts, whether in Persia or
Japan, in Staffordshire or Massachusetts.
An aristocratic direction seemed almost
invariably fatal to it, at least in the Occident.
This will be seen if we compare the products
of Gobelin in the 18th Century with a
Gothic millefleur tapestry, or simple peas-
ant pottery with the products of Sèvres. It
is also to be observed how the fine contours
of early American silverware surpass those
found on the more sophisticated output of
contemporary silversmiths in England.
Naturally, the line cannot be drawn with
precision, for there were aristocrats with
eyes for fine lines and contours, but fashion
always seems inimical to the crafts. Noth-
ing can be added or taken away from a fine
Queen Anne chair or settee without upset-
ting its harmony of line. A simple ladder-
back or Windsor chair had similar virtues,
27 ART STRUCTURE IN MINOR ARTS
and the same may be said of Chippendale’s
less expensive chairs. So long as he de-
signed chairs for his less wealthy patrons he
produced a seat that cannot be improved
upon with regard to its sanity, serviceability,
and perfect proportions. When he at-
tempted French styles, or let Gothic or
Chinese fashions sway him, his sense of
design frequently went to pieces.
The chair and cabinet maker was, out of
the very function of his craft, saved from
the worse evil that beset the weaver, the
enameller, and the worker in glass. This was
a contagion similar to that which debili-
tated the painter and the sculptor, or, at any
rate, it spread from them to the craftsmen.
The stained-glass worker, so long as he was
content to stick to his craft and use patches
of pure colour, boldly linked together with
the leads, and here and there a little directly
painted detail, such as frankly delineated
heads, hands, or diapers, so long did he
achieve masterpieces of glowing and jewel-
like colour and splendid pattern. Directly
he apes the painter he sets out upon a course
at the end of which he is less than tolerable.
We can trace the same decline in the art
of the weaver. The old arras, with its
finely decorative figure treatments, declines
to the period when the worker was frankly
attempting to paint realistic pictures in
coloured wools.
Enamels and pottery took much the same
course, though by no means all the virtues
went out of the crafts, particularly those that
offered but little scope for this itch to imitate
the painter.
Of course, we do not overlook the happy
outcome of man’s ineradicable desire to
beautify and embellish his works. We wish
only to emphasize the close kinship in the
crafts of beauty and utility.
The mediaeval smith spent many hours
hammering and chasing a hinge that already
functioned perfectly, doing this for the glory
of God and a decent pride in his craft. But
regard for its purpose and for the limitations
and possibilities of his craft had already pro-
vided him with a beautiful and endurable
foundation for his added refinements.
This genuine touch of beauty lingered on
even into the Igth Century, and we see it in
such lowly products as barn-door latches,
gridirons, foot-scrapers and even horse-
shoes.
It is not until the industrial revolution was
in full swing, and the machinist attempted to
reduplicate the art of the craftsman, that we
reach a period of utterly barbarous taste and
hideous inutility.
And so it goes, and continues in great
measure. Not until there is a halt in the
futile effort to impart a specious handicraft
finish or an “arty” note to its products will
the machine function naturally and hon-
estly. When manufacturers realize this we
shall have, if not beauty, at least dignity and
the comeliness that are never divorced from
frank and straightforward treatments.
Thus it seems to me a happier and more
certain way, to appreciate and understand
art structure, if we apply our rules to the
common things with their everyday con-
tacts, rather than plunge right into the fine
arts.
Unhappily, we shall almost invariably
have to confine our applications to things of
the past, though there are increasing num-
bers of objects turned out to-day that stand
the test.
In making the examination it will be at
times impossible to insist upon strict inter-
pretation of our art-structure vocabulary.
To demand that a chair have notan is to lead
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 28
to confusion. Fine lines and fine propor-
tions it must possess, beautiful contours and
well-spaced parts, and if it has a pierced
Splat it may show a fine light-and-dark pat-
tern against a light background. A Jacob-
ean cabinet with moulded front may, and
usually does, possess a lively and pleasing
play of light-and-dark, whilst the ornate
carving of a later period frequently does not.
But in general we have to employ the terms
with flexibility.
Speaking with such slight reservations in
mind, we can with little hesitation or fear
make our judgments and appraisals. So
simple a process is this that we have pre-
ferred to linger upon the often neglected
thesis of utility in the crafts, and indicate
how, when his work was all point and pur-
pose, the craftsman, almost as naturally and
instinctively as a trout in a brook, made his
way toward his goal, and there found
Beauty wedded to Use.
Faced with such eloquent illustrations, it
seems almost superfluous to insist upon a
criterion or a system of appraisal. Their
makers, possessing in some degree that
simplicity which is the hallmark of genius,
lovingly shaped their works and honestly
brought them to perfection. We can see
their virtues shining upon them, unobscured
by complexities that often prevent a candid
judgment of higher forms of art.
Without obtrusive personality, without
literary padding, we take them for what they
are. If they at times possess only the rug-
ged virtue of sincerity, they cannot fail of
a certain quality at least akin to beauty.
Many of them, because of the spirit that has
passed into them from their creators, make
their way into our regard in a fashion that
no clever and sophisticated work of art can
ever do.
But with all our respect for the antique
and warm regard for old things—in fact, be-
cause of it—we would protest against the
slavish imitation that is so prevalent. Art
never flourished that way, and that kind of
cult of the antique is a lost cause, though few
of its votaries know it. Art cannot be re-
suscitated once its day has passed, and the
post-mortems and embalmings can only
preserve old features; and however desir–
able that may be, it is a living and growing
art We Want.
It has been calculated, by experts who
should know, that if the factory plants in
America worked to full capacity they could
produce in two working days sufficient to last
a week. In other words, the workers might
have five days of leisure and still produce all
the necessities of life for the nation.
It has been observed also that the tending
of machines, to which such a high percentage
of humanity is already committed, sterilizes
the ability to think independently and, para-
doxically, renders a person unable to enjoy
in full measure the leisure such machinery
production should provide.
It seems that here is an obvious opening
for our educators. There can, of course, be
no return to the crafts where the necessities
of life are concerned. It would be a dubious
advantage to substitute some hand-made
products for machine-made, even when such
things are not indispensable. But crafts-
manship might provide for many a healthy
occupation for leisure hours. Education is,
or should be, deeply concerned with the
problem of how best to employ the leisure
we all seek, or if we do not seek, is in-
creasingly thrust upon us in so many cases.
A tremendous percentage of mankind is,
and always will be, employed in manual
labour or mechanized pursuits, and we can-
29 ART STRUCTURE IN MINOR ARTS
not all hope to be scenario writers, movie
actors, bankers, critics, professors, or artists,
and such as love to burn the midnight oil.
Even in these categories there are some who
might be the happier if they followed the old-
fashioned advice of Ruskin, who counselled
everyone to do something beautifully with
his hands.
This is another of those easy and inex-
cusable digressions, but it does seem a pity
that the creative fire which shines so brightly
in the child should be allowed to languish
without an effort to fan its dying embers in
adolescence.
To-day, and for a century before to-day,
that almost extinct species, the fine crafts-
man, would starve unnoticed, whilst the
world is glutted with what can hardly be
called a wealth of painting and sculpture.
How many amateurs have had the keen
edge of their enthusiasm dulled in plodding
wearily through miles of European galleries
over-stocked with mediocre paintings and
statuary?
How many states could be tented by the
square miles of canvas meticulously water-
proofed by impetuous daubers and exhibited
annually in the salons?
How much misspent energy has been
poured into meretricious pictures and all
too human statuary, that might in happier
channels have been productive of fine chairs,
or other lovely and useful things?
What inscrutable mandate is it that de-
crees a man a connoisseur if hepays a million
dollars for a dubious old master, or refuses
to rate him as a vegetable if he insists upon
buying copies of I5th Century Spanish
arcons or early Gothic coffers?
Such perverted topsy-turveydom produces
its own reaction and leads cultivated peo-
ple to appreciate handmade things where
such things may be rationally employed.
But until the wealthy are prepared to be
as modern in their arts as in their pastimes
we can expect a dearth of the things that
made a mediaeval town a thing of beauty,
despite its middens and its gutters.
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ART STRUCTURE IN ARCHITECTURE
CHAPTER VII
NºHº
Harmony is and ever will remain the es-
sence of art, its primary impulse and its ulti-
mate impulse. It means the satisfaction of
man’s sense of form.—WALDSTEIN.
N THE short chapters that follow, on
Architecture, Sculpture, and Painting,
there is of course no attempt at even a
brief survey of each subject. They are
but essays to apply the principles of art
structure in an examination of a few salient
features taken from each vast subdivision
of art, and by their aid to strengthen our
appreciation and enlarge our understanding,
and further to stress the weakness inherent
in any work that does not conform to the
fundamental rules discussed in previous
chapters.
It has been suggested that the eye, like
any other organ, can be weakened by neglect
or calloused by abuse. This is particularly
true with regard to architecture, for from
our infancy we are accustomed to traverse
city avenues and town streets wherein
architectural beauty is as rare as golden
pavements.
For that reason it is more than ever
necessary that we, who would develop our
appreciation, keep to simple elemental truths
and broad generalizations.
The presence or absence of the simple
laws of composition is readily perceived in
the common objects of everyday use; in the
products of the weaver, the potter, the
cabinet maker or the metal worker.
30
We note instantly whether a cretonne or
a floor covering is fine or poor in pattern,
and the majority of persons with any claim
to a general culture instinctively detect
ugliness in a chair, a bureau, or a mirror.
Yet, perhaps because we hurry past or
into buildings, or because vast edifices are
packed cheek by jowl in modern cities, or
for one reason or another, we seldom be-
come acutely interested in an art that is
indeed the mother of all other arts and
crafts.
The English cathedrals are on the whole
less notable than the French, but set as
they are amidst an oasis of green, how much
more happily they captivate the eye and
how much more grateful is the memory of
them. -
But as to art structure in architecture:
It may at first sight savour of simplicity
to suggest that incomparable works such
as the Taj Mahal, the Parthenon, or Char-
tres are subject to laws so elementary and
so easily grasped. Yet fine spacing and
massing is at the foundation of all successful
architecture.
The architect deals indeed with ponder-
able materials; he is compelled to consider
ways and means, and work out strains and
stresses. He must have a scrupulous re-
gard for the utilities, and compared with
the painter he is shackled hand and foot.
Nevertheless, his finished product is a line-
and-mass arrangement that is as suscepti-


31 ART
ble to analysis by means of the laws of art
structure as any primitive textile or modern
painting.
Elie Faure says: “If one has not lived in
the intimacy of its ruins, a Greek temple
is as rigid as a theorem, but as soon as we
really know it our whole humanity trembles
in it.”
Even the best photograph gives but a
simulacrum of the third dimension which
is the breath of life to architecture, and
after repeated use of illustrations of the
Parthenon there is sometimes a furtive
suggestion of lip-homage.
And not unnaturally, for such nuances
of proportion are not always perceived even
by the professional architect, as witness
the average church or school, town hall or
bank.
The student of art appreciation is some-
what in danger of boredom through the
misplaced zeal of instructors who pour
out treasures in too rich profusion. The
unseeing or over-stimulated eye turns
from such embarrassment of choice, or
revolts like the healthy child when fed with
richly seasoned foods. Shakespeare has
often been forced upon the attention of
minds not properly prepared to receive his
message, with the result that for years his
voice never reached the heart.
It would be better to build up the ap-
preciation by the use of examples which
provide an easy approach to the master-
pieces of distant ages when modes of living
and habits of thought were so far removed
from ours.
The gabled house of 17th Century New
England, the Dutch colonial cottage, the
Virginian mansion, all furnish abundant
proof of the value of good proportion and
good placement in architecture, and may be
STRUCTURE IN ARCHITECTURE
closely compared with the “Readybuilt”
fungus that springs up overnight in the
suburbs of every town.
Modern banks, chambers of commerce,
office buildings and lofts are other fruitful
Sources from which to cull illustrations of
vital interest. We might with profit ex-
amine a few purely utilitarian buildings
with a view to discover the presence or
absence of fine line-and-space arrangements
and beautiful adjustments of mass to mass,
together with the rhythm which comes from
such regard for composition.
It is here that we come upon a very
significant truth. We notice that those
objects that are built with a prime regard
for honest service—that combine the utmost
efficiency and durability—are those that
most nearly approach aesthetic standards.
This is most readily perceived in objects
not architectural in the accepted sense:
in steamships, locomotives, automobiles,
and airplanes. As each becomes more
efficient, more powerful, more speedy, they
clothe themselves in a purer beauty.
Great bridges, power-stations, dams, fac-
tories, and other vast engineering works
show this same evolutionary process at
work.
Extremes tend to meet, and in but a little
space of time we may see the circle complete
and witness a surprising fusion between
aesthetics and pure science.*
An instance tending to confirm this, which
to some may seem a fanciful connection,
is the effect already exercised by the Zoning
Law of New York. Designed to give the
streets and skyscrapers more light and air,
it has already profoundly modified for the
better the architecture of the city.
*We have stated that art is not science, but that leaves us free to
accept the contention of Havelock Ellis that pure science is an art.
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
32
Apropos of this blending of art and
science, and tending to confirm the me-
chanical basis of beauty we might instance
the discovery of a French savant, who has
proven that the dome of St. Peter's, Rome,
has a contour precisely that which engineers
would have plotted for such a span, although
the science of mathematics was not suffi-
ciently advanced, at the time it was designed
by Michael Angelo, to have enabled him
to use it in his solution of such a problem.
Macody Lund in “Ad Quadratum” says
that the rules of Architecture in the Middle
Ages were a secret science, as in Classic
Times to the Greeks “beauty
was not an indescribable matter of feelings,
but on the contrary, the result of conscious
intellectual perception of harmonizing laws
existing in Nature itself.”
It is in the field of architecture that the
Hambidge or other theories may have a
definite application and bear healthy fruit,
though rules never supply the place of
original genius. Nor can such theories
contribute much to the spiritual growth and
change that is common to all living art.
Yet it is conceivable that a system of pro-
portion that may be helpful to the architect
would ruin the painter, who in all his works
shows an emotional approach and is con-
cerned with fine choices that weaken at the
appearances of rules. The architect can
never escape the practical question of
stresses and strains, of plumbing and light-
ing, of elevators and heating plant. These
things will always impose restraints which
to the painter are unknown, and for that
reason architecture turns a cold eye upon
the various isms that have been joyously
exploited by the brotherhood of the brush.
Nevertheless, the architect, more particu-
larly in Germany and Central Europe, is
anxious to try out new materials and inves—
tigate the possibilities that lie concealed
in such plastic and flexible components as
steel girders and wire mesh and concrete.
He may not be able yet to take these things
and mould them nearer to his heart's desire,
but they can be shaped and fashioned in
ways quite strange, and receive impressions
from which stone and wood recoil.
These things open up alluring vistas, for
evolution is still with us, despite denials
here and there, and after all, a Doric temple
for a Mack Sennett comedy seems a little
out of place. However, we need never
fear an outbreak of Cubism or Vorticism on
Main Street. It would be as fatal to the
architect’s reason as it would be to his
client’s bank account.
This is another digression, from which
we will return to the subject of utility and
beauty.
That ogre in the way of progress, the
“practical man,” may be moved from
beauty’s right-of-way by the double appeal
of art and barter. He is already awake
to the fact that such a commercial aim as
window dressing is furthered by attention
to good spacing. The more alert are also
aware that efficient planning brings fine
design into a surface car or a factory, and
that distinction in a building is a decided
asset in business.
The interested student should look up the
Year Books of the Design and Industries
Association, published by Ernest Benn, in
which many illustrations confirm this alli-
ance of beauty and utility. In good examples
we see a simple and satisfying arrangement
of line and mass. Stripped of all ornament
the factory may still impress by its straight-
forward placing of doors and windows, bays
and piers. The rightness in the arrangement
33
of these simple rectilinear elements imparts
a character lacking in many a more impor-
tant or more pretentious building. In some,
indeed, there is an approach to the austere
dignity of a cinquecento palace or the formal
beauty of a Doric temple.
Having lingered upon these utilitarian
things, though we live in a distressingly
utilitarian age, we can revert to more ancient
and comely forms, remembering that this
circle will not be completed unless we ex-
tend both ends.
Even in the examination of antique prac-
tices we find a somewhat parallel develop-
ment. Beauty grows out of knowledge and
power.
The heavy Doric gives place to the grace-
ful Ionic. The often clumsy Romanesque
is replaced by the upshooting slender
Gothic. Only when ornament usurps the
place of construction do we see a decadence
of style.
Moslem art abounds in examples that
are splendid illustrations of the right subor-
dination of ornament to architectural design.
Minarets, domes, walls, windows, arches,
and ceilings are alike encrusted with ex-
quisite patterns. Worked in colours, in
stucco, in faience, in mosaic and pierced
marble, they cover every surface, yet such
is the respect for primary forms that rich-
ness rarely obtrudes and elaboration seldom
lapses into extravagance.
Taken together, these extremes empha-
size the fact that ornament is a relative term.
Many a building burgeons out into carved
capitals, moulded cornices, sculptured frieze
and copious arabesque, only to achieve fu-
tility at great expense.
On the other hand, the 18th Century
architect of Spain with his brave baroque
accomplished at times some splendid feats
ART
STRUCTURE IN ARCHITECTURE
of bold and striking massing, feats which
his more gymnastic contemporary in Italy
never approached.
An understanding of art structure enables
us to appreciate both simplicity and richness.
We realize that the absence of ugly and
useless sculpture, a scarcity of trite and
trifling decoration, does not necessarily spell
beauty. We know that the piling up of
figures in serried ranks, the fine fretting
of capitals and mouldings and the intricate
piercing of windows, as at Amiens, or the
stupendous wealth of pattern as at Granada
does not always imply vulgarity or ostenta-
tion.
Having now stressed both the utilitarian
and the decorative, we shall turn to examine
some of the old masterpieces with added
ZeSt.
The line illustrations show how the
bold massing of a few simple elements is
common to a Gothic tower or a city hotel.
It is easy to make an experiment in re-
adjustment and demonstrate the facility
with which such spacing may be degraded.
As we apply our touchstone of style it
will be impossible to escape the conclusion
that, consciously or unconsciously, the build-
ers of mediaeval castles and cathedrals,
Oriental palaces or tombs, of Greek temples
or Roman aqueducts, alike respected the
unwritten laws of art structure.
Primarily these works are arrangements
of line and mass and light-and-dark, and
are governed by these same principles that
apply to a patterned rug or a painted vase.
The placing of their towers and transepts
and apses, their domes, bays, and buttresses,
columns and cornices, stringcourses and
panels, niches, friezes, doors and windows—
which things break up the mass and impart
a rhythm of line and notan to the whole
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
34
façade—the right placing of these units
may be soundly tested by the application
of the principles elaborated in previous
chapters.
To conclude, perfection of line and space
is common to all fine architecture, to
St. Peter's Dome or the Woolworth, to Wells
Cathedral or a half-timbered cottage.
Palace and tenement alike are merely
good or bad arrangements of a few simple
elements—horizontal, vertical, and oblique
and curved lines. Given an appreciation of
art structure, such fine organizations might
be common to apartment houses and fac-
tories, subway kiosks, and even gasoline
stations.
Since the foregoing was written there has
been held in New York the comprehensive
Exposition of Architecture and the Allied
Arts, and several visits compel a further
reference to the significant creations of the
Modern American architect. In civic and
domestic buildings alike, he shows a re-
markable and progressive development of
both technique and art.
In Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco,
Pittsburgh, Chicago; in the South and
Middle West, as in New York, buildings of
prodigious height shoot up with a rapidity
that would leave the old cathedral builders
breathlessly persuaded that this modern
construction was a miracle, effected by the
intervention of devils or angels. But the
master masons of mediaeval Strasbourg or
Cologne would unhesitatingly admit into
their brotherhoods the architects of these
sky-piercing towers, for they are “tall” in
the full meaning of the original Anglo-
Bºſtºn
Saxon, which was—admirable, celebrated,
exceptionally excellent, great, brave, sturdy,
spirited. And to these virtues they add
in full measure the harmonizing, unifying
quality of beauty.
The pity of it is that too often such master-
pieces are wedged in between utilitarian
lofts, or set upon such narrow streets that
not even a dislocated neck provides a com—
prehensive view.
In general, our civilization shows but
little disposition to hide its light under a
bushel, but there is a decided tendency to
produce real architectural beauty and steril-
ize its chief function.
In domestic architecture a sane and
comely development parallels the slightly
hectic growth of civic buildings.
The French château—the type that bris-
tled with machicolated turrets—and the
Swiss chalet have been succeeded by in-
telligent derivations from English, Spanish,
and Dutch sources, thoroughly adapted to
modern ideas of comfort, convenience, and
sanitation.
And, as we have more than once insisted,
such subsidiary virtues are but part of the
larger utility that Beauty always holds
within her forms, forms that are both ample
and compact.
The briefest scrutiny of modern architec-
ture will provide a convincing proof that
here we have an art that needs no doctor,
nor provides distressing problems for the
psychopath or the metaphysical aesthete.
Its health and strength are the best augury
for the continued progress of the arts of
sculpture and painting.
-> Kºſº

ART STRUCTURE IN SCULPTURE
*- º zº-
rººmſ
The best of artists hath no thought to show
which the rough stone in its superfluous shell
doth not include.—M. ANGELO.
N OUR approach to the subject of
sculpture we must bear in mind some of
sculpture’s limitations. The sculptor deals
with pure form, almost entirely divorced
from colour. He is confined to renderings
of the human figure and the forms of
animals. His technique prohibits the use
of the suggestive tones and half-revealed
shapes that so often pass for art in painting.
Unless his work is finely conceived and
clearly wrought his message is lost, and
his output is but an ineradicable offence.
That so many sculptors fail in this high
aim and merely succeed in inflicting a
perpetual outrage upon the community may
be one of the reasons why there is far less
interest in sculpture to-day than there was
in ancient Athens.
But even at its best there are an austerity,
a purity, and an aloofness that repel the
amateur whose regard for art is merely
sensuous. Sculpture can never have the
universal appeal of painting, and those who
feel its power may congratulate themselves
on being among the elect.
Sculpture, since the High Renaissance,
has almost invariably connoted work in
marble or bronze, with the human form
bulking enormously amidst the output.
The male and female figures, with here and
there the aristocracy of the animal kingdom,
comprise the chief and indeed almost the
only resources of the sculptor.
If the layman is inclined to question the
CHAPTER VIII
necessity for so many human forms, usually
nude, that decorate our buildings and adorn
our parks and squares, he must recollect
that to the sculptor the human figure repre-
sents the acme of plastic beauty. It is a
never—failing source of inspiration to an
artist intent upon building up a rhythmic
harmony of splendidly shaped solids.
If the layman also complains that there is
too much nudity, and not a little suggestion
of sex about the art of the sculptor to-day,
he should also recollect that the Attic chiton
can never be treated more satisfactorily
than it has been already, in a thousand
ways, by the Greeks; that mediaeval costume
smacks a little of romanticism and affecta-
tion when used in the 20th century, and that
modern costume, even when quite beautiful,
has a fatal habit of “dating” any but the
most powerful and uncommon treatments.
All these things explain the predilection for
the nude.
And as to sex in sculpture, it is no less
insistent in painting, in literature, or in life
itself. Until humanity reaches a beatitude
suggestive of Confucius or St. Francis it
probably will be. If the note seems a little
strident to-day, the source of such extrav-
agances may be found in the repressions of
a previous generation that delighted in
leg-of-mutton sleeves, hour-glass corsets,
and wedding cake coiffures and hats.
Let the squeamish student live for a while
with a sculptured Gibson girl and he will
incontinently rush to welcome the wildest
products of the moderns.
If such an anomaly as a sexless nude was




35
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
36
desirable the nearest approach would be
The Slave, by Hiram Powers. This innocu-
ous and commonplace statue seems entirely
in keeping with the unreal and lifeless fig-
ures that Hawthorne describes in faultless
prose throughout the pages of “Marble
Faun.”
It is amusing to recollect that The Slave
caused an uproar among the prurient of the
°40's comparable to the fuss we have had
recently over the works of MacMonnies.
The same sort of moralists saw nothing
but depravity in “Tess of the Durbervilles”
and “Madame Bovary.” They will always
be with us. The healthy-minded can usu-
ally tell where sex usurps the place of art,
whether it be in literature, in the theatre,
or the gallery, and we may be sure that there
also is nothing upon which the seeker after
appreciation need linger. The work can
never be great, for the artist who stresses
such peculiarities has already upset the
balance which is as essential to art as to
nature.
All this by way of helping to remove
inhibitions, or merely a mauvaise honte
that gets in the way and prevents so many
from viewing works of art objectively, and
which results in a loss of appreciation for an
art which rewards her votaries in richer
measure than most.
Our predilections are shaped by Fate,
and education but polishes the surfaces and
suppresses ugly angles.
landscape and neglect the figure entirely.
Another may have a single-minded regard
for primitive sculpture, and yet another
prefer the calm of Chinese work to the un-
rest of the moderns.
But it would be a pity, by confining our
appreciation to Bodhisattvas, to immunize
ourselves to the thrill of the elemental force
One will prefer .
of Maillol, or the strange intensities of
Lehmbruck.
The student who neglects to study the
works of men like Epstein, Bourdelle,
Kolbe, Lehmbruck, Bernard, Mestrovic,
Gill, Lachaise, Maillol, and a score of other
moderns, is neglecting a field more rich
and varied, more stimulating and suggestive
than any that has been cultivated by the
sculptor since the Venus of Willendorf was
fashioned.
Even if you should happen to be orthodox,
and swear by none but the Graeco-Roman
gods, you are missing a wonderful opportun-
ity of indulging in one long anathema. But,
to the observer, all’s well in the world of
sculpture. Not even in the art of painting,
which is more susceptible to change, and
lends itself to dextrous experiment, can
there be seen such research, such explora-
tion, such intelligent evolution of ancient
types, such a resurgence of the creative
impulse that marks every great period. It
may be eclectic but it is not second hand.
The art of the sculptor holds no lure for
the impressionist, or the facile technician.
Every line needs a dozen thoughts, every
contour is evoked only by intelligence allied
to power.
Despite this discipline, perhaps because
of it, the sculptor of the 20th Century, in
stone and bronze and wood, with hammer
and chisel, is hewing out an imperishable
record of his time, more vivid, more alive,
and more full of promise than it has been
since the days of Pericles or the age of
Donatello. It is high time some scholar of
insight and imagination epitomized the
movement in the volume it deserves.
In applying our criterion of line and mass
and light-and-dark to sculpture, certain
modifications in the usage, as applied to
37
painting or even architecture, are necessary.
We are dealing with a three-dimensional
art, as in architecture. But line takes on a
subtlety and intricacy very different from
the geometric organizations of the architect.
Nor in painting is there any suggestion
of the changeability and movement in all
directions which is characteristic of the
sculptured forms. The quality of the line
may be most easily examined in the contours
of a relief, and of course many Egyptian and
Assyrian reliefs are little more than sil-
houettes cut out against a background.
But what silhouettes! Their powerful and
restrained treatments offer the best intro-
duction to the study of line in sculpture.
In bolder reliefs we see lines leaving the
edges and traversing the figure to give direc-
tion to the planes and lead the eye from one
form to another. These masses in turn
are organized in such a way that the eye
travels over the work and returns to it with
the same pleasure with which it contem-
plates the contour of a fine vase or the
drawing in a beautiful profile.
The eye derives very little kindred satis-
faction when it is offered a faithful redupli-
cation of the model, for here we get a
negation of the creative impulse that seeks
to interpret the essence of the form and
not merely its superficial beauties. Even
when the artist simplifies forms, neglects
trivial detail, and models with competence
the larger beauty of the figure, he fails to
stimulate the deeper feelings that are
reached only by an artful or instinctive use
of line and mass to build up a composition of
solid forms with music in them.
It is this consummation that the modern-
ist sculptor seeks when he uses geometric
or abstract shapes and masses instead of
orthodox and natural forms. Whether such
ART STRUCTURE IN SCULPTURE.
abstractions can evoke in any but a few
people the same deep emotions that so many
feel in the presence of an archaic Athena,
the Demeter from Cnidus, Michael Angelo's
Dawn, or The Sitting Woman of Maillol, is
beside the point. They all succeed or
fail according to the competence with which
they handle their lines, shapes, and masses.
The quality of notan in a piece of sculpture
is conditioned by the source of light which
casts into shadow or brings out in relief its
depressions and projections. This is ac-
tually light-and-shade, and in this case
fine notan results from judicious placement
of the masses having regard to the lighting
of the work. Whilst the two terms are
in this case synonymous, mere attention to
studio lighting very rarely brings out the
finest qualities of notan.
Thus a careful study of the male figure,
such as is frequently seen at the average
academy exhibition, gives but a naturalistic
and commonplace arrangement of light-and-
dark. On the other hand, in the well-
known Illisus from the west pediment of
the Parthenon we see the human figure
treated in a manner that is a pure fusion of
the naturalistic and the ideal, achieving in
an apparently effortless manner a splendid
notan. On the other hand, fine arrange-
ments of line and mass result in fine light-
and-dark in any light. For instance, the
frieze of the Parthenon was seen in a glow
of reflected light in its original position,
yet it remains a masterly achievement in
the toplight in which it is now shown in the
British Museum.
It is the supreme achievement of the
Phidian school that with its respect and
worship of the human form it never forgot
the primary qualities of good composition.
Possibly, as its ideals were not yet corrupted,
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
38
it was not even conscious of the need for
laws, but retained the instinctive command
over such fundamentals that we see in all
earlier primitive work.
From the 5th Century Greek sculpture
steadily declined, and it is an interesting
and instructive study to trace the progressive
deterioration of the art, parallel with the
development of technique and increasing
attention to finish.
In every craft and art we see a similar
declension when primary laws are disre-
garded in a pursuit of externals. We see
the noble solidities of the 5th Century giving
place to the still godlike grace and charm of
Praxiteles. The passion and movement of
Scopas, the extraordinary skill of the 4th-
Century masters in their treatment of
clinging drapery, and the increased atten-
tion to the model, lead us down to the agony
and violence, the sweat and blood, of the
Pergamene school. Bold chisel work is re-
placed by softer contours of rasp and file,
and these in turn give way to polished suavi-
ties obtained by the use of antique substi-
tutes for sandpaper or emery.
As the outer skin becomes more lifelike,
more anatomically correct, so too the inner
core shows a structure that contributes
powerfully to its decay. This structure
was the armature upon which plastic groups
were built up. Such is the strength of
tradition and the power of false ideals that
for hundreds of years sculptors hugged to
their bosoms the chief source of their
sterility.
The archaic sculptor was a carver. He
carved his medium as well, if not as knowl-
edgeably, as the 5th Century worker in
marble. His wooden trunk or stone block
encompassed his first conception, and like
a good craftsman he never wasted energy
} |
}
J
on work that did not tell. Good spacing
came as naturally to his hand as it did to
the Gothic mason or the Chinese worker in
slate. He filled his field and told his
tale simply, dramatically, and effectively.
But as technique progressed and the living
model became more and more the sculptor's
ideal, the contrivance called an armature
came into use. Upon this skeleton, made
up of metal rods and tubes, was built up
layer upon layer of clay or wax, until the
plastic model was complete and ready for
reduplication in marble or bronze.
The later Greeks abused this method,
but never to the extent that was common in
modern times. The armature was the bane
of late Renaissance sculpture and the curse
of practically all subsequent work up to the
end of the 19th Century.
In neither architecture nor painting did a
technical innovation work such havoc, and
not until sculptors returned to the direct
method of carving do we find again the fine
design, the pure contours, and the tell-
ing light-and-dark that mark the work of
the true artist who respects his medium.
Being able to twist and bend his lines at
will, the sculptor, who was by now a model-
ler, threw away all restraint, and the very
facility with which he might compose his
group proved his undoing. How far he
declined from the compact forms of Michael
Angelo, who, we are told, said that a piece
of sculpture should suffer little damage if
rolled down hill, may be seen by comparing
the Lorenzo Tomb with a group by Carpeau.
A more vivid and pathetic contrast may
pe made if we examine the sprightly sou-
brettes, poised on one toe, that still infest
the academies of Europe and America.
This mania for building up instead of
cutting down reached its nadir in the 19th
39
Century. Corpulent worthies of both sexes
were solemnly modelled in the nude and as
solemnly invested with clayey raiment, so
that to-day they gaze furtively across the
public places, manifestly conscious of having
been apparently poured into their Snugly
fitting stomachers or pantaloons. How
much better the sanity of Rodin, who
clothed his Balzac in a bathrobe.
After a few decades of that sort of thing
the pendulum could only swing upward.
Bartholomé sensed the futility of such
methods when he urged the young French
sculptors to go back to the stone of their
Gothic forbears, good advice for once fol-
lowed, and resulting in renewed youth for
the art.
As must be expected, the pendulum
swings too far here and there, resulting
in the heavy and brutal contours of Metzner,
or the simplicities that cover vacancy at
times in the work of Brancusi, but on the
whole the rebound has been astounding
and the accomplishment real and enduring.
These things have been dwelt upon at
length because the technique of a craft,
when properly understood and respected,
will always provide a sound foundation for
our criticism.
By now it should be obvious to the point
of boredom that a careful regard for the
model, a faithful rendition of externals, and
a lifelike arrangement of limbs can never be
productive of fine sculpture.
On the other hand, the Aztec or Hindu
carver, hewing his reliefs out of basalt or
sandstone, frequently achieves masterpieces
of design, though they use widely divergent
styles and show but slight knowledge or
regard for nature when employing figures.
Similarly Chinese and Gothic works
abound in direct treatments that are pure
ART STRUCTURE IN SCULPTURE
art. The Chinese sculptor in particular
shows a noble serenity of line and a splendid
rhythm in the placement of his masses
that makes much modern stuff look tor-
tured and nerve-racked. It is this serenity
that the Archaic Greek sculptor achieves
so naturally; a godlike calm that Phidias
retained and the 4th Century lost. It
seems to me that this is the supreme
requisite of an art which in the very nature
of its materials has about it a hint of eternity.
We could spend hours discussing and
examining the various types of lines and
contours that are characteristic of good
sculpture the world over. All are dis-
tinguished by a certain gravity and weight,
never, even in an Egyptian colossus, sug-
gestive of cumbrous or oppressive bulk.
It is a fascinating study to trace each
period and note how the line is expressive
of the age that produced it—the violence of
Assyria and the sensitive formalization of
Egypt, no less than the explosive vitality of
the new Austria. We see the strength and
subtlety of early Greece give way to liber-
time indulgence, just as the rough-hewn
sincerities of Gothic France are succeeded
by the opulent and sensuous forms of the
late French renaissance. Italian work is
almost always vigorous and lively, but we
see there the earlier refinements of Settig-
nano and Mino. da Fiesole swamped under
the bravura of Bologna or the inanities of
Bernini.
One of the most effective contrasts we
could make would be to examine the simple
curves, arranged in rhythmic repeats, that
impart its calm distinction to Buddhist
carving, and then compare them with the
characteristic features of modern sculpture.
To-day we note a strong preferment for
contrasts and oppositions, although, in
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
40
common with all modern art, it is so eclectic
and diverse that it is dangerous to general-
ize. But a noticeable feature is the love
of rounded sections set off by angular con-
tours, the employment of long, flattened
curves foiled by delicate and intricate
patches of profile. At other times there is a
clash of line that gives exactly the strident
and imperative note so typical of the times
we live in.
And after we have enjoyed such stimu-
lating opposites we can turn to the sculpture
of the 5th Century B.C. Observe how the
note set by the line is taken up sonorously
by the rich forms. Contour smelt into
planes, mass enters mass and again emerges
in echoing forms throughout. A leg growing
powerfully from the loins repeats the Sweep-
ing rhythm of shoulder and arm. The
torso, turning with the ease of a dolphin at
play, cajoles the eye along each subtly
defined plane. Such profundities of line
and mass are also to be seen in Michael
Angelo’s Adam–and his creator was a
sculptor, too—but in sculpture the har-
monies of line and mass and light-and-
dark are infinitely variable, changing with
each changing point of view and shifting
with the shifting source of light.
It is this variability that constitutes the
chief delight of sculpture, and if it is not
apprehended we cannot enter into the full-
est enjoyment of the art.
But we have lingered long enough over
things that defy a too close analysis. We
cannot lay down rules for sculpture with
the plausibility that we may for Architecture
or even painting, certainly with nothing
approaching the conviction with which we
may apply them to a rug, a vase or a Cretonne.
We are reaching a stage now where art
structure is but a foundation, upon which
the sensitivity builds in confidence its own
interpretation. In the illustrations these
laws are used to analyze some of the ex-
amples, but whether we apply them syn-
thetically or merely feel their weight and
value, we should never again ask for “truth
to nature” before respect for aesthetic
laws, nor demand technical skill before
emotional expression.
If we can appreciate the Ludovisi Throne,
a Ming horse, or an Assyrian relief, we
cannot conscientiously turn a cold eye up-
on the products of the moderns.
All we can say in conclusion is that fine
line arrangements, fine placing of masses,
and finely balanced light-and-dark are as
characteristic of good sculpture as they are
of good architecture, painting, or handicraft.
The simplest way to apprehend such
simple truths is to study the work of the
archaic Greeks, with its primitive strength
and economy of means, and its direct
solutions comparable with Giotto’s in paint-
ing. Then continue with the metopes and
frieze of the Parthenon, the reliefs from
Halicarnassos and the Pergamene altar,
with finally some examples of Alexandrine
and Graeco-Roman relief work.
In the round, examine the early Apollos
and Goddesses, the figures from Delphi,
AEgina, Olympia, and the Parthenon, pass-
ing by way of the Winged Victories and the
Hermes of Praxiteles to the Maenads and
Venuses of the 4th and 3d centuries on to
the Dying Gauls and Amazons of Pergamus,
to the Laocoön and the Farnese Bull.
The lesson is pretty obvious to any one
not blind to the visual appeal, and to any
but the hide-bound academician the archaic
carver, like the primitive mural painter,
stands the most rigid test.
His very inability to carve the figure “true
41
to nature” prevented him from frittering
away his powers on non-essentials. Un-
able to be clever, he was good. Incapable
of carving precisely what he saw, he ex-
pressed all the more powerfully what he
felt. In common with other primitives,
the virtues of his defects informs his work
with a spirit far transcending that of more
competent artists of the 4th Century.
Not to take up more time in writing, when
the visual appeal is the prime essential, we
conclude with a reaffirmation that beneath
Till.i.
sº. B
ART STRUCTURE IN SCULPTURE
all the impersonal subtleties of the Greeks,
with their sane balance and healthy ob-
jectivity, lie the fundamental rules of art
structure. And these rules are big enough
and flexible enough to measure also the
works of the modernists of every school.
However introverted, subjective, and per-
sonal it may be, or however respectful of
tradition, the product of the 20th Century
sculptor stands or falls as a work of art
by its observation or disregard for the same
laws.
all All) -




ART STRUCTURE IN PAINTING
CHAPTER IX
saxºs" sº ºw
tº "wº
**s
ſill lººkſ Avellº Jr.
There is a profound rule of art, bidding a
man in the midst of all his study of various
styles or the pursuit of his own peculiar
imaginations, from time to time to steep himself
again in Nature.—GILBERT MURRAY.
N THE whole field of art, painting easily
ranks first as the most fascinating and
varied division. An art possessing such a
range of subject and such a diversity of
styles, and which adds to these qualities the
powerful appeal of colour, will always hold
the premier place in the esteem of mankind.
Another factor contributing to this regard is
the readiness with which painting responds
to change, making it the favourite experi-
mental medium of the intelligent artist,
and a constant source of interest to the
critic and the amateur.
At this point, remembering the many
able and adequate treatments this field
receives, it might be more discreet to rest
content with a simple explanation of art-
structure principles as applied to pictures,
without entering upon a discussion, which
inevitably becomes controversial.
But the subject not only invites but de-
mands debate.
We are approaching a stage where rules
become less capable of exact definition, and
where the personal equation enters more
and more intimately into any estimate
that is made. We shall encounter work
apparently so divorced from tradition that
even an understanding of art structure is
often insufficient to overcome deep-rooted
42
* * * *** * * * * *
... • ********* * *
iſºl ll-/Kºen.
§ ſº.
antipathies, which have their origins in
things but remotely connected with aes-
thetics. These barriers to full appreciation
must be removed before we can enjoy to the
full the stimulating and provocative prod-
ucts of the moderns.
Art has just passed through a period of
labour and rebirth, the turmoil of which
makes any unbiassed estimate a matter of
extreme nicety, and unless we have some
idea of the causes underlying this renais-
sance we are likely to turn from many
works that, once comprehended, enrich our
experience and provide a constant source
of pleasure.
Schopenhauer, following the advice of
the Tea Master, Kabori-Enshiu, counselled
us to wait until a work of art spoke to us
first. If it never speaks we might recall
Charles Lamb’s tolerant admission that he
could never hate a man if he knew him.
Jan Gordon, in “Modern French Paint-
ing,” gives an illuminating account of how
he became aware of the beauty of a Cézanne.
If such an expert aesthetician could remain
so long unconscious in the presence of
genius, we should at least beware of hasty
condemnation.
Approached in that spirit, modern painting
offers an unparalleled opportunity for dis-
cussion, entertainment, and even dissen-
sion. Ranging from the frank primitive
to the genuine expressionist it gives to all
the widest choice. No one with a respect
for truth and beauty can pretend to love it



43
ART STRUCTURE IN PAINTING
all, but everyone may make a rich and
varied selection.
A summary like this can touch but a few
of the more salient features, and the com-
ments made are personal opinions that
should be weighed in the light of more ex-
tended reading. The one point upon which
we can be emphatic is that a regard for the
flexible rules of art structure should always
come before a respect for conventional
treatments, or a demand for traditional
beauty, when you examine any painting.
Before we apply such rules it seems
advisable to inquire just what qualities we
demand of a painting, and to attempt to
settle the vexed question of what is per-
missible or advisable in subject and inter-
pretation.
Omitting Graeco-Roman work, of which
few examples survive, the technique of the
painter has undergone a steady develop-
ment since the early Florentines reintro-
duced fresco painting. Their work, done
directly and surely upon wet plaster, dealt
at first with simple two-dimensional design.
Such flat treatment is still in vogue, and
its practice has been much enriched and
strengthened by the stimulus derived from
China and Japan. It is not difficult for the
amateur with an understanding of art
structure to appreciate such work, and we
have already discussed the fundamental
principles that underlie any successful deco-
ration.
Oil painting, first exploited by the Flemish
artists, and soon taken up by the Florentines,
ushered in an era of easel pictures, painted
upon wood or canvas. Some purists see
the decline of painting from this period.
At first the same precision and delicacy, the
same regard for fine contours and pattern
that characterized the best fresco painting
pervaded work in oil. Gradually a pre-
occupation with the problems of perspective
and anatomy changed the technique.
Tactile values were considered all-
important, and insensibly representation
became the ideal. Paintings were exe-
cuted in monochrome and glazed with
colours, and we see light-and-shade usurp-
ing the place of light-and-dark.
Despite the glories of Venetian colourists,
this decline was noticeable by the 16th
Century and prevailed until the beginning
of the 19th. During this century artists
experimented with the direct application
of pure pigments. In water colour, with
transparent washes, and in oil with minutely
separated touches, the artist sought to build
up vibrant colour harmonies. Sunlight and
the open air gave the atmosphere previously
sought in the studio. In the hands of the
Impressionists painting lost the solid qualities
it had hitherto retained, though their work
marks an immense advance in colour
realization. Later artists sought to restore
plastic values without surrendering this
advantage. It is in the field of colour that
the modern artist has made his most ex-
tensive conquests and it deserves a book to
itself. And in such a tribute honour would
be paid to the modern chemist, who has
provided colours of such intensity and
richness that they must be the envy and
despair of the old masters' shades.
Not to put too fine a point upon a defini-
tion, the modern artist seeks a command
of all these qualities; of fine design, of
three-dimensional form, of depth as well as
breadth, and the utmost intensity of colour
and expression.
Naturally this orchestration of many
instruments is a difficult and often unat-
tained ideal. But in the perfect picture, yet
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
44
to be painted, the eyes will be rejoiced with
the line of the Early Greeks, the pattern of
the primitive, the solidity of Michael Angelo,
the colours of Venice and Persia plus the
ardour, the animation, and the intrepidity
of the moderns. Rhythms of line and plane
and tone and colour will march or dance
across its surface and send their echoes
down its remotest distances.
So much, so briefly, for technique and
aim; and now to examine as summarily cer-
tain categories, and attempt some definition
of certain controversial methods of expres–
sion and questionable choices of subject.
The manner and content are the things
that most bother the amateur attempting to
appreciate modern art. Custom has habitu-
ated him to those works that were revolu-
tionary at the time of their production, so
that many who will concede the prečminence
of Giorgione and Titian, of Velasquez, Goya,
El Greco, of Daumier, Courbet, Manet,
Degas and Renoir, yet fail to make the
connection between these masters and
those now living. And for this hesitancy
there is much excuse, for the modern
artist, like the modern city to nerves habitu-
ated to rural calm, is a little trying to eyes
accustomed to the continence and serenity
of the old masters. Even to a dispassion-
ate survey it does appear that, as we grow
more restrained in speech, more accus-
tomed to soap, more competent with forks,
and less given to guzzling wine than our
forbears of Restoration days, there creeps
into our arts a savour that is redolent of
Restoration drama. It is that which brings
us squarely up against the question of what
is or is not to be counted justifiable in art.
It is a query that must be answered for the
amateur before he can make contact with
much fine work of the 20th Century.
Says Santayana, “It is mere barbarism to
feel that a thing is aesthetically good, but
morally evil, or morally good but hateful to
the perception. The giving of
praise or blame or precept, this is not a
matter of science but of character, enthusi-
asm, niceness of perception and fineness of
emotion.”
The modernist creed is that anything that
is art is right. The modern artist believes
that art soars above morality; with him, as
with Plato, the good and the beautiful are
Synonymous.
The amateur is apt to mix his ethics and
aesthetics, forgetting that conventional mor-
ality is always at loggerheads with art.
If we can make a liaison between the
two it will help decidedly toward apprecia-
tion.
We are not interested in the artist with
an attitude of “L’art c’est moi,” nor in the
embattled and forbidding Dorcas; neither
is of service to us. The question we seek
to solve is whether there can be drawn
a line between the aesthetically imperative
and the morally indefensible.
For the artist the answer will be No;
for the teacher it must be Yes. To that
hybrid who is something of both, the line
will be drawn in diverse places at various
stages of development, leaving at maturity
no bounds between art and life.
Let us beware of forcing adult art upon
immature minds, whether such are pos-
sessed by infants or octogenarians, and
recollect that, even since Milton, man at
times “perverts best things to worst abuse,
and to their meanest use.”
If we draw an analogy from literature
we shall more readily understand some of
the impulses motivating many artists to-day.
The much-discussed Ulysses of Joyce
45
has been defined by some critics as an
emotional explosion engendered by a too
papistical upbringing. Similarly the ex-
travagances of some modern artists may be
but the sublimation of repressions generated
by academic training, or too much copying in
art galleries and schools.
Such suppressions and repercussions are
common in our complex civilization. As
life becomes more bureaucratically regu-
lated, and we are surrounded by prohibitions,
ordinances, and enforcements, we can ex-
pect an increasing number of such unre-
strained gestures in art.
But if artists of both sexes, with pen or
brush, produce violent or even nauseous
works, we have to remember that their art
is but a product of the times; and for these
times each little homunculus is in some de-
gree responsible.
G.B.S., an apostle of freedom, would call
such extravagances “documents” to be
preserved but not broadcast, and with such
an attitude few but perverted moralists will
cavil.
To-day hardly a critic could be found to
condone Ruskin’s deliberate destruction
of certain unprintable drawings by Turner,
but in the matter of artistic license we must
beware of developing minds so broad that
the sides fall out.
Whether he likes it or not, the teacher,
at any rate, must take a stand somewhere.
It is safe, then, to say that an artist who
displays a penchant for painting in question-
able haunts, as does Roualt, can hardly
be considered a shining example for the
young art student.
It is not very profound to say that we
get out of a work of art what we bring to it,
or that we see what we look for. Such a
doctrine in its essence absolves the artist
ART STRUCTURE IN PAINTING
from all effort. Yet a work may have power
and freedom, fine colour, tactile values,
and an emotional content far transcending
that of a Byzantine Madonna, without the
power being beneficent or the emotion
creditable. Even those who refuse to
draw lines should remember that in art, as
in other things, “what is loathsome to the
young savours well to thee and me.”
The connoisseur is blind to subject but
alive to interpretations, the undeveloped
critic will always demand recognizable
and respectable themes.
At a recent “Independents” show the
most disgusting picture was not for me the
cerise and bloated nude, which, however
lacking in refinement, showed at last a
courageous disregard of conventions, but a
fully clothed cerulean-eyed and saffron-
haired lady seated in a Louis Seize chair.
There, it seemed, was epitomized the cheap
vulgarity of Main Street; its flickering
signs and soda fountains, its shrieking
posters and gum-chewing cinema addicts;
the whole strident appeal to the universal
stomach and the rudimentary sense organs.
Love of beauty alone can irrigate such
arid spots, and art too long has been the
prerogative of the aristocracy, whether of
culture or riches. Until the man in, the
street demands a little of it in his daily life
we shall have to make the best of merely
utilitarian cities. For it is unfortunate, but
true, to observe that in democracies the
ultimate consumer will have as much to
say about standards as the man of trained
intelligence.
However, regarding the line, it will be
drawn just where our understanding places
it, and until we grow up aesthetically we
are likely to let subject obtrude, and remain
untouched by interpretations.
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
46
Now for other categories into which the
disturbing question of morals does not enter.
In these divisions will be found not only
figure compositions, but still-life work,
landscapes, and abstract treatments.
Perhaps the most provoking and plausible
of these groups are those who claim in-
tellectual qualities for their works, or at
least do not contradict such assertions upon
the part of others. Usually, by means of
specious forewords and explanations, they
attempt to stimulate emotions that their
works could never reach. This practice is
every bit as perverted as that of the literal-
minded copyist who tacks a fragment of
verse upon his picture frame.
Many of these pictures are the result of the
conceit held in many quarters that a picture
should have other functions than a release
of the emotions. Obsessed by such ideas
these practitioners demand that a picture
present an intellectual problem, the more
insoluble the better. Like many other
corruptions, it has at its roots a sound idea,
and is in part a natural reaction from the
obvious and anecdotal treatments of the
academician.
Our literature responds similarly and
infinitely more intelligibly to this demand
for more effort on the part of the reader.
But each art, if it is to remain pure, must
function within its own orbit.
Such exquisite cameos as those, for
instance, in Katherine Mansfield’s “Bliss”
can have no counterpart in an art concerned
primarily with the visual appeal of lines and
shapes, tones and colours.
Art may deal with anecdote, with history,
or with every-day life, as in Assyrian re-
liefs or Florentine frescoes, without loss
of structure, but to introduce so-called
intellectual sidelines is to weaken its
integrity. We might as reasonably expect
the sensuous art of the musician to concern
itself with problems in trigonometry. The
diapason may thrill the soul and help a
man resolve some tangled doubts, but the
person who regards an art gallery as a place
for intellectual exercises is in danger of
mistaking a movie house for an educational
institution.
It is possible that Van Gogh had been a
more powerful painter had he possessed the
intellect of Leonardo. But he was endowed
with the emotional qualities that are the
prerequisites of the authentic artist.
On the other hand, many a clever cubist
intellectually concerned with the intricate
movements of planes, falls asthetically
and emotionally flat without telling us very
much about the curvature of light or the
interpenetration of solids.
Intriguing patterns, jolly colour, interest—
ing and instructive experiments, we must
grant such things their place and justifica-
tion. But when green herrings on a brown
plate are heralded as intellectual deep-
sea fruit, we grow fatigued. To claim such
things as intellectual is to fall into the com—
mon error of confusing the meaning of
words.
Let us, then, have done with the twaddle
that attributes apocalyptic powers to in-
comprehensible areas of paint.
But before we grow polemical, let us con-
sider the many works, the products of men
indubitably artists, which yet remain be—
yond the comprehension of the intelligent
amateur. Into this class fall the colour
schemes of Kandinski, devoid of any rep-
resentational element, and the arrange-
ments and abstraction of Severini or Picasso
or Bracque. The only thing to do is to
accept them as patterns or colour schemes,
47
or experiments in plane movements, with-
out distressing ourselves about their mean-
ing, or we may indulge ourselves in personal
interpretations. They are not, in any case,
works, of the highest merit, and their in-
comprehensibility piques our curiosity rather
than secures our regard.
These experimentalists are too astute to
continue exploring blind alleys. They push
on into other paths.
Not so the members of another group,
who are primarily introverts, and wholly
concerned with subjective works. These
artists are in a constant state of exhaustion,
for by divorcing themselves from reality
they are forced to feed upon a limited supply
of what might be termed, by the flippant,
interior decoration.
This group fades gradually into the
crepuscule where a few lone hands practise
an esoteric ritual. It is in this twilight that
we now and again stumble against the
works of those often intelligent and sen-
sitive souls who, under more fortunate stars,
might have produced works comparable with
the flowers and fantasies of Odilon Redon.
Then there are others in whom a delusion
of grandeur has usurped the place of reason,
and lastly those to-be-envied wights who
have sublimated their frustrations by creat-
ing a little world of their own into which
they retreat, fondly deluded that they alone
have found the key of the door the others
howl without.
Again it seems likely that such manifesta-
tions will be increasingly frequent in an
urbanized and restless civilization, out of
touch with Nature. The presence of a
Breughelor a Bosch in mediaeval art does not
invalidate the assertion that such things
were unknown when men lived less mech-
anized and more leisurely lives. Was it
ART STRUCTURE IN PAINTING
because, deplorably ignorant of Press
Agents and Studio receptions, they could
concentrate upon their art?
Looking down history, we find authentic
artists who were primitives, paupers, or
peasants; who were men of culture and
affairs; some on the borderland between gen-
ius and madness. Group shades into group,
qualities overlap, and virtues taper down
into defects. Drawing lines of demarcation
is a matter of extreme nicety, and of no
great value when achieved. Our great
objective is to be able to apprehend beauty,
undisturbed by pedagogic classification.
And when we apprehend it in the work of
any artist we are released from all perplex-
ity with subject or interpretation. In the
words of Havelock Ellis, we feel that they
have “gone to the depths of their own souls
and thence brought to the surface and
expressed—audaciously or beautifully, pun-
gently or poignantly—intimate impulses
and emotion which, shocking as they may
have seemed at the time, are now seen to be
those of an innumerable company of their
fellow men and women.”
And now to make contact again with art
structure, which has been neglected during
our discursive examination of cults and
tendencies. In each instance the product
of an artist, of whatever category, may be
tested by its aid. Each one stands or falls
as he has regard for fine choices of lines
and shapes, notan and colour.
Any critic worth his salt could interpret
gracefully the most incoherent canvas, and
some of the critics do it in excellent style.
The great merit of our system of synthetic
appraisal is that it arms us against the
hypnotic spell of words which have been
lavished in such profusion to cover the
vacancies of pseudo-art.
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
48
Before applying the rules of art structure
to controversial or obscure works, it might
be well to test them in connection with
paintings that offer no problems to the
understanding.
In the well-known Doctor by Luke Fildes,
instanced by Clive Bell in “Art” we see
a painter concerning himself solely with
subject matter. This picture, for the cognos-
centi, possesses absolutely no aesthetic
content, yet it succeeds in making many a
novice feel, at least temporarily, disposed to
humanitarianism and almsgiving, simply by
what it suggests.
It will be obvious to all who have followed
us so far that here we have literal interpreta-
tion quite divorced from genuine artistic
feeling. The emotions it stirs could be
evoked by a tableau, or even a poor photo-
graph, and many a snapshot with a kodak
possesses qualities of line and notan of
which it is entirely innocent. It is the work
of a moralist working in the wrong medium.
To realize the tremendous gap that can
exist between the work of a supreme artist
and that of a futile painter one should com—
pare the Christ on the Mount by Debat
Ponsans with M. Angelo's God. The first,
utterly lacking in any sort of feeling, if we
except a cheap theatricality, puerile in con-
struction and mawkish in sentiment, was
nevertheless one of the most “popular”
pictures of the year 1900. In Michael
Angelo's God, swinging in awful majesty
across the Sistine Vault, we have a noble
fusion of technical skill and emotional power
that fills the gaze with wonder and with
a Wee
It is the superb artist functioning with
the ease and precision of a bird in flight.
As a work of art it stands every test of art
structure, and it moves us without any
suggestion of sentimentality or pathos.
In between these extremes are thousands
of works, both great and small, upon which
we can use our touchstone of appreciation.
It is in this disregard for the finer points
of composition that the products of the
academies disclose their weaknesses, and
we touch upon this matter because even
to-day, after twenty years of swift develop-
ment, the academicians are still the only
authentic artists for many otherwise edu-
cated people. Many of them have only
changed their costumes since the Victorian
era, and their institutions do little more than
keep tradition just alive. Their output
shows an undeniable skill and proficiency in
the technique of their art, an accomplish-
ment not lightly to be despised. Neverthe-
less, technique is but a tool in the hands of
the genuine artist, who never thinks of
sacrificing his soul for its attainment.
The academic painter believes that skill
should come first, and that then all things
shall be added unto him.
Even such a brilliant artist as Sargent
surrendered some finer qualities in its
acquisition; on the other hand, we shall be-
ware of the fumbling and botching that
speaks of immaturity whatever its content.
However, the modernist quarrels not so
much with the technique of the academies
as with their methods of approach. Learn-
ing to draw and paint is too seldom accom-
panied by parallel lessons in thinking and
feeling; the stimulus in too great a measure
comes from without, and precepts and
formulas are invoked instead of intelligent
and courageous experiment. The modern
artist insists that a blind respect for tradi-
tion stifles the inquisitive and questing
spirit that all art students possess at first,
and, enthusiastically seizing upon a some-
49
ART STRUCTURE IN PAINTING
what tenuous analogy, claims that the art of
medicine would be still bleeding and cupping
its patients had it as little regard for prog-
ress as the pedants of the schools.
Without truckling to the impatient mod-
ernists who brush aside all training as an
unnecessary discipline, we can affirm with-
out hesitation that the academies have never
solved the great question of how to sub-
ordinate technical proficiency to emotional
expression.
The more we examine the works of artists,
great and small, the more convinced we
become of the need for an understanding
of the basic principles of composition; in-
stinctively and spontaneously if possible,
but acquired somehow they must be.
As our knowledge and understanding
develop and our appreciation deepens, we
insist, more and more unconsciously, but
more and more firmly, upon such funda–
mentals, and whenever a choice has to be
made the art lover turns always to the
master of moving lines and shapes.
If in these last chapters there is less
insistence upon a strict application of rules
or laws, and there are more digressions
upon tendencies and styles, it is because we
realize that laws must never be rigid.
At the outset it was stated that the chap-
ters were progressive, and at this time we
would not risk a tiresome repetition of
criteria which, if we have said anything to
the point at all, are now felt to be the
vertebrae of any organization claiming to be
a work of art. The backbone is flexible
and subject to evolutionary processes, but
it must be there.
We approach a stage in our development
where the need for such a structure will be
instinctively realized rather than consciously
paraded, and we shall be ready to make
choices and decisions unaided and unper-
turbed. In making them we should recollect
that the subjectivity that is so charac-
teristic of modern art, and which, if we
are modern, moves us in diverse ways,
may be as distasteful, or at least as little
valued to-morrow as is to-day the artificial-
ity of the 18th or the religiosity of the 17th
centuries.
Time changes our ideals, and we think the
same to-day as we thought yesterday only
if we have ceased to think. We stress only
those elements of beauty which we recog-
nize unchanging down the ages.
The primitive, working amidst feuds
and sieges, pestilences and sudden death,
painted pictures that invited the soul in
contemplation of the beatitudes.
The modern artist, doubting the delivery
of milk and morning paper as little as he
questions the going down of the sun, in
turn demands a vicarious excitement of his
art.
If at times his work lacerates the feelings
instead of stirring the emotions, it is per-
haps because, like the primitive before
objective things, he seeks interpretations
for subjective moods beyond the present
Scope of his technique. Looking down the
ranges of time, the modern artist seems a
restless and unique chameleon; a “sport”
in an otherwise stable genealogy. Never
possessing the simple faith of the primitives,
Sophisticated from the days of his youth,
he can only attain the artlessness of genius
by way of steep and rugged paths.
Some drop by the way, some end at an
impasse, but some who have gained the
heights think they see before them bound-
less territories only to be exploited by those
who come after.
Whether this be so is a matter for to-
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 50
morrow to decide. What we may be sure
of is that despite the cult of the pseudo-
primitive and the neo-archaic, the conscious
affectation of simplicity, and, worse than all,
the specious insincerities of paid agents,
there grows up among us a steadily in-
creasing number of authentic artists.
And, because art is alive again, there is
also an increasing number of understanding
amateurs, to whom, indeed, these chapters
are devoted.
If the reader, having come so far, will
pardon one more simile, we hope to leave
him striding upon the uplands of Art, able
to enjoy the pleasant valleys without con-
descension, and wise enough to appreci-
ate the lofty range of peaks that now stretch
out before him into the remote Antique.
When he selects and classifies for closer
contemplation, he will do it with some con-
fidence, for he now recognizes the abiding
qualities that are characteristic of all
periods. He will see them shining through
the works of the old masters and find them
irradiating all those of to-day which Time
will not sweep into the caverns of oblivion.
Pºlice Balopºuth Gºd, and
Etruscan
tº c Helmets.




FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY. CHAP.
Concepts and Reactions
The Metaphysician.
. He will see a beauty eternal,
not growing or decaying, not waxing or
waning: nor will it be fair here or foul
there, nor depending on time or cir-
cumstance or place, as if fair to some
and foul to others: nor shall beauty
appear to him in the likeness of a face or
a hand, nor embodied in any sort of
form whatever, whether of heaven or
earth; but beauty absolute, separate,
simple and everlasting; which, lending
of its virtue to all beautiful things that
we see born to decay, itself suffers
neither increase or diminution, nor any
other change.—PLATO.
The Mystic.
This is the spirit that beauty must ever
induce; wonderment and a delicious
trouble, longing and love, and a trembling
that is also delight. For the unseen all
this may be felt as for the seen and this
souls feel for it, every soul in some de-
gree, but those the more deeply who are
the more apt to this higher love—just
as all take delight in the beauty of the
body, but all are not stung as sharply,
and those only that feel the keener
wound are known as lovers.-PLOTINUS
(quoted by Havelock Ellis).
\*:
W W. y 4. N - -- Wi ſ
XRºhikº'll]. Rºug wd wisplan Amlil:
The Poet.
Because Infinity upon thee broods;
And thou art full of whispers and of
shadows
Thou meanest what the sea has striven
to say.
So long, and yearnéd up the cliffs to tell;
Thou art what all the winds have uttered
Inot,
What the still night suggesteth to the
heart.
Thy voice is like to music heard ere
birth,
Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea.
—STEPHEN PHILLIPS.
The Sensuous Soul.
But that which did please me beyond
anything in the whole world was the
wind music when the angel came down,
which is so sweet that it ravished me
quite, and indeed in a word, did wrap
up my soul so that it made me really
sick, just as I have formerly been when
in love with my wife, that neither then,
nor all the evening going home, and at
home I was able to think of anything,
but remained all night transported.—
PEPys, “Diary.”
The Aesthete.
Let no one imagine, because he has
made merry in the warm tilth and quaint
nooks of romance, that he can even guess




ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 52
at the austere and thrilling raptures of
those who have climbed the cold, white
peaks of art.—CLIVE BELL, “Art.”
The Common Man.
Every man feels for himself, and
knows how he is affected by the particular
qualities in the (object) he admires, the
impressions of, which are too minute and
delicate to be substantiated in language.
—BOSWELL, “Life of Johnson.”
It is highly probable that by this time the
reader questions and dissects our theories,
and even decides to disagree with some
parts of them. Indeed, this book will
have missed much of its purpose, if, having
read thus far, he or she does not desire
to seek other and, possibly, more compe-
tent guides, to explore fresh paths and,
exercising a choice amongst the thousand
other splendid examples that might have
been substituted for the given illustrations,
set up an independent theory of their own.
Quoting is a not wholly admirable art, but
at its worst it at least convicts a writer of a
realization that many things have already
been better said. The only excuse for the
following mélange is that each one has a
certain pertinence and all bear upon the
debatable question, what is Art?
The quotations at the head of the chapter
were selected, not with any idea of defining
the undefinable, but rather with a view to
emphasizing, in a diverse field, the widely
differing concepts and emotional reactions
existing with regard to that protean and
many-faceted quality that we loosely term
beauty. Diverse though they may be, and
little concerned with the plastic arts, yet
there seems to be a bright if tenuous thread
that binds them together. Each expresses
a worship and appreciation of that shape of
beauty to which each writer was intellectu-
ally or emotionally attuned; each “leaves
it vague as airy space.”
It would indeed be a rash and fatuous
guide that would suggest just what feelings
an art lover should experience in front of
the Ludovicsi Throne or the Taj Mahal,
but every critic would, I believe, agree that
the emotion should partake of the spirit of
the quotations selected.
In any appreciation the emotional or the
intellectual content will obviously vary in
different individuals, and whilst reading will
help us to understand much, it is the visual
appeal that is the prime factor in any study
of the plastic arts. Technical analysis and
intellectual speculation may easily be car-
ried too far, just as emotional response may
be cultivated until it wells forth like easy
tears. The ecstasy and joy that the art
lover experiences arises from no cold and
arid source, nor is it generated by a spon-
taneous and volatile enthusiasm.
Our own belief has now been unfolded.
It inclines toward, without identifying itself
with, that of the purist. Our confession of
faith is, we hope, that of the artist.
It has already been suggested that to the
artist such ecstasy and joy grows out of an
appreciation of moving lines and tones and
colours. It is, he avers, an emotion that
owes nothing, to sentimental association or
suggestion.
The purist stigmatizes as false any feeling,
however deep, which is promoted by the
subject matter and not by the aesthetic
content of the work. Now this is a true
creed, but, like others, it can be carried too
far by its devotees, until art becomes a
lifeless and hieratic ritual, only to be en-
joyed by eviscerated aesthetes.
53 FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY
“The artist,” says Santayana, “is a
dreamer consenting to dream of the actual
world” . . . and . . . “Art has its casu-
istry no less than morals.” “To gloat on
rhythms and declarations, to live lost in im-
aginary passions and histrionic woes is an
unmanly life cut off from practical dominion
and from rational happiness.” . . . “Beauty
which should have been an inevitable
smile on the face of society, an overflow
of genuine happiness and power, has to be
imported, stimulated artificially; so that art
becomes a sickly ornament for an ugly
existence.”
The ideal beauty we seek will always
harmonize with our own personality, and,
happily, develop with it. But giving all
due weight and respect to the theories of
the expert and the dicta of the critics, the
amateur should not be unduly swayed
and never intimidated by them.
Thousands of music lovers confound the
critics by enjoying good music without
having the least conception of the art.
It is, of course, a rudimentary or truncated
enjoyment, but such purely sensuous and
unintellectual pleasure not only stills the
savage breast, but ofttimes it has stirred
poets to lyrical expression.
Indeed, recollecting the shockingly neo-
classic taste of his age, we have a suspicion
that the urn which prompted Keats's
lovely ode would hardly pass muster with
one who demanded significant form or
splendid design. Even to the catholic
artist it was probably but ‘‘some pretty
surfaces and angles, tricking his soul.”
But it served. It was a fuse to fire pent-up
emotion; it offered a tangent from which his
quick imagination ricochetted into fabled
and faery realms.
If the surface was pseudo-classic instead
of genuine 5th Century B.C., we can only
be thankful that his Muse did not demand
perfection of style in the art that inspired it.
Hyper-aesthetically Wordsworth is a dud
when he sings: “To me the meanest flower
that blows can give thoughts that do often
lie too deep for words,” and certain lines of
his make one suspect that he was not im—
mune from the appeal of contemporary
prints depicting homely virtues and con-
cerned with moral precepts.
Such conjectures should prevent the
aesthete, and the rest of us, from becoming
top-lofty over art; and it should encourage
the amateur who may at times feel emotion
welling within, excited by trivial and aesthe-
tically negligible objects.
All this has been said, not with any in-
tention of going back upon our own theories,
but with a view to self-preserving a sense of
proportion.
The merely sensuous pleasure that the
average sensual soul feels before a Titian
or a Velasquez, a Rubens or an Ingres, is
after all a robust and healthy, if immature,
taste, capable with the best of developing
into an appreciation of Sung pottery, Korin
screens, archaic sculpture, and Italian
primitives. It is also capable of being
over-developed into a love of the exotic
and the decadent, the strange and the per-
verse in art. Such an over-refinement of
the sensitivity is obviously detrimental to
its possessor, who soon mistakes back-
waters for the main current of life. He is
eventually afraid to plunge again into the
main stream, because here and there floats
an uncouth shape or a vulgar colour scheme.
In this strong current of life mingle many
arts, each in some degree soluble when
taken in conjunction with its affinity. As
art embraces architecture, which interlinks
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
54
with the pure art of mathematics, so the
plastic arts stimulate emotions that cannot
always be differentiated from those liber-
ated by other agencies, for
“Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle.”
It needs a temerarious spirit to define
the currents and eddies of this stream, for
into it pours all that is elemental and
moving, profound and powerful in Art.
After all this book is written for the art
lover and student; the critic and artist can
swim where they please.
We have stated, and restated, our theor-
ies, humanly convinced that all others
tending to support them are right. We
await in tranquillity the contradiction and
opposition that can only be productive of
other and, maybe, more illuminating
creeds.
Who has yet found ten cultured people
whose tastes agree upon all points, or even,
upon a majority of the occasions where the
minutiae of art are concerned, “Ten who
in ears and eyes match me, we all surmise,
they this thing and I that.”
But—and it is one of those big Buts—
all ten are agreed that Phidian marbles
transcend Alexandrine, that the primitive
was a better man than the painter of the
High Renaissance, that Sung and T'ang
pottery is finer stuff than Famille Vert or
Rose, 13th Century Gothic sculpture more
satisfying than 15th Century, that Sheraton,
on the whole, is a more comely style than
Louis Seize.
If we have got as far as that we may
wander at large without guides, fearlessly
basing our further choices upon such solid
precepts.
In those more intimate and personal
choices each may here and there confess
without shame, in the words of George
Eliot, that: “There is no better reason for
preferring this than that it stirs
an early memory, that it is no novelty in
my life, speaking to me merely through
my present sensitivity to form and colour,
but the long companion of existence, that
wove itself into my joys when joys were
vivid.” But we should recollect that it is
not Art.
To cut loose from all such associations
is to jeopardize the soul and make existence
a bore.
Each one who has cultivated an apprecia-
tion of beauty knows well that the path be-
comes more arduous as it ascends.
Burke, in his essay on the Sublime and
the Beautiful, voices a universal cry when
he says: “In the morning of our days, when
the senses are unworn and tender, when
the whole man is awake in every part, and
the gloss of novelty upon all the objects that
surround us, how lively at that time are
our sensations, but how false and inaccurate
are the judgments we form of things. . . .
I despair of ever receiving the same degree
of pleasure from the most excellent per-
formance of genius which I felt at that age
from pieces which my present judgment re-
gards as trifling and contemptible.”
He adds very pertinently: “It is known
that the taste (whatever it is) is improved
exactly as we improve our judgment, by
extending our knowledge, by a steady
attention to our object, and by frequent
exercise. They who have not taken these
methods, if their taste decides quickly, it is
always uncertainly; and their quickness is
owing to their presumption and rashness,
and not to any hidden irradiation that in a
55 FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY
moment dispels all darkness from their
minds.”
That quotation might more fittingly adorn
the end rather than the forepart of this
chapter, but we have said nothing yet about
the quest of other theories, and the forward-
looking student will want to know a little
about that field of art criticism which he has
been urged to explore.
Here, then, must be made a candid con-
fession. I have not read all the books on
art published to date, and sometimes a
conviction arises that I never will. After
all, any art can be talked to death, and any-
body may read himself into a state of in-
sensibility.
It smacks perhaps of hardihood in one
who has scribbled thus far—and refuses
even yet to stop—to suggest that what we
need to-day is less talk about art and more
work at it; fewer exhumations and autop-
sies and more creative urges. Incidentally
we could do with fewer Antique dealers and
millionaire “Collectors”—and some modern
substitutes for Burgundian kings, Medicis,
and popes.
But to return to the layman in search of a
theory. It is more easy to sympathize with
his dilemma than to suggest a way out.
The briefest examination discloses a vast
ocean of good works, a flood of art books
that is daily swollen by a deluge of new
publications. The art student can only
approach in trepidation and hope, for it
needs an omnivorous and tireless reader,
wise as Solon and patient as Job, to distil
the truth into manageable draughts.
Think of it; from Reynolds to Ruskin,
Pater and Santayana, Fenollosa, Dow,
Ross, Bell, Gordon, Pach, Fry, and scores
more good men, not to mention the numer-
ous band of very competent writers upon
the great dailies and periodicals, or even sug-
gest the Bodes, Brandes, Berensons, Maeter-
lincks, Croces. How it all cries aloud
for a brilliant summary, a classic anthology,
or even a cold epitome of the more dis-
cordant beliefs. And whilst this consum-
mation awaits, things approach a crisis.
No art student, precious few art teachers,
and no amateur with other major interests
can ever hope to get through more than a
fraction of the reading with which they are
confronted.
How happy were the old masters before
Vassaril But dying since, this one in pov-
erty, that one gracefully, mostly without
sound of drum or fife, they now lie buried
beneath a very Cheops of critical apprecia-
tions, biographies, and monographs.
Worse follows. Nineteenth Century aca-
demicians or their relatives rake us from
three-decker reminiscences and memoirs,
and we reach a stage of collapse and sur-
render when the little masters of the 20th
Century—and some not even dead—can
show a string of commentators that well
might jaundice Caesar’s cheek.
Having confessed an unhappy ignorance
of all but a few patches in this vast field, I
can offer but a myopic and halting guidance
in this matter of selecting sound paths and
purple passages. Yet it may be of interest,
to those who are not much acquainted with
this mass of literature, to hear the conclu-
sions of one who set out to extract from it a
few of the juicy plums without which no
aesthetic diet can be nicely balanced.
In the matter of selecting authors there
was little plan. One book led to another,
and each that came along, from standard
works to ephemeral articles in newspapers,
was of interest in a positive or negative
way; each, if it had a vital spark, seemed
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
56
only to confirm me in the creed unfolded
in the previous chapters.
Bibliographies are most deceptive things,
and often useless to non-professionals.
Even with the professional there is a sug-
gestion of Tibetan prayer-wheels, much
turned but little trusted. Such books as
are mentioned, or quoted in the text, are
those only that have remained vivid in
my memory, whether for their virtues or
defects—each is in some way stimulating,
provocative, convincing, or persuasive. Each
has seemed to be well worth reading;
and some of them more than once.
There are great gaps yet to be filled,
after which this chapter may need revising,
but the conclusions drawn from a varied
dietary are given for what they are worth,
in the hope that they may serve as a stimu-
lus to further research.
The first thing that strikes the dispassion-
ate observer is the wide range and diverse
pattern of the writers. From the enter-
taining fanfaronade of Marinetti to the
solemnities of Wright is a far cry, but in
between are rich assortments of styles
suited to every type of mind.
Here are the stimulating adventurer and
the reactionary bore, the eclectic teacher
and the artistic snob; and amongst them
are happily inspired masters who are
resolutely pushing out the boundaries of
our aesthetic perceptions. The latter write
as the real artist paints: because they
must; the rest because they may.
One notices with regret that art, which is
after all concerned with the joy of life,
seems to foster a rather grave and sober
style.
Far be it from me to suggest that art
criticism be accompanied by a comic strip,
though on the whole the mass of it is hard
going, but we do feel that the gravity that
sits well upon a Congressman or befits a
bank manager is not impressive in an art
critic.
The student who can enjoy reading some
of the well-known authorities on painting
and sculpture has my respect if not my ad-
miration, for it must be obvious that the
sister arts would never have fallen into the
mess they have recently emerged from if the
critics of the 19th Century had known their
jobs.”
The chief function of this solid phalanx
seems to be to dust and rearrange dry facts,
tabulate schools and detect tendencies and
styles. They are authentic as to the num-
ber of canvases and the size of the artist's
family. Very occasionally a gleam of un-
conscious humour lights their pages.
In one handbook, apropos of the Dying
Galatian or Gaul, we are shown just how
“the prostrate warrior received his death
blow the position of the sword on
the right side, and withdrawn from the
wound is a strong argument against self-
destruction, and the generally accepted
theory of suicide is untenable in the light
of later knowledge.” The student is lifted
out of the mundane sphere of museum study
to participate in the exciting investigation
of a crime. It is unfortunate for such a
Pinkerton that so few artists took up homi-
cide as a major interest.
But such stray gleams will never repay the
effort of floundering through, and some
critic of acknowledged eminence should be
*Since writing this I have encountered a “Primer of Modern Art”
by Sheldon Cheney, unaccountably overlooked in the hurry to make
up long arrears of reading. Neither over serious nor aesthetically
snobbish, there is not a dull or didactic page in it. No one should
decry Modern art without having read it, and to read is to enjoy. I
can the better say this as I don’t know Mr. Cheney from Adam, nor
do I believe that he will agree with the equipoise I have attempted
to maintain.
57 FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY
employed at the public cost to make out a
Librorum Prohibitorum of all the dusty
tomes which remind one of Pope's comment
on the “critics' eye” which,
Sees hairs and pores, examines bit by bit
How parts relate to part, and they to whole.
The body’s harmony, the beaming soul,
Are things which [the meticulous] shall see
When man’s whole frame is obvious to a
flea.
At present a student may spend precious
days poring over warmed-up theories and re-
hashed tales that were cooked decades ago.
Roger Fry recently confessed that “Ever
since I have observed that the only people
worth talking to, the only agreeable com—
panions, belong to the class that the mor-
bidly healthy people classed as neurotic and
degenerate, these words have lost all terror
for me.” It seems very probable that he
had been beset by some of those eupeptic
gentry who write guide books.
When we turn to indispensable and indis-
putable authorities, such as Von Mach and
Gardiner, where sculpture is concerned, or
in painting say Vandyke, we are still con-
scious of an aggressive number of facts.
The average amateur will steer clear of them
until his interest in the fine arts is deep-
rooted and perennial; for him such authors
as Frank Jewett Mather, Jr., or Lorado
Taft are much happier raconteurs.
Anecdote and history need not always de-
note a mediocre writer, for myth and legend
have time and again served as inspiration or
subject matter for the great artist. Very
few there are that do not enjoy a picture a
little more from having heard some ancient
cicerone impart the immemorial legend of
its conception and execution. One's hu-
manity is conscious of sensitive filaments
linking us with the past. Like faultless serv-
ice at a rich banquet, it cannot improve the
flavour of the food, but it adds its soupcon
to the general glow of satisfaction. But
many bring the garnishings and neglect
the essential meats, and the reader must
be content with subject matter for a meal.
Therefore, when we meet one who weaves
anecdote and history into a pleasant tex-
ture without losing sight of the golden thread
of criticism, we should be thankful.
Perhaps it was repercussion from the
academic tome that led to a taste for Gallic
rhetoric. Rodin’s lyrical appraisal of the
Venus de Milo may bring a blush to the
nice Nordic brow, and it may be described as
too sensuous and ecstatic. But beneath the
exotic word pictures we feel that he has a
finer understanding of the Venus than the
Teuton who devoted several pages to a dis-
cussion of the probable position of her arms.
Then there is Faure; who would not
revel now and then in his luxuriant imagery.
It has been complained that he takes 4oo-
odd words, in which he ransacks the
Adriatic, the Alps, the Sky, and Venice her-
self for colourful similes—just to tell us that
Tintoretto’s flesh tints were less warm than
Titian's. We can only retort, What of it?
for he makes of art history a living mosaic.
If an antidote to such a colourful style be
necessary, we need only turn to the lesser
men. Some invent symbols upon which
they play with the persistence of an adoles—
cent enamoured of a saxophone. Others
show a papal infallibility more amazing than
convincing. Yet others are sterile aesthetes
who will never bridge the chasm that still
separates the layman from the artist, for
they never seem to recollect that that which
is the breath of life to the artist is deplorably
inconsequential to the intelligent outsider—
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS
58
far less necessary than golf or the morning
paper.
One of the most effective ways of reducing
such high-brow stuff to its proper proportions
is to read one of Aldous Huxley's trenchant
and ironic little essays. He puts things
wittily into perspective.
To proceed with the examination of
creeds: Running in the mixed field above
alluded to we find horses of a somewhat
dubious colour. Those who have merely an
itch to scribble or a metaphysical complex
to sublimate are comparatively innocuous.
But there are others who cunningly conceal
the axe they would grind, and some there
are who would indulge a grudge or a friend,
and some go forth to snare a patron. In
short, there are those who do not possess
the “disinterestedness” that was Matthew
Arnold’s prime requisite of criticism.
And it is just here that a knowledge of the
laws of art structure proves a valuable anti-
toxin to the narcotic word.
We have read an eloquent appreciation of
some sketches, written by a well-known
authority, which proved after all to have been
labour in vain, for they were not genuine.
What is the inference? Is it ignorance or
iniquity? It is at least a painful inexactitude.
It induces the reflection that whilst we may
not agree with all that Ruskin said relative to
art, we can regret the disappearance here
and there of the integrity that stamps his
writing.
It emphasizes the need for a thorough
understanding of art structure that is firm
enough to resist the impact of wild and whirl-
ing words, and so balanced that it is un-
moved by the blandishments of the propa-
gandist or the special pleader.
This warning seems necessary when we
encounter the following paragraph:
“The painter appears to be able to move
with the utmost composure and awareness
amid sensations so intense they are well-
nigh insupportable, and so rare and evanes-
cent the mind faints in seeking to hold them,
and here in the region of the spirit, where the
light is low upon the horizon and the very
flames darkling, to see clearly as in the
fullest noon, and to sever with the delicacy
and Swiftness of the great surgeon a plunge
in the entrails of his patient.”
This stupendous passage is about some
still-life paintings. If we consider it from
the point of view of Mencken, who avers
that “a critic’s motive is to function freely,
to give outward and objective form to ideas
that bubble inwardly to get rid of
them dramatically and make an articulate
noise in the world .”—if we take
that standpoint, then the passage above is an
excellent and pretty ebullition of a fecund
mind. As an aid to the formation of a work-
ing critique it is pure poppycock.
Nor does this sort of appreciation help the
artist whose work it presumes to interpret.
The critic steals his fire, and painting excit-
ing pictures in our mind’s eye, leaves the
imagination exhausted and cold when con-
fronted by the concrete canvases.
But there are other forms of evangelical
intoxication. Let us examine the limpid
statements set down by a well-known
writer in elucidation of Cézanne: “By
transcribing lines midway between their
actual and optical states he achieved at once
their normality and extreme abnormality.
* by establishing the mean of linear
changeability he facilitated and hastened
the vicissitudes of mutation.”
Is this sonorous nonsense, or do the tur-
gid phrases hide eternal verities? To us it
sounds like obscurantism carried to a fine
59 FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY
point; possibly it is merely a successful at-
tempt to prove the truth of Goethe’s asser-
tion that “Art is the medium of what no
tongue can utter.”
After a passage of that kind we are ready
to embrace effusively the flat-footed dictum
of Hogarth, who says: “Strictly speaking,
there is but one precise line, properly to be
called the line of beauty. Fig. I. Plate 16.
No. 4.” It makes it all so nice and simple.
Then there is the ultra-modern précieux,
as bold as Hogarth, but shorn of all 18th
Century grossness. One of them states:
“The beautiful is a reflection of effortless
vitality it should grow as will-
lessly as finger nails or hair.” Which
invites the obvious retort that even so such
things demand occasional cultivation; at
any rate, this theory receives no support
from Santayana, who says that action which
is purely spontaneous is merely tentative.
Steiglitz has made some shrewd and sub-
tle thrusts at the conventional amateur and
the tradition-bound critic. Says he: “When
an artist is working he is not thinking of you
or me, or of anybody else; he is only satisfy-
ing a need of expressing something which is
within him.”
And just when his adroit manipulation has
convinced us, and we yield to “the desolat-
ing tide of subjectivity,” along comes Guy
Eglington and convicts us all of sophistry:
“Did these [masters] set out to exploit their
moods, desires, and emotions? Pah! They
were after bigger game. They were out to
make a thing instinct with the same life
that informs them. Their own desires and
emotions are perhaps betrayed in moments
when hand and brain wearied. But in their
highest reaches it is as though God Himself
had taken a chisel in hand and carved with
the impersonality of a glacier.” A becoming
sentiment from one who is not afraid of an
occasional pleasant flippancy.
Next we examine Roger Fry’s interpreta-
tion of modern art. He suggests that the
modern artists “seek to express by pictorial
and plastic forms certain spiritual experi-
611C0S. . . They do not seek to imi-
tate form but to create form, not to imitate
life but to find an equivalent for life.”
Before passing upon such transcendental
theories, which however honest and true,
are a little rarefied for everyday contacts,
the mere layman will turn them over and
consider their repercussions.
After these lofty words is there not likely
to be, when one approaches a wild and in-
comprehensible work, a hangdog suspicion
that one’s fibres are coarse, one's spirit blunt,
and the reason that deep calls not unto deep
lies in one’s dull and cloddish nature?
Is there not also some danger that the fer-
ment of these high phrases, rather than the
visible work of art, will stir the senses and
give through the mind access to emotions
denied by the eyes?
There comes in here a suggestion of the
hypnotic power of words, of the mind set
free—a sort of painless aesthetic dentistry.
Reeling from such thoughts we clutch at
the notion of another critic of high standing.
Jan Gordon says: “Art cannot be under-
stood by literature. It must be understood
by the eyes and the instincts alone.” Yet
in the next breath the force of hypnosis is
practically conceded, for he subscribes to the
doctrine that “a work of art that has the
power of operating only upon two or three
persons, if it operates strongly enough, is
great art.” In other words, where two or
three are gathered together in ecstasy about
a product, there is great art.
But what psychologist will attempt to
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 60
measure the aesthetic content of such thrills?
By this ruling an indifferent ikon raised
above the heads of superstitious peasants
constitutes a work of art. The flattened
fossil egg of a dinosaur would rank the same
could Brancusi be induced to sign it and
display it on red plush, for assuredly the
neurotic would indulge in an aesthetic or—
gasm before it.
Thus we discover nebulae in the midst
of apparently solid and scholarly critiques.
We even encounter, as in the case of Degas
and Matisse, the excruciating spectacle of
the critics’ chastely wrought theories upon
the artists’ method of expression riddled by
the words of the artists themselves.
Thus the farther we push on the more ob-
scure it seems; “a cloud of critics, of com-
pilers, of commentators darkened the face of
learning.” “The mind becomes like a
tablet crossed over and over with writing.”
Sensing the dangers of these trackless
wastes we turn back; not in their gloom shall
we discover the hair that divides the false
from the true.
As we pause for meditation, certain au-
thorities begin to stand out for their clarity
and sincerity.
Jan Gordon, after a sly push or two, helps
us out of the slough with this announce-
ment: “One class loves to understand
consciously and persuades itself that beauty
is increased by understanding, the other
class on the other hand has a horror of per-
ceiving any of the mechanics by which art
is produced. Both are wrong.”
That leaves us on neutral ground again.
Rhys Carpenter administers a sedative to
the troubled mind with his scholarly han-
dling of his subject. He realizes that “Be-
twixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
and each doth good turns now unto the
other”; that to none is given the power, of
dubious worth at best, of shutting off their
aesthetic emotions in watertight compart-
ments, or protecting them by fireproof doors
that open only to the sesame of “significant
form.”
He says: “Pure form to the detriment
of representational fidelity, representation
to the detriment of pure form, both are
aesthetically mistaken, for both tend to sup-
press an essential factor of the aesthetic ap-
peal.” In short, that we cannot stage a play
without actors; that even the most spiritual
and lofty ideas must be put into intelligible
words.
Jerome Eddy, with a prudence worthy
of a New England farmer, opines that
“it is just as bad to paint with the sole
purpose of being understood as it is to
paint with the sole purpose of being mis-
understood.”
At any rate, we may, between these nicely
balanced opinions, regain our equilibrium,
and even salvage a sound plank for our plat-
form.
Not a shred of the great art of the past is
incomprehensible, and we are forced to the
conclusion that it never will be divorced
from balance, order, and arrangement
whether that organization be logical, as in
the art of Greece, or instinctive, as in that of
certain primitives.
Cold abstractions, or hot, will not survive,
for they fail to stimulate more than a seg-
ment of the emotional orbit. Carried too
far they excite only a confusion of ideas.
The emotional scale of the normal human
being—we know, of course, that there are
no normal people, but they, nevertheless,
still constitute the bulk of the population—
this scale is never fully played upon unless
he or she sees a real or fancied resemblance
61 FOR THE LAYMAN IN SEARCH OF A THEORY
to some conscious or subconscious experi-
ence, or to some familiar object or scene.
It may be fragmentary and need not pervade
the whole picture; just as the merest wisp
of a scent is sufficient to strike the deepest
chords in man’s being.
Upon such a platform there may be room
for even the extremist, for such paintings as
Kandinski’s call forth full responses in cer-
tain individuals. Yet such work will always
remain, to the average man, merely a joyful
noise of colour or a mysterious clash of line
and tone. After all, he cannot be expected
in these days of radio to set about learning
Icelandic simply for the doubtful pleasure of
reading a few sagas. Nor does it seem to
him worth while to attempt an interpretation
of the many abstruse and enigmatical prod-
ucts of to-day; or rather should we say of
yesterday, so quickly has the explosively
experimental stage subsided to one of
orderly and progressive research.
If he has read Arthur Wesley Dow’s
“Composition,” and grasped the principles
there set forth so lucidly, he has at hand
a logical and adequate standard of art.
With him aesthetic aims march with a practi-
cal rhythm, and, though dealing with work
of previous generations, it nevertheless pro-
vides a flexible rule by which we may meas-
ure the products of the moderns. It is, as
we stated at the beginning, the foundation
upon which we have based all our theories;
the touchstone by which we have tested
every object. In it is explicit the Greek
doctrine of “Nothing too much.”
Here we leave it. Between the plausible
statements of the ultra-moderns and the
stale restatements of the academicians there
is a gulf in which accurate definition, other
than this simple formula, still escapes us.
Perhaps it always will, for art is a living and
changing image of the age that begets it.
Posterity will judge it impartially.
Someone, quoted by Furst in his book on
Woodcuts, says that “To look upon things
for the sake of their external beauty is to
be corrupt in spirit.” An impressive sen-
tence, to the truth of which the whole history
of art bears witness.
The rasped and polished surfaces of the
Pergamene sculptor measure his decadence
from the chiselled altitude of Phidias as
Surely as the façile handling of the late
Renaissance artists marks the gap that
separates them from those who bear the now
honoured name of primitives. Conversely,
an unhealthy preoccupation with the sub-
conscious, a Freudian proclivity for delving
into the most obscure recesses, is no less,
for the artist, a corruption of the creative
soul.
And so the pendulum swings, from the
neurotic left to the phlegmatic right. Some-
where between the artist stands, thanking
whatever gods there be for his release from
academic shackles.
Art, in the true meaning of the word, will
always be concerned with the things of the
spirit. Artists will always paint and carve
the things that have moved poets to song
since the world began, but only when we
realize the havoc wrought by the cliché
which declares that art holds up the mirror
to nature, and sense its utter falsity, shall
we be on the road to understanding. Na-
ture, in its widest sweep, will always remain
the inexhaustible inspiration. But, in the
words of Lord Houghton, many have “yet
to learn that art should purify the Nature
that it comprehends that the ideal
loses nothing of its truth by aiming at per-
fection of form as well as of ideas.”
Representation, as such, is happily dead,
ART FOR AMATEURS AND STUDENTS 62
and lamented by but a few surviving Vic-
torians. The artist and the critic of to-day
agree that out of the welter of modern creeds
emerges a sound and powerful art that is the
lineal descendant of the art of Hellas. Only
its habit is changed to meet the needs of
changed times.
The only rational attitude for the layman
to assume is one of benevolent and sympa-
thetic inquiry. The liberal will permit each
devotee, whether he belongs to the delirious
fringe or dwells in antique caverns, to prac-
tise his métier undisturbed.
For art is like religion in being all things
to all men, and each according to his light in-
tones his little ritual and spreads his offer-
ings before the shrine of his particular
divinity.
And the outsider may be consoled to know
that in the creed of the great artists there is
nothing esoteric. Did not Blake more than
a hundred years ago compress the essence
of the modernist doctrine into a few blunt
words when he said: “A man puts a model
before him and he paints it so neat as to
make it a deception. Now I ask any man of
sense, is that art?”
Let us leave it at that, for it is not such a
bad beginning for the layman in search of a
sound criterion of art.

INTRODUCTION TO PLATES
ºn Yº (ºr
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Choºse,B}|9&ºlºlºy.
ND now for what is the most important
part of the book—the Illustrations.
Necessarily they must be inadequate;
multiplied by ten there would still be gaps,
but to the selection of the 260-odd there has
gone more care than to all the rest of the
book.
At the start we said it was to be a halfway
house, and I am hoping that its fare will
attract a sufficient clientèle to warrant a
supplement of plates later on.
Of the three dozen here given the tone
drawings have been done as scrupulously
as possible, so that each example shall
suffer no unequal handicap, and all permit of
a fair comparison, though the finer shades
will naturally disappear in any such analysis.
There is an unavoidable crowding upon
some plates, but an easy solution is for the
student to cut one or two variously sized
rectangles in a sheet of white paper, making
a mask or peephole that can be placed over
the example studied. This permits of an
unperplexed examination of individual cuts.
The paper may also be rolled up into a
tube, looked at through which the sculpture
will gain much in the suggestion of a third
dimension.
Finally, I hope that the progressively less
elementary chapters already given have so
prepared the way that the explanation to the
plates is unnecessary, but the inclusion of
some few examples can only be understood
by reference to the printed matter attached.




63
PLATE I
The sixteen compositions in outline fall roughly
into five different types. They provide but an ele-
mentary analysis of main lines and shapes.
In the first row are four modern compositions.
No. 1 shows a simple “primitive” organization of
line and mass. All surface detail is eliminated
and there is no attempt to conform to “nature.”
No. 2 is typical of the modern approach to still-life.
The group is solidly constructed, held together by
a few major curves, with which all the secondary
lines are coordinated. No. 3 is a simplified land-
scape. The whole picture is organized, each line
and shape being consciously adjusted one to the
other. No. 4 presents a powerful arrangement of
a few dominant lines and masses giving effective
oppositions. The whole field is well filled, with no
suggestion of overcrowding. All four are designs.
Nos. 5 and 7 show examples built up on a series of
similar lines which, in varying transitions, are car-
ried throughout the composition. No. 5 is weak-
ened by a touch of affectation in the tall figures, and
the naturalistic treatment of the child strikes an
incongruous note. Blake in No. 7 avoids such pit-
falls and preserves his lines and forms intact.
In No. 6 Beato Angelico boldly divides his com-
position by a central pillar, but binds the whole
together by a series of arches steadied by horizontal
and vertical lines.
Nos. 8, 9, and Io show conscious line arrange-
ments, in which continuity of line has been over-
done. In Rodin's group there is a theatrical note,
despite the evident ease with which the lines are
arranged. No. 8 shows a typical artificial composi-
tion. The posed model is obvious. Though cer-
tain lines echo throughout as in 5, 6, and 7, none is
dominant enough to knit the whole together.
There is no effective massing, no steadying op-
positions, no selection shown in the various spaces.
The result is a series of insignificant forms which
coalesce in an unpleasantly slimy manner. In No.
Io the line is still obvious, but poor old Guido yet
preserves a touch of the grand manner of the high
Renaissance, which imparts a distinct, if unsubtle,
rhythm to his figures.
Nos. II, 12, and 13 show typical compositions of
the period 1900 (circa), when the aphorism “Art
that conceals art” was much in vogue. The three
figures by Sargent are apparently casually posed,
but a few sweeping curves embrace the two on the
left, and contrast and balance are obtained by the
vertical lines in the figure and chair on the right.
The main lines are not insisted upon.
This naturalistic arrangement is seen in the still-
life, where we get a most careful placing of each
object. The picture is composed on the table,
not on the canvas. The landscape shows the same
selection of natural forms. The spaces between
the trees have all received attention; the masses
have had their contours arranged; branches and
foliage are opposed in pleasant contrasts—all in the
best traditions of the naturalistic school.
The last three examples show an utter lack of
structure. The figure group, very ably modelled
in the original, achieves only a sickly and unreal line
arrangement. The landscape is frankly realistic—
with a hole in the centre and an insistence upon
correct scale and detail that renders the composi-
tion no better than a casual photograph. The last
example, the original of which is an astonishingly
clever painting, resolves itself into a collection of
utterly unrelated lines and spaces, trivial in char-
acter and unpleasant in shape.
Whilst such an elementary line analysis cannot
but ignore the modifications that tone and colour
impart to a picture, yet it will be found that any
composition which lacks a fine organization of its
lines and masses, which is cut up into too many
shapes, or concerned with surface detail rather
than structural forms, never possesses fine qual-
ities of light-and-dark, and such a major defect
will always weaken even an excellent colour
Scheme.
65
PLATE I
Simple Line Analysis of Sixteen Compositions
Gill.
Marchand.
Nash.
Bourdelle.
John.
Beato Angelico.
Blake.
Delville.
Rodin.
Reni.
II. Sargent.
12. Nicholson.
I
I3. East.
I4. Rousseau.
I5. Thoma.
I6. Watson.
(Drawings by the author)
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PLATE II
This plate gets down to a closer consideration of
line and space, and the character such elements
impart to a composition.
Figs. 8 and 9 show Western and Eastern vase
contours. The contrast is, of course, obvious.
Simplicity and strength versus complexity and
weakness. It is an elementary axiom but often
disregarded.
Top centre shows (Ia) a little votive cock in base
metal. A tiny thing, but what economy of line,
what character it retains. (Ib) still preserves its
spirit but is already losing its simplicity! (Id) is a
typical 19th Century treatment—feathers and little
else; it is a relief to turn to the simple, direct attack
of the child (Ic). These four birds epitomize, as
much as any four illustrations can, the deteriora-
tion of line and form throughout the ages in both
painting and sculpture: surface qualities displace
structural virtues.
Nos. 2 and 3 show the contrast between an Italian
and an Egyptian relief. In the latter a simple, reti-
cent line gives character to essential shapes. In
the Italian panel there is over-elaboration and an
emphasis upon sashes, embroideries, and coiffures
rather than upon fine lines and shapes.
Figs. 4 and 5 oppose radically different treat-
ments of straight line divisions in a rectangle. The
first, taken from a handbook in general use, shows
a symmetrical arrangement common since mosaic
pavements were introduced. Fig. 5 shows the
main lines of a Soviet poster (unavoidably on its
side). One is static, the other dynamic. You
would not want your ceiling subdivided as in 5 nor
expect a poster to attract if spaced like 4. Figs.
6 and 7 show two more treatments of a rectangle.
Fig. 7 is the Acanthus beautifully managed by the
Greeks 2000 years ago, and the resort of the feeble-
minded since art schools were invented. Does it
excite you? Would you not expect the modern art
student to experiment with strange lines and shapes
as in No. 6?
The last three examples attempt to put in a cap-
sule the essence of this matter of line arrangement,
which leads on to composition in its widest signi-
ficance.
No. Io shows the reaction of the unimaginative
man if asked to place a few dozen straight lines
within a rectangle. From the “finite clod un-
troubled by a spark” we might expect the result
on the left; from one with a business training or
“regular habits,” that on the right of No. Io. No.
II shows one of a thousand different ways in
which the average person with some idea of spacing
or design might solve the problem. The lines may
be variously spaced, but they would show order
and arrangement, balance and symmetry leading
to simple rhythms. No. 12 shows the reaction
we might expect from a “modernist”—complex,
nervous, experimental, anxious to explore new
paths, intent upon another dimension. And don’t
imagine that such a complex solution lacks order
and arrangement. Most of the principles we have
explained in Chapter IV are here—subordination,
opposition, contrast, radiation, balance, and the
rhythm that arises from such components; only they
are less easily seen than in more orthodox examples.
Whether you like works in which such complex
organization is shown, depends a great deal upon
whether you enjoy the traffic jam at Umpteenth
Street, or the high-pressure existence of to-day.
It is expressive of its times, which is an assurance
that it is at least alive.
After this very brief summary of the possibilities
of lines, we can go on to examine line and space,
and mass and notan in detail. But when we en-
counter works that are apparently divorced from
tradition, we should preserve an open mind until
we have examined them to see if under all its
strange and new forms there is not lurking the old
regard for order and arrangement that we instinc-
tively realize in the more familiar manifestations
of Creative Art.
69
PLATE II _ſ^
Line and Space
I. Cocks, Various.
2. Late Florentine Relief.
3. Egyptian Relief, Late Old Empire.
4 and 5. Two Treatments of a Rectangle.
6. Main Lines of Modern Design.
7. Acanthus: Traditional Usage.
8 and 9. Vase Contours, Occidental and Oriental.
Io, II, and I2. Lines within a Rectangle.
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PLATE III
This plate shows the logical and symmetrical
spacing common to architecture and its subsidiary
art of joinery.
Being geometric or even mechanical in their
organization, such architectural examples are more
easily analyzed than the free emotional treatments
encountered in Painting and Sculpture.
Examples 5 and 7 possess the virtues common
to all good furniture. Square sections and round
are opposed, contrasts of long and short, vertical
and horizontal lines and spaces give character to
each leg. In 7 this effect is heightened and refined
by added chiselwork.
In No. 8 the direct common-sense attack of the
craftsman is evident. Straightforward framing of
the whole; linen-fold panels, decreasing in height
and scale, provide a pleasant transition to the
carved panels and free cresting at the top. This
diminution of scale upward is seen in the arrange-
ment of the pier and arcading at 4. It suggests
the healthy growth of a tree, firmly rooted in the
ground.
In the doorway and chest-on-stand (I and 3) the
same logical arrangement prevails—as exercises
in fine spacing they could not be bettered.
In the three architectural examples 2, 6, and 9,
the Taj Mahal shows a simple octagonal plan.
The central dome is set off by four smaller cupolas;
the four main openings, in the centre of each
façade, are flanked by four smaller ones on either
side. The illustration conveys no idea of the
beauty of the building, but emphasizes the direct
and logical solutions architects arrive at when un-
fettered by bookish rules.
Notre Dame (6), in essence, consists of a rec-
tangle divided vertically into three parts, with three
main horizontal divisions. The good proportion
of the original divisions and the fine adjustment
of the various subdivisions build up its satisfying
rhythm of light-and-dark.
In the cottage below, the proportion of length to
breadth, the ratio preserved between roof and
upper and lower story, the dominating chimney
stack and the proportions of windows and doors,
all contribute to that suggestion of familiar and
homelike charm we expect in cottages—but rarely
get to-day.
The three examples below show how this
arrangement of rectangles—of cubes and prisms—
is common to architecture. In the middle ex-
ample there seems to be a lack of subordination.
The sides compete with the centre, and the open-
ings and the spaces between lack that fine adjust-
ment so easily sensed in the façade of Notre Dame.
73
PLATE III
II.
I2.
I
Line and Mass
American “Colonial” Doorway.
Taj Mahal.
“William and Mary” Chest-on-Stand.
Pier at Rheims (circa 1225).
Italian Chair Leg, 16th Century.
West Façade, Notre Dame.
Chair Leg, Louis XVI.
French Gothic Panelling, 15th Century.
English Cottage, Late 16th Century.
Pavilion, Paris, 1925.
City Gate, Munich.
St. George's Hall, Liverpool.
(Drawings by the author)
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PLATE IV
The Kutab Minar, No. 1, Plate IV, is another
direct solution of an architectural problem. It
shows the same transition in spacing to be observed
in the tower of Chartres (No. 3). The diminution
is, of course, accentuated by the taper of the tower,
but is steadied by the encircling galleries. The
vertical lines are opposed by decorated horizontal
bands, and further contrast is obtained by alternat-
ing square and round sections in the perpendicular
divisions.
In the tower (3) more intricate adjustments of
horizontal and vertical members are to be observed,
and an added rhythm is obtained by the employ—
ment of many arches. These complex subdivisions
are held together by an insistence on a few primary
divisions.
The effective transition from square tower to
octagonal spire may be compared with the way in
which Wren manages a similar problem in the Tom
Tower (2). Here we see a very satisfactory com—
position of straight and curved lines. Another un-
obtrusive but skillful transition is to be seen in the
way the flattened curves of the Tudor arch of the
gateway give place to the pointed ogival forms of
the upper story and roof. The example immedi-
ately below (5) is in strong contrast, showing the
severe and dignified lines of the Italian Classic
period, before their architecture was smothered
under a mass of applied “decoration” and sculpture.
The examples 4 and 6 show how modern archi-
tecture resolves itself into the same old problem of
adjusting prisms of varying proportions one to the
other. Only now the prisms stand on their ends
instead of lying on their sides as in the last example
on Plate III.
Symmetry and balance with the subordination of
parts to whole are the fundamental principles
underlying nearly all architecture of to-day. The
old castle or mediaeval building, with its charming
irregularity, was less the result of conscious plan-
ning than the cumulative effect of various additions
by succeeding generations. Nothing can surpass
them in delightful and fascinating effects of mass-
ing (or in their frank disregard for economy of
space and general utility), but even so their beauty
arises from a similarly fine, if irregular, adjustment
of mass to mass.
It is all a matter of fine spacing—which, of course,
is easier said than done. Happily, our job is sim-
ply to distinguish the fine from the poor spacing.
77
PLATE IV
i
Line and Mass
The Kutab Minar, Delhi.
The Tom Tower, Oxford.
Southwest Tower, Chartres.
The proposed Pittsburgh University.
Palazzo Verzi, Verona.
Sheldon Hotel, New York.
(Drawings by the author)
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PLATE V
The last remark brings us to a consideration of
what are good shapes and what are bad. And this
is a touchy matter, for some like one kind and some
like another, and these days you had better impugn
a man’s honour than his taste.
The two plates V and VI are attempts to analyze
some related shapes and to appraise some that are
divorced from their context. Both lead on to com-
position in several values.
At the top of Plate W is a woodcut by Eric Gill
(losing a great deal of its power in a reproduction so
small); and an English Brass of 1415 and two mod-
ern German Bookseller’s marks. The figures be-
ing two dimensional, they offer no problem in depth
and depend simply upon their contours and their
strong simple shapes. Each seems perfect in its
way, and I don’t see how any of them might be im-
proved.
But it is not so easy when we attempt to analyze
painting from the point of line and light-and-dark.
The fifteen examples on Plates V and VI are not
offered as conclusive evidence that there are good
and bad shapes, either collectively or in isolation;
merely that there are such things for me. In the
first row Plate 5 are three details from (I) an early
Italian fresco, (2) a Greek vase painting (3), a
Japanese print—none of them preoccupied with
the third dimension. With their effective patterns
of light-and-dark, their various and contrasting
shapes, and their clarity of statement, each seems
to me to be a fine example, particularly the Greek,
with its powerful rhythmic line. In the second row
we have details from three modern artists. In No.
4 we have a like opposition of light-and-dark, though
the forms are blunter than those in the detail
above. In 5 there is a fine adjustment of line and
mass, as good in its way as in the Greek detail. In
6 there appears a wavering line and a repetition of
almost similar spaces that contrast unfavourably
with the preceeding examples, but these three have
a very decided third dimension and a colour quality
that cannot possibly be judged from a detail in line.
But, again, I feel that we can be positive when
discussing Nos. 7, 8, and 9 from, respectively, a
typical Academy portrait (style 1800–1900), a French
primitive, and a late Renaissance (Italian) picture.
You may not prefer the clear-cut, even harsh forms
of No. 8 to those immediately above it, but you
must admit that they are fearlessly stated and
make up a pattern full of character and interest.
It contrasts very favourably with the spottiness of
No. 9 where the attention to “accurate” drawing
has resulted in a loss of both line and pattern.
Finally we need not emphasize the general debility
in both drawing and structure so apparent in the
hazy impressionism of No. 7.
Ask yourself which of these nine details you pre-
fer. Which shows powerful lines, fine shapes,
and effective light-and-dark. But remember that
certain masters since Leonardo cannot be analyzed
in this direct manner.
It can be applied very effectively to all works into
which a third dimension does not enter or in which
the sensuous appeal of colour is not predominant.
Modern painting in many cases will resist such a
test, and all works must be judged in the ensemble,
for other qualities than line and space and notan
may assert themselves.
8I
PLATE V
I.
2.
3.
1
Light-and-Dark—Silhouette and Shapes
Woodcut by Eric Gill.
English Brass, I415 A. D.
Booksellers’ Marks, German, 20th Century.
to 9. Details in three values from:
(1) Masolino; (2) Greek Vase, 5th Century, B. C.; (3) Toyokuni; (4) Suzanne Valadon;
(5) Moreau; (6) Matisse; (7) Modern Portrait; (8) French Primitive; (9) 17th Century Italian.
- (Drawings by the author)
sº

PLATE VI
The lower half of Plate VI is, possibly, the most con-
troversial portion of this book.
It represents an attempt to find out what shapes were
considered good or bad by about thirty people—the
majority of them trained in aesthetics. The results
were instructive, amusing, and often paradoxical;
they need a good deal of explaining, and even then
would remain inconclusive.
Let me say that my sympathy is with those who ex-
claimed, “God save us from intelligence tests in art”
—that way sterility lies. The shapes were arranged
so that, as nearly as possible, they made no pattern on
the paper (the names and black borders have been
since added) and each one was requested to pick out,
in order, the shapes he or she preferred. The idea
was also to see if there was a consistent or reasoned
or instructive choice. Eliminating three examples
that averaged 50–50– pro. and con., the choices of
those possessing that fiercely contested quality we call
taste lay with A, B, and C. The same people gener-
ally placed G, H, K at the bottom.
Now, it is, of course, impossible to judge a shape cor-
rectly when it is wholly divorced from its context.
We may instance Cézanne's refusal to alter, at the
request of a patron, a detail in the bottom corner of one
of his pictures, advancing as a justification that he
would then have to alter the whole of the picture.
Now, there is something in that, especially for the
artist who has laboured over the work. But it seems
to me that ordinarily a shape so important did not
belong at the bottom corner, where it would be likely
to deflect the eye from the natural orbit it invariably
follows when looking at a rectangular picture—a path
that seeks the central field and leaves the corners
slightly out of focus and undefined.
The artist is inclined to worry about details that
are not noticed by even sensitive and acute ob-
servers. Whistler made a great decoration of his
signature (Did I hear Whistler! Pha!), and others
are in a state of trepidation as to where to sign as in-
conspicuously as possible. (The truth is that very
few Galleryites trouble about the signature unless they
are uncertain of the authorship and can’t afford a
catalogue.) On the other hand, it has been the custom
to laugh at the late Lord Leverhulme for cutting down
his portrait to fit above his mantelpiece when reflexion
should convince one that almost any Academy portrait
would be better for drastic trimming.
But to return to the question, are there good shapes
and bad, or do they depend entirely upon their juxta-
position?
Let us realize that many modernists cannot be
judged by such a cold analysis. Van Gogh and the
Expressionists show no definite edges, though their
brush strokes usually build up into a strong Compo-
sition. Signac and Seurat, though devoid of defi-
nite edges, were always in command of fine shapes
and coherent design. Degas cannot always be
divorced from his colour, and Lautrec loses much of
his quality in such a logical appraisal. A face in a
picture will dominate shapes that would, without such
a feature, appear spotty and competitive. No one
test can be conclusive.
But again, I feel that some shapes are definitely
good and others decidedly bad. I cannot conceive
85
of any picture, worth a second glance, constructed
out of the elements seen at K, even when tone and
colour be added. The outlines are like the tracks of a
feckless ant, or the edges of paper gnawed by rodents.
Compare them with the purposeful contours en-
closing bold shapes used by Piero della Francesca
in B, and ask yourself the question, which shows
character and power?
Whether you prefer the angular and flattened
characteristics of A to the richer outlines of C may be
a matter of individual preference, just as some like
Sour pickles and others sweet, but the person who
would prefer K to B would probably take ginger pop
in preference to fine dry Chablis.
In looking at the upper half of Plate VI the lower
half should be covered. Here we have various pat-
terns of light-and-dark, various types of line, and six
very different qualities resulting. At No. 1 we have a
Superficially attractive and cleverly conceived design,
but the appeal is not wholly aesthetic. After a little,
while the pattern, which so effectively foils the figure,
appears a little mechanical, and the long curve from
elbow to cat’s tail becomes too obvious. Compare it
with the Greek figure opposite. Beautifully balanced,
easily fitting the circle, consummate in its oppositions
of light-and-dark, and with a various and changeful
outline which, nevertheless, easily escapes mere
complexity. It shows the trained and able Greek
vase painter at his best.
The Korin tree which separates the two figures is
also a little masterpiece. Note the crisp, clear-cut
forms, the strong line of the trunk from left to right
foiled by the delicate lines of the branches growing in
an opposite direction. Here is a most skillful artist
functioning consciously and intelligently.
None of these three examples offers a problem in
values other than those of line and light-and-dark.
In the three below let us first compare the two figures.
In the matter of light-and-dark both are good. From
the point of view of precision, delicacy of handling, and
nicety of statement, No. 4 is far superior to No. 6.
But if you are looking for other qualities than those you
may not prefer it. Like a discreet biography, it has
been politely edited. No. 6 is a more sincere and
vital record. There is no attempt to clean up corners
and soften asperities, and some will prefer the rugged
honesty and spirit of the one to the polished urbanity
of the other.
Now as to the head (which is reproduced from the
Graphisches Kabinett, by I. B. Neuman). Into this
enters largely the strange intensity, distressing to
many, that is typical of the modern artist who cultivates
subjective moods and is possessed by the subcon-
scious. It is a powerful thing, well knit together, and
cut without a trace of botching or fumbling. It cannot
be ignored. If you seek healthy and happy faces you
will pass this by. In any case, it is not to be framed
and hung in a bedroom. But what a relief to take it
out of a folio and examine it after a surfeit of magazine
COV CIS.
So, if you agree that such notes may be sounded
by a simple woodcut, you will admit that in a full
orchestration of line and tone and colour these may
be overtones which are not always immediately per-
ceived.
PLATE WI
Light-and-Dark—Simple Values, More Shapes
Woodcut, F. Vallaton (International Studio, New York).
Screen, Korin (Studio, London).
Greek Vase, 5–4th Century B. C. (Der Kunstgeschichte).
I
2
3
4. Woodcut, Nicholson (Studio, London).
5. Woodcut, E. Heckel (J. B. Neumann).
6. Linoleum Cut, Arthur Young.
A, B, C, G, H, K–Details in Silhouette.
- - - Lº
ECYPTIANTD.E.FRANCICNCREEKTVCºECJTACNOTETTOTRANCWYNTEENTONIAN


PLATE VII
These six examples show an analysis of the
notan to be found in landscape. The three main
values have been retained and the general tone key
preserved as nearly as possible in each case.
The first is a solidly constructed composition by
Derain. There is no attempt at the picturesque, no
“composition” in the generally accepted sense.
Yet, devoid of colour and of the personal quality
no summary analysis could supply, it retains a sta-
bility and cohesion that many naturalistic land-
scapes lack. The only criticism I could offer is
that the square shape on the left bulks rather
heavily, but in the original it is more securely
balanced by the figure on the right.
The Corot (2) strikes an almost realistic note be-
side it, but it is by no means so photographic as it
appears at first sight. The “typical” Corot is so
well known, and so many forgeries exist, that it is
only by examining a number of his works such as in
the Moreau Collection, that it is possible to realize
what a great artist he was. In this example we see
a very careful selection of lines and shapes. The
effective and steadying contrast of horizontal and
vertical lines, a pleasant distribution of light and
dark areas; the whole built up in the naturalistic
rather than the structural manner employed by
Derain.
No. 3 shows another naturalistic ureatment, but
stronger and more compact than 2 or 4. Cotman
was one of the first artists of his age to risk the in-
troduction of a few uncompromisingly angular lines
into landscape. Those who would enjoy land-
scapes, faultless in technique and splendid in their
design, to which is added the glamour of a past age,
should look up the “Studio Year Book,” autumn,
I923, for Cotman is a master of effective notan.
Mauve's picture (4) shows a pleasant composition
with an unexceptional use of natural forms. The
thin tree trunks foil the heavy mass of foliage, the
large patch of light against dark on the ground bal-
ances the dark mass of the trees. The whole has a
poetic charm but lacks the permanence of 1 and 3.
No. 5 is a frankly bucolic landscape by Gains-
borough. The movment starts from the bottom
centre, each line and mass is nicely adjusted. The
silhouette of the trees carefully considered, the
bright values of the sky counterpoised by the light
patches in the foreground. Everything speaks of
the grand manner, when the violence and gloom of
Salvator Rosa had subsided into the picturesque
statements typical of English landscape before
Constable. Nevertheless, it is far from puerile.
If it has grace and charm and sentiment, qualities
now somewhat taboo, it holds them within reason-
able bounds by a structure that has many of the
elements of good composition.
The last example (6) is a three-value analysis of a
sea-and-landscape by Marin. Admittedly it is an
extreme example. It gives no suggestion of the
spots of fine colour, and it loses more by such a
summarization than the others. But taking all
this into account it appears incoherent, formless,
and spotty when judged by our standards. Some
of Marin’s ships bounce along over choppy seas
in a manner that makes one feel quite squeamish,
and his views of Manhattan give a convincing im-
pression of the overpowering confusion of Down-
town. But in others the absence of any organiza-
tion, or of any rhythm, however violent, repels
the eye. Yet we must remember in appraising
such works to respect the convictions of men like
Alfred Stieglitz who feel that such pictures are worth
years of effort and sacrifice to bring them to the
notice of Art Lovers.
But I am willing to admit that others may per-
ceive qualities to which I am insensitive. When
such a failure to react to shapes, tones, and colours
occurs, the only course to pursue is to keep an open
mind, pass on to other manifestations, and after a
period return to see if more light has broken
through. Such things have, at any rate, the virtue
of not being painted to please.
89
PLATE VII
Notan-Landscape, 18th to 20th Century
Derain.
Corot.
Cotman.
Mauve.
Gainsborough.
Marin.
i
(Tone analyses by the author)
2 º'
. º
* … ºr m
3. º º,

PLATE VIII
Here we have six more compositions; landscape,
figure, and still-life. All modern, and some hardly
more recognizable as regards subject matter than
the last example discussed. But all seem to me
to have a structural unity that compares favourably
with the more traditional compositions in Plate VII.
In fact, we need not elaborate; they speak for them-
selves very ably, despite the small scale, lack of
colour, and loss of nuance that such analysis entails.
(1) Derain: as always—solid, structural, finely
balanced, stripped of irrelevant detail.
(2) Segonzac: well designed, strong oppositions of
line and mass and light-and-dark, giving
stability to the whole.
(3) Segonzac again: another design, this time of
moving curves. Too poster like, but skillfully
contrived contrasts and oppositions and a
fine pattern of light-and-dark.
(4) Another Derain: tree trunks used to form a
curvilinear composition. Less obvious than
No. 3, it is well knit together. The opposing
curves and the dark patches either side of
the central trunk give it stability and balance
without dull symmetry.
(5) Moreau: figures hewn out in harsh planes;
almost abstract in its treatment of forms, but
achieving an interesting arrangement of lines
and shapes. As a design less admirable I
think than the others.
(6) Fresnaye : a still life devoid of the usual repre-
sentative subject matter. Actually a prob-
lem in the nice adjustment of angular
shapes, planes, and tones. It builds up into
a more satisfying design than the figures.
In this last example, when closely studied, there
is to be observed behind the apparent disorder a
logical use of the two powerful elements of com-
position, contrast, and opposition. We see long and
short lines, wide and narrow angles, big and little,
light and dark patches, very skillfully placed. It
is as near as art can get to it, an intellectual exer-
cise, inasmuch as each shape and its relationship
have been very logically thought out. But for that
very reason it fails to evoke an emotional response.
And do not expect to receive any intellectual incre-
ment from it; enjoy it as an interesting exercise in
composition employing abstract shapes.
Taking the six compositions together, each in its
way exemplifies, in a greater or less degree, those
laws of composition which we discussed in detail in
Chapters III, IV, and V.
We cannot discover or discuss the more subtle
qualities of composition in a three-value interpre-
tation. Yet, if stripped of colour and of all but
fundamentals, they stand up under the analysis, it
is owing to their structural integrity; their observ-
ance of the flexible but compelling laws of fine
composition.
93
PLATE VIII
Notan–Various Compositions, Modern (Three or Four Values)
I and 4. Derain.
2 and 3. De Segonzac.
5. Moreau.
6. De la Fresnaye.
(Tone analyses by the author)

PLATE IX
Eight compositions, ranging from the primitive
Italian to the modern illustrator. The great lesson
here emphasized is the abiding value of a few power-
ful main lines and masses in building up a fine Com-
position. It took much longer to reduce the trivial
work at bottom centre (7) to three main values than
was required for I and 2 together.
As to the latter they need no interpretation. The
serene simplicity of Giotto contrasts admirably
with the proud consciousness of power in M.
Angelo's figures. Both are superb in their own
way, and in the latter, despite the reduction to three
values, we get more than a hint of the powerful
third-dimensional quality at his command. Pass-
ing on to the lower group, No. 3 shows a very sym-
metrical composition by Cézanne. Naturally, in
Such a summary we can judge of none of those
spatial tone and colour relationships which he was
the first to develop fully. And it will, of course, be
self-evident that we cannot judge Cézanne by com-
paring one of his (in my opinion) least admirable
works. He should be approached later via his still-
life and landscape by way of A. Vollard's magnum
opus. It is not easy to sense the depth-relation-
ship of lines and tones and colours, of which he was
the acknowledged master, from ordinary illustra-
tions.
To return to No. 3. At first we may be repelled
by the coarse and clumsy treatment of the figures,
a defect that in his nudes Cézanne never succeeded
in overcoming. Stripped of all but main values,
the composition appears somewhat vermicular in
its general arrangement, and we may quarrel with
the placing of the two central figures. But despite
all this it possesses stability and cohesion. The
figures pile up into an articulated whole, with a
thrust and counterthrust of line and mass that are
far more satisfying than the easy rhythms of No. 4,
and more coherent than any of the three examples
below.
The Fantin Latour detail (4) shows the suave and
graceful lines common to late 19th Century French
paintings. Obvious and rather shallow though
they are, they look comparatively powerful when
compared with the commonplace stageyness of the
example below (7) with its irritating detail. The
fragment (5), attributed to Courbet, shows a far
more satisfying and less immediately evident
rhythm than No. 4, and it possesses a fine and
unobtrusive balance in its spotting of light and
dark.
And now to make a comparison with I and 2, and
6 and 8. The two latter examples are by modern
illustrators. In No. 6 is a rather fascinating pat-
tern of light-and-dark, nicely balanced and full
of life and sparkle. But, deprived of its representa-
tional features, the looseness of design is apparent,
and there is felt to be a noticeable lack of subordi-
nation. It needs some dominating lines and patches
to give it stability. No. 8, deprived of the original’s
exquisitely finished modelling and delicate detail,
falls apart as a composition.
It is, we admit, rather unfair to draw such com-
parisons, because the illustrator often works under
conditions that would have cramped the style of M.
Angelo. The contrast is made merely to emphasize
those permanent values which every fine work of
art must possess. The wonder is not that 6 and 8
look spotty, but that they stand the comparison at
all. Either of them is immeasurably superior to
the Salon picture that separates them, and as il-
lustrations they are in the first rank. If they lack
the simplicity and power of Daumier it is partly
due to the insistence of Art editors upon certain
matters not connected with art. As it is, they have
qualities not always found in Academy pictures.
97
PLATE IX
Notan–Figure Compositions (Three Values)
Giotto.
Michelangelo.
Cézanne.
Fantin Latour.
Courbet.
Dean Cornwell.
Lefebvre.
Eugene Savage.
i
(Tone analyses by the author)

PLATE X
Here we have nine compositions by students in
the Painting class of Teachers College under the
direction of Professor C. J. Martin. By their aid,
we can carry the study of tone relationships still
further, and develop our sense of notan.
The three examples at the top are flower ar-
rangements. Not still-life copies, but careful ad-
justments of shapes and tones with a view to fine
compositions. Flowers are used as subject matter,
but there is no intention of making literal tran-
scripts or botanizing. Again. I think such examples
speak for themselves, and it is not difficult to appre-
ciate the effective and satisfying way in which the
various shapes and tones have been built up into a
finely organized and unobtrusively composed pat-
tern of light and dark.
Rest assured that, in each one, every shape has
been carefully, at times even painfully, worked
over; but there is nothing laboured in the result.
Each has the sincerity that comes only of conviction
and intelligent effort.
Of course, if you prefer the transparent dewdrop
upon the petal, the butterfly poised on the trembling
tendril with antennae miraculously delineated, you
will go to Van Huysum, who, let it be admitted, did
an incredibly fine job in his way. But he and the
Dutch still-life painters sacrificed the structure of
their pictures for such exquisite detail. It was de-
sign these students were after, and they all achieve
their aim.
If we examine the striking pattern of No. 6 we
readily perceive the strong line organization giving
a bold rhythm to the whole, and feel the effective
massing of light-and-dark.
What is, perhaps, less easy to observe is that
each shape has been thought out with a scrupulous
regard to its position and its size; each one has
character and no two are alike. We note the just
placing of the bird’s dark head against the light,
nicely balanced by the heavier masses beneath; the
careful avoidance of ambiguous passages, clever
flourishes, and easy technical effects. The centre
composition possesses similar qualities but express-
ed in a more subtle or less “decorative” manner.
This sensitive organization of all its elements;
the studied avoidance of repetitions of lines, angles,
and shapes; the careful search for fine notan is not
such an easy matter, even when the need for such
things is felt. In some works it is expressed in-
stinctively, but consciously or unconsciously it must
be expressed in any work that hopes to appeal to the
emotions. It is no exaggeration to say that a vast
mural or a great canvas which lacks such essen-
tials is of less significance than the students’ works
shown here, for it is the visual appeal of such plastic
elements that provides an aesthetic experience.
IOI
PLATE X
Notan–Full Values, Various Compositions. Painting Class, Teachers College
I
2
3
4-
5.
6.
7
8
9.
(Pho
Olive Riley.
Florence Mitchell.
Maryhelen Byers.
Jessie Paul.
Florence Mitchell.
Lynd Ward.
Fred. King.
Grace Riblet.
Anonymous
tos by Fred. King).
2

PLATE XI
Regarding this plate, it is probable that you begin
right here to experience the emotional appeal of
lines and shapes and tones mentioned in discuss-
ing the previous illustrations. Even in the small
reproductions, it is not difficult to distinguish the
different notes struck by the various examples.
Now that you are developing your appreciative
faculties, I hope more and more to leave the illus-
trations to speak for themselves. It always seems
more than a little presumptuous to “explain” a
picture, though certain manifestations would appear
to excuse such temerity. All I wish to do now is to
point out certain qualities which beginners, brought
up in the traditional atmosphere of improving anec-
dotal pictures, framed and forgotten on the walls
for years, might be tempted to ignore.
No. 1 shows a portrait group by a very young un-
tutored artist. It has all the frank ingenuousness
of any statement by an unspoiled child. And it
has a very satisfactory pattern also. The same is
true of the portrait at 3, which in the original has
the fine colour which no child could accomplish. If it
were by a child we should enjoy and admire it; but
such is our perversity that, knowing it to be by a man
of fifty we allow prejudice to sway our feelings.
In between (2) is a detail from a Russian primi-
tive. A splendid pattern with a fine adjustment of
space to space. Severe and precise in its lines and
shapes, but as naïf as the examples either side of
it, and so sincere and unaffected, we realize, in the
words of the old book quoted by Roerich, “these
works have been painted with honest hand and
decent purpose and with noble love of embellish-
ment, for the people to see themselves here as
standing before the Highest.” That spirit we
cannot expect to feel very often in the art products
of a mechanized and industrialized age.
In 4 and 5 we have works of avery different order.
No. 4 is a composition built up out of leaf forms:
clean, precise, very skillfully drawn and painted,
held together by its radiating lines and its nicely
balanced notan. It shows a fine sense of design
plus a subtle realization of tone values; it is a dec-
oration of no mean order.
How do you feel about the next example, No. 5?
Isn’t it rather exciting? The ceaseless weaving of
lines and shapes imparts a sense of swift and noise-
less movement, masterfully retained within the
composition. Though it suggests the interplay of
resistless forces, or the rush of strange shapes
through the vasty deep, yet I never wanted to trans-
late the title. It seems less, not more, pleasing
with a caption beneath it.
The unorthodox little still-life at 6 offers no such
mystery. It is provocative by reason of its distor-
tion of shapes, but more so, I think, because of its
crisp Gothic forms, and its clear-cut pattern of
light-and-dark. It says what it has to say with
the clarity of the Russian Primitive, but in a lan-
guage that already hints at the rich and complex
vocabulary of the modern artist. These illustra-
tions 5 and 6 are taken from “Formwille der Zeit,”
a little book showing work by pupils of Franz Cizek,
which every student should possess.
The bottom row, when compared with the one
above, looks chaotic and meaningless. The design
by Fresnaye, No. 7, is less satisfactory than the
example No. 6 on Plate IX, despite the added
curves contrasting with the angular forms.
Picasso at No. 8 is even less satisfactory. The
realistic treatment of the balustrade does not jibe
with the abstractions in the centre, which them-
selves disclose tentative and uncertain treatments.
No. 9, as a pattern, is spotty but less inconsistent
than No. 8 and bolder than 7, but both the rhythm
and the humour seem a trifle flat to-day.
IO5
PLATE XI
Compositions—Various. Line and Notan and Other Values
Portraits by a Child (The Arts Magazine).
Russian Primitive (International Studio, New York).
Portrait by Matisse (International Studio, New York).
Decoration, Georgia O'Keeffe (A. Stieglitz).
Composition, The Storm, School of Franz Cizek.
Still-Life, School of Franz Cizek.
Fresnaye (“Valori Plastici”).
Picasso (Les Peintres Français Nouveaux).
Lalapie (International Studio, New York).

PLATE XII
The two composite plates, XII and XIII, stress the
unity that binds together many diverse art forms.
In these various and, chronologically, widely
separated works, we may note how the same fine
quality of light-and-dark runs throughout the whole
group. This refreshing and all too rare character
of line and notan, that individualizes each separate
example, also gives a kinship to the assemblage.
It links in harmony such diverse manifestations
of design as a Japanese print and an English water
colour, a modern still-life painting and an Italian
brocade.
When we stop to analyze this common attribute,
we see that it consists primarily in the possession
of a distinction, a “strangeness,” as Bacon put it,
in the quality of its line and pattern.
Each example has a touch of the unexpected,
but is not bizarre; it may be naif, but is never child-
ish; more often it is the result of conscious and
intelligent effort. But, whether more or less spon-
taneous, each example sounds a note that is stimu-
lating but not violent—the eye travels with interest
and pleasure over each composition irrespective of
subject.
Let the reader get hold of any dozen average ex-
amples and compare them.
Examining Plate XII in detail, definite qualities
emerge. No. 5 is far from the accepted still-life
group, but its fine pattern and its rhythmic line move-
ment are as good in their way as the more obvious
rhythm in the Italian brocade (7). In the modern
German woodcut (6) with its arresting and even
strident note, we find the laws of composition by no
means neglected. Strong oppositions are set up
by the lines radiating from the corners, which tie
and steady the vigorous contrasts. Furthermore,
a not too obtrusive repeat of lines and angles may
be observed, giving as strong a structure and as
powerful, if more staccato, a rhythm, as we see in I,
3, 5, and 7.
In No. 3, a design for stained glass, we find sim-
ple elementary shapes, dictated by the technique
of the craft, and the design is bound together
still more securely by the rhythmic repeats in the
curves of the reapers' arms, their hats, and the
sheaves.
A somewhat similar note is sounded in the Japa-
nese print (I). In the panel of lace (2) it is not so
much the quaint figures that attract at first as the
interesting variety of shapes and their oppositions
which build up a sparkling pattern of light-and-dark.
The centre panel, No. 4, shows a fine blending of
representation and design. The Temptation is
illustrated with scrupulous fidelity to tradition, the
figures easily hold the centre of interest and are
effectively foiled against a natural background.
Yet the balance of line and notan is so well dis-
tributed that all representational detail might be
blotted out, and we should still have a very effective
pattern of light-and-dark.
Io9
PLATE XII
Composite–Major and Minor Arts
Japanese Print.
Venetian Lace, about 16oo.
Stained Glass, R. Seewald.
The Temptation, Flemish, Jan Mabuse.
Still-Life, Marsden Hartley.
Woodcut, A. Gerbig
Velours, Asia Minor
i
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PLATE XIII
In this plate all the examples have a vitality that
speaks for itself. Each one shows fine spacing and
excellent notan, with the satisfying rhythm that
springs from an understanding, innate or acquired,
of these elements of good composition.
The various qualities, such as fine line and con-
tour, right space relationships, effective contrasts
and oppositions of lines, tones, weights, textures,
etc., may be studied in each. Observe the spacing
of the horizontal bands on the Persian drug-pot
(4) and the oppositions of the vertical brush forms.
In the inlay (7) note the elementary but adequate
rhythm set up by the repetition of circles; also the
effective relief of the solid bird forms against the
lacy background. More interesting and personal
treatments are seen at 3 and 6.
We need examine only the three centre-pieces
in detail. In the Greek vase (8) we see the fine
severe contour of the vase containing and limiting
the spirited line and notan of the figure design.
Within such a shape the lively pattern is seen to
great advantage.
In the Cotman (2) we see a splendid fusion of
topographical fidelity and aesthetic perception. The
scene is adequately portrayed, the technique is
masterly, and at the same time these qualities are
not gained at the expense of the more important
attributes of a picture. Cotman, with all his ac-
curacy of drawing and scholarly technique, re-
tained a superb command over essentials.
The centre illustration (5) is by an un-
known French Primitive. It achieves all that
Cotman accomplishes, with an added intensity
and emotion that speak of a profound spirit. The
reader should turn to Plate XXXVI and examine
more easily the pure and severe line and the exqui-
site drawing. For a close study of its poignant de-
tail and an interesting and full account of this
picture refer to Guy Eglington’s article in the In-
ternationial Studio, June, 1924. But even in the
Small-scale reproduction we can note the masterly
handling. The figures are most accurately de-
lineated; without resort to distortion or exaggera-
tion, they are both convincing and moving. With
a firm hold on truth, the artist easily avoids the
realism that snared the later painters of religious
pictures. The tragic story is told with a fine alloy of
emotion and reason, of pathos and dignity, and a
most uncommon accuracy in delineation is sub-
ordinated to an instinctive feeling for the right
placement of line and mass. It shows how subject,
the bane of such a vast proportion of the works of
the I7th and 18th centuries, can take its place
without despoiling a picture of its primary virtues.
If we attempt to delve more deeply into the
structure we may note the arresting silhouette of
the figures against the background and the intense
aliveness and precision of the line that traces it. In
the whole work there is no commonplace or dead
line or shape and, scrupulous and minute though
the finish is, all trivial detail is eliminated. We
feel, rather than notice, how the lines of the arms
and legs of the dead Christ are effect.vely yet un-
obtrusively opposed by the contrary lines formed
by the heads and the hands of the mourners be-
hind. Such examples of natural t nd instinctive
composition are to be found in the works of all
the Primitives, and many splendid illustrations
may be taken from the works of the early Italian
painters.
Such an examination as we have attempted
above will result in a fuller appreciation of any work
of art and in an increase of power on the part of any
student. But there will remain in any work of
genius qualities that defy analysis and that must be
felt by each individual alone.
I have lingered upon this last example, perhaps
unduly, but henceforth, as threatened once or twice
before, the illustrations will be allowed to speak
more and more for themselves
II3
PLATE XIII
Composite—Major and Minor Arts
I. Hispano-Moorish Tile.
2. Cotman, Landscape. -
3. Metal Disc, Merovingian.
4. Persian Pot.
5. French Primitive.
6. Coptic Embroidery.
7. -Inlay Marble, Italian, 14th Century.
8. Greek Vase, 5th Century B. C.
Small Iron Grille, Gothic, 14th Century.
(Illustrations by courtesy of Metropolitan Museum, Victoria and Albert Museum, Archives de
France, International Studio, New York.)
9.
Dvº. Exºle, Amºuee rºſº, rººveryº. Atºry N All ºvo. ºf Agr.


PLATE XIV
After running rapidly through the last dozen
plates, there may be a need, for the beginner, at
least, to pause; and this can be employed in exam-
ining less intricate works. Hence, this page of
simple geometrical patterns. They offer no per-
plexing appeal of subject and conceal no vague or
mysterious problem. Everything is plain sailing,
and little explanation is necessary.
No. I shows the satisfying pattern growing out of
the repeat of circles within a containing circle. No. 3
shows the added character of a Gothic treatment.
No. 2, which consists of three different linen-fold
panels, is an elementary problem in spacing vertical
lines; just as in designs for shirtings, from which we
may progress upward to classic porticoes and mod-
ern skyscrapers.
In 4 and 6 we see rhythm in its most elementary
form, though the delicate borders on the outsides
are too small in scale to contain the chevron or
ogee pattern.
The centre panel proves how an effective com—
position may be built up out of a few simple units.
In the shield are strong contrasts of light-and-
dark. More subtle contrasts appear in the letter-
ing, of thick and thin, round and square. Nos. 7,
8, and 9 are Spanish tiles showing the most
obvious yet quite pleasant and satisfactory re-
peats.
Repetition, plus a feeling for good spacing, is at
the bottom of all these designs, and they show the
simple rhythms that arise from such frank, straight-
forward treatments.
II.7
PLATE XIV
Minor Arts—Repetition and Rhythm
1. Gold Disc, Egypt, 6th Century (British Museum).
2. Linen-Fold Panels, Flemish, 15th Century (Boston Museum).
3. Door Knocker, Late Gothic German, 17th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
4 and 6. Italian Pavements, 13th Century (Brogi).
5. “Della Robbia” Heraldic Panel, A. D. 1512 (Victoria and Albert Museum).
7, 8, and 9. Spanish Tiles, glazed, 17th Century (Musée des Arts Décoratifs).
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PLATE XV
Here are more complex patterns, of a much
higher order than those on the previous page.
In all but 6 and 9 the same elements of repetition
and contrast may be observed, carried out on a
finer scale and in a more intricate and interesting
way.
In 6 and 9, line and notan are the primary quali-
ties that constitute their strength; each shows a
beautiful contour containing a fine pattern of light-
and-dark. No. 6 possesses in a superlative degree
the sparkle and life that are common to all the other
examples on this plate. Each one shows the fault-
less handiwork of the old craftsmen. Each de-
serves a plate to itself.
In the endeavour to stress the universal appeal
of fine notan in diverse handicrafts I have been
tempted to assemble too many examples on one
page. And I have been tempted to attach a magni-
fying glass to each book, for every item here would
stand enlargement up to Ioo diameters. Each one
is so fine that I shall leave the reader to enjoy them
without interruption.
I 2 I
PLATE XV
I.
Minor Arts. -Line and Notan
Wood Panel, Gothic, French, 14th Century (Musée des Arts Décoratifs).
2, 3, and 4. French Lockplates, 15th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
- 5.
6
7.
8.
9
Spanish Lockplate, 16th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Chinese Bowl (Musée des Arts Décoratifs).
Italian Brocade, 15th Century (Musée des Arts Décoratifs).
Venetian Lace, I7th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Ivory Crozier, French, 12th Century (Cluny) (Archives de France).
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PLATE XVI
This plate shows a few of the products of the old
chairmaker. Nothing old-fashioned or clumsy
about them. To be sure they are antiques, but
they have authentic and imperishable virtues.
They were made primarily for use, and they ex-
pressed inimitably the spirit of their times. Each
one possesses the fine line and proportion that are of
the essence of style. The Carolean chairs at 4 and
6 cannot compete in delicacy of proportion with the
Sheraton and Hepplewhite above, but they are
finely spaced and vigorously turned and carved.
Now study the Louis XV chair.
To take the Louis XV chair, No. 5. Observe its se–
ductive yet not too opulent curves; its suggestion
of utter comfort and feminine luxury. Contrast it
with the clear-cut cabriole leg and the severe hori-
zontal line of the Queen Anne stool.
They both stress the subtle qualities to be dis-
covered in curved lines—more readily observed,
perhaps, in a chair than in a sculptured group.
Whilst the stool has a dignity and character that
the chair lacks, the latter is, nevertheless, a splen-
did example of curved-line composition. One may
crave the contrast of a straight line somewhere, but
without actual comparison it is hard to realize the
gap that exists between this superb Bergère and
the average museum piece of the same period.
The reader with time to spare might look up Roger
de Félice's very readable book on French furni-
ture of Louis XV and, comparing the sister exam-
ple there illustrated, note the improvement that
comes from the substitution of gimp for the round
nail heads. Of such trifles is perfection built
ll.0.
I25
PLATE XVI
i
Minor Arts—Furniture. Line and Proportion
Sheraton Chair, 18th–19th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Queen Anne Stool, circa 1715 (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Hepplewhite Chair, Late 18th Century (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Stuart Chair, circa 1685 (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Louis Quinze Bergère, Middle 18th Century (Musée des Arts Decoratifs).
Stuart Child’s Chair, circa 1685 (Victoria and Albert Museum).
- - - -
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PLATE XVII
With the exception of the perfect little pitcher
(I), which is the work of an early American crafts-
man, all the examples on this plate are what may be
termed Industrial Art. And in industry Beauty
only survives on the basis of Utility.
The lines and proportions of the Lanchester car
Speak with the same tongue as the work of the old
silversmith; there are character, style, and pedigree
all over both.
The body of this car will doubtless, in time, ap-
pear old-fashioned, but its lines, like those of an old
ship, will never look commonplace. And, come to
think of it, the magnificent lines and lovely spread
of Sail in the old China clipper were the result of
very similar conditions—e.g., the striving for speed
and efficiency—resulting in what seems, at times of
depression, to be the last creative effort in New
England that was aesthetically complete.
The hot-water jug (3) is another successful out-
come of the frank acceptance of the limitations
imposed by materials and methods. Subtle in con-
tour and good in proportion, it is as fine in its way
as are I and 2.
Below are three examples in which the straight
line and mechanical finish of the machine have
imposed restraints cheerfully accepted, and in
their way actually beneficial. Deprived of flourish,
and too honest to suggest a specious handicraft
finish, they rely solely upon their good proportions
for their character and style; the right relationship
of horizontal and vertical lines, the nice adjust-
ments of one rectangle to another—in short, good
spacing—is at the bottom of their success. One
could criticize the attachment of the mirror in No.
6 (it seems to call for a happier transition from the
top of the dresser to the upright supports of the
glass which would give more stability and con-
nection) and it can never rival the attractions of a
bow-fronted Hepplewhite bureau, with its rich
veneer and finely selected ornament and delicate
bandings. But the Palmer Jones dresser has in
it some of the abiding elements of beauty, and
has the not inconsiderable merit of being with-
in the reach of thousands who would never get
within measurable distance of a Hepplewhite.
And a very necessary merit, too, for the arts
and crafts, if they are to survive in industry to—
day, must go out into the market-place and suffer
the inspection of the chafferer and the bargain
hunter.
I29
PLATE XVII
i
Industrial Art—Line and Space
Early American Silver (Metropolitan Museum.) *
Lanchester Car, 40 h.p. (D. I. A. Yearbook, 1922, Ernest Benn, Ltd.).
Hot-water Jug, Dryad Works (H. H. Peach).
Cottage Dresser (Heal & Son).
Bronze Doors, Crittal Freeman (D. I. A. Yearbook, Ernest Benn, Ltd.).
Dressing Chest (W. Palmer Jones).

PLATE XVIII
Continuing our study of line, here is a page with
almost a perfect score. (The handles of the am-
phora might be better.)
Extraordinarily subtle lines and contours are its
outstanding characteristics.
The Greek helmet is a splendid curvilinear com-
position, and how well it consorts with the powerful
simplicity of the head of Ephebus.
The Amida shows the suave rhythms of the
figure echoed by the lines of the effectively pierced
back piece, and set off by the intricate profile of
the base.
The brush work on the neck of the Cypriote vase
has in its way as fine a quality of notan as the strik-
ing pattern of the Greek amphora. But there they
stand, calm and unassailable; all we can do is to
accept them and be thankful.
I33
PLATE XVIII
i
Minor Arts and Sculpture—Line and Notan
Greek Helmet (Metropolitan Museum).
Amida, Kamakura Period (Metropolitan Museum).
French Helmet, 14th Century (Metropolitan Museum).
Cypriote Vase (Metropolitan Museum).
Head of Ephebus, from Olympia (Alnari).
Greek Black Figure Vase (Metropolitar Museum).

PLATE XIX
It would savour of the imbecile to attempt an ex-
planation of these two admirable works. Like any
perfect manifestation, each carries conviction with
it. One can no more explain such things than one
can explain a faultless rendition of a prelude. It has
an inevitability about it which one questions as
little as one questions an earthquake, a flower, or
a new baby. The most brilliant appreciation would
subside to mere chatter beside it. Comparing
them with the vases and fans produced in such
profusion in the 18th Century in Europe, one is
tempted to ask whether the Occidental ever had an
understanding of beauty as applied to the Crafts.
It sometimes seems that in art, as in religion,
anything that is fine comes out of the East, and
suffers a sea change in the transference. The
student inclined to linger too long over the flesh-
pots of the West might turn up the following
publications, and review such worship in their light:
“La Ceramique dans l'art de Extreme Orient.”
Riviere.
“L’Orient Musulman.” G. Migeon. Editions A.
Morance.
“Eumorfopoulos Collection.
Hobson.
“Chinesische Fruh-Keramic.”
“The Art of the Chinese Potter.”
Hetherington.
These books together with the publications of the
Shimba Shoin and the Kokka Magazine, will give
an excellent idea of the heights to which the Potter
of the Middle and Far East soared, and the possi-
bilities Oriental artists realized in flat decoration.
Chun to T'ang.”
Oscar Rucker.
Hobson &
I37
PLATE XIX
Minor Arts—Line and Notan
I. Japanese Fan (Musée des Arts Décoratifs).
2. Sung Vase, A. D. 960–1280 (Metropolitan Museum).
...Apox was Siecle

PLATE XX
The proper caption for this plate would seem to
be “see explanation to Plate XIX.” But though
such absolute beauty cannot be explained, we may
discover underneath such imponderable qualities
certain elements that help to confirm our theory of
Art Structure.
In the portal (I) are to be observed the simple
oppositions of well-spaced vertical and horizontal
lines set off by the sweeping curves above them.
Contrasts of round and square in line and section,
of plain spaces against richly carved, all contribute
to the validity of our rules for composition.
The Portail Royale, No. 3, speaks for itself so
compellingly that we don’t want to bother about
laws of composition, but if we stop to examine it
in detail, we notice similar contrasts—the heads
against plain pillars, the fine sequence of spaces
from the feet of the figures up to the heads, the pres–
ervation of a dominant vertical note throughout—
and so on.
The cluster of pillars (5) has a perfection of pro-
portion, the just-right relationship of height to
width, of subdivision to subdivision, that is a joy
to behold.
And the capital at 6 is superb. It pleases me im–
mensely, and that is all one needs. But if we are to
produce anything half as good as this old mason’s
work we must probe down to find out how he did it.
Such a close examination usually discloses an ob-
servance of those laws of art structure that we dis-
cussed in Chapters III, IV, and V.
Note the repetition of certain dominant lines in
the volutes at each angle echoed in the contour of
the “Lion’s” mane, in the turn of the rider’s neck
and head, and in the griffon on the left. These
lines and masses start a powerful rhythm which is
modified and rendered less obvious by the resultant
fine notan. Note the richness of it, with its bold
contrasts of little dark patches within broad areas
of light, and sharp oppositions of light against the
massed shadow on the left.
Losing, as it does, owing to its reduction, the capi-
tal still remains a little masterpiece of light-and-
dark.
I4I
PLATE XX
i
Architecture—Romanesque and Gothic
S. Door, St. Pierre at Aulnay, 12th Century. r
Romanesque Arch, 12th Century (Metropolitan Museum).
Royal Doorway, Chartres (Archives de France).
Finial, Chartres, 13th Century (Archives de France).
Cluster of Pillars, 13th Century, French (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Romanesque Capital, 13th Century, French (Metropolitan Museum).

PLATE XXI
In the centre (2) is the Temple of Niké Apteros.
With its pediments gone, its cornice despoiled and
tied together with ugly girders, it still shows the
fineness of proportion that seemed the birthright
of the Greeks. The photograph itself, by Alnari,
is a striking example of the splendid notan such
adjustments of line and mass produce. -
The pure beauty of the proportions of the Parthe-
non (3) should be compared with the massive, even
clumsy, adjustments of the Temple of Neptune (I).
In both I and 3 may be noted the satisfactory
rhythm that arises from the repetition of a unit into
the distance. To get some idea of the spirit that
informs Greek architecture, the student might
turn to “Griechenland,” by Holdt–Hofmansthal
(Wasmuth: publishers).
Donatello's Musicians' Gallery (5) shows how
his lively panels are effectively held together by the
fine primary spacing of the architectural members
—cornice, frieze, pilasters, and console. Within
these limits, his uncommon skill and exuberant
fancy have free play.
Nos. 4 and 6 fail because they ignore these neces-
sary restraints. The eye worried by a mass of
fretted detail turns with relief to the serenity above,
or to the well-defined organization of 5.
Not all Hindu architecture and sculpture is so
extravagant and restless as this Temple at Odey-
pore, nor all late Gothic so flamboyant, but this
tendency to ignore the fine spacing of structural
units and to overload with carving and sculpture is
the source of all decadence in architecture.
I45
PLATE XXI.
i
Architecture
Temple of Neptune, Paestum (Brogi).
Temple of Niké Apteros, Athens (Alnari).
Parthenon, Athens (Alnari).
Hindu Sculpture, Odeypore.
Donatello. Musicians’ Gallery, Florence (Alnari).
Butter Tower, Rouen. -

PLATE XXII
Here, again, is a plate that bears an unblemished
ensign for all to see.
We will confine our attention to pointing out the
adherence of each example to the common laws.
The heavy Norman arches (1) with their deep
and rude sections still show a command of fine
proportions—the essential element of good archi-
tecture. The later “decorated” nave (3) shows the
rapid development of the art in less than two hun-
dred years. The spiritual note of the slender up-
shooting piers and pointed arches is evident,
though the scale is too small to permit an exami-
nation of the fine adjustments of line and space.
The canopied seat (2) is utterly right in its pro-
portions. It is also an excellent example of splen-
didly managed transitions. Note the ascending
delicacy in scale from the box seat up to the tracer-
ied canopy and pierced cresting. Observe the way
the inverted cresting breaks up and softens what
would otherwise be a too-heavy shadow beneath
the projecting hood.
The same fine adjustment of space to space is
seen in the simple partition (5). Five very plain
linen-fold panels, ten unpretentious balusters,
leading the eye up to the more intricate but still
uncomplicated interlace above. Just ordinary
commonsense, straightforward craftsmanship, but
how uncommon in its retention of beauty’s es-
Se11Ce.
Now compare the figures 4 and 6. Chinese and
early Gothic of the school of Berry. They possess
much the same spirit that is to be felt in the nave of
Winchester (3). Either would take its place there
without a ripple. But visualize the commotion a
later Italian figure would make in such serene and
lofty aisles.
[Unfortunately, there is no need to imagine such
an incongruity. Worse travesties are already in
existence, for the walls of these magnificent edifices
are frequently cluttered up with a mass of utterly
banal and offensive mortuary “art,” the result of an
all too human itch to perpetuate an empty name,
even at the expense of a sacred and beautiful
fabric.]
I49
PLATE XXII
Architecture and Sculpture
& 3. Winchester Cathedral, 12th and 14th Century Arches.
French Canopied Seat, circa 1500 (Metropolitan Museum).
Chinese Figures in Wood, T'ang, A. D. 6oo (Metropolitan Museum).
French Panelling, 15th Century (Metropolitan Museum).
French Gothic Sculpture, 12th Century (Metropolitan Museum.)
i

PLATE XXIII
This plate, despite its very varied types, presents
a certain homogeneity.
The Kwannon (I), 7th Century Japanese, has
the impersonality of all early sculpture, and shows
much the same qualities, differentiated by racial
characteristics, as an Archaic Greek figure. It is
calm and aloof, with a hint of infinity in its simple
lines.
We cannot deny the kindred serenity of Archi-
penko's figure (3), to which is added an utter
refinement of the sensuous appeal, in exciting
contrast to the elemental vigour of Maillol (9).
We can make the transition to Maillol more read-
ily through 2 and 5 and 7. In the Tanagra, a com-
mercial little thing in its day, how splendidly the
anonymous old craftsman maintained the finer
qualities of sculpture. Though it possesses the
charm one would expect and desire in such an inti-
mate statuette, its kinship with the colossal har-
monies of Mestrovic is evident. (One is about
eight inches, the other about eight feet.) In both
we feel the crescendo of interest and diminuendo of
weight upward, noted in discussing plate 3, which
imparts stability to each work.
Figs. 4 and 6 show fine plastic relationships and
tactile values, based upon the study of the female
torso. The line and tone and mass of No. 6 are
peculiarly satisfying. We can leave it to the psy-
chologists to determine just how much of its at-
traction is asthetic and how much merely sensuous.
But any one would agree that No. 8 lacks either
appeal. Rodin’s profound study of an old prosti-
tute has before now been heralded as art. It cer-
tainly is not that, though it is a sermon in bronze—
very fit for the vestibule of a mortuary—or the
antechamber of a great surgeon, but it has no place
in art.
It may seem rather gratuitous to pick on Rodin
like this, but it is done in no carping spirit. Rodin
was an intrepid pioneer along a difficult road that
in the end led nowhere. He knew and accom—
plished infinitely more than any other sculptor of
his day, and modern artists should be eternally
grateful to him for having pushed certain develop-
ments to their logical conclusions and erected for
posterity a sign, warning them against an arduous
path that led but to an impasse.
But for his indefatigable exertions, modern
artists, in all probability, would be still toiling up
its middle steeps.
I53
PLATE XXIII
Sculpture—Comparative
Kwannon, Wood, Japanese, 672–686 A. D. (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Tanagra, 4th Century, Greek (International Studio, New York).
Alexander Archipenko, Woman’s Torso, marble.
Leon Underwood, Woman’s Torso (Art Worker).
Ivan Mestrovic, Distant Chords.
Frank Dobson, Woman’s Torso (Art Worker).
Maillol, Pomona (Druet).
Rodin, The Old Putain (Studio, London).
Maillol, Striding Woman (Druet).

PLATE XXIV
This plate includes very diverse types of sculp-
ture. If you appreciate the rhythms of the 12th
, Century, capital (6), it is difficult to ignore the
equally satisfying movement in Archipenko’s
group (5). If you do, you are letting subject
matter and unfamiliar treatment of detail obtrude
unduly, to the detriment of larger things.
Likewise, the strange and compelling arrange-
ment of line and mass in the Negro Mask is not dis-
similar to the savage intensity of Zadekine’s sculp-
ture (8). Look at the four examples solely from
the point of view of line and tone and mass relation-
ships, and then turn to more orthodox examples
above. The polished and considered shapes of
Cecil Howard (2) may lack the candid approach of
the Archaic sculptor (3) but his masses are better
related, if more mannered, in their placement.
The fact that this little figure (3) flanks one of the
supreme achievements of all time in sculpture
should not blind us to the repetitious use of lines
and shapes. At either end, we have examples of
the work of Rodin (1) and Gérôme (4), perfect
in execution, showing profound knowledge of the
figure, but a little artificial in conception. Rodin
shows the extraordinary facility with which he
handled masses, and even the illustration hints
at the lucent quality he imparted to his marbles.
It was a kind of impressionism that is well worth
attention. Gérôme (4) succeeds in an apotheo-
sis of the model; utterly finished, seductive,
and intimate. The best of its kind extant. But
not sculpture as we expect it to-day, not (let it
not be whispered near the Luxembourg) even
art.
I57
PLATE XXIV
Sculpture—Comparative
Rodin (Luxembourg).
Cecil Howard (International Studio, New York).
Greek, Early 5th Century B. C.
Gérôme (Luxembourg).
Alexander Archipenko.
French Capital, 12th Century.
West African Mask (International Studio, New York).
Zadekine (“Valori Plastiche”).
-
-

PLATE XXV
Greek Sculpture: the six examples range from
the 6th Century B. C. to the eclectic school, which
historians place somewhere between the Hellen-
istic and the Graeco-Roman Periods.
No. 1, a draped female figure of the 6th Century
B. C., typically archaic. It shows the direct attack
of the early carver. Symmetrical, head to front, and
well poised on powerful shoulders, hair and drapery
precisely arranged—all done in conformity with
traditional guild practices, much as were the figures
at Chartres. Yet how serene and satisfying!
The Man with Calf (5) is likewise a forthright
solution, well balanced, full of subtle contours,
with harmonious rhythms of line and tone. It
radiates the same hauntingly beautiful spirit as the
draped woman; for, as Pansanias said, “these
figures are strange to look upon, yet have a divine
inspiration manifest within them.”
The matchless panel (2) from the “Throne of
Venus” needs no comment but may be noted as a
Superb example of an utterly satisfying symmetrical
composition. The lovely Esquiline Venus (3) is
by an eclectic. He was unfortunate in his selection
of a Supporting pedestal, and the head does not
altogether consort with the figure. But he made a
remarkably fine job of the latter. It has a voluptu-
ousness the early Greeks avoided, but its rich full
Sections are contained within pure vase-like con-
tours, and, of course, the figure itself supplied a
Splendid harmony of line and tone.
No. 4 is the Theseus from the Parthenon.
Scarred and multilated, it still remains an amazing
tour de force. It shows a knowledge of the figure
as profound as Rodin’s or Michelangelo's and a
Serenity neither of these masters possessed. Con-
trasted with the archaic sculpture, it looks lifelike,
but it is poles apart from the realism of later cen—
turies. It does indeed mark the apogee from which
Greek Sculpture declined toward a more and more
devitalizing preoccupation with surface forms.
Comparing it with the chariot attendant from Olym-
pia (6) many will prefer the latter's simpler contours
and less accurate but more powerful summariza-
tions of anatomical detail.
It is difficult to make a choice between the subtle
modelling and strange serenity of the calf-bearer,
the powerful rhythms of line and plane in the
Olympic figure (6), and the utter command of line
and mass arrangement, the perfect fusion of the
ideal and the naturalistic, in short, the godlike
mastery of his craft that Phidias shows in the
Theseus.
But just there we bring in wonder and awe to
dilate our aesthetic reactions.
Choosing between the illustrations, I would pre-
fer the sonant rhythms of the Charioteer. The
less proficient sculptor still has reserves in hand:
the tragedy of perfection is that it can promise no
IIlOT e.
I6I
PLATE XXV
i
Greek Sculpture, 6th to 3d Century B. C.
Archaic Figure, Athens, 6th Century B. C. (Alnari).
Throne of Venus, Rome, 5th Century (Brogi).
Esquiline Venus, Rome (Anderson).
Theseus, East Pediment of Parthenon, 5th Century B. C. (Alnari).
Votive Statue, Man and Calf, Athens, 6th Century B. C. (Alnari).
Charioteer, East Pediment, Olympia, 5th Century B. C. (Alnari).

PLATE XXVI
This plate shows a general trend in modern
sculpture. It cannot pretend to trace even a small
section of such a course. To get an idea of the
rich variety and infinite promise of modern sculp-
ture, the student must turn over the last dozen
volumes of Die Kunst and Art et Décoration.
The three examples, 1, 2, and 3, show the return
to simplifications and plain statements that marks
the work of all the worthwhile sculptors of to-day.
Admitting that No. 2 pushes this to the verge and
is inclined to be a trifle mannered, yet what a fine
rhythm of line and mass remains to satisfy our
longing for something more than a copy of the eter-
nal model.
The solid but lovely little lady (I) should be com—
pared with some of the tortured figures that came
after Michelangelo. No. 3 is merely a “decora-
tive” figure to grace a garden or an Exposition, but
in its realization of form it compares very favour-
ably with many an imperishable bronze we could
name. Of course, all have the sensuous appeal
that so horrifies some aesthetes, but that alone can
never explain their potency. They have something
of that music in them that one sensed in the pillars
and the capital on Plate XX. Perhaps it would be
better if we could include a few bad or common-
place examples for comparison, but the student who
will take the trouble to compare the magazines
named above with their forerunners of twenty or
thirty years ago will have all the confirmation he or
she needs. At 5 we have an arresting silhouette by
Metzner. The treatment of the drapery is a little
obvious, but the powerful simplifications of line
and form hold the interest.
Turning to the heads by Lehmbruck (4) and
Kolbe (6) we find nothing of the healthy idealism
of the Greeks, but in its place we have personal
and unusual treatments. Lehmbruck's fine head
shows the search for psychic and emotional inter-
pretations to which modern artists turn. Compare
them with the Clyties and Didos of yesteryear and
see how they hold their own. Or, better still, look
up the “Propylaen” treasure book of Oriental Art”
and see where the German artists seek inspiration
to-day.
*Both Szclow’s “Diekunst der Nature Wolken und der Vorzeit.”
and Schafer-Andrae’s “Die Kunst des Alten Orients” will be worth
much effort to obtain a glimpse of them.
165
PLATE XXVI
Sculpture—Modern
I and 2. Alfred Lorcher (Die Kunst).
3. Marcel Gimond (Art et Décoration).
4. Wilhelm Lehmbruck (Die Kunst).
4. Franz Metzuer (Die Kunst).
6. Georg Kolbe (Die Kunst).

PLATE XXVII
The centre group shows the 5th Century B. C.
sculptor near his best. Contrast the stately rhythms
of this composition with the average “Fountain”
figure of to-day, which reproduces, often very ably
as to modelling, the artificial posing of a dancer in
front of a camera, without, however, a hint of the
continuity of movement, instinct in any figure in
action, which even a good photograph at times sug-
gests.
The Virgin and Child shows the charm and grace
that crept into Gothic statuary in the 14th Century
before it declined in the 15th. The figure is still
Compact and beautifully designed, though not so
powerful and moving in its line as earlier work.
How immeasurably superior it is to later work
could be seen by contrasting it with Spanish ba-
roque figures; one hesitates to suggest a comparison
with the ecclesiastical “art” atrocities that are sold
over the counter to-day like cheese or soap.
The third figure shows a similar tendency, on
the part of the Greek sculptor, to bring divinities to
earth. The goddess is less aloof than the dancing
girl in the centre. Nevertheless, it is an exquisite
and subtle thing, splendidly realized; still in-
finitely beyond the compass of the average sculptor
of A. D. I920–30.
I69
PLATE XXVII
Sculpture – Greek and Gothic
I. French Gothic, Late 13th Century, Louvre (Bulloz).
2. Dancing Figure, Delphi, 5th Century (Alnari).
3. Venus, Rome, Greek, Late 5th Century (Anderson).

PLATE XXVIII
All the figures on this plate have the full rich sec-
tions of the true sculptor.
Their creators have been concerned with what
one of them, Michelangelo, called their true func-
tion, “the elimination of superfluities.” In his un-
finished figure (2) he shows the full and sensuous
forms of his later period; built up into a moving
harmony of line and mass and tone.
The Greek brings to his work an exquisite finish
of contour and section that only a sculptor can ap-
preciate; just as only a violinist appreciates in full
the virtuosity of a master.
That such refinements are gained at the expense
of the larger qualities we may see by comparing the
Youth with the weight and mass and the sense of
elemental strength that radiates from the Sitting
Woman. The delicate flutelike notes of the Greek
are drowned in Maillol’s sonorous chimes.
But all three, in the arrangement of their lines
and shapes and tones, are musical beyond the
common run indeed.
I73
PLATE XXVIII
Sculpture—Greek Renaissance and Modern
I. Greek, 4th Century. Boston Museum (Baldwin Coolidge).
2. Michelangelo, Unfinished Statue (Alnari).
3. Maillol, Sitting Woman (Druet).

PLATE XXIX
Nine very different details, from almost as many
Schools.
(1) Duccio: simple all-embracing curves which,
with the heads and halos, set up a strong rhythm
throughout. Such line arrangements and the satis-
factory pattern of light-and-dark are not a difficult
accomplishment for the modern artist. Where
he fails is in the ability to duplicate the conviction
and simple directness of the Primitive.
Beato Angelico (3) uses a similar but more subtle
method, striking a different note with his flatter
Cl11 VeS.
No. 2 is from a Pompeian fresco. Quite sophisti-
cated compared with the Primitive, it shows a deli-
cacy that Leighton or Bouguereau might have en-
vied, combined with a solidity and decision they
lacked. Note the extraordinarily sensitive line
that runs from the woman’s brow, over her profile,
hand and arm, down by way of the child’s head and
elbow, to the ground. It is drawing as clever as
that of Veronese (4) but less complex. In 4 we see
a magnificent draughtsman and fine colourist a
little too anxious to show his undoubted powers.
One cannot airily dismiss him as a “sensuous
Venetian.” Though the bold pattern and simple
directness of earlier frescoes have subsided to a
lively sparkle, he has attained complete mastery of
the third dimension.
Compare it with the work of the literal-minded
Morelli (6). Here we find facial expression at-
tempting to substitute for the dramatic rôle of fine
line and notan. It is nothing more than a grandiose
magazine cover—indeed, many covers are more
artistic.
In the centre, El Greco: the ancestor of so many
modernists. Even in this fragment one may sense
something of the lambent quality of his lines and
forms, that present an unexpected and often
baffling “going and coming” that suggests a fourth
dimension.
Below is a lovely section from Pier della Fran-
cesca (8), between two strange companions. His
pure lines, clear-cut shapes, and sparkling pattern
are in striking contrast to the spirit that informs 7
and 8.
No. 7 is by Roualt, an uncommonly powerful and
apparently perverse painter who is oblivious of
beauty as humanity will always know it. His two
figures will by many be condemned as immoral,
sadistic, decadent, and so on. But do not let us
make a too hasty judgment. Remember that
Roualt has painted a Crucifixion which, for in-
tensity of feeling and dramatic power, makes much
of the current church decoration look like anaemic
Christmas cards.
~It would be as correct to call a murder trial, or
Hansard, or the Congressional Record immoral.
It is a blunt, unsparing chronicle of man’s uncon-
querable and tragic stupidity. To call it names
is to rank one’s self with the nice-minded who shut
their eyes to unalterable biological facts. It is
not Art, as I understand it, but it is a bleak, un-
warnished commentary on one facet of life, funda–
mentally far more decent than the scriptural tags
in yellow journals.
The detail at 9 shows another frank, almost bru-
tal, treatment. Boldly patterned, all alive, and with
the apparent disregard for correct drawing and the
strange intensity that marks so much “modernist
stuff,” a character that often results from the art-
ist’s struggle with a stubborn or exacting medium,
or the attempt to give plastic form to vivid ideas.
It is a relief to find that it has had the sanction of
museum authorities and the entrée to handbooks for
many a long year. The signature on the back
shows that it came from the factory of Maestro
Giorgio of Gubbio (A. D. 1525).
177
PLATE XXIX
Painting—Comparative Details
Duccio.
Pompeian Fresco.
Beato Angelico.
Veronese.
El Greco.
Domenico Morelli.
Roualt.
Pier della Francesca.
Anonymous

PLATE XXX
It would require a few hundred composite plates
to show the various notable and interesting tenden-
cies to be observed in painting to-day.
This is, of course, not even an attempt to discuss
them, but just an effort to compare two widely
Separated Schools flourishing side by side in the
20th Century. To gather some idea of the variety,
the richness, the vitality, and the power and scope
of modern art, the student should get hold of the
cheap monographs published in France and Ger-
many; such as “Junge Kunst,” “Der Kunsteges-
chichte,” “Les Peintres Français Nouveaux,” and
the editions of G. Cres et Cie, Paris, and “Valori
Plastici,” Rome. If he gets no inspiration or ex-
citement from them, his case is hard indeed.
At the top of Plate XXX we have two very stimu-
lating and effective designs by Arthur Dove (1) and
Georgia O'Keeffe (3). Both lose much through
being deprived of their attractive colour. Both are
very competent decorations, particularly suited to
modern interiors, where pictures must strike a
bolder note than did the delicate water colours and
Sombre oils of a hundred years ago.
The nice balance of line and mass and the avoid-
ance of meaningless shapes and incoherent state-
ments are as noticeable in I and 3 as in the clean
handling of the head by Robert (2). All three are
fine designs, well thought out and scrupulously
finished.
Compare these three paintings with the two ex-
amples beneath. The Rembrandt sketch, boldly
Smashed in with a brush and left; a vital and inter-
esting snapshot, but nothing uncommon for Rem-
brandt, or even a few other old masters of his day.
The Matisse (3) has the immediate appeal al-
most any strong blotting in of darks and light pre-
sents. But on closer inspection the shapes seem
tentative, where not arbitrary, and, for me, at any
rate, show an irritating indecision about their
contours that gives rise to the suspicion that the
looseness of the figure is due less to purposeful
distortion than to incomplete realization. In such
cases, it is no good to talk of Persian colour (a glance
at the superb Quaritch publication on Persian work,
by F. R. Martin, will show the magnificent designs
on which they lavished their rich pigments). To
me it is an unsatisfactory work, but not less so than
many by other masters that have of late been
weightily discussed and copiously illustrated. It
has been dwelt upon simply to give proportion to
our criticisms.
Of course, the ultra-modern will aver that No. 2
is “emasculated,” that “you could live with it,”
but it is not improbable that both were painted in
the hope that someone would eventually provide
them with a home; and why not? But to those who
disagree, I would say, You have your choice; if
you read into No. 4 qualities the more obvious 2
does not possess, you will be exercising one of the
few remaining liberties left to the poor art lover.
But don’t expect me to believe that it has wonder-
ful pattern, intense realization, childlike candour,
and such like virtues. This, of course, is not to say
that everything by Matisse is imilarly ineffective.
This example has been enlarged upon merely to
stress the point that in our appreciation we should
never attach qualities to names rather than works.
Not all modern artists, any more than modern writ-
ers, produce a succession of invariably fine works—
as a hen lays consistently fresh eggs—it is not as
easy as all that. And, another platitude, un-
questioning approbation is as bad for artists as
it is for baseball idols.
There can, however, be little contention about
the merits of Nos. 6 and 7. The Japanese artist's
“fumpon” shows him in full command of his line:
a skilful and fluent artist not yet denuded of his
vigour. The galloping “pig,” even through the
medium of the devoted l’Abbé Henri Breuil copy,
retains the amazing life and movement, the realiza-
tion of much more than essentials that marked the
art of the Cro-Magnon artist. The obvious enjoy-
ment with which he painted the animals he hunted
for a living proves that, immemorially before us,
man had solved the problem of innocent and profit-
able employment of his leisure.
I8I
PLATE XXX
i
Painting and Drawing
Arthur Dove, Decorative Painting (A. Stieglitz).
Robert, Portrait. Druet.
Georgia O'Keeffe, Decorative Painting (A. Stieglitz).
Matisse, Sitting Woman (Druet).
Rembrandt, Sleeping Woman, Brush Drawing (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Japanese Horse (Miss Belle Boas).
Boar Galloping, Cave of Altamira.

PLATE XXXI
If the reader has followed us thus far with agree-
ment, this plate will be superfluous. It is designed
to show a few of the various maladies that debili-
tated painting and sculpture at different periods.
European galleries, not to mention others, are full
of such things, with which a few years ago they
might have paid their national debts. Now we
are beginning to find them out. But if this plate
saves the reader some day from walking many
miles through dull galleries, full of the curious and
uncritical feeding on second-rate stuff, the money
paid for this book will not have been wasted. And
they will hasten the day when directors and cura-
tors will be forced to select their best works and dis-
play them as masterpieces need displaying, with
due regard for the company they keep.
No. 1 gives a good idea of the all too easy rhythm
that some painters developed after the High
Renaissance. Line swirls into line, and the con-
tinuity, that in Michelangelo was a source of
strength to the composition, here becomes man-
nered and obvious. No. 3 shows a very refined and
adequately clothed Judith. The artist has con-
centrated upon the features, which he portrays ad-
mirably, and upon the imitation of textures, which
he achieves superlatively. But his structure is
weak and his notan lacks character. It would be
an obvious gibe to suggest that here is the ideal
magazine cover. But an understanding of the in-
flexible resolution and the intensive cultivation of
talent required to develop such a technique makes
one regret that such perseverance should have
been directed toward the mastery of non-essentials.
Guido Reni’s composition (5) shows more elo-
quently than pages of writing the chasm that sepa-
rated the early masters from their later followers.
Practically every law of composition, and even of
good taste, is violated here.
The case against the sculptor is even worse.
Bernini’s (2) affected and over-refined group suc-
ceeds in producing in marble what would have been
better left in wax—though pretty poor stuff in any
medium.
The detail from the Farnese Bull is a classic
example of sculpture run amuck. (I wish a feeling
of delicacy and the libel laws did not deter me from
reproducing a few of the groups that grace our
public places.) Compared with Canova’s sugary
types the individual figures are still solid, but the
lack of any sort of fine relationship between lines
and masses, and the total misconception of the
function of the sculptor and the limitations of his
medium are self-evident.
It remained for Dalou (who produced some of the
most intimate and delightful bambinos ever model-
led) to show how an incredibly skilful modeller
may so de-compose his figures that the result is
utterly lacking in any art quality. If you don’t
believe this yet, turn to Plates XXV and XXVI and
reconsider.
185
PLATE XXXI
i
Painting and Sculpture—Decadent
Padovanino, Orpheus and Eurydice (Anderson).
Berini, Daphne and Apollo (Anderson).
Allori, Judith and Holofernes (Brogi).
The Farnese Bull, detail (Anderson).
Guido Reni, Atlanta (Brogi).
Dalou, Bacchus, detail (Alnari).

PLATE XXXII
Unhappily, upon this page, great masters have
been crowded cheek by jowl until the Botticelli
ladies look like veritable strap-hangers. We can
only plead the inexorable limits of space, and ask
the reader to use the peephole, as suggested at the
beginning. Little can be said about them. Look
at the unknown Primitive’s (School of Giotto) treat-
ment of light-and-dark and silhouette at No. 2.
Note Pier della Francesca’s fearless statements, his
unhesitating acceptance of a definite edge to his
shapes, the uncommonly striking pattern of light-
and-dark that he weaves.
The very different, the more “feminine” (circa
15oo), style of Botticelli, despite its utter refine-
ment, still discloses a fine notan. Leonardo, in his
handling of the latter problem, is more than faintly
reminiscent of a fine Japanese treatment or a
Chinese painting. His shapes, as we might expect
from such a multiplex genius, are anything but
simple, yet full of character.
Guido Reni’s overleaf.)
Michelangelo shows the solid forms and the
sonorous line and plane movements so typical of
his work when, according to his own utterance, he
was “wasting his time” in the Sistine Chapel. As
a little exercise in observation, note how the line of
drapery sweeps in a parabola round to the child’s
head to break up into short contrasting curves and
angles. There is not a line or a space in this frag-
ment, or in the whole chapel for that matter, that
has escaped his eye.
Titian (6) is different again: sensuous in both
form and pattern, his figures bathed in a luminous
atmosphere, his rich and full oppositions of light-
and-dark, and of line and plane movements suggest
something of the recession that is the despair of
So many modern artists.
(Compare them with
I89
PLATE XXXII
i
Painting—Italian
Pier della Francesca (Anderson).
Italian Primitive, School of Giotto (Louvre).
Botticelli, Detail of Spring (Anderson).
Leonardo da Vinci, St. Jerome (Anderson).
Michelangelo, Detail of the Flood (Anderson).
Titian, The Original Sin (Prado) (Anderson).

PLATE XXXIII
Here are four heads. At the top, a study in oils
by Leonardo and a fresco by Michelangelo. The
first, which, in the course of time, has been sadly
chafed in places, is a painter’s head, pure and sim-
ple. It lacks the Mona Lisa Smile of the typical
Leonardo, but as a solid and powerful piece of
painting it would be hard to find its equal.
Its comparatively unfinished state—it does not
show the impasto of his finished heads—suggests
that he cast it aside to turn to other things, maybe
a design for some new ordnance, a fortification or
a flying machine—not realizing the worth of it; a
suggestion which reminds one of Ruskin’s saying
that such splendid efforts were “essentially the
work of people who felt themselves wrong; who
are striving for the fulfilment of a law and the
grasp of a loveliness which they have not yet at-
tained.”
Michelangelo (2) is striving no more, or if he
strives, the effort is not to be detected. He shows
a haughty command of line and space and handles
his notan in a faultless manner seen in art but once
in a few hundred years.
Botticelli’s head, despite its fine pattern, looks
weak beside it, and this effect is due as much to
the refined character of his line as to the type of
head depicted.
Bellini, with his bold massing of the darks, and a
poster-like simplicity of the design, builds up a
beautifully painted and solid head, but despite the
sensitive and interesting face, it has less soul to it,
I think, than the Sybil above.
But all four heads are great—not to be duplicated
easily to-day, and who could expect such achieve-
ments now? Art was a serious profession needing
a severe apprenticeship in the 15th and 16th cen—
turies, and the botegas weeded out all those who
could not stick the course.
I93
PLATE XXXIII
:
Painting—Four Heads
Leonardo da Vinci, Uffizi (Photo by Bulloz).
Michelangelo, Lybian Sybil, Sistine (Anderson).
Botticelli, Detail of Spring (Anderson).
Bellini, Louvre (Archives de France).

PLATE XXXIV
Here are four nudes. Each one strikingly differ-
ent from its fellows.
Degas loses most by the transition from his
gorgeous “pastel” colour to half-tone. Neverthe-
less, it is a splendid thing, with its stimulating op-
positions of light-and-dark and its rich pattern. In
No. 4 we see how Van Gogh’s nervous brush work,
searching for not wholly comprehended forms,
builds up into a satisfying study.
Renoir succeeds miraculously in capturing the
fleeting glamour of youth. Compared with his
masterly handling, the figure by Matisse might be
the product of a Neanderthal man: some might say,
of a butcher seized with a frenzy for plastic ex-
pression. It is powerfully, one may say brutally,
conceived; something elemental is stirring here,
making not only Bouguereau and Cabanel, but even
Gauguin and Van Gogh, taste a little sweetish.
But is it necessary to go so far back?
“Within every notary,” says Flaubert, “is the
débris of a poet.” An unhappy repression indeed
but possibly less fatal to the sister muse than such
unbridled sublimations.
This is the second time we have verged upon
lese-majesty with regard to Matisse, which is not
to suggest that we do not take off our hat to the
portrait on Plate II and other of his works.
But, reverting to subject matter again, other
things being equal, the ideas behind a picture do
Count.
A man may paint the Immaculate Conception
and achieve only a sugary sanctimony; another
will endow the picture of a scrub-woman with a
beauty acrid and piercing. But the swing from
subject matter goes far enough. We can have too
much of back-alleys and out-houses, blowsy women
and unkempt proletarians. Subjects tolerable
in print can be unendurable in paint. Occasion-
ally one is able to smell fish without rubbing
one’s nose upon it, and sometimes one lifts up the
eyes hoping for the sight of a faun or a goddess, a
rain-washed mountainside or a windswept cloud.
I97
PLATE XXXIV
Painting—Modern
I. Matisse.
2. Degas.
3. Renoir.
4. Van Gogh
(Photos by Druet).

PLATE XXXV
The art of landscape painting is, of course, com-
paratively modern. Possibly, as life becomes more
mechanized and noisy and people more standard-
ized and quiet (?) we shall turn more and more to
landscape for relief, as the citified Alexandrians
turned to bucolics—though there is little sign of
Such a trend in the galleries at present. At any
rate, after a plethora of figures, these landscapes
provide a pleasant change.
Here we have two very different types, de Wint
(I) frankly objective, limning the willows, the pas—
tures, and the distant spires as finely as he knew
how.
Below (3) is Turner (J. M. W.) drawing, like the
majority of artists, to please, because he must
please to live, but, nevertheless, making a very
creditable job of it. Structurally, there is in each a
nice balance of line and mass. Even in the de
Wint, the bulk of the trees is well held by the more
interesting tower. There is a fine feeling for con-
tours and shapes and a pleasant sparkle of light-and-
dark. Both are excellent examples of this charm-
ing art as it flourished about a hundred years
agO.
And if to such attractions they add the compelling
force of early associations, are we to turn them
down, at the bidding of the aesthete, in favour of a
work with more “dynamisime,” “significant form,”
“spatial relationships,” and a few other things not
even Cézanne worried about? I think not. Let us
reserve a little corner for such past things, though
we need not go to sleep there. The critic who
talks with such virility about the weakness of
“turning one’s back on life” may possibly enjoy the
mise-en-scène of the modern industrial town, but
sometimes such a turning is rather back to life, or
periods when it seemed more rounded, and less
fretted and futile than it does at times to-day.
And these two landscapes conspire with our un-
reason to convince us that life was like that—pas-
toral, picturesque, and calm. Looking at them we
feel, despite the evidence of Cobbett and the re-
searches of the Hammonds, that the countryside
was peopled by happy peasants working contentedly
for benignant and paternal squires—(with which
latter our lot would naturally have been cast)—in
short, that everything was as lovely as the scenes
depicted. Happy are we when we can indulge this
fancy with two such fine compositions as I and 3.
Having thus sentimentalized, let us turn to Nos. 2
and 4.
In 4 we see Cézanne, preoccupied with knocking
a hole in his canvas. And he succeeds far better
than Turner. Here we have an artist utterly un-
concerned with the picturesque, intent upon
“realizing” the first thing to hand; a turn of the
road, a corner of a yard, a glade, an old shed, or a
commonplace view; anything served. Before you
condemn such an un-traditional style, you should
look up some of Cézanne's paintings, or, failing that,
consult Meier Graefe and Wollard, then turn to
Some good orthodox landscapes and notice how
painty and flat they look—since Cézanne. There's
no doubt that he's a disturbing old fellow, but,
nevertheless, there are more things in our philos-
ophy of art than recession in pictures.
Subject matter should never intrude; of course
that is by now an axiom, or a cliché. But let us
get these things into right perspective. Cézanne,
like Renoir, had a whole-souled devotion to his art
rare in these diverting times. It placed him with
the Select band that towers above the ruck. With-
Out Some understanding of Cézanne the works
of most of the moderns that count will resemble
uncut books. Yet he himself recorded that he
was the primitive of his school—and we might
even recall his regrettable admission before a
Bouguereau. Like every pioneer he died without
realizing the full potentialities of the new territories
he opened up.
We imagine him upon the slopes of Olympus,
under a tree loaded with green apples, admitted
to the Old Masters Club (after a protest by Turner
and the accepted resignation of McWhirter), dis-
cussing the Landscape of the future, and agreeing
that it must show the breezy movement and sparkle
of Constable, the pattern of Cotman, the dignity
of Claude, plus the colour and depth relationship
of Cézanne; all leavened with the intensity of
Kokoschka. An impossible aspiration?
And as to that ideal, Vlaminck (2) seems to come
nearer realizing it than any on this page.
His composition is compact, scholarly without
being schoolish; his technique is adequate to all
demands; he shows a real feeling for depth, and to
these things he adds an emotional quality that im–
bues his houses with personality. Dramas could
be played out under such roofs, and he leaves us
weaving romance along the wet and windy road.
But we have said enough; for we remember Eric
Gill’s remark that “the artist does the work and the
critic has the inspiration.”
2OI
PLATE XXXV
:
Painting—Landscape, 19th and 20th Centuries
Gloucester Cathedral, Peter de Wint (Victoria and Albert Museum),
Houses, Vlaminck (Druet).
Liber Studiorum . J. M. W. Turner (Victoria and Albert Museum).
Woodland Glade, Cézanne (Bulloz). &
§ 4.
}
№.
|
º
º
º
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PLATE XXXVI
We have already discussed the first picture on
this plate at some length, and masterpieces are not
things to be explained in words. I hope by now
the reader will not need such feeble aid.
But here is a master whose long apprenticeship
at his trade had provided him with a fine technique
that he was too honest to abuse. His intensity of
feeling gives a palpable aura to his work, yet he sub-
dued his personality to the dictates of his subject
matter. In his pungent line and severe silhouette,
with rich but sombre colours he sounds a note to
give us pause, amidst a devastating chatter about
art, to ponder upon the futility of little things; for
here, surely, was a master who had known sorrow
and had seen the rigour of death.
Titian strikes another chord; more orchestral in
his superb command of line and mass and colour;
less vivid and intense in his realization. He
bathes his figures in a golden glow, amazes with the
easy assurance of his drawing and modelling, the
fluent handling of tone and mass.
Here is the refulgence that gathers round the
setting sun, more glorious than in full noon, but
already presaging the twilight that will follow. In
each case, we are in the presence of a Master; all
we can do is to wait until they speak.
The inclusion of a second religious subject upon
this plate was in some respect fortuitous. Having
decided that the French Primitive could on no
account be left out, the Titian seemed the only
companion fit to consort with it on all points.
But already others suggest themselves, and
scores of indispensable examples spring to mind,
all unavoidably crowded out. Already illusory
visions of another compilation project themselves;
plates with but one or two examples; the cream of
the Primitives, some Egyptian wall paintings and
Hindu carving; an impressive Kenzan, a fine
Gothic tapestry panel, a gem of Persian miniatures;
the list stretches out into infinity, and still we have
untouched the treasures of the great Moderns that
unavoidably find no place in this volume.
But here we are, at the end, a fate that sooner or
later overtakes all books, good or bad; I can only
hope that the reader, like myself, is a little loath
to see—FINIS.
PLATE XXXVI
Painting
I. Pietà, School of Avignon, French Primitive, Louvre.
2. The Entombment, Titian, Louvre (Photos, Archives de France).

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