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question of realism in art after all must be surely
one of quantity and proportion. Every one must agree
that a certain amount of realism is needed; the difficulty
is only to know how much. That art must be an image
of nature goes without saying. It is the business of
art to create a mimic world in which we may take delight.
The features of that world must in the main resemble
those of our own old and well-loved universe, else we
should be set to wander through a country so strange
that we should soon be lost.
Perhaps our first pleasure in
art is a childish delight at its verisimilitude. “How
true to life,” we exclaim, as the eye recognizes
in the human creation a likeness to something [Page
115] in the outward world. Unmitigated realism
would in truth give us nothing else. And the pleasure
which a great many people get from current fiction and
contemporary art depends on having this very simple
and childish sense gratified. They like stories about
places that are familiar to them, and concerning types
of character entirely within their range of comprehension.
Anything exceptional and unusual demands an effort of
the imagination before it can be appreciated; and this
effort the average mind is unwilling to make, —
so lethargic and timid are we for the most part in facing
the unknown.
But
the best art and literature are always exceptional.
There is always a quality of adventure in them. They
represent the courageous daring of the artist in creating
new forms, in propounding new truths, in establishing
newer and nobler standards of conduct and enjoyment.
They reflect the progress of humanity. Not only that;
they foretell and direct progress. All the ideals which
[Page 116] humanity has put in practice
with so much pains and toil were first enunciated by
the artist, and by him presented to us in alluring and
intelligible shape. It is never enough, and it never
had been enough, that the arts should give us only image
of things we know, and proclaim accepted truths. They
have always had another trend as well; they have always
been employed in expressing novel truths, no less important
than the old, and in clothing those truths in new forms
no less beautiful than the older forms to which we have
been accustomed.
Art
and literature, therefore, have never been mere copies
of nature; they have always contained the element of
novelty, — a novelty more radical and profound
than the fortuitous variations of nature. The forms
of nature are, indeed, beautiful, varied, and satisfying;
and the forms of art must have these qualities, too.
At the same time they must have much greater flexibility
and power of adaptation than the forms of nature. Nature,
[Page 117] so far as we can observe,
proceeds by a law so stable as to seem unchanging. The
growth of man proceeds in the guidance of a questioning
and illimitable imagination. So that the settled and
infinitely deliberate procedure of nature will not serve
his restless purposes at all. Unless he can add thought
to nature, — unless he can introduce imagination
and forethought and invention and hope and aspiration
into life, — how much better is he than the creatures?
Now
whatever comes under the head of art, whether literature
or painting, music or sculpture or acting or architecture,
being the expression of man, must reflect his inward
life, — his words and thoughts, his instant desires
and his far-offs hopes or fears. If art were no more
than an imitation of nature in faithful guise, it would
surely never have been born. Certainly it could never
have attained any exalted place in our esteem such as
we have accorded it; nor could it have wielded that
incalculable influence which we know it [Page
118] has always possessed. It is only because
art and literature are supernatural that they pull at
our hearts for ever. It is only because they partake
at times of the superhuman, deriving an inspiration
we know not whence, that they offer us an unfailing
source of refreshment and power. They embody for us
average men and women suggestions for a life more fair
and perfect than ever occurred to us. They not only
indicate an existence more worthy and beautiful than
our own, they actually portray it. That is why we enjoy
them; and that is the only reason that we enjoy them
without satiety. Once given the perilous gift of self-consciousness,
the large slow contentment of nature is no longer possible.
We must have ideals, however faulty, and beliefs and
opinions, however erroneous. These beliefs and ideals
it has always been the destiny of art to embody. That
is the one great business of art. And as our beliefs
and ideals grow with our growth, they find new housing
for themselves first of all in the arts. [Page
119]
Realism,
then, is essential, but it is not everything. The Palace
of Art is built to house a more admirable company than
any of our present acquaintance. The members of that
company may even seem at times almost more than human.
And yet they must remain like ourselves, and the Palace
must remain a possible palace, else we lose interest.
The soul can only be touched with emulation by what
comes within range of its own power. Art must be realistic,
or it will have no hold on our interest; it must be
more than realistic, or it will not be able to make
that hold permanent. It must present the ideal at least
as vividly as it does the real, for the one is as important
as the other.
As
we go about this lovely world, scenes and incidents
attract us and enchant us for a moment or for longer.
And these scenes we delight to recall. We travel, and
we bring home photographs of the places we have visited,
reminders of our happy hours. It would seem that nothing
could be more faithful than [Page 120] these
mechanically accurate reproductions of the face of nature.
And yet they are not wholly satisfying; a fleeting glimpse
preserved in a sketch in pencil or water-colour may
be far more satisfactory. The photograph reproduces
a hundred details which the eye missed when it first
came upon the scene; and at the same time misses the
charm and the atmosphere with which we ourselves may
have endowed the place as we gazed upon it. The sketch,
on the other hand, omits these details, just as our
eye omitted them originally, and yet preserves the atmosphere
of our first delighted vision. Can it be said then that
the photograph is more true than the painting? More
true to the object, yes; but not more true to our experience
of the object. And that is the important thing; that
is what art must always aim at. [Page 121]
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