The Art of Spiritual Harmony

THE ART OF SPIRITUAL
HARMONY . BY WASSIL Y
KANDINSKY: TRANSLATED
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
M. T. H. SADLER
ILLUSTRATED I
BOSTON .AND. NEW YORK

.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMP ANY
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CONTENTS
PAGE
TRANSLATOR'S; INTRODUCTION IX
A. ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC
I. INTRODUCTION 5
II. THE MovEMENT OF THE TRIANGLE 14
III. SPIRITUAL REVOLUTION 21
IV. THE PYRAMID .
B. ABOUT PAINTING
v. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING OF COLOUR . 47

VI. THE LANGUAGE OF FoRM AND CoLOUR 53
VII. THEORY . 90
VIII. ART AND ARTISTS
IX. CONCLUSION

LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
TO FACE
PAGE
MosA1c IN S. VITALE, RAVENNA 6

VICTOR AND HEINRICH DUNWEGGE : "THE CRUCI-
FIXION " (in the Alte Pinakothek, Muni eh) . 24
ALBRECHT DURER: "THE DESCENT FROM THE
CRoss" (in the Alte Pinakothek, Munic}:i) . 36
RAPHAEL: "THE CANIGIANI HoLY FAMILY" (in
the Alte Pinakothek, Munich) . 56
PAUL CtzANNE : " BA THING WOMEN " (by per-
mission of Messrs. Bernheim-Jeune, Paris) . 60
KANDINSKY: IMPRESSION No. 4," Moscow" ( 1911) 86
,, IMPROVISATION No. 29 (1912) 94
CoMPOSITION No. 2 (1910) . . 100
"
"KLEINE FREUDEN" ( 191 j) . 106
"
Vll

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
I T is no common thing to find an artist who, even if he

be w.llling to try, is capable of expressing his aims and
ideals with any clearness and moderation. Some people
will say that any such capacity is a flaw in the perfect artist,
who should find his expression in line and colour, and leave
the multitude to grope its way unaided towards compre-
hension. This attitude is a relic of the days when "l'art
pour l'art" was the latest battle-cry; when eccentricity of
manner and irregularity of life were more important than
any talent to the would-be artist; when every one except
oneself was bourgeois.
The last few years have in some measure removed this
absurdity, by destroying the old convention that it was
middle-class to be sane, and that between the artist and the
outer-world yawned a gulf which few could cross. Modern
artists are beginning to realize their social duties. They are
the spiritual teachers of the world, and for their teaching
to have weight, it must be comprehensible. Any attempt,
IX

x TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
therefore, to bring artist and public into sympathy, to en-
able the latter to understand the ideals of the former, should
be thoroughly welcome; and such an attempt is this book
•
of Kandinsky's.
The author is one of the leaders of the new art move-
ment in Munich. The group of which he is a member
includes painters, poets, musicians, dramatists, critics, all
working to the same end-the expression of the soul of
nature and humanity, or, as Kandinsky terms it, the innerer
Klang.
Perhaps the fault of this book of theory-or rather the
characteristic most likely to give cause for attack-is the
tendency to verbosity. Philosophy, especially in the hanfis
of a writer of German, presents inexhaustible opportunities
for vague and grandiloquent language. Partly for this
reason, partly from incompetence, I have not primarily
attempted to deal with the philosophical basis · of Kan-
dinsky's art. Some, probably, will find in this aspect
of the book its chief interest, but better service will be
done to the author's ideas by leaving them to the reader's
judgement than by even the most expert criticism.
The power of a book to excite argument is often the
best proof of its value, and my own experience has always
been that those new ideas are at once most challenging

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION x1
and most stimulating which come direct from their author,

with no intermediate discussion.
The task undertaken in this Introduction is a humbler
but perhaps a more necessary one. England, throughout
her- history, has shown scant respect for sudden spasms of
theory. Whether in politics, religion, or art, she d~mands
an historical foundation for every belief, and when such a
foundation is not forthcoming she may smile indulgently,
but serious interest is immediately withdrawn. I am keenly
anxious that Kandinsky's art should not suffer this fate.
My personal belief in his sincerity and the future of his
ideas will go for very little, but if it can be shown that he
is a reasonable development of what we regard as serious
art, that he is no adventurer striving for a momentary
notoriety by the strangeness of his beliefs, then there is a
chance that some people at least will give his art fair con-
sideration, and that, of these people, a few will come to
love it as, in my opinion, it deserves.
Post-Impressionism, that vague and much-abused term,
is now almost a household word. That the name of the
movement is better known than the names of its chief
leaders is a sad misfortune, largely caused by the over-
rapidity of its introduction into England. Within the space
of two short years a mass of artists from Manet to the most

xii TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
recent of all Cubists were thrust on a public, who had
hardly realized Impressionism. The inevitable result has
been complete mental chaos. The tradition o( which
true Post-Impressionism is the modern expression has
been kept alive down the ages of European art by scat-
tered and, until lately, neglected painters. But not since
the time of the so-called Byzantines, not since the period
of which Giotto and his School were the final splendid
blossoming, has the "Symbolist" ideal in art held general
sway over the "Naturalist." The Primitive Italians, like
their predecessors the ·Primitive Greeks, and, in turn, their
predecessors the Egyptians, sought to express the inner
feeling rather than the outer reality.
This ideal tended to be lost to sight in the naturalistic
revival of the renaissance, which derived its inspiration
solely from those periods of Greek and Roman art which
were pre-occupied with the expression of external reality.
Although the all-embracing genius of Michael-Angelo
kept the " Symbolist" tradition alive, it is the work of
El Greco that merits the complete title of "Symbolist."
From Greco springs Goya and the Spanish influence on
Daumier and Manet. When it is remembered that, in the
meantime, Rembrandt and his contemporaries, notably
Brouwer, left their mark on French art in the work of

TRANSLATOR'S -INTRODUCTION x111
Delacroix, Decamps and Courbet, the way will be seen

clearly open to Cezanne and Gauguin.
The phrase "symbolist tradition " is not used to express
any conscious affinity between the various generations of
artists. As 15".andinsky says: " the relationships in art are not
necessarily ones of outward form, but are founded on inner
sympathy of meaning." Sometimes, perhaps frequently, a
similarity of outward form will appear. But in tracing
spiritual relationship only inner meaning must be taken
into account.
There are, of course, many people who deny that
Primitive Art had an inner meaning, or, rather, that
what is called " archaic expression " was dictated by any-
thing but ignorance of representative methods and de-
fective materials. Such people are numbered among the
bitterest opponents of Post-Impressionism, and indeed it is
difficult to see how they could be otherwise. "Painting,"
they say, "which seeks to learn from an age when art was,
however sincere, incompetent and uneducated, deliberately
rejects the knowledge and skill of centuries." It will be
no easy matter to conquer this assumption that Primitive
art is merely untrained Naturalism, but until it is con-
quered there seems little hope for a sympathetic under-
standing of the symbolist ideal.

xiv TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
The task is all the more difficult because of the analogy
drawn by friends of the new movement between the neo-
primitive vision and that of a child. That the analogy
contains a grain of truth does not make it the less mis-
chievous. Freshness of vision the child has, and freshness
of vision is an important element in the new movement.
But beyond this a parallel is non-existent, must be non-
existent in any art other than pure artificiality. It is one
thing to ape ineptitude in technique and another to
acquire simplicity ?f vision. Simplicity-or rather dis-
crimination of vision-is the trade-mark of the true Post-
Impressionist. He observes and then seleBs what is
essential. The result is a logical and very sophisticated
synthesis. Such a synthesis will find expression in simple
and even harsh technique. But the process can only come
after the naturalist process and not before it. The child
has a direct vision, because his mind is unencumbered by
association and because his power of concentration is un-
impaired by a multiplicity of interests. His method of
drawing is immature; its variations from the ordinary
result from lack of capacity.
Two examples will make my meaning clearer. The child
draws a landscape. His picture contains one or two objects
only from the number before his eyes. These are the

TRANSLATOR'S lNTRODUCTION xv
objects which strike him as important. So far, good. But

there is no relation between them; they stand isol~ted on
his paper, mere lumpish shapes. The Post-Impressionist,
however, selects his objects with a view to expressing by
their means the whole feeling of the landscape. His choice
falls on elements which sum up the whole, not those which
first attract immediate attention.
Again, let us take the case of the definitely religious
picture. 1 It is not often that children draw religious scenes.
More often battles and pageants attract them. But since
the revival of the religious picture is so noticeable a factor
in the new movement, since the ByzaJ?,tines painted almost
entirely religious subjects, and finally, since a book of such
drawings by a child of twelve has recently been 'published,
I prefer to take them as my example. Daphne Allen's reli-
gious drawings have the graceful charm of childhood, but
they are mere childish echoes of conventional prettiness.
Her talent, when mature, will turn to the charming rather
than to the vigorous. There could be no greater contrast be-
tween such drawing and that of.-say-Cimabue. Cimabue's
Madonnas are not pretty women, but huge, solemn sym-
1 Religion, in the sense of awe, is present in all true art. But here I use
the term in the narrower sense to mean picl:ures of which the su bjecl: is con-
nected with Christian or other worship.

xvi TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
bols. Their heads droop stiffiy; their tenderness 1s um-
versal. In Gauguin's "Agony in the Garden " the figure
of Christ is haggard with pain and grief. These artists
have filled their pittures with a bitter· experience which
no child can possibly possess. I repeat, therefore, that the
analogy between Post-Impressionism and child-art is a
false analogy, and that for a trained man or woman to
paint as a child paints is an impossibility. 1
All this does not presume .to say that the " _symbolist"
school of art is necessarily nobler than the " naturalist." I
am making no comparison, only a distinttion. When the
difference in aim is fully realized, the Primitives can no
longer be condemned as incompetent, nor the modems as
lunatics, for such a condemnation is made from a wrong
point of view. Judgement must be passed, not on the failure
to achieve "naturalism" but on the failure to express the
. .
inner meamng.
The brief historical survey attempted above ended with
1 I am well aware that this statement is at variance with Kandinsky,
who has contributed a long article-" Uber die Formfrage "-to Der Blaue
Reiter, in which he argues the parallel between Post-Impressionism and
child vision, as exemplified in the work of Henri Rousseau. Certainly
Rousseau's vision is childlike. He has had no artistic training and pretends
to none. But I consider that his art suffers so greatly from his lack of train-
ing, that beyond a sentimental interest it has little to recommend it.

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION xvn
the names of Cezanne and Gauguin, and for the purposes

of this. lntroduB:ion, for the purpose, that is to say, of
tracing the genealogy of the Cubists and of Kandinsky,
these two names may be taken to represent the modern
expression of ~he "symbolist,, tradition.
The difference between them is subtle but goes very
deep. For both, the ultimate and internal significance of
what they painted counted for more than the significance
which is momentary and external. Cezanne saw in a tree,
a heap of apples, a human face, a group of bathing men
or women, something more abiding than either photo-
graphy or impressionist painting could present. He painted
the "treeness" of the tree, as a modern critic has admir-
ably expressed it. But in everything he did he showed the
architeclural mind of the true Frenchman. His landscape
studies were based on a profound sense of the struB:ure of
rocks and hills, and, being structural, his art depends
essentially on reality. Though he did not scruple, and
rightly, to s_acrifice accuracy of form to the inner need,
the material of which his art was composed was drawn
from the huge stores of aB:ual nature.
Gauguin has greater solemnity and fire than Cezanne.
His piB:ures are tragic or passionate poems. He also
sacrifices conventional form to inner expression, but his
b

xvm TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
art tends ever towards the spiritual, towards that profounder
emphasis which cannot be expressed in natural objects nor
in words. True his abandonment of representative methods
did not lead him to an abandonment of natural terms
of expression-that is to say human figures, trees and
animals do appear in his pictures. But that he was much
nearer a complete rejection of representation than -was
Cezanne is shown by the course followed by their respec-
tive disciples.
The generation immediately subsequent to Cezanne,
Herbin, Vlaminck, Friesz, Marquet, etc., do little more
than exaggerate Cezanne's technique, until there appear
the first signs of Cubism. These are seen very clearly in
Herbin. Objects begin to be treated in flat planes. A
round vase is represented by a series of planes set one into
the other, which at a distance blend into a curve. This is
the first stage.
The real plunge into Cubism was taken by Picasso,
who, nurtured on Cezanne, carried to its perfectly logical
conclusion the master's structural treatment of nature.
Representation disappears. Starting from a single natural
object, Picasso and the Cubists produce lines and project
angles till their canvases are covered with intricate and
often very beautiful series of balanced lines and curves.

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION XIX
They persist, however, in giving them picture titles which

recall the natural object from which their minds first took
flight.
With Gauguin the case is different. The generation of
his disciples ~hich followed him-I put it thus to dis-
tinguish them from his actual pupils at Pont Aven, Serusier
and the rest-carried the tendency further. One hesitates
to mention Derain, for his beginnings, full of vitality and
promise, have given place to a dreary compromise with
Cubism, without visible future, and above all wjthout
humour. But there is no better example of the develop-
ment of synthetic symbolism than his first book of wood-
cuts.1 Here is work which keeps the merest semblance
of conventional form, which gives its effect by startling
masses of black and white, by sudden curves, but more
frequently by sudden angles. 2
In the process of the gradual abandonment of natural
1 " L'Enchanteur pourrissant," par Guillaume Apollinaire, avec illustra-
tions gravees sur bois par Andre Derain. Paris, Kahnweiler, 1910.
The renaissance of the angle in art is an interesting feature of the new
movement. Not since Egyptian times has it been used with such noble
effect. There is a painting of Gauguin's at Hagen, of a row of Tahitian
women seated on a bench, that consists entirely of a telling design in
Egyptian angles. Cubism is the result of this discovery of the angle, blended
with the influence of Cezanne.

xx TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
form, the " angle " school is paralleled by the " curve "
school, which also descends wholly from Gauguin. The
best known representative is Maurice Denis. But he has
become a slave to sentimentality, and has been left behind.
Matisse is the most prominent French artist who has
followed Gauguin with curves. In Germany a group of
young men, who form the Neue Kiinstlervereinigung in
Munich, work almost entirely in sweeping curves, and have
reduced natural objects purely to flowing, decorative units.
But while they have followed Gauguin's lead in abandon-
ing representation both of these two groups of advance
are lacking in spiritual meaning. Their aim becomes more
and more decorative, with an undercurrent of suggestion
of simplified form. Anyone who has studied Gauguin
will be aware of the intense spiritual value of his work.
The man is a preacher and a psychologist, universal
by his very unorthodoxy, fundamental because he goes
deeper than civilization. In his disciples this great element
is wanting. Kandinsky has s~pplied the need. He is not
only on the track of an art more purely spiritual than was
conceived even by Gauguin, but he has achieved the final
abandonment of all representative intention. In this way
he combines in himself the spiritual and technical ten-
dencies of one great branch of Post-Impressionism.

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION xx1
The question most generally asked about Kandinsky's

art is: "What is he trying to do?" It is to be hoped that
this book will do something towards answering the ques-
tion. But it will not do everything. This-partly because
it is impossible to put into words th 7 whole of Kandinsky's
ideal, partly because in his anxiety to state his case, to
court criticism, the author has been tempted to formulate
more than is wise. His analysis of colours and their effects
on the spectator is not the real basis of his art, because, if
it were, one could, with the help of a scientific manual,
describe one's emotions before his pictures with perfect
accuracy. And this is impossible.
Kandinsky is painting music. That is to say, he has
broken down the barrier between music and painting,' and
has isolated the pure emotion, which, for want of a better
name, we call the artistic emotion. Anyone who has
listened to good music with any enjoyment will admit to
an unmistakable but quite indefinable thrill. He will not
be able, with sincerity, to say that such a passage gave
him such visual impressions, or such a harmony roused in
him such emotions. The effect of music is too subtle for
words. And the same with this painting of Kandinsky's.
Speaking for myself, to stand in front of some of his draw-
ings or pictures gives a keener and more spiritual pleasure

XXll TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
than any other kind of painting. But I could not express
in the least what gives the pleasure. Presumably the lines
and colours have the same effecl: as harmony and rhythm
in music have on the truly musical. That psychology
comes in no one can deny. Many people-perhaps at
present the very large majority of people-have their
colour-music sense dormant. It has never been exercised.
In the same way many people are unmusical-either
wholly, by nature, or partly, for lack of experience. Even
when Kandinsky's i~ea is universally understood there may
be many who are not moved by his melody. For my
part, something within me answered to Kandinsky's art
the first time I met with it. There was no question of
looking for representation; a harmony had been set up,
and that was enough.
Of course colour-music is no new idea. That is to say
attempts have been made to play compositions in colour,
by flashes and harmonies. 1 Also music has been interpreted
in colour. But I do not know of any previous attempt to
paint, without any reference to music, compositions which
shall have on the spectator an effect wholly divorced from
representative association. Kandinsky refers to attempts to
paint in colour-counterpoint. But that is a different matter,
1 Cf. "Colour Music," by A. Wallace Rimington. Hutchinson. 6I. net.

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION XXlU
in that it is the borrowing from one art by another of

purely technical methods, without a previous impulse from
spiritual sympathy.
One is faced then with the conflicting claims of Picasso
and Kandinsk y to the position of true leader of non-repre-
sentati ve art. Picasso's admirers hail him, just as this
Introduction hails Kandinsky, as a visual musician. The
methods and ideas of each rival are so different that the
title cannot be accorded to both. In his book, Kandinsky
states his opinion of Cubism and its fatal weakness, and
history goes to support his contention. The origin of
Cubism in Cezanne, in a structural art that owes its very
existence to matter, makes its claim to pure emotionalism
seem untenable. Emotions are ·not composed of strata and
conflicting pressures. Once abandon reality and the geo-
metrical vision becomes abstract mathematics. It seems
to me that Picasso shares a Futurist error when he
endeavours to harmonize one item of reality-a num-
ber, a button, a few capital letters-with a surrounding
aura of angular projections. There must be a conflict of
impressions, which differ essentially in quality. One trend
of modern music is towards realism of sound. Children cry,
dogs bark, plates are broken. Picasso approaches the same
goal from the opposite direction. It is as though he were

XXIV TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION
trying to work from realism to music. The waste of time
is, to my mind, equally complete in both cases. The power
of music to give expression without the help of representa-
tion is its noblest possession. No painting has ever had
such a precious power. Kandinsky is striving to give it that
power, and prove what is at least the logical analogy be-
tween colour and sound, between line and rhythm of beat.
Picasso makes little use of colour, and confines himself only
to one series of line effects-those caused by conflicting
angles. So his aim is smaller and more limited than Kan-
dinsky's even if it is as reasonable. But because it has not
wholly abandoned realism but uses for the painting of feel-
ing a structural vision dependent for its value on the asso-
ciation of reality, because in so doing it tries to make the
best of two worlds, there seems little hope for it of redemp-
tion in either.
As has been said above, Picasso and Kandinsky make an
interesting parallel, in that they have developed the art
respectively of Cezanne and Gauguin,· in a similar direc-
tion. On the decision of Picasso's failure or success rests
the distinction between Cezanne and Gauguin, the realist
and the symbolist, the painter of externals and the painter
of religious feeling. Unless a spiritual value is accorded
to Cezanne's work, unless he is believed to be a religious
"

TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION xxv
painter (and religious painters need not paint Madonnas),

unless in fact he is paralleled closely with Gauguin, his
follower Picasso cannot claim to stand, with Kandinsky, as
a prophet of an art of spiritual harmony.
If Kandinsky ever attains his ideal-for he is the first
to admit that he has not yet reached his goal-if he ever
succeeds in finding a common language of colour and line
which shall stand alone as the language of sound and beat
stands alone, without recourse to natural form or representa-
tion, he will on all hands be hailed as a great innovator,
as a champion of the freedom of art. Until such time, it
is the duty of those to whom his work has spoken, to bear
their testimony. Otherwise he may be condemned as one
who has invented a shorthand of his own, and who paints
pictures which cannot be understood by those who have
not the key of the cipher. In the meantime also it is im-
portant that his position should be recognized as a legiti-
mate, almost inevitable outcome of Post-Impressionist
tendencies. Such is the recognition this Introduction strives
to secure.
MICHAEL T. H. SADLER.

REFERENCE
THOSE interested in the ideas and work of Kandinsky and his fellow
artists would do well to consult:
DER BLAUE REITER, vol. i. Piper V erlag, MUnchen, 10 mk. This

sumptuous volume contains articles by Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Arnold
Schonberg, etc., together with some musical texts and numerous repro-
ductions-some in colour-of the work of the primitive mosaicists,
glass-painters, and sculptors, as well as of more modern artists from
Greco .to Kandinsky, Marc, and their friends. The choice of illustra-
tions gives an admirable idea of the continuity and steady growth of the
new painting, sculpture, and music.
KLANGE. By Wassily Kandinsky. Piper Verlag, Mllnchen, 30 mk. A most
beautifully produced book of prose-poems, with a large number of
illustrations, many in colour. This is Kandinsky's most recent work.
Also the back and current numbers of Der Sturm, a weekly paper pub-
lished in Berlin in the defence of the new art. Illustrations by Marc,
Pechstein, le Fauconnier, Delaunay, Kandinsky, etc. Also poems and
critical articles. Price per weekly number, 25 pfg. Der Sturm has in pre-
paration an album of reproductions of pictures and drawings by Kandinsky.
For Cubism cf. Gleizes et Metzinger, "du Cubis me," and Guillaume
Apollinaire," Les Peintres Cubistes." Collection Les Arts. Paris, Figuiere,
per vol. 3 fr. 50 c.
XXVII

DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY
OF ELISABETH TICHEJEFF

A
ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC

I. INTRODUCTION
E VERY work of art is the child of its age, and, in

many cases, the mother of our emotions. It follows
that each period of culture produces an art of its own
which can never be repeated. Efforts to revive the art-
principles of the past will at best produce an art that is
still-born. It is impossible for us to live and feel, as did
the ancient Greeks. In the same way those who strive to
follow the Greek methods in sculpture achieve only a
similarity of form, the work remaining soulless for all
time. Such imitation is mere aping. Externally the
5

6 ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC
monkey completely resembles a human being; he will
sit holding a book in front of his nose, and turn over the
pages with a thoughtful aspect, but his actions have for
him no real meaning.
There is, however, in art another kind of external simi-
larity which is founded on a fundamental truth. When
there is a similarity of inner tendency in the whole moral
and spiritual atmosphere, a similarity of ideals, at first
closely pursued but later lost to sight, a similarity in
the inner feeling of any one period to that of another,
the logical result will be a revival of the external forms
which served to express those inner feelings in an earlier
age. An example of this to-day is our sympathy, our
spiritual relationship with the Primitives. Like ourselves,
these artists sought to express in their work only internal
truths, renouncing in consequence all consideration of
external form.
This all-important spark of inner life to-day is at present
only a spark. Our minds, which are even now only just
awakening after years of materialism, are infected with the
despair of unbelief, of lack of purpose and ideal. The
nightmare of materialism, which has turned the life of the
universe into an evil, useless game, is not yet past; it holds
the awakening soul still in its grip. Only a feeble light

u5
u
-~
"'
C
~
I. INTRODUCTION 7
glimmers like a tiny star in a vast gulf of darkness. This
feeble light is but a presentiment, and the soul, when it
sees it, .trembles in doubt whether the light is not a dream,
and the gulf of darkness reality. This doubt, and the still
harsh tyranny of the materialistic philosophy, divide our
soul sharply from that of the Primitives. Our soul rings
cracked when we seek to play upon it, as does a costly vase,
long buried in the earth, which is found to have a flaw
when it is dug up once more. For this reason, the Primi-
tive phase, through which we are now passing, with its
temporary similarity of form, can only be of short duration.
These two possible resemblances between the art forms
of to-day and those of the past will be at once recognized
as diametrically opposed to one another. The first, being
purely external, has no future. The second, being in-
ternal, contains the seed of the future within itself. After
the period of materialist effort, which held the soul
in check until it was shaken off as evil, the soul is
emerging, purged by trials and sufferings. Shapeless
emotions such as fear, joy, grief, etc., which belonged to
this time of effort, will no longer greatly attract the artist.
He will endeavour to awake subtler emotions, as yet
unnamed. Living himself a complicated and compara-
tively subtle life, his work will give to those observers

capable of feeling them lofty emotions beyond the reach
of words.
The observer of to-day, however, is seldom capable of
feeling such emotions. He seeks in a work of art a mere
imitation of nature which can serve some definite purpose
(for example a portrait in the ordinary sense) or a pre-
sentment of nature according to a certain convention
(" impressionist " painting), or some inner feeling ex-
pressed in terms of natural form (as we say-a picture
with "stimmung" 1). All those varieties of picture, when
they are really art, fulfil their purpose and feed the spirit.
Though this applies to the first case, it applies more
strongly to the third, where the spectator does feel a
corresponding thrill in himself. Such harmony or even
contrast of emotion cannot be superficial or worthless;
indeed the "stimmung" of a picture can deepen and
purify that of the spectator. Such works of art at least
preserve the soul from coarseness ; they " key it up," so
to speak, to a certain height, as a tuning-key the strings
of a musical instrument. But purification, and extension
1"Stimmung" is almost untranslateable. It is almost "sentiment" in

the best sense, and almost "feeling." Many of Corot's twilight landscapes
are full of a beautiful "stimmung." Kandinsky uses the word later on
to mean the "essential spirit" of nature.-M. T. H. S.

I. INTRODUCTION 9
in duration and size of this sympathy of soul, remain one-
sided, and the possibilities of the influence of art are not
exerted to their utmost.
* *
Im~gine a building divided into many rooms. The

building may be large or small. Every wall of every
room is covered with picl:ures of various sizes; perhaps
they number many thousands. They represent in colour
bits of nature-animals in sunlight or shadow, drinking,
standing in water, lying on the grass; ,near to, a Cruci-
fixion by a painter who does not believe in Christ;
flowers; human figures sitting, standing, walking; often
they are naked; many naked women, seen foreshortened
frtm behind; apples and silver dishes; portrait of Coun-
cillor So and So; sunset; lady in red; flying duck; portrait
of Lady X; flying geese; lady in white; calves in shadow
flecked with brilliant yellow sunlight; portrait of Prince Y;
lady in green. All this is carefully printed in a book-
name of artist-name of picl:ure. People with these books
in their hands go from wall to wall, turning over pages,
reading the names. Then they go away, neither richer
nor poorer than when they came, and . are absorbed at

once in their business, which has nothing to do with art.
,vhy did they come? In each picture is a whole lifetime
imprisoned, a whole lifetime of fears, doubts, hopes, and
Joys.
Whither is this lifetime tending? What is the message
of the competent artist? "To send light into the dark-
ness of men's hearts-such is the duty of the artist/' said
Schumann. "An artist is a man who can draw and paint
everything," said Tolstoi.
Of these two definitions of the artist's activity we must
choose the second, ·if we think of the exhibition just
described. On one canvas is a huddle of objects painted
with varying degrees of skill, virtuosity and vigour, harshly
or smoothly. To harmonize the whole is the task of art ..
With cold eyes and indifferent mind the spectators re-
gard the work. Connoisseurs admire the "skill " (as one
admires a tight-rope walker), enjoy the "quality of paint-
ing" (as one enjoys a pasty). But hungry souls go hungry
away.
The vulgar herd stroll through the rooms and pro-
nounce the pictures "nice" or "splendid." Those who
could speak have said nothing, those who could hear have
heard nothing. This condition of art is called "art for
art's sake." This neglect of inner meanings, which is the

I. INTRODUCTION II
life of colours, this vain squandering of artistic power 1s

called "art for art's sake."
The artist seeks for material reward for his dexterity,
his power of visio!} and experience. His purpose becomes
the satisfacl:i~n of vanity and greed. Jn place of the steady
co-operation of artists is a scramble for good things. There
are complaints of excessive competition, of over-production.
Hatred, partisanship, cliques, jealousy, intrigues are the
natural consequences of this aimless, materialist art. 1
The onlooker turns away from the artist who has higher
ideals and who cannot see his life purpose in an art with-
out aims.
Sympathy is the education of the spectator from the
point of view of the artist. It has been said above that
att: is the child of its age. Such an art can only create an
artistic feeling which is already clearly felt. This art,
which has no power for the future, which is only a child
of the age and cannot become a mother of the future, is
1
The few solitary exceptions do not destroy the truth of this sad and
ominous pi8:ure, and even these exceptions are chiefly believers in the
dochine of art for art's sake. They serve, therefore, a higher ideal, but one
which is ultimately a useless waste of their strength. External beauty
is one element of a spiritual atmosphere. But beyond this positive facl:
(that what is beautiful is good) it has the weakness of a talent not used to
the full. (The word talent is employed in the biblical sense.)

a barren art. She is transitory and to all intent dies the
moment the atmosphere alters which nourished her.
* *
The other art, that which is capable of educating further,

springs equally from contemporary feeling, but is at the
same time not only echo and mirror of it, but also has a
deep and powerful prophetic strength.
The spiritual life, to which art belongs and of which
she is one of the mightiest elements, is a complicated but
definite and easily definable movement forwards and up-
wards. This movement is the movement of experience.
It may take different forms, but it holds at bottom to the
same inner thought and purpose.
Veiled in obscurity are the causes of this need to move
ever upwards and forwards, by sweat of the brow, through
sufferings and fears. When one stage has been accom-
plished, and many evil stones cleared from the road, some
unseen and wicked hand scatters new obstacles in the
way, so that the path often seems blocked and totally
obliterated. But there never fails to come to the rescue
some human being, like ourselves in everything except
that he has in him a secret power of vision.

I. INTRODUCTION 13
He sees and points the way. The power to do this he
would sometimes fain lay aside, for it is a bitter cross to
bear. But he cannot do so. Scorned and hated, he drags
after him over the stones the heavy chariot of a divided
humanity, ev_er forwards and upwards.
Often, many years after his body has vanished from the
earth, men try by every means to recreate this body in
marble, iron, bronze, or stone, on an enormous scale. As
if there were any intrinsic value in the bodily existence of
such divine martyrs and servants of humanity, who de-
spised the flesh and lived only for the spirit! But at least
such setting up of marble is a proof that a- great number
of men have reached the point where once the being they
would now honour, stood alone.
I

II.
THE
MOVEMENT
OF THE
TRIANGLE
T HE life of the spirit may be fairly represented in

diagram as a large acute-angled triangle divided
horizontally into unequal parts with the narrowest seg-
ment uppermost. The lower the segment the greater it
is in breadth, depth, and area.
The whole triangle is moving slowly, almost invisibly
forwards and upwards. Where the apex was to-day the
second segment is to-morrow; what to-day can be under-
stood only by the apex and to the rest of the triangle is
an incomprehensible gibberish, forms to-morrow the true
thought and feeling of the second segment. -
At the apex of the top segment stands often one man,
14

II. THE MOVEMENT OF THE TRIANGLE 15
and only one. His joyful vision cloaks a vast sorrow.
- Even those who are nearest to him in sympathy do not
understand him. Angrily they abuse him as charlatan or
madman. So in his lifetime stood Beethoven, solitary and
insulted. 1 H~w many years will it be before a greater
segment of the triangle reaches the spot where he once
stood alone ? Despite memorials and statues, are they
really many who have risen to his level? 2
In every segment of the triangle are artists. Each one
of them who can see beyond the limits of his segment is
a prophet to those about him, and helps the advance of
the obstinate whole. But those who are blind, or those
who retard the movement of the triangle for baser reasons,
ar~ fully understood by their fellows and acclaimed for
their genius. The greater the segment (which is the same
as saying the lower it lies in the triangle) so the greater
the number who understand the words of the artist.
Every segment hungers consciously or, much more often,
unconsciously for their corresponding spiritual food. This
1 Weber, composer of" Der Freischutz," said of Beethoven's VII Sym-
phony: "The extravagances of genius have reached the limit; Beethoven
is now ripe for an asylum." Of the opening phrase, on a reiterated "e,"
the Abbe Stadler said to his neighbour, when first he heard it: "Always
that miserable 'e'; he seems to be deaf to it himself, the idiot! "
• Are not many monuments in themselves answers to that question?

food is offered by the artists, and for this food the segment
immediately below will to-morrow be stretching out eager
hands.
This simile of the triangle cannot be said to express
every aspect of the spiritual life. For instance, there is
never an absolute shadow-side to the picture, never a
piece of unrelieved gloom. Even too often it happens
that one level of spiritual food suffices for the nourish-
ment of those who are already in a higher segment. But
for them this food is poison; in small quantities it de-
presses their souls -gradually into a lower segment; in
large quantities it hurls them suddenly into the depths
ever lower and lower. Sienkiewicz, in one of his novels,
compares the spiritual life to swimming; for the man
who does not strive tirelessly, who does not fight con-
tinually against sinking, will mentally and morally go
under. In this strait a man's talent (again in the biblical
sense) becomes a curse-and not only the talent of the
artist, but also of those who eat this poisoned food. The
artist uses his strength to flatter his lower needs ; in an
ostensibly artistic form he presents what is impure, draws
the weaker elements to him, mixes them with evil, betrays
men and helps them to betray themselves, while they con-
vince themselves and others that they are spfritually thirsty,

and that from this pure spring they may quench their thirst.
Such art does not help the forward movement, but hinders
it, dragging back those who are striving to press onward,
and spreading pestilence abroad.
Such periods, during which art has no noble champion,
during which the true spiritual food is wanting, are periods
of retrogression in the spiritual world. Ceaselessly souls
fall from the higher to the lower segments of the triangle,
and the whole seems motionless, or even to move down
and backwards. Men attribute to these blind and dumb
periods a special value, for they judge them by outward
results, thinking only of material well-being. They hail
tome technical advance, which can help nothing but the
body, as a great achievement. Real spiritual gams are at
best undervalued, at worst entirely ignored.
The solitary visionaries are despised or regarded as
abnormal and eccentric. Those who are not wrapped in
lethargy and who feel vague longings for spiritual life and
knowledge and progress, cry in harsh chorus, without any
to comfort them. The night of the spirit falls more and
more darkly. Deeper becomes the misery of these blind
and terrified guides, and their followers, tormented and un-
nerved by fear and doubt, prefer to this gradual darkening
the final sudden leap into the blackness.
C

At such a time art ministers to lower needs, and is used
for material ends. She seeks her sustenance in hard reali-
ties because she knows of nothing nobler. Objects, the
reproduction of which is considered her sole aim, remain
monotonously the same. The question "what?'' disappears
from art; only the question "how?" remains. By what
method are these material objects to be reproduced ? The
word becomes a creed. Art has lost her soul.
In the search for method the artist goes still further.
Art becomes so specialized as to be comprehensible only
to artists, and they complain bitterly of public indifference
to their work. For since the artist in such times has no
need to say much, but only to be notorious for some small
originality and consequently lauded by a small group of
patrons and connoisseurs (which incidentally is also a very
profitable business for him), there arise a crowd of gifted
and skilful painters, so easy does the conquest of art appear.
In each artistic circle are thousands of such artists, of whom
the majority seek only for some new technical manner, and
who produce millions of works of art without enthusiasm,
with cold hearts and souls asleep.
Competition arises. The wild battle for success becomes
more and more material. Small groups who have fought
their way to the top of the chaotic world of art and picture-

making entrench themselves in the territory they have
won. The public, left far behind, looks on bewildered,
loses interest and turns away.
* *
*
But despite all this confusion, this chaos, this wild hunt
for notoriety, the spiritual triangle, slowly but surely, with
irresistible strength, moves onwards and upwards.
The invisible Moses descends from the mountain and
sees the dance round the golden calf. But he brings with
him fresh stores of wisdom to man.
, First by the artist is heard his voice, the voice that
is inaudible to the crowd. Almost unknowingly the artist
follows the call. Already in that very question " how? "
lies a hidden seed of renaissance. For when this "how? "
remains without any fruitful answer, there is always a pos-
sibility that the same " something" (which we call per-
sonality to-day) may be able to see in the objects about it
not only what is purely material but also something less
solid; something less" bodily" than was seen in the period
of realism, when the universal aim was to reproduce any-
thing "as it really is" and without fantastic imagination. 1
1 Frequent use is made here of the terms "material" and" non-material,"
and of the intermediate phrases "more" or "less material." Is everything

If the emotional power of the artist can overwhelm the
" h_ow ? ,, and can give free scope to his finer feelings, then
art is on the crest of the road by which she will not fail
later on to find the" what" she has lost, the" what'' which
will show the way to the spiritual food of the newly-
awakened spiritual life. This "what?" will no longer be
the material, objecl:ive "what" of the former period, but
the internal truth of art, the soul without which the body
(i.e. the "how") can never be healthy, whether in an
individual or in a whole people.
'!'his "what" is the internal truth which only art can divine,
' which only art can express by those means ef expression which
are hers alone.
material? or is everything spiritual? Can the distinaions we make between
matter and spirit be nothing but relative modifications of one or the other?
Thought which, although a product ofthf: spirit, can be defined with posi-
tive science, is matter, but of fine and not coarse substance. Is whatever can-
not be touched with the hand, spiritual? The discussion lies beyond the
-scope of this little book; all that matters here is that the boundaries drawn
.should not be too definite.

III. SPIRITUAL REVOLUTION
T HE spiritual triangle moves slowly onwards and up-

wards. To-day one of the largest of the lower seg-
ments has reached the point of using the first battle-cry of
the materialist creed. The dwellers in this segment group
themselves round various banners in religion. They call
themselves Jews, Catholics, Protestants, etc. But they are
really atheists, and this a few either of the boldest or the
narrowest openly avow. "Heaven is empty," "God is
dead." In politics these people are democrats and repub-
licans. The fear, horror and hatred which yesterday they
felt for these political creeds they now direct against anar-
chism, of which they know nothing but its much dreaded
name.
In economics these people are Socialists. They make
21

sharp the sword of justice with which to slay the hydra
of capitalism and to hew off the head of evil.
Because the inhabitants of this great segment of the
triangle have never solved any problem independently, but
are dragged as it were in a cart by those the noblest of
their fellow-men who have sacrificed themselves, they
know nothing of the vital impulse of life which they re-
gard always vaguely from a great distance. They rate this
impulse lightly, putting their trust in purposeless the9ry
and in the working of some logical method.
The men of the segment next below are dragged slowly
higher, blindly, by those just described. But they cling to
their old position, full of dread of the unknown and of
betrayal.
The higher segments are not only blind atheists but can
justify their godlessness with strange words; for example,
those of Virchow-so unworthy of a learned man-" I have
dissected many corpses, but never yet discovered a soul in
any one of them."
In politics they are generally republican, with a know-
ledge of different Parliamentary procedures; they read the
political leading articles in the newspapers. In economics
they are socialists of various grades, and can support their
"principles" with numerous quotations, passing from

Schweitzer's "Emma" via Lasalle's "Iron Law of Wages,"
to Marx's "Capital," and still further.
In these loftier segments other categories of ideas, absent
in these just described, begin gradually to appear-science
and art, to w_hich last belong also literature and music.
In science these men are positivists, only recognizing
those things that can be weighed and measured. Anything
beyond that they consider as rather discreditable nonsense,
that same nonsense about which they held yesterday the
theories that to-day are proven.
In art they are naturalists, which means that they recog-
niie and value the personality, individu~lity and tempera-
ment of the artist up to a certain definite point. This
point has been fixed by others, and in it they believe un-
flinchingly.
*
*
But despite their patent and well-ordered security,
despite their infallible principles, there lurks in these
higher segments a hidden fear, a nervous trembling, a
sense of insecurity. And this is due to their upbringing.
They know that the sages, statesmen and artists whom to-
day they revere, were yesterday spurned as swindlers and
charlatans. And the higher the segment in the triangle,

24 ' ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC
the better defined is this fear, this modern sense of in-
security. Here and there are people with eyes which can
see, minds which can correlate. They say to themselves :
"If the science of the day befo:e yesterday is rejected by
the people of yesterday, and that of yesterday by us of
to-day, is it not possible that what we call science now
will be rejected by the men of to-morrow? " And the
bravest of them answer "It is possible."
Then people appear who can distinguish those problems
that the science of to-day has not yet explained. And
they ask themselves: "Will science, if it continues on
the road it has followed for so long, ever attain to the
solution of these problems? And if it does so attain, will
men be able to rely on its solution?" In these segments
are also professional men of learning who can remember
the time when facts now recognized by the Academies
as firmly established, were scorned by those same
Academies. There are also philosophers of aesthetic who
write profound books about an art which was yesterday
condemned as nonsense. In writing these books they
remove the barriers over which art has most recently
stepped and set up new ones which are to remain for
ever in the places they have chosen. They do not notice
that they are busy erecting barriers, not in front of art,

u
OJ
..c:
b

but behind it. And if they do notice this, on the morrow
they merely write fresh books and hastily set their
barriers a little further on. This performance will go on
unaltered until it is realized that the most extreme prin-
ciple of aesthetic can never be of value to the future, but
only to the -past. No such theory of principle can be
laid down for those things which lie beyond, in the
realm of the immaterial. That which has no material
existence cannot be subjected to a material classification.
That which belongs to the spirit of the future can only
be ,ealized in feeling, and to this feeling the talent of the
artist is the only road. Theory is the lamp which sheds
light on the petrified ideas of yesterday and of the more
distant past. 1 And as Wf? rise higher in the triangle we
find that the uneasiness increases, as a city built on the
most correct architectural plan may be shaken suddenly
by the uncontrollable force of nature. Humanity is
living in such a spiritual city, subject to these sudden
disturbances for which neither architects nor mathe-
maticians have made allowance. In one place lies a great
wall crumbled to pieces like a card house, in another are
the ruins of a huge tower which once stretched to heaven,
built on many presumably immortal spiritual pillars.
1 Cf. chap. vii.

'
The abandoned churchyard quakes and forgotten graves
open and from them rise forgotten ghosts. Spots appear
on the sun and the sun grows dark, and what theory can
fight with darkness? And in this city live also men
deafened by false wisdom who hear no crash, and blinded
by false .wisdom, so that they say "our sun will shine
more brightly than ever and soon the last spots will
disappear." But sometime even these men will hear
and see.
But when we get still higher there is no longer this
bewilderment. There work is going on which boldly
attacks those pillars which men have set up. There we
find other professional men of learning who test matter
again and again, who tremble before no problem, and
who finally cast doubt on that very matter which was
yesterday the foundation of everything, so that the whole
universe is shaken. Every day another scientific theory
finds bold discoverers who overstep the boundaries of pro-
phecy and, forgetful of themselves, join the other soldiers
in the conquest of some new summit and in the hopeless
attack on some stubborn fortress. But "there is no
fortress that man cannot overcome."
* *
*

On the one hand,faBs are being established which the
science of yesterday dubbed swindles. Even newspapers,
which are for the most part the most obsequious servants
of worldly success and of the mob, and which trim their
sails to every wind, find themselves compelled to modify
their ironical judgements on the "marvels" of science and
even to abandon them altogether. Various learned men,
among them ultra-materialists, dedicate their strength to
the scientific research of doubtful problems, which can
no longer be lied about or passed over in silence. 1
,
* *
On the other hand, the number is increasing of those
men who put no trust in the methods of materialistic
science when it deals with those questions which have to
do with "non-matter," or matter which is not accessible
to our minds. Just as art is looking for help from the
primitives, so these men are turning to half-forgotten
1 Zoller, Wagner, Butleroff (Petersburg), Crookes (London), etc.; later
on, C. H. Richet, C. Flammarion. The Parisian paper " Le Matin," pub-

lished about two years ago the discoveries of the two last named under the
title "Je le constate, mais je ne l'explique pas." Finally there are C.
Lombroso, the inventor of the anthropological method of diagnosing
crime, and Eusapio Palladino.

'
times in order to get help from their half-forgotten methods.
However, these very methods are still alive and in use
among nations whom we, from the height of our know-
ledge, have been accustomed to regard with pity and
scorn. To such nations belong the Indians, who from
time to time confront those learned in our civilization
with problems which we have either passed by unnoticed
or brushed aside with superficial words and explanations. 1
Frau Blavatzky was the first person, after a life of many
years in India, to see a connection between these
"savages" and our "civilization." From that moment
there began a tremendous spiritual movement which to-
day includes a large number of people and has even
assumed a material form in the 'Theosophical Society. This
society consists of groups who seek to approach the
problem of the spirit by way of the inner knowledge.
The theory of Theosophy which serves as the basis to
this movement was set out by Blavatzky in the form of
a catechism in which the pupil receives definite answers
to his questions from the theosophical point ot view. 2
1 Frequently in such cases use is made of the word hypnotism; that

same hypnotism which, in its earlier form of mesmerism, was disdainfully
put aside by various learned bodies. /
2 H. P. Blavatzky, "The Key of Theosophy," London, 1889.

Theosophy, according to Blavatzky, is synonymous with
eternal truth. "The new torch-bearer of truth will find
the minds of men prepared for his message, a language
ready for him in which to clothe the new truths he
brings, an organization awaiting his arrival, which will
remove the merely mechanical, material obstacles and
difficulties from his path." And then Blavatzky con-
tinues: "The earth will be a heaven in the twenty-first
century in comparison with what it is now," and with
,
these words ends her book.
* *
*
When religion, science and morality are shaken, the two
last by the strong hand of Nietzsche, and when the outer
supports threaten to fall, man turns his gaze from exter-
nals in on to himself Literature, music and art are the
first and most sensitive spheres in which this spiritual
revolution makes itself felt. They reflect the dark picture of
the present time and show the importance of what at first
was only a little point of light noticed by few and for the
great majority non-existent. Perhaps they even grow dark
in their turn, but on the other hand they turn away from
the soulless life of the present towards those substances and

ideas which give free scope to the non-material strivings
of the soul.
A poet of this kind in the realm of literature is Maeter-
linck. He takes us into a world which, rightly or wrongly,
we term supernatural. La Princesse Maleine, Les Sept
Princesses, Les A veugles, etc., are not people of past times
as are the heroes in Shakespeare. They are merely souls
lost in the clouds, threatened by them with death, eter-
nally menaced by some invisible and sombre power.
Spiritual darkness, the insecurity of ignorance and fear
pervade the world in which they move. Maeterlinck is
perhaps one of the first prophets, one of the first artistic
reformers and seers to herald the end of the decadence
just described. The gloom of the spiritual atmosphere,
the terrible, but all-guiding hand, the sense of utter fear,
the feeling of having strayed from the path, the con-
fusion among the guides, all these are clearly felt in his
works. 1
This atmosphere Maeterlinck creates principally by
purely artistic means. His material machinery (gloomy
1 To the front rank of such seers of the decadence belongs also Alfred
Kubin. With irresistible force both Kubin's drawings and also his novel
"Die Andere Seite" seem to engulf us in the terrible atmosphere of empty
desolation.

III. SPIRITUAL REVOLUTION JI
mountains, moonlight, marshes, wind, the cries of owls,
etc.) plays really a symbolic role and helps to give the
inner note. 1 Maeterlinck's principal technical weapon is
his use of words. The word may express an inner har-
mony. This _inner harmony springs partly, perhaps prin-
cipally, from the object which it names. But if the object
is not itself seen, but only its name heard, the mind of the
hearer receives an abstract impression only, that is to say
as of the object dematerialized, and a corresponding vibra-
tion is immediately set up in the heart.
11:te apt use of a word (in its poetical meaning), repeti-
tion of this word, twice, three times or even more fre-
quently, according to the need of the poem, will not only
tend to intensify the inner harmony but also bring to light
unsuspected spiritual properties of the word itself. Further
1 When one of Maeterlinck's plays was produced in St. Peters burg under
his own guidance, he himself at one of the rehearsals had a tower repre-
sented by a plain piece of hanging linen. It was of no importance to him
to have elaborate scenery prepared. He did as children, the greatest im-
aginers of all time, always do in their games; for they use a stick for a
horse or create entire regiments of cavalry out of chalks. And in the same
way a chalk with a notch in it is changed from a knight into a horse. On
similar lines the imagination of the spectator plays in the modern theatre,
and especially in that of Russia, an important part. And this is a notable
element in the transition from the material to the spiritual in the theatre of
the future.

than that, frequent repetition of a word (again a favourite
game of children,~which is forgotten in after life) deprives
the word of its original external meaning. Similarly, in
drawing, the abstract message of the object drawn tends to
be forgotten and its meaning lost. Sometimes perhaps we
unconsciously hear this real harmony sounding together
with the material or later on with the non-material sense
of the object. But in the latter case the true harmony
exercises a direct impression on the soul. The soul under-
goes an emotion which has no relation to any definite
object, an emotion ·more complicated, I might say more
super-sensuous than the emotion caused by the sound of a
bell or of a stringed instrument. This line of development
offers great possibilities to the literature of the future. In
an embryonic form this word-power-has already been
used in "Serres Chaudes." 1 As Maeterlinck uses the£?,
words which seem at first to create only a neutral im-
pression have really a more subtle value. Even a familiar
word like "hair," if used in a certain way can intensify
an atmosphere of sorrow or despair. And this is Maeter-
linck's method. He shows that thunder, lightning and a
moon behind driving clouds, in themselves material means,
1
"Serres Chaudes, suivies de Quinze Chansons," par Maurice Maeter-
linck. Bruxelles. Lacomblez. 2 f. 50 c.

can be used in the theatre to create a greater sense of terror
than they do in nature.
The true inner forces do not lose their strength and
effect so easily. 1 And the word which has two meanings,
the first direct, the second indirect, is the pure material of
poetry and of literature, the material which these arts
alone can manipulate and through which they speak to
the spirit.
Something similar may be noticed in the music of
Wagner. His famous let"t motiv is an attempt to give per-
son~ity to his characters by something beyond theatrical
expedients and light .effect. His method ?fusing a definite
moti'v is a purely musical method. It creates a spiritual
atmosphere by means of a musical phrase which precedes
the hero, which he seems to radiate forth from any dis-
tance. 2 The most modern musicians like Debussy create
a spiritual impression, often taken from nature, but em-
bodied in purely musical form. For this reason Debussy
is often classed with the impressionist painters on the
1 A comparison between the work of Poe and Maeterlinck shows the
course of artistic transition from the material to the abstract

2 Frequent attempts have shown that such a spiritual atmosphere can
belong not only to heroes but to any human being. Sensitives cannot, for
example, remain in a room in which a person has been who is spiritually
antagonistic to them, even though they know nothing of his existence.
D

ground that he resembles these painters in using natural
phenomena for the purposes of his art. Whatever truth
there may be in this comparison merely accentuates the
fact that the various arts of to-day learn from each other
and often resemble each other. But it would be rash to say
that this definition is an exhaustive statement of Debussy's
significance. Despite his similarity with the impressionists
this musician is deeply concerned with spiritual harmony,
for in his works one hears the suffering and tortured nerves
of the present time. And further Debussy never uses the
wholly material note so characteristic of programme music,
but trusts mainly in the creation of a more abstract im-
press10n.
Debussy has had a great influence on Russian music,
notably on Mussorgsky. So it is not surprising that he
stands in close relation to the young Russian composers,
the chief of whom is Skrjabin. The experience of the
hearer is frequently the same during the performance ot
the works of these two musicians. He is often snatched
quite suddenly from a series of modern discords into the
charm of more or less conventional beauty. He feels him-
self often insulted, tossed about like · a tennis ball over the
net between the two parties of the outer and the inner
beauty. To those who are not accustomed to it the inner

beauty appears as ugliness because humanity m general
inclines to the outer and knows nothing of the inner.
Almost alone in severing himself from conventional beauty
is the Austrian composer, Arnold Schonberg. He says in
his " Harmopielehre" : " Every combination of notes,
every advance is possible, but I am beginning to feel that
there are also definite rules and conditions which incline
me to the use of this or that dissonance." 1
This means that Schonberg realizes that the greatest
freedom of all, the freedom of an unfettered art, can never
~e absolute. Every age achieves a certain measure of this
freedom, but beyond the boundaries of its freedom the
mightiest genius can never go. But the measure of free-
dom of each age must be constantly enlarged. Schonberg
is endeavouring to make complete use of his freedom and
has already discovered gold mines of new beauty in his
search for spiritual harmony. His music leads us into a
realm where musical experience is a matter not of the ear
but of the soul alone-and from this point begins the
music of the future. ,
A parallel course has been followed by the impressionist
movement in painting. It is seen in its dogmatic and
1
"Die Musik," p. 104, from the "Harmonielehre" ( Verlag der Uni-
versal Edition).

most naturalistic form in so-called Neo-Impressionism.
The theory of this is to put on the canvas the whole
glitter and brilliance of nature, and not only an isolated
\
aspect of her. _
It is interesting to notice three practically contemporary
and totally different groups in painting. They are ( 1)
Rossetti and his pupil Burne-Jones, with their followers;
(2) Bocklin and his school; (3) Segantini, with his un-
worthy following of photographic artists.
I have chosen these three groups to illustrate the search
for the abstract in art. Rossetti sought to revive the non-
materialism of the pre-Raphaelites. Bocklin busied him-
self with mythological scenes, but was in contrast to
Rossetti in that he gave strongly material form to his
legendary figures. Segantini, outwardly the most material
of the three, selected the most ordinary objects (hills,
stones, cattle, etc.) often painting them with the minutest
realism, but he never failed to create a spiritual as well as
a material value, so that really he is the most non-material
of the trio.
These men sought for the " inner " by way of the
"outer."
By another road, and one more purely artistic, the great
seeker after a new sense of form approached the same

Durer. The Descent from the Cross
problem. Cezanne made a living thing out of a teacup,
or rather in a teacup he realized the existence of some-
thing alive. He raised still life to such a point that it
ceased to be inanimate.
He painted these things as he painted human beings,
because he was endowed with the gift of divining the
inner life in everything. His colour and form are alike
suitable to the spiritual harmony. A man, a tree, an
apple, all were used by Cezanne in the creation of some-
thing that is called a "picture,'' and which is a piece of
true inward and artistic harmony. The same intention
actuates the work of one of the greatest of the young
Frenchmen, Henri Matisse. He paints "pictures," and
in these "pictures" endeavours to reproduce the divine. 1
To attain this end he requires as a starting point nothing
but the object to be painted (human being or whatever
it may be), and then the methods that belong to painting
~one, cclourand form .
. By personal inclination, because he is French and
because he is specially gifted as a colourist, Matisse is apt
to lay too much stress on the colour. Like Debussy, he
cannot always refrain from conventional beauty; Im-
pressionism is in his blood. One sees pictures of Matisse
1
Cf. his article in" Kunst und Kunstler," 1909, No. 8.

which are full of great inward vitality, produced by the
stress of the inner need, and also pictures which possess
only outer charm, because they were painted on an outer
impulse. (How often one is reminded of Manet in this.)
His work seems to be typical French painting, with its
dainty sense of melody, raised from time to time to the
summit of a great hill above the clouds.
But in the work of another great artist in Paris, the
Spaniard Pablo Picasso, there is never any suspicion of
this conventional beauty. Tossed hither and thither by the
need for self-expression, Picasso hurries from one manner
to another. At times a great gulf appears between conse-
cutive manners, because Picasso leaps boldly and is found
continually by his bewildered crowd of followers stand-
ing at a point very different from that at which they saw
him last. No sooner do they think that they have reached
him again than he has changed once more. In this way
there arose Cubism, the latest of the French movements,
which is treated in detail in Part II. Picasso is trying to
arrive at constructiveness by way of proportion. In his
latest works ( 191 1) he has achieved the logical destruction
of matter, not, however, by dissolution but rather by a
kind of a parcelling out of its various divisions and a con-
structive scattering of these divisions about the canvas.

Ill. SPIRITUAL REVOLUTION 39
But he seems in this most recent work distinctly desirous
of keeping an appearance of matter. He shrinks from no
innovation, and if colour seems likely to balk him in his
search for a pure artistic form, he throws it overboard and
paints a picture in bro_wn and white; and the problem of
purely artistic form is the real problem of his life.
In their pursuit of the same supreme end Matisse and
Picasso stand side by side, Matisse representing colour
and Picasso form.

IV.
THE
PYRAMID
A ND so at different points along the road are the

different arts, saying what they are best able to
say, and in the anguage which is peculiarly their own.
Despite, or perhaps thanks to, the differences between
them, there has never been a time when the arts approached
each other more nearly than they do to-day, in this later
phase of spiritual development.
In each manifestation is the seed of a striving towards
the abstract, the non-material. Consciously or un-
consciously they are obeying Socrates' command-Know
thyself Consciously or unconsciously artists are studying
and proving their material, setting in the balance the
40

IV. THE PYRAMID
spiritual value of those elements, with which it 1s their
several privilege to work.
And the natural result of this stnvmg is that the
various arts are drawing together. They are finding in
Music the best teacher. With few exceptions music has
been for some centuries the art which has devoted itself
not to the reproduction of natural phenomena, but rather
to the expression of the artist's soul, in musical sound.
A painter, who finds no satisfaction in mere representa-
tion, however artistic, in his longing to express his inner
life, cannot but envy the ease with which music, the
most non-material of the arts to-day, ·achieves this end.
He naturally seeks to apply the methods of music to his
own art. And from this results that modern desire for
rhythm in painting, for mathematical, abstract construc-
tion, for repeated notes of colour, for setting colour in
motion.
This borrowing of method by one art from another,
can only be truly successful when the application of the
borrowed methods is not superficial but fundamental.
One art must. learn first how another uses its methods, so
that the methods may afterwards be applied to the
borrower's art from the beginning, and suitably. The
artist must not forget that in him lies the power of true

ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC
application of every method, but that that power must be
developed.
In manipulation of form music can achieve results
which are beyond the reach of painting. On the
other hand, painting is ahead of music in several par-
ticulars. Music, for example, has at its disposal duration
of time; while painting can present to the spectator the
whole content of its message at one moment. 1 Music,
which is outwardly unfettered by nature, needs no definite
form for its expression. 2 Painting to-day is almost ex-
clusively concerned · with the reproduction of natural
forms and phenomena. Her business is now to test her
strength and methods, to know herself as music has done
1 These statements of difference are, of course, relative; for music
can on occasions dispense with extension of time, and painting make use
of it.
2
How miserably music fails when attempting to express material
appearances is proved by the affecled absurdity of programme music.
Quite lately such experiments have been made. The imitation in sound
of croaking frogs, of farmyard noises, of household duties, makes an excel-
lent music hall turn and is amusing enough. But in serious music such
attempts are merely warnings against any imitation of nature. Nature has
her own language, and a powerful one; this language cannot be imitated.
The sound of a farmyard in music is never successfully reproduced, and is
unnecessary waste of time. The" stimmung" of nature can be imparted by
every art, not, however, by imitation, but by the artistic divination of its
inner spirit.

IV. THE PYRAMID 43
for a long time, and then to use her powers to a truly
artistic end.
And so_the arts are encroaching one upon another, and
from a proper use of this encroachment will . rise the art
that is truly monumental. Every man who steeps him-
self in the spiritual possibilities of his art is a valuable
helper in the building of the spiritual pyramid which
will some day reach to heaven.

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B
ABOUT PAINTING

V. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING
OF COLOUR
T O let the eye stray over a palette, splashed with many

colours, produces a dual result. In the first place one
receives a purely physical impression, one of pleasure and
contentment at the varied and beautiful colours. The eye
is either warmed or else soothed and cooled. But these
physical sensations can only be of short duration. They are
merely superficial and leave no lasting impression, for the
soul is unaffetl:ed. But although the effect of the colours
is forgotten when the eye is turned away, the superficial
impression of varied colour may be the starting point of a
whole chain of related sensations.
On the average man only the impressions caused by very
47

ABOUT PAINTING
familiar objects, will be purely superficial. A first encounter
with any new phenomenon exercises immediately an im-
pression on the soul. This is the experience of the child
discovering the world, to whom every object is new. He
sees a light, wishes to take hold of it, burns his finger and
feels henceforward a proper respect for flame. But later
he learns that light has a friendly as well as an unfriendly
side, that it drives away the darkness, makes the day longer,
is essential to warmth, cooking, play-acting. From the mass
of these discoveries is composed a knowledge of light,
which is indelibly fixed in his mind. The strong, intensive
interest disappears and the various properties of flame are
balanced against each other. In this way the whole world
becomes gradually disenchanted. It is realized that trees
give shade, that horses run fast and motor-cars still faster,
that dogs bite, that the figure seen in a mirror is not a real
human being.
As the man develops, the circle of these experiences
caused by different beings and objects, grows ever wider.
They acquire an inner meaning and eventually a spiritual
harmony. It is the same with colour, which makes only
a momentary and superficial impression on a soul but
slightly developed in sensitiveness. But even this superficial
impression varies in quality. The eye is strongly attracted

V. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING OF COLOUR 49
by light, clear colours, and still more strongly attracted by
those colours which are warm as well as clear; vermilion
has the charm of flame, which has always attracted human
beings. Keen lemon-yellow hurts the eye in time as a pro-
longed and shrill trumpet-note the ear, and the gazer turns
away to seek relief in blue or green.
But to a more sensitive soul the effect of colours is deeper
and intensely moving. And so we come to the second
main result of looking at colours : their psychic ejfeB.
They produce a corresponding spiritual vibration, and it
is only as a step towards this spiritual vibration that the
elementary physical impression is of importance.
Whether the psychic effect of colour is a direct one, as
these last few lines imply, or whether it is the outcome of
association, is perhaps open to question. The soul being one
with the body, the former may well experience a psychic
shock, caused by association acting on the latter. For ex-
ample, red may cause a sensation analogous to that caused
by flame, because red is the colour of flame. A warm red
will prove exciting, another shade of red will cause pain or
disgust through association with running blood. In these
cases colour awakens a corresponding physical sensation,
which undoubtedly works upon the soul.
If this were always the case, it would be easy to define
E

50 ABOUT PAINTING
by association the effects of colour upon other senses than
that of sight. One might say that keen yellow looks sour,
because it recalls the taste of a lemon.
But such definitions are not universally possible. There
are many examples of colour working which refuse to be
so classified. A Dresden dotl:or relates of one of his patients,
whom he designates as an "exceptionally sensitive person,"
that he could not eat a certain sauce without tasting "blue,"
i.e. without experiencing a feeling of seeing a blue colour. 1
It would be possible to suggest, by way of explanation of
this, that in highly sensitive people, the way to the soul is
so direct and the soul itself so impressionable, that any im-
pression of taste communicates itself immediately to the
soul, and thence to the other organs of sense (in this case,
the eyes). This would imply an echo or reverberation,
such as occurs sometimes in musical instruments which,
without being touched, sound in harmony with some other
instrument struck at the moment.
But not only with taste has sight been known to work
in harmony. Many colours have been described as rough
or sticky, others as smooth and uniform, so that one
1 Dr. Freudenberg. Spaltung der Personlichkeit (Ubersinnliche Welt.
1908. No. 2, p. 64-65). The author also discusses the hearing of colour,
and says that here also no rules can be laid down. But cf. L. Sabanejeff in
"Musik," Moskow. 1911. No. 9, where the imminent possibility oflaying
down a law is clearly hinted at.

V. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING OF COLOUR 51
feels inclined to stroke them (e.g., dark ultramarine, chrom-
oxyde green, and rose madder). Equally the distinction
between warm and cold colours belongs to this connec-
tion. Some colours appear soft (rose madder), others hard
(cobalt green, blue-green oxide), so that even fresh from
the tube they seem to be dry.
The expression " scented colours " is frequently met
with. And finally the sound of colours is so definite that
it would be hard to find anyone who would try to express
bright yellow in the bass notes, or dark lake in the treble. 1• 2
The explanation by association will not suffice us in
many, and the most important cases. Those who have
1 Much theory and pracl:ice have been devoted to this question. People
have sought to paint in counterpoint. Also unmusical children have been
successfully helped to play the piano by quoting a parallel in colour (e.g., of
flowers). On these lines Frau A. Sacharjin-Unkowsky has worked for
several years and has evolved a method of" so describing sounds by natural
colours, and colours by natural sounds, that colour could be heard and
sound seen." The system has proved successful for several years both in
the inventor's own school and the Conservatoire at St. Petersburg. Finally
Skrjabin, on more spiritual lines, has paralleled sounds and colours in a chart
not unlike that of Frau Unkowsky. In "Prometheus" he has given con-
vincing proof of his theories. (His chart appeared in "Musik," Moskow,
19u, No. 9.)
• The converse question, i.e. the colour of sound, was touched upon by
Mallarme and systematized by his disciple Rene Ghil, whose book,
"Traite du V erbe," gives the rules for " !'instrumentation verbale." -
M. T. H. S.

ABOUT PAINTING
heard of chromotherapy will know that coloured light
can exercise very definite influences on the whole 4 body.
Attempts have been made with different colours in the
treatment of various nervous ailments. They have shown
that red light stimulates and excites the heart, while blue
light can cause temporary paralysis. But when the
experiments come to be tried on animals and even plants,
the association theory falls to the ground. So one is
bound to admit that the question is at present unexplored,
but that colour can exercise enormous influence over the
body as a physical organism.
No more sufficient, in the psychic sphere, is the theory of
association. Generally speaking, colour is a power which
directly influences the soul. Colour is the key-board, the
eyes are the hammers, the soul is the piano with many
-strings. The artist is the hand which plays, touching one
key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul.
It is evident therefore that colour harmony must rest only on
a corresponding vibration in the human soul; and this is one of
the guiding principles of the inner need. 1
1 The phrase" inner need" (innere Notwendigkeit) means primarily the
'impulse felt by the artist for spiritual expression. Kandinsky is apt, how-
ever, to use the phrase sometimes to mean not only the hunger for spiritual
(:Xpression, but also the actual exI_>ression itself.-M. T. H. S.

VI.
THE LANGUAGE OF
FORM AND COLOUR
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;
t The motions of his spirit are dull as night,

And his affections dark as Ere bus:
Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.
(Merchant of Venice, Act v, Scene 1.)
M USICAL sound acts directly on the soul and findi

an echo there because, though to varying extents,
music is innate in man. 1
1Cf. E. Jacques-Dalcroze in" The Eurhythmics of Jacques-Dalcroze."
London, Constable. IS. net.-M. T. H. S.
53

54 ABOUT PAINTING
Everyone knows that yellow, orange, and red suggest
ideas of joy and plenty" (Delacroix). 1
These two quotadons show the deep relationship be-
tween the arts, and especially between music and painting.
Goethe said that painting must count this relationship
her main foundation, and by this prophetic remark he
seems to foretell the position in which painting is to-day.
She stands, in fact, at the first stage of the road by
which she will, according to her own possibilities, make
art an abstraction of thought and arrive finally at purely
artistic composition. 2
Painting has two weapons at her disposal :
1. Colour.
2. Form.
Form can stand alone as representing an object (either
real or otherwise) or as a purely abstract limit to a space
or a surface.
Colour cannot stand alone ; it cannot dispense with
1
Cf. Paul Signac, "D'Eugene Delacroix au Neo-Impressionisme."
Paris. Floury. 2 frs. Also compare an interesting article by K. Schettler :
"Notizen Uber die Farbe." (" Decorative Kunst," 1901, February).
• By "Komposition" Kandinsky here means, of course, an artistic
creation. He is not referring to the arrangement of the objects in a
picl:ure.-M. T. H. S.

VI. THE LANGUAGE OF FORM AND COLOUR 55
boundaries of some kind. 1 A never-ending extent of red
can only be seen in the mind; when the word red is
heard, the colour is evoked without definite boundaries.
If such are necessary they have deliberately to be imagined.
But such red, as is seen by the mind and not by the eye,
exercises at once a definite and an indefinite impression
on the soul, and produces spiritual harmony. I say" inde-
finite," because in itself it has no suggestion of warmth or
cold, such attributes having to be imagined for it after-
wards, as modifications of the original "redness." I say "de-
finite," because the spiritual harmony exists without any
need for such subsequent attributes of warmth or cold.
An analogous case is the sound of a trumpet which one
hears when the word " trumpet " is pronounced. This
sound is audible to the soul, without the distinctive
character of a trumpet heard in the open air or in a
room, played alone or with other instruments, in the
hands of a postilion, a huntsman, a soldier, or a pro-
fessional musician.
But when red is presented in a material form (as in
1
Cf. A. Wallace Rimington. Colour music (op. cit.) where experiments
are recounted with a colour organ, which gives symphonies of rapidly
changing colour without boundaries-except the unavoidable ones of the
white curtain on which the colours are refle8ed.-M. T. H. S.

ABOUT PAINTING
painting) it must possess ( 1) some definite shade of the
many shades of red that exist and (2) a limited surface,
divided off from the other colours, which are undoubtedly
there. The first of these conditions (the subjective) is
affected by the second (the objective), for the neighbour-
ing colours affect the shade of red.
This essential connection between colour and form
brings us to the question of the influences of form on
colour. Form alone, even though totally abstract and
geometrical, has a power of inner suggestion. A triangle
(without the accessory consideration of its being acute or
obtuse-angled or equilateral) has a spiritual value of its
own. In connection with other forms, this value may be
somewhat modified, but remains in _quality the same.
The case is similar with a circle, a square, or any con-
ceivable geometrical figure. 1 As above, with the red, we
have here a subjective substance in an objecl:ive shell.
The mutual influence of form and colour. now becomes
clear. A yellow triangle, a blue circle, a green square, or
a green tria'ngle, a yellow circle, a blue square-all these
are different and have different spiritual values.
1 The angle at which the triangle stands, and whether it is stationary or
moving, are of importance to its spiritual value. This facl: is specially worthy
of the painter's consideration.

Raphael. The Canigiani Holy Family
It is evident that many colours are hampered and even
nullified in effect by many forms. On the . whole, keen
colours are well suited by sharp forms (e.g., a yellow
triangle), and soft, deep colours by round forms (e.g., a blue
circle). But it must be remembered that an unsuitable
combination of form and colour is not necessarily discord-
ant, but may, with manipulation, show the way to fresh
possibilities of harmony.
Since colours and forms are well-nigh innumerable,
their combination and their influences are likewise unend-
ing. The material is inexhaustible.
Form, in the narrow sense, is nothing but the separating
line between surfaces of colour. That is its outer mean-
ing. But it has also an inner meaning, of varying inten-
sity ,1 and, properly speaking,farm i's the outward expression
of this inner meaning. To use once more the metaphor of
the piano-the artist is the ha1?d which, by playing on
this or that key (i.e., form), a:ffetl:s the human soul in this
or that way. So it is evident that form-harmony must rest
only on a corresponding vibration of the human soul; and this is
a second guiding principle qf the inner need.
1
It is never literally true that any form is meaningless and "says nothing.''
Every form in the world says something. But its message often fails to
reach us, and even if it does, full understanding is often withheld from us.

ABOUT PAINTING
The two aspecl:s of form just mentioned define its two
aims. The task of limiting surfaces (the o~ter aspect) is
well performed if the inner meaning is fully expressed. 1
The outer task may assume many different shapes; but it
will never fail in one of two purposes :
( 1) Either form aims at so limiting surfaces as to fashion
of them some material objecl:;
(2) Or form remains abstract, describing only a non-
material, spiritual entity. Such non-material entities, with
life and value as such, are a circle, a triangle, a rhombus,
a trapeze, etc., many of them so complicated as to have
no mathematical denomination.
Between these two extremes lie the innumerable forms
in which both elements exist; with a preponderance either
of the abstract or the material. These intermediate forms
are, at present, the store on which the artist has to draw.
Purely abstract forms are beyond the reach of the artist at
present; they are too indefinite for him. To limit him-
self to the purely indefinite would be to rob himself of
possibilities, to exclude the human element and therefore
to weaken his power of expression.
1 The phrase," full expression," must be clearly understood. Form often
is most expressive when least coherent. It is often most expressive when

outwardly most imperfect, perhaps only a stroke, a mere hint of outer
meaning.

On the other hand, there exists equally no purely
material form. A material object cannot be absolutely
reproduced. For good or evil, the artist has eyes and
hands, whi:h are perhaps more artistic than his intentions
and refuse to aim at photography alone. Many genuine
artists, who cannot be content with a mere inventory of
material objects, seek to express the objects by what was
once called "idealization," then "selection," and which
to-morrow will again be called something different. 1
The impossibility and, in art, the uselessness of attempt-
ing to copy an object exactly, the desire to give the object
full expression, are the impulses which drive the artist
away from " .literal" colouring to purely artistic aims. And
that brings us to the question of composition. 2
Pure artistic composition has two elements:
I. The composition of the whole picture.
2. The creation of the various forms which, by standing
1
The motive of idealization is so to beautify the organic form as to bring
out its harmony and rouse poetic feeling. "Seleaion " aims not so much at
beautification as at emphasizing the charaaer of the objecl, by the omission
of non-essentials. The desire of the future will be purely the expression of
the inner meaning. The organic form no longer serves as direct object,
but as the human words in which a divine message must be written, in
order for it to be comprehensible to human minds.
2
Here Kandinsky means-arrangement of the piaure.-M. T. H. S.

60 ABOUT PAINTING
in different relationships to each other, decide the compo-
sition of the whole. 1 Many objects have to be considered
in the light of the whole, and so ordered as to suit this
whole. Singly they will have little meaning, being of
importance only in so far_: as they help the general effect.
These single objects must be fashioned in one way only;
and this, not . because their own inner meaning demands
that particular fashioning, but entirely because they have
to serve as building-material for the whole composi-
tion.2
So the abstract idea is creeping into art, although, only
yesterday, it was scorned and obscured by purely material
ideals. Its gradual advance is natural enough, for in pro-
1
The general composition will naturally include many little composi-
tions which may be antagonistic to each other, though helping-perhaps by
their very antagonism-the harmony of the whole. These little compo-
sitions have themselves subdivisions of varied inner meanings.
~ A good example is Cezanne's Bathing Women, which is built in the
form of a triangle. Such building is an old principle, which was being
abandoned only because academic usage had made it lifeless. But Cezanne
has given it new life. He does not use it to harmonize his groups, but
for purely artistic purposes. He distorts the human figure with perfecl: justifi-
cation. Not only must the whole figure follow the lines of the triangle,
but each limb must grow narrower from bottom to top. Raphael's " Holy
Family" is an example of triangular composition used only for the har-
monizing of the group, and without any mystical motive.

~
a
c,:
_,_,N
u
portion as the organic form falls into the background, the

- abstract ideal achieves greater prominence.
But the organic form possesses all the same an inner har-
mony of its own, which may be either the same as that of
its abstract parallel (thus producing a simple combination of
the two elements) or totally different (in which case the
combination may be unavoidably di~cordant). However
diminished in importance the organic form may be, its
inner note will always be heard; and for this reason the
choice of material objects is an important one. The spiritual
accord of the organic with the abstract element may
strengthen the appeal of the latter (as much by contrast
as by similarity) or may destroy it.
Suppose a rhomboidal composition, made up of a number
of human figures. The artist asks himself: Are these human
figures an absolute necessity to the composition, or should
they be replaced by other forms, and that without affecting
the fundamental harmony of the whole? If the answer is
"Yes," we have a case in which the material appeal directly
weakens the abstract appeal. The human form must either
be replaced by another object which, whether by similarity
or contrast, will strengthen the abstract appeal, or must
remain a purely non-material symbol.1
1
Cf. Translator's Introduction, pp. xx and xxiii.-M. T. H. S.

62 ABOUT PAINTING
Once more the metaphor of the piano. For "colour"
or "form" substitute "object." Every objecl:: has its own
life and therefore its own appeal; man is continually
subjecl:: to these appeals. But the results are often
dubbed either sub- or super-conscious. Nature, that is
to say the ever-changing surroundings of man, sets in
vibration the strings of the piano (the soul) by mani-
pulation of the keys (the various objects with their several
appeals).
The impressions we receive, which often appear merely
chaotic, consist of three elements: the impression of the
colour of the objecl::, of its form, and of its combined colour
and form, i.e. of the objecl:: itsel£
At this point the individuality of the artist comes to the
front and disposes, as he wills, these three elements. It is
clear, therefore, that the choice ef objecl (i.e. ef one qfthe elements
in the harmony efform) must be decided only by a corresponding
vibration in the human soul; and this is a third guiding prin-
ciple ef the inner need.
The more abstracl:: is form, the more clear and direcl:: is
its appeal. In any composition the material side may be
more or less omitted in proportion as the for~s used are
. more or less material, and for them substituted pure abs-
tracl::ions, or largely dematerialized objects. The more an

artist uses these abstracted forms, the deeper and more con-
fidently will he advance into the kingdom of the abstract.
And after him will follow the gazer at his pictures, who
also will have gradually acquired a greater familiarity with
the language-of that kingdom.
Must we then abandon utterly all material objecls and
paint solely in abstractions ? The problem of harmonizing
the appeal of the material and the non-material shows us
the answer to this question. As every word spoken rouses
an inner vibration, so likewise does every object represented.
To deprive oneself of this possibility is to limit one's powers
of expression. That is at any rate the case at present. But
besides this answer to the question, there is another, and
one which art can always employ to any question begin-
ning with " I?-USt ": There is no " must " in art, because
art is free.
With regard to the second problem of composition, the
creation of the single elements which are to compose the
whole, it must be remembered that the same form in the
same circumstances will always have the same inner appeal.
Only the circumstances are constantly varying. It results
that: ( 1) The ideal harmony alters according to the rela-
tion to other forms of the form which causes it. (2) Even
in similar relationship a slight approach to or withdrawal

ABOUT PAINTING
from other forms may affect the harmony. 1 Nothing is
absolute. Form-composition rests on a relative basis, de-
pending on ( 1) the alterations in the mutual relations of
forms one to another, (2) alterations in each individual
form, down to the very smallest. Every form is as sen-
sitive as a puff of smoke, the slightest breath will alter it
completely. This extreme mobility makes it easier to
obtain similar harmonies from the use of different forms,
than from a repetition of the same one; though of course an
exact replica of a spiritual harmony can never be produced.
So long as we are susceptible only to the appeal of a whole
composition, this faa:· is of mainly theoretical importance.
But when we become more sensitive by a constant use of
abstract forms (which have . no material interpretation) it
will become of great practical significance. And so as art
becomes more difficult, its wealth of expression in form
becomes greater and greater. At the same time the question
of distortion in drawing falls out and is replaced by the
question how far the inner appeal of the particular form
is veiled or given full expression. And once more the
possibilities are extended, for combinations of veiled and
1 This is what is meant by" an appeal of motion." For example, the

appeal of an upright triangle is more steadfast and quiet than that of one set
obliquely on its side. ·

fully expressed appeals suggest new !et"t motiven in compo-
sition.
Without such development as this, form-composition is
impossible. To anyone who cannot experience the inner
appeal of form (whether material or abstract) such com-
position can never be other than meaningless. Apparently
aimless alterations in form-arrangement will make art seem
merely a game. So once more we are faced with the same
principle, which is to set art free, the principle of the
inner need.
When features or limbs for artistic reasons are changed
or distorted, men reject the artistic problem and fall back
on the secondary question of anatomy. But, on our
argument, this secondary consideration does not appear,
only the real, artistic question remaining. These apparently
irresponsible, but really well-reasoned alterations in form
provide one of the storehouses of artistic possibilities.
The ad~ptability of forms, their organic but inward
variations, their motion in the picture, their inclination
to material or abstract, their mutual relations, either indi-
vidually or _as parts of a whole; further, the concord or
discord of the various elements of a picture, the hand-
ling of groups, the combinations of veiled and openly ex-
pressed appeals, the use of rhythmical or unrhythmical,.
F

66 ABOUT PAINTING
of geometrical or non-geometrical forms, their contiguity
or separation-all these things are the material for counter-
point in painting.
But so long as colour is excluded, such counterpoint is
confined to black and white. Colour provides a whole
wealth of possibilities of her own, and when combined
with form, yet a further series of possibilities. And all
these will be expressions of the inner need.
*
*
The inner need is built up of three mystical elements:
( 1) Every artist, as a creator, has something in him which
calls for expression (this is the element of personality).
(2) Every artist, as child of his age, is impelled to express
the spirit of his age (this is the element of style)-dictated
by the period and particular country to which the artist
belongs (it is doubtful how long the latter distinction will
continue to exist). (3) Every artist, as a servant of art, has
to help the cause of art (this is the element of pure artistry,
which is constant in all ages and among all nationalities).
A full understanding of the first two elements is neces-
sary for a realization of the third. But he who has this
realization will recognize that a rudely-carved Indian

column is an expression of the same spirit as actuates any
real work of art of to-day.
In the past and even to-day much talk is heard of
"personality" in art. Talk of the coming" style" becomes
more frequent daily. But for all their importance to-day,
these questions will have disappeared after a few hundred
or thousand years.
Only the third element-that of pure artistry-will
remain for ever. An Egyptian carving speaks to us to-day
more subtly than it did to its chronological contemporaries;
for they judged it with the hampering kn?wledge of period
and personality. But we can judge purely as an expression
of the eternal artistry.
Similarly-the greater the part played in a modern
work of art by the two elements of style and personality,
the better will it be appreciated by people to-day; but a
modern work of art which is full of the third element,
will fail to reach the contemporary soul. For many
centuries have to pass away before the third element can
be received with understanding. But the artist in whose
work this third element predominates is the really great
artist.
Because the elements of style and personality make up
what is called the periodic characteristics of any work of

68 ABOUT PAINTING
art, the " development" of artistic forms must depend on
their separation from the element of pure artistry, which
knows neither period nor nationality. But as style and per-
sonality create in every epoch certain definite forms, which,
for all their superficial differences, are really closely related,
these forms can be spoken of as one side of art-the sub-
jetlive. Every artist chooses, from the forms which reflect
his own time, those which are sympathetic to him, and
expresses himself through them. So the subjective element
is the definite and external expression of the inner, objective
element.
The inevitable desire for outward expression of the
objetlive element is the impulse here defined as the "inner
need." The forms it borrows change from day to day, and,
as it continually advances, what is to-day a phrase of inner
harmony becomes to-morrow one of outer harmony. It is
clear, therefore, that the inner spirit of art only uses the
outer form of any particular period as a stepping-stone to
further expression.
In short, the working of the inner need and the develop-
ment of art is an ever-advancing expression of the eternal
and objective in the terms of the periodic and subjective.
Because the objective is for ever exchanging the sub-
jective expression of to-day for that of to-morrow, each

new extension of liberty in the use of outer form is hailed
as the last and supreme. At present we say that an artist
can use any form he wishes, so long as he remains in touch
with nature. _But this limitation, like all its predecessors,
is only temporary. From the point of view of the inner
need, no limitation must be made. The artist may use
any form which his expression demands; for his inner
impulse must find suitable outward expression.
So we see that a deliberate search for personality an1
"style" is not only impossible, but comparatively unim-
portant. The close relationship of art throughout the ages,
is not a relationship in outward form but in inner mean-
ing. And therefore the talk of schools, of lines of "de-
velopment," of" principles of art," etc., is based on mis-
understanding and can only lead to confusion.
The artist must be blind to distincl:ions between
" recognized " or " unrecognized " conventions of form,
deaf to the transitory teaching and demands of his par-
ticular age. He must watch only the trend of the inner
need, and hearken to its words alone. Then he will with
safety employ means both sanctioned and forbidden by
his contemporaries. -All means are sacred which are
called for by the inner need. All means are sinful which
obscure that inner need.

ABOUT PAINTING
It is impossible to theorize about this ideal of art. In
real art theory does not precede practice, but follows her.
Everything is, at first, a matter of feeling. Any theoretical
scheme· will be lacking in the essential of creation-the
inner desire for expression-which cannot be determined.
Neither the quality of the inner need, nor its subjective
form, can be measured nor weighed. 1 Such a grammar of
painting can only be temporarily guessed at, and should
it ever be achieved, it will be not so much according to
physical rules (which have so often been tried and which
to-day the Cubists are trying) as according to the rules of
the inner need, which are of the soul.
* *
The inner need is the basis alike of small and great
problems in painting. We are seeking to-day for the
road which is to lead us away from the outer 2 to the
1 The many-sided genius of Leonardo devised a system of little spoons
with which different colours were to be used, thus creating a kind of
mechanical harmony. One of his pupils, after trying in vain to use this
sys tern, in despair asked one of his colleagues how the master himself used
the invention. The colleague replied: "The master never uses it at all."
(Mereschowski, "Leonardo da Vinci ").
• The term "outer," here used, must not be confused with the term
"material " used previously. I am usit~g the former to mean" outer need,"

inner basis. The spirit, like the body, can be strengthened
and developed by frequent exercise. Just as the body, if
neglected, grows weaker and finally impotent, so the
spirit perishes if untended. And for this reason it is
necessary for the artist to know the starting point for the
exercise of his spirit.
The starting point is the study of colour and its effects
on men.
There is no need to engage in the finer shades of com-
plicated colour, but rather at first to consider only the
direct use of simple colours.
To begin with, let us test the working on our-
selves of individual colours, and so make a simple chart,
which will facilitate the consideration of the whole
question.
Two great divisions of colour occur to the mind at the
outset : into warm and cold, and into light and dark. To
each colour there are therefore four shades of appeal-
which never goes beyond conventional limits, nor produces other than
conventional beauty. The " inner need " knows no such limits, and
often produces results conventionally considered "ugly." But "ugly"
itself is a conventional term, and only means "spiritually unsympathetic,"
being applied to some expression of an inner need, either outgrown or not
yet attained. But everything which adequately expresses the inner need
is beautiful.

72 ABOUT PAINTING
warm and light or warm and dark, or cold and light or
cold and dark.
Generally speaking, warmth or cold in a colour means
an approach respectively to yellow or to blue. This dis-
tinction is, so to speak, on one basis, the colour having a
constant fundamental appeal, but assuming either a more
material or more non-material quality. The movement
is an horizontal one, the warm colours approaching the
spectator, the cold ones retreating from him.
The colours, which cause in another colour this hori-
zontal movement, while they are themselves affected by
it, have another movement of their own, which acts with
a violent separative force. This is, therefore, the first
antithesis in the inner appeal, and the inclination of the
colour to yellow or to blue, is of tremendous importance.
The second antithesis is between white and black;
i.e., the inclination to light or dark caused by the pair of
colours just mentioned. These colours have once more
their peculiar movement to and from the spectator, but in
a more rigid form (see Fig. 1 ).
Yellow and blue have another movement which affects
the first antithesis-an ex- and concentric movement. If
two circles are drawn and painted respectively yellow and
blue, brief concentration will reveal in the yellow a

FIGURE I
First Pair of antitheses. (inner appeal acl:ing on

A a1J.d B. the spirit)
A. Warm Cold
= First antithesis
Yellow Blue
Two movements :
(i) horizontal
Towards the specl:ator ◄-EE-----~~~« ~~~..,,----->-• Away from the specl
(bodily) (spiritual)
O
Yellow Blue
(ii) ex- and concentric
B. Light Dark
= Second antithesis
White Black
Two movements:
(i) discordant
Eternal discord, but with Absolute discord, devoic
possibilities for the White Black of possibilities for the
future (birth) future (death)
(ii) ex- and concentric, as in case of yellow and blue, but
more rigid.

spreading movement out from the centre, and a notice-
able approach to the specl:ator., The blue, on the other
hand, moves in upon itself, like a snail retreating into its
shell, and draws away from the spectator. 1
In the case of light and dark colours the movement is
emphasized. That of the yellow increases with an
admixture 9f white, i.e., as it becomes lighter. That
of the blue increases with an admixture of black, i.e.,
as it becomes darker. This means that there can never
be a dark-coloured yellow. The relationship between
w bite and yellow is as close as between black and
blue, for blue can be so dark as to border on black.
Besides this physical relationship, is also a spiritual one
(between yellow and white on one side, between blue
and black on the other) which marks a strong separation
between the two pairs.
An attempt to make yellow colder produces a green
tint and checks both the horizontal and excentric move-
ment. The colour becomes sickly and unreal. The blue
by its contrary movement acts as a brake on the yellow, and
is hindered in its own movement, till the two together
become stationary, and the result is green. Similarly
' These statements have no scientific basis, but are founded purely on
spiritual experience.

74 ABOUT PAINTING
a mixture of black and white produces gray, which is
motionless and spiritually very similar to green.
But while green, yellow, and blue are potentially
active, though temporarily paralysed, in gray is no
possibility of movement, because gray consists of two
colours that have no active force, for they stand the one
in motionless discord, the other in a motionless negation,
even of discord, like an endless wall or a bottomless pit. ·
Because the component colours of green are active and
have a movement of their own, it is possible, on the
basis of this movement, to reckon their spiritual appeal.
The first movement of yellow, that of approach to the
spectator (which can be increased by an intensification of
the yellow), and also the second movement, that of over-
spreading the boundaries, have a material parallel in the
human energy which assails every obstacle blindly, and
bursts forth aimlessly in every direction.
Yellow, if steadily gazed at in any geometrical form,
has a disturbing influence, and reveals in the colour an
insistent, aggressive character. 1 The intensification of the
yellow increases the painful shrillness of its note. 2
1 It is worth noting that the sour-tasting lemon and shrill-singing canary
are both yellow.

2 Any parallel between colour and music can only be relative. Just as a
violin can give various shades of tone, so yellow has shades, which can be

Yellow is the typically earthly colour. It can never
have profound meaning. An intermixture of blue makes
it a sickly colour. It may be paralleled in human nature,
with madness, not with melancholy or hypochondriacal
mania, but rather with violent raving lunacy.
The power of profound meaning is found in blue, and
first in its physical movements ( 1) of retreat from the
spectator, (2) of turning in upon its own centre. The in-
clination of blue to depth is so strong that its inner appeal
is stronger when its shade is deeper.
Blue is the typical heavenly colour. 1 The ultimate
feeling it creates is one of rest. 2 When it sinks almost to
black, it echoes a grief that is hardly human. 3 When it
rises towards white, a movement little suited to it, its
expressed by various instruments. But in making such parallels, I am

assuming in each case a pure tone of colour or sound, unvaried by vibration
or dampers, etc.
• 1 • • • The halos are golden for emperors and prophets (i.e. for mortals),
and sky-blue for symbolic figures (i.e. spiritual beings); (Kondakoff,

"Histoire de l'Art Byzantine consideree principalement clans les miniatures,"
vol. ii, p. 382, Paris, 1886-91).
• Supernatural rest, not the earthly contentment of green. The way to
the supernatural lies through the natural. And we mortals passing from the
earthly yellow to the heavenly blue must pass through green.
3
As an echo of grief violet stands to blue as does green in its producl:ion
of rest.

ABOUT PAINTING
appeal to men grows weaker and more distant. In music
a light blue is like a flute, a darker blue a 'cello; a still
darker a thunderous double bass; and the darkest blue of
all-an organ.
A well balanced mixture of blue and yellow produces
green. The horizontal movement ceases; likewise that
from and towards the centre. The effect on the soul
through the eye is therefore motionless. This is a fact
recognized not only by opticians but by the world. Green
is the most restful colour that exists. On exhausted men
this restfulness has a beneficial effect, but after a time it
·becomes wearisome. Pictures painted in shades of green are
passive and tend to be wearisome; this contrasts with the
active warmth of yellow or the active coolness of blue. In
the hierarchy of colours green is the " bourgeoisie " -
self-satisfied, immovable, narrow. It is the colour of
summer, the period when nature is resting from the
storms of winter and the productive energy of spring (cf.
Fig. 2).
Any preponderance in green of yellow or blue introduces
a corresponding activity and changes the inner appeal.
The green keeps its characteristic equanimity and restful-
ness, the former increasing with the inclination to light-
ness, the latter with the inclination to depth. In music

FIGURE II
Second Pair of antitheses. (physical appeal of complementary

C and D. colours)
c. Red Green = Third antithesis

Movement of the spiritually extinguished
First antithesis
= Potentiality of motion
Motion within itself
= Motionlessness
Red
Ex- and concentric movements are absent
In optical blend =Gray
In mechanical blend of white and black =Gray
D. Orange Violet = Fourth antithesis

Arise out of the first antithesis from:
1. Active element of the yellow in red =Orange
2. Passive element of the blue in red = Violet
Iii excentric Motion within In concentric

direction itself direction

the absolute green is represented by the placid, middle
notes of a violin.
Black and white have already been discussed in general
• terms. More particularly speaking, white, although often
considered as -no colour (a theory largely due to the im-
pressionists, who saw no white in nature 1), is a symbol
of a world from which all colour as a definite attribute
has disappeared. This world is too far above us for its
harmony to touch our souls. A great silence, like an
impenetrable wall, shrouds its life from our understanding.
White, therefore, has this harmony of silence, which works
upon us negatively, like many pauses in music that break
temporarily the melody. It is not a dead silence, but one
pregnant with possibilities. White has the appeal of the
nothingness that is before birth, of the world in the ice
age.
A totally dead silence, on the other hand, a silence with
1 Van Gogh, in his letters, asks whether he may not paint a white wall
dead white. This question offers no difficulty to the non-representative
artist who is concerned only with the inner harmony of colour. But to the
impressionist-realist it seems a bold liberty to take with nature. To him it
seems as outrageous as his own change from brown shadows to blue seemed
to his contemporaries. Van Gogh's question marks a transition from im-
pressionism to an art of spiritual harmony, as the coming of the blue shadow
marked a transition from academism to impressionism. (Cf. "The Letters
of Vincent van Gogh." Constable, London, 7s. 6d. net.)

ABOUT PAINTING
no possibilities, has the inner harmony of black. In music
it is represented by one of those profound and final pauses,
after which any continuation of the melody seems the
dawn of another world. Black is something burnt out,
lik~ the ashes of a funeral pyre, something motionless like
a corpse. The silence of black is the silence of death.
Outwardly black is the colour with least harmony of all,
a kind of neutral background against which the minutest
shades of other colours stand clearly forward. It differs from
white in this also, for with white nearly every colour i~ in
discord, or even mute altogether. 1
Not without reason is white taken as symbolizing joy
and spotless purity, and black grief and death. A blend of
black and white produces gray, which, as has been said, is
silent and motionless, being composed of two inactive
colours, its restfulness having none of the potential activity
of green. A similar gray is produced by a mixture of
green and red, a spiritual blend of passivity and glowing
warmth. 2
The unbounded warmth of red has not the irresponsible
' E.g. vermilion rings dull and muddy against white, but against black
with clear strength. Light yellow against white is weak, against black
pure and brilliant,
• Gray= immobility and rest. Delacroix sought to express rest by a
mixture of green and red (cf. Signac, sup. cit.).

appeal of yellow, but rings inwardly with a determined
and powerful intensity. It glows in itself, maturely, and
does not distribute its vigour aimlessly (see Fig. 2).
The varied powers of red are very striking. By a skilful
use of it in its different shades, its fundamental tone may
be made warm or cold. 1
Light warm red has a certain similarity to medium
yellow, alike in texture and appeal, and gives a feeling of
strength, vigour, determination, triumph. In music, it is
a sound of trumpets, strong, harsh, and ringing.
Vermilion is a red with a feeling of sharpness, like
glowing steel which can be cooled by water. Vermilion
is quenched by blue, for it can support no mixture with a
cold colour. More accurately speaking, such a mixture
produces what is called a dirty colour, scorned by painters
of to-day. But "dirt" as a material object has its own
inner appeal, and therefore to avoid it in painting, is as
unjust and narrow as was the cry of yesterday for pure
colour. At the call of the inner need, that which is out-
wardly foul may be inwardly pure, and vice versa.
The two shades of red just discussed are similar to
yellow, except that they reach out less to the spectator.
1 Of course every colour can be to some extent varied between warm and
cold, but no colour has so extensive a scale of varieties as red.

80 ABOUT PAINTING
The glow of red is within itself. For this reason 1t 1s a
colour more beloved than yellow, being frequently used
in primitive and traditional decoration, and also in peasant
costumes, because in the open air the harmony of red and
green is very beautiful. Taken by itself this red is material,
and, like yellow, has no very deep appeal. Only when
combined with something nobler does it acquire this deep
appeal. It is dangerous to seek to deepen red by an
admixture of black, for black quenches the glow, or at
least reduces it considerably.
But there remains brown, unemotional, disinclined for
movement. An intermixture of red is outwardly barely
audible, but there rings out a powerful inner harmony.
Skilful blending can produce an inner appeal of extra-
ordinary, indescribable beauty. The vermilion now rings
like a great trumpet, or thunders like a drum.
Cool red (madder) like any other fundamentally cold
colour, can be deepened-especially by an intermixture
of azure. The character of the colour changes; the inward
glow increases, the active element gradually disappears.
But this active element is never so wholly absent as in
deep green. There always remains a hint of renewed
vigour, somewhere out of sight, waiting for a certain
moment to burst forth afresh. In this lies the great

VI. THE LANGUAGE OF FORM AND COLOUR 8r
difference between a deepened red and a deepened blue,
because in red there is always a trace of the material. A
parallel in music are the sad, middle tones of a 'cello. A
cold, light red contains a very distinct bodily or material
element, but it is always pure, like the fresh beauty of
the face of a young girl. The singing notes of a violin
express this exactly in music.
Warm red, intensified by a suitable yellow, is orange.
This blend brings red almost to the point of spreading
out towards the spectator. But the element of red is always
sufficiently strong to keep the colour from flippancy.
Orange is like a man, convinced of his own powers. Its
note is that of the angelus, or of an old violin.
Just as orange is red brought nearer to humanity by
yellow, so violet is red withdrawn from humanity by blue.
But the red in violet must be cold, for the spiritual need
does not allow of a mixture of warm red with cold blue.
Violet is therefore both in the physical and spiritual
sense a cooled red. It is consequently rather sad and
ailing. It is worn by old women, and in China as a sign
of mourning. In music it is an English horn, or the deep
notes of wood instruments (e.g. a bassoon). 1
1 Among artists one often hears the question," How are your " answered
gloomily by the words" Feeling very violet."
G

ABOUT PAINTING
The two last mentioned colours (orange and violet) are
the fourth and last pair of antitheses of the primitive
colours. They stand to each other in the same relation as
the third antitheses-green and red-i.e., as complementary
colours (see Fig. 2).
As in a great circle, a serpent biting its own tail (the
symbol of eternity, of something without end) the six
colours appear that make up the three main antitheses.
And to right and left stand the two great possibilities of
silence-death and birth (see Fig. 3).
*
*
It is clear that all I have said of these simple colours is
very provisional and general, and so also are those feelings
(joy, grief, etc.) which have been quoted as parallels of the
colours. For these feelings are only the material expressions
of the soul. Shades of colour, like those of sound, are of a
much finer texture and awake in the soul emotions too
fine to be expressed in words. Certainly each tone will
find some probable expression in words, but it will always
be incomplete, and that part which the word fails to ex-
press will not be unimportant but rather the very kernel
of its existence . . For this reason words are, and will always

FIGURE III
The antitheses as a circle between two poles, i.e., the life of colours
between birth and death.
(The capital letters designate the pairs of antitheses.)

remain, only hints, mere suggestions of colours. In this
impossibility of expressing colour in words with the con-
sequent need for some other mode of expression lies the
opportunity of the art of the future. In this art among
innumerable rich and varied combinations there is one
which is founded on firm fact, and that is as follows. The
actual expression of colour can be achieved simultaneously
by several forms of art, each art playing its separate part,
and producing a whole which exceeds in richness and force
any expression attainable by one art alone. The immense
possibilities of depth and strength to be gained by com-
bination or by discord between the various arts can be
easily realized.
It is often said that the admission of the possibility of
one art helping another amounts to a denial of the neces~
sary differences between the arts. This is, however, not
the case. As has been said, an absolutely similar inner
appeal cannot be achieved by two different arts. Even if
it were possible the second version would differ at least out-
wardly. But suppose this were not the case, that is to say,
suppose a repetition of the same appeal exactly alike both
outwardly and inwardly could be achieved by different
arts, such repetition would not be merely superfluous. To
begin with, different people find sympathy in different

ABOUT PAINTING
forms of art (alike on the active and passive side among
the creators or the receivers of the appeal); but further
and more important, repetition of the same appeal thickens
the spiritual atmosphere which is necessary for the matur-
ing of the finest feelings, in the same way as the hot air of
a greenhouse is necessary for the ripening of certain fruit.
An example of this is the case of the individual who receives
a powerful impression from constantly repeated actions,
thoughts or feelings, although if they came singly they
might have passed by unnoticed. 1 We must not, however,
apply this rule only to the simple examples of the spiritual
atmosphere. For this atmosphere is like air, which can be
either pure or filled with various alien elements. Not only
visible actions, thoughts and feelings, with outward ex-
pression, make up this atmosphere, but secret happenings
of which no one knows, unspoken thoughts, hidden feel-
ings are also elements in it. Suicide, murder, violence,
low and unworthy thoughts, hate, hostility, egotism, envy,
narrow "patriotism," partisanship, are elements in the
spiritual atmosphere. 2
And conversely, self-sacrifice, mutual help, lofty
1
This idea forms, of course, the fundamental reason for advertisement.
• Epidemics of suicide or of violent warlike feeling, etc., are products of
this impure atmosphere.

thoughts, love, unselfishness, joy in the success of others,
humanity, justness, are the elements which slay those
already enumerated as the sun slays the microbes, and re-
store the atmosphere to purity. 1
The second and more complicated form of repetition is
that in which several different elements make mutual use
of different forms. In our case these elements are the
different arts summed up in the art of the future. And
this form of repetition is even more powerful, for the
different natures of men respond to the different elements
in the combination. For one the musical form is the most
moving and impressive; for another the pictorial, for the
third the literary, and so on. There reside, therefore, in
arts which are outwardly different, hidden forces equally
different, so that they may all work in one man towards
a single result, even though each art may be working in
isolation.
This sharply defined working of individual colours is
the basis on which various values can be built up in har-
mony. Pictures will come to be painted-veritable artistic
arrangements, planned in shades of one colour chosen ac-
cording to artistic feeling. The carrying out of one colour,
the binding together and admixture of two related colours,
' These elements likewise have their historical periods.

86 ABOUT PAINTING
are the foundations of most coloured harmonies. From what
has been said above about colour working, from the fact
that we live in a time of questioning, experiment and con-
tradiction, we can draw the easy conclusion that for a
harmonization on the basis of individual colours our age
is especially unsuitable. Perhaps with envy and with a
mournful sympathy we listen to the music of Mozart.
It acts as a welcome pause in the turmoil of our inner life,
as a consolation and as a hope, but we hear it as the echo
of something from ~nother age long past and fundamentally
strange to us. The strife of colours, the sense of balance
we have lost, tottering principles, unexpected assaults,
great questions, apparently useless striving, storm and
tempest, broken chains, antitheses and contradictions, these
make up our harmony. 'The composition ari'singfrom this har-
mony is a minglzizg qf colour and form each with its separate
existence, but each blended into a common life which is called a
piBure by the farce of the inner need. Only these individual
parts are vital. Everything else (such as surrounding con-
ditions) is subsidiary. The combination of two colours is
a logical outcome of modern conditions. The combination
of colours hitherto considered discordant,is merely a further
development. For example, the use, side by side, of red
and blue, colours in themselves of no physical relationship,

+
ci
z

but from their very spiritual contrast of the strongest effect,
is one of the mos! frequent occurrences in modern choice
of harmony. 1 Harmony to-day rests chiefly on the prin-
ciple of contrast which has for all time been one of the
most important principles of art. But our contrast is an
inner contrast which stands alone and rejects the help (for
that help would mean destruction) of any other principles
of harmony. It is interesting to note that this very placing
together of red and blue was so beloved by the primitive
both in Germany and Italy that it has till to-day survived,
principally in folk pictures of religious subjects. One often
sees in such pictures the Virgin in a red · gown and a blue
cloak. It seems that the artists wished to express the grace
of heaven in terms of humanity, and humanity in terms
of heaven. Legitimate and illegitimate combinations of
colours, contrasts of various colours, the over-painting of
one colour with another, the definition of coloured sur-
faces by boundaries of various forms, the overstepping of
these boundaries, the mingling and the sharp separation
of surfaces, all these open great vistas of artistic possi-
-bility.
One of the first steps in the turning away from material
1 Cf. Gauguin. Noa noa-where the artist states his disinclination when
he first arrived in Tahiti to juxtapose red and blue.

88 ABOUT PAINTING
objects into the realm of the abstract was, to use the
technical artistic term, the rejection of the third dimension,
that is to say, the attempt to keep a picture on a single
plane. Modelling was abandoned. In this way the material
object was made more abstract and an important step
forward was achieved-this step forward has, however,
had the effect of limiting the possibilities of painting to
one definite piece of canvas, and this limitation has not
only introduced a very material element into painting, but
has seriously lessened its possibilities.
Any attempt to free painting from this material limita-
tion together with the striving after a new form of com-
position must concern itself first of all with the destruction
of this theory of one single surface-attempts must be
made to bring the picture on to some ideal plane which
shall be expressed in the terms of the material plane of
the canvas. 1 There has arisen out of the composition in
flat triangles a composition with plastic three dimensional
triangles, that is to say with pyramids; and that is Cubism.
But there has arisen here also the tendency to inertia, to a
concentration on this form for its own sake, and con-
sequently once more to an impoverishment of possibility.
1
Compare the article by Le Fauconnier in the catalogue of the second
exhibition of the Neue Kiinstlervereinigung, Munich, 1910-11.

But that is the unavoidable result of the external appli-
cation of an inner principle.
A further point of great importance must not be for-
gotten. There are other means of using the material
plane as a space of three dimensions in order to create
an ideal plane. The thinness or thickness of a line, the
placing of the form on the surface, the overlaying of one
form on another may be quoted as examples of artistic
means that may be employed. Similar possibilities are
offered by colour which, when rightly used, can advance
or retreat, and can make of the picture a living thing, and
so achieve an artistic expansion of space. The combination
of both means of extension in harmony or concord is one
of the richest and most powerful elements in purely
artistic composition.

VII.
THEORY
F ROM the nature of modern harmony, it results that

never has there been a time when it was more diffi-
cult than it is to-day to formulate a complete theory,1 or
to lay down a firm artistic basis. All attempts to do so
1 Attempts have been made. Once more emphasis must be laid on the
parallel with music. For example, cf. "Tendances Nouvelles," No. 35,
Henri Ravel: "The laws of harmony are the same for painting and music."
90

VII. THEORY
would have one result, namely, that already cited in the
case of Leonardo and his system of little spoons. It would,
however, be precipitate to say that there are no basic
principles nor firm rules in painting, or that a search for
them leads inevitably to academism. Even music has a
grammar, which, although modified from time to time, is
of continual help and value as a kind of dictionary.
Painting is, however, in a different position. The
revolt from dependence on nature is only just beginning.
Any realization of the inner working of colour and form
is so far unconscious. The subjection of composition to
some geometrical' form is no new idea (cf. the art of the
Persians). Construction on a purely abstract basis is a slow
business, and at first seemingly blind and aimless. The
artist must train not only his eye but also his soul, so that
he can test colours for themselves and not only by external
. .
1mpress10ns.
If we begin at once to break the bonds which bind us
to nature, and devote ourselves purely to combination of
pure colour and abstract form, we shall produce works
which are mere decoration, which are suited to neckties
or carpets. Beauty of Form and Colour is no sufficient
aim by itself, despite the assertions of pure aesthetes or
even of naturalists, who are obsessed with the idea of

ABOUT PAINTING
"beauty." It is because of the elementary stage reached
by our painting that we are so little able to grasp the
inner harmony of true colour and form composition. The
nerve vibrations are there, certainly, but they get no further
than the nerves, because the corresponding vibrations of
the spirit which they call forth are too weak. When we
remember, however, that spiritual experience is quicken-
ing, that positive science, the firmest basis of human
thought, is tottering, that dissolution of matter is imminent,
we have reason to hope that the hour of pure composition
is not far away.
It must not be thought that pure decoration is lifeless.
It has its inner being, but one which is either incom-
prehensible to us, as in the case of old decorative art,
or which seems mere illogical confusion, as a world in
which full-grown men and embryos play equal roles, in
which beings deprived of limbs are on a level with noses
and toes which live isolated and of their own vitality.
The confusion is like that of a kaleidoscope, which
though possessing a life of its own, belongs to another
sphere. Nevertheless, decoration has its effect on us;
oriental decoration quite differently to Swedish, savage,
or ancient Greek. It is not for nothing that there is a
general custom of describing samples of decoration as

VII. THEORY 93
gay, serious, sad, etc., as music is described as Allegro,
Serioso, etc., according to the nature of the piece.
Probably conventional decoration had its beginnings in
nature. But when we would assert that external nature
is the sole source of all art, we must remember that, in
patterning, natural objects are used as symbols, almost as
though· they were mere hieroglyphics. For this reason
we cannot gauge their inner harmony. For instance, we
can bear a design of Chinese dragons in our dining or
bed rooms, and are no more disturbed by it than by a
design of daisies.
It is possible that towards the close of our already
dying epoch a new decorative art will develop, but it is
not likely to be founded on geometrical form. At the
present time any attempt to define this new art would be
as useless as pulling a small bud open so as to make a
fully-blown flower. Nowadays we are still bound to ex-
ternal nature and must find our means of expression in her.
But how are we to do -it? In other words, how far may
we go in altering the forms and colours of this nature?
We may go as far as the artist is able to carry his
emotion, and once more we see how immense is the need
for true emotion. A few examples will make the meaning
of this clearer.

94 ABOUT PAINTING
A warm red tone will materially alter m inner value
when it is no longer considered as an isolated colour, as
something abstract, but is applied as an ele_ment of some
other object, and combined with natural form. The
variety of natural forms will create a variety of spiritual
values, all of which will harmonize with that of the
original isolated red. Suppose we combine red with sky,
flowers, a garment, a face, a horse, a tree.
A red sky suggests to us sunset, or fire, and has a con-
sequent effect upon us-·-either of splendour or menace.
Much depends now on the way in which other objects
are treated in connection with this red sky. If the treat-
ment is faithful to nature, but all the same harmonious,
the " naturalistic" appeal of the sky is strengthened. If,
however, the other objects are treated in a way which is
more abstract, they tend to lessen, if not to destroy, the
naturalistic appeal of the sky. Much the same applies to
the use of red in a human face. In this case red can be
employed to emphasize the passionate or other charac-
teristics of the model, with a force that only an ex-
tremely abstract treatment of the rest of the picture can
subdue.
A red garment is quite a different matter; for it can
in reality be of any colour. Red will, however, be found

Kandinsky. Improvisation No. 29 (1912) A. J. Eddy Collellion, Chicago, U.S.A.

VII. THEORY 95
best to supply the needs of pure artistry, for here alone
can it be used without any association with material
aims. The artist has to consider not only the value of the
red cloak by itself, but also its value in connection with
the figure wearing it, and further the relation of the
figure to the whole picture. Suppose the picture to be a
sad one, and the red-cloaked figure to be the central point
on which the sadness is concentrated-either from its
central position, or features, attitude, colour, or what not.
The red will provide an acute discord of feeling, which
will emphasize the gloom of the piB:ure. The use of a
colour, in itself sad, would weaken the effect of the
dramatic whole. 1 This is the principle of antithesis
already defined. Red by itself cannot have a sad effeB: on
the spectator, and its inclusion in a sad piB:ure will, if
properly handled, provide the dramatic element. 2
Yet again is the case of a red tree different. The funda-
mental value of red remains, as in every case. But the
association of" autumn" creeps in. The colour combines
1 Once more it is wise to emphasize the necessary inadequacy of these
examples. Rules cannot be laid down, the variations are so endless. A
single line can alter the whole composition of a picture.
2
The use of terms like" sad" and" joyful" are only clumsy equivalents
for the delicate spiritual vibrations of the new harmony. They must be
read as necessarily inadequate.

ABOUT PAINTING
easily with this association, and there is no dramatic clash
as in the case of the red cloak.
Finally, the red horse provides a further variation. The
very words put us in another atmosphere. The im-
possibility of a red horse demands an unreal world. It is
possible that this combination of colour and form will
appeal as a freak-a purely superficial and non-artistic
appeal-or as a hint of a fairy-story 1-once more a non-
artistic appeal. To set this red horse in a careful natural-
istic landscape would create such a discord as to produce
no appeal and no coherence. The need for coherence is
the essential of harmony-whether founded on conven-
tional discord or concord. The new harmony demands
that the inner value of a picture should remain unified
whatever the variations or contrasts of outward form or
colour. The elements of the new art are to be found,
therefore, in the inner and not the outer qualities of nature.
The specl:ator is too ready to look for a meaning in a
picture-i.e., some outward connection between its various
parts. Our materialistic age has produced a type of spec-
tator or "connoisseur," who is not content to put himself
opposite a picture and let it say its own message. Instead
1 An incomplete fairy story works on the mind as does a cinematograph
film.

VII. THEORY 97
of allowing the inner value of the picture to work, he
worries himself in looking for " closeness to nature," or
" temperament," or " handling," or " tonality," or " per-
spective," or what not. His eye does not probe the outer
expression to arrive at the inner meaning. In a conversa-
tion with an interesting person, we endeavour to get at
his fundament~l ideas and feelings. We do not bother
about the words he uses, nor the spelling of those words,
nor the breath necessary for speaking them, nor the move-
ments of his tongue and lips, nor the psychological work-
ing on our brain, nor the physical sound in our ear, nor
the physiological effect on our nerves. We realize that
these things, though interesting and important, are not the
main things of the moment, but that the meaning and
idea is what concerns us. We should have the same feel-
ing when confronted with a work of art. When this be-
comes general the artist will be able to dispense with
natural form and colour and speak in purely artistic
language.
To return to the combination of colour and form, there
is another possibility which should be noted. Non-
naturalistic objects in a picture may have a " literary "
appeal, and the whole picture may have the working of a
fable. The spectator is put in an atmosphere which does
H

ABOUT PAINTING
not disturb him because he accepts it as fabulous, and in
which he tries to trace the story and undergoes more or
less the various appeals of colour. But the pure inner
working of colour is impossible; the outward idea has the
mastery still. For the spectator has only exchanged a
blind reality for a blind dreamland, where the truth of
inner feeling cannot be felt.
We must find, therefore, a form of expression which
excludes the fable and yet does not restrict the free work-
ing of colour in ~ny way. The forms, movement, and
colours which we borrow from nature must produce no
outward effect nor be associated with external objects. _
The more obvious is the separation from nature, the more
likely is the inner meaning to be pure and unhampered.
* *
*
The tendency of a work of art may be very simple,
but provided it is not dictated by any external motive and
provided it is not working to any material end, the har-
mony will be pure. The most ordinary action-for ex-
ample, preparation for lifting a heavy weight-becomes
mysterious and dramatic, when its actual purpose is not
revealed. We stand and gaze fascinated, till of a sudden

VII. THEORY 99
the explanation bursts suddenly upon us. It is the convic-
tion that nothing mysterious can ever happen in our every-
day life that has destroyed the joy of abstract thought.
Practical considerations have ousted all else. It is with
this fact in view that the new dancing is being evolved-
as, that is to say, the only means of giving in terms of
time and space the real inner meaning of motion. The
origin of dancing is probably purely sexual. In folk-dances
we still see this element plainly. The later development
of dancing as a religious ceremony joins itself to the
preceding element and the two together take artistic form
and emerge as the ballet.
The ballet at the present time is in a state of chaos
owing to this double origin. Its external motives-the
expression of love and fear, etc.-are too material and
na'ive for the abstract ideas of the future. In the search
for more subtle expression, our modern reformers have
looked to the past for help. Isadora Duncan has forged a
link between the Greek dancing and that of the future.
In this she is working on parallel lines to the painters who
are looking for inspiration from the primitives. 1 In dance
1 Kandinsky's example of Isadora Duncan is not perhaps perfectly

chosen. This famous dancer founds her art mainly upon a study of Greek
vases and not necessarily of the primitive period. Her aims are distinctly

100 ABOUT PAINTING
as in painting this is only a stage of transition. In dancing
as in painting we are on the threshold of the art of the
future. The same rules must be applied in both cases.
Conventional beauty must go by the board and the literary
element of " story-telling" or "anecdote" must be aban-
doned as useless. Both arts must learn from music that
every harmony and every discord which springs from the
inner spirit is beautiful, but that it is essential that they
should spring from the inner spirit and from that alone.
* *
*
The achievement of the dance-art of the future will
towards what Kandinsky calls "conventional beauty," and what is perhaps

more important, her movements are not dithted solely by the "inner
harmony," but largely by conscious outward imitation of Greek attitudes.
Either Nijinsky's later ballets: "Le Sacre du Printemps," "L' Apres-midi
d'un Faune," "J eux," or· the idea actuating the Jacques Dalcroze system
of Eurhythmics seem to fall more into line with Kandinsky's artistic fore-
cast. In the first case "conventional beauty " has been abandoned, to the
dismay of numbers of writers and spectators, and a definite return has been
made to primitive angles and abruptness. In the second case motion and
dance are brought out of the souls of the pupils, truly spontaneous, at the
call of the "inner harmony." Indeed a comparison between Isadora
Duncan and M. Dalcroze is a comparison between the "naturalist" and
"symbolist" ideals in art which were outlined in the introduction to this
book.-M. T. H. S.

C:
0
·.::;
·;;;
g_
E
0
u

VII. THEORY IOI
make possible the first ebullition of the art of spiritual

harmony-the true stage composition.
The composition for the new theatre will consist of
these three elements:
(1) Musical movement
(2) Pictorial movement
(3) Physical movement
and these three, properly combined, make up the spiritual
movement, which is the working of the inner harmony.
They will be interwoven in harmony and discord as ~re
the two chief elements of painting, form and colour.
Skrjabin's attempt to intensify musical tone by cor-
responding use of colour, is necessarily tentative. In the
perfected stage-composition the two elements are in-
creased by the third, and endless possibilities of com-
bination and individual use are opened up. Further, the
external can be combined with the internal harmony, as
Schonberg has attempted in his quartettes. It is impossible
here to go further into the developments of this idea. The
reader must apply the principles of painting already stated
to the problem of stage-composition, and outline for
himself the possibilities of the theatre of the future, founded
on the immovable principle of the inner need.
* *
*

102 ABOUT PAINTING
From what has been said of the combination of colour
and form, the way to the new art can be traced. This
way lies to-day between two dangers. On the one hand is
the totally arbitrary application of colour to geometrical
form-pure patterning. On the other hand is the more
naturalistic use of colour in bodily form-pure phantasy.
Either of these alternatives may in their turn be ex-
aggerated. Everything is at the artist's disposal, and the
freedom of to-day has at once its dangers and its possibilities.
We may be presen~ at the conception of a new great
epoch,1 or we may see the opportunity squandered in aim-
less extravagance.
That art is above nature is no new discovery. 2 New
principles do not fall from heaven, but are logically if
indirectly connected with past and future. What is im-
portant to us is the momentary position of the principle
and how best it can be used. It must not be employed
forcibly. But if the artist tunes his soul to this note, the
sound will ring in his work of itself. The "emancipation"
1 On this question see my article "Uber die Formfrage "-in the Blaue
Reiter (Piper-Verlag, 1912). Taking the work of Henri Rousseau as a
starting point, I go on to prove that the new naturalism will not only be
equivalent to but even identical with abstratl:ion.
2
Cf. "Goethe," by Karl Heinemann, I 899, p. 684; also Oscar Wilde,
"De Profundis"; also Delacroix, "My Diary.''

VII. THEORY 103
of to-day must advance on the lines of the inner need. It

is hampered at present by external form, and as that is
thrown aside, there arises as the aim of composition-
construction. The search for constructive form has pro-
duced Cubism, in which natural form is often forcibly
subjected to geometrical construction, a process which
tends to hamper the abstract by the concrete and spoil the
concrete by the abstract.
The harmony of the· new art demands a more subtle
co_n struction than this, something that appeals less to the
eye and more to the soul. This " concealed construction"
may arise from an apparently fortuitous selection of forms
on the canvas. Their external lack of cohesion is their
internal harmony. This haphazard arrangement of forms
may be the future of artistic harmony. Their fundamental
relationship will finally be able to be expressed in mathe-
matical form, but in terms irregular rather than regular.

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS
T HE work of art is born of the artist in a mysterious

and secret way. From him it gains life and being.
Nor is its existence casual and inconsequent~ but it has a
definite and purposeful strength, alike in its material and
spiritual life. It exists and has power to create spiritual
atmosphere; and from this inner standpoint one judges
whether it is a good work of art or a bad one. If its" form"
is bad it means that the form is too feeble in meaning to
call forth corresponding vibrations of the soul. 1 Therefore
1 So-called" indecent,, pichu-es are either incapable of causing vibrations
of the soul (in which case they are not art) or they are so capable. In the
latter case they are not to be spurned absolutely, even though at the same
time they gratify what nowadays we are pleased to call the "lower
bodily tastes."
104

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS 105
a picture is not necessarily "well painted" if it possesses

the "values" of which the French so constantly speak. It
is only well painted if its spiritual value is complete and
satisfying. " Good drawing" is drawing that cannot be
altered without destruction of this inner value, quite irre-
spective of its correctness as anatomy, botany, or any other
science. There is no question of a violation of natural
form, but only of the need of the artist for such form.
Similarly colours are used not because they are true to
nature, but because they are necessary to the particular
picture. In fact, the artist is not only justified in using, but
it is his duty to use only those forms which fulfil his own
need. Absolute freedom, whether from anatomy or any-
thing of the kind, must be given the artist in his choice of
material. Such spiritual freedom is as necessary in art as
it is in life. 1
Nate, however, that blind following of scien~ific precept
is less blameworthy than its blind and purposeless rejection.
The former produces at least an imitation of material objects
which may be of some use. 2 The latter is an artistic be-
' This freedom is man's weapon against the Philistines. It is based on

the inner need.
• Plainly, an imitation of nature, if made by the hand of an artist, is not
a pure reproduction. The voice of the soul will in some degree at least make

106 ABOUT PAINTING
trayal and brings confusion in its train. The former leaves
the spiritual atmosphere empty; the latter poisons it.
Painting is an art, and art is not vague production,
transitory and isolated, but a power which must be directed
to the improvement and refinement of the human soul-
to, in fact, the raising of the spiritual triangle.
If art refrains from doing this work, a chasm remains
unbridged, for no other power can take the place of art in
this activity. And at times when the human soul is gaining
greater strength, art will also grow in power, for the two
are inextricably connected and complementary one to the
other. Conversely, at those times when the soul tends to
be choked by material disbelief, art becomes purposeless
and talk is heard that art exists for art's sake alone. 1 Then
is the bond between art and the soul, as it were, drugged
into unconsciousness. The artist and the spectator drift
apart, till finally the latter turns his back on the former or
regards him as a juggler whose skill and dexterity are
itself heard. As contrasts one may quote a landscape of Canaletto and those
sadly famous heads by Denner.-(Alte Pinakothek, Munich.)
1 This cry "art for art's sake," is really the best ideal such an age can
attain to. It is an unconscious protest against materialism, against the demand

that everything should have a use and practical value. It is further proof
of the indestruB:ibility of art and of the human soul, which can never be
killed but only temporarily smothered.

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS 107
worthy of applause. It is very important for the artist to

gauge his position aright, to realize that he has a duty to
his art and to himself, that he is not king of the castle but
rather a servan! of a nobler purpose. He must search deeply
into his own soul, develop and tend it, so that his art has
something to clothe, and does not remain a glove without
a hand.
'The artist must have something to say,far mastery over farm
is not his goal but rather the adapting of farm to its inner
meaning. 1
The artist is not born to a life of pleasure. He must not
live idle; he has a hard work to perform·, and one which
often proves a cross to be borne. He must realize that his
every deed, feeling, and thought are raw but sure material
from which his work is to arise, that he is free in art but
not in life.
The artist has a triple responsibility to the non-artists:
' Naturally this does not mean that the artist is to instill forcibly into his
work some deliberate meaning. As has been said the generation of a work
of art is a mystery. So long as artistry exists there is no need of theory or
logic to direcl: the paiJ?-ter's acl:ion. The inner voice of the soul tells him
what form he needs, whether inside or outside nature. Every artist knows,
who works with feeling, how suddenly the right form flashes upon him.
B6cklin said that a true work of art must be like an inspiration; that acl:ual
painting, composition, etc., are not the steps by which the artist reaches
self-expression.

108 ABOUT PAINTING
( 1) He must repay the talent which he has; (2) his deeds,
feelings, and thoughts, as those of every man, create a
spiritual atmosphere which is either- pure or poisonous.
(3) These deeds and thoughts are materials for his crea-
tions, which themselves exercise influence on the spiritual
atmosphere. The artist is not only a king, as Peladan
says, because he has great power, but also because he has
great duties.
If the artist be priest of beauty, nevertheless this
beauty is to be sought only according to the principle of
the inner need, and can be measured only according to
the size and intensity of that need.
That is beautiful which is produced by the inner need,
which springs from the soul.
Maeterlinck, one of the first warriors, one of the first
modern artists of the soul, says : "There is nothing on
earth so curious for beauty or so absorbent of it, as a soul.
For that reason few mortal souls withstand the leadership
of a soul which gives to them beauty." 1
And this property of the soul is the oil, which facili-
tates the slow, scarcely visible but irresistible movement
of the triangle, onwards and upwards.
1 " De la beaute interieure."

CONCLUSION
T HE first five photographs in this book show the

course of constructive effort in painting. This effort
falls into two divisions :
(r) Simple composition, which is regulated according
to an obvious and simple form. This kind of composition
I call the melodic.
(2) Complex composition, consisting of various forms,
subjected_ more or less completely to a principle form.
Probably the principle form may be hard to grasp out-
wardly, and for that reason possessed of a strong inner
value. This kind of composition I call the symphonic.
Between the two lie various transitional forms, in
which the melodic principle predominates. The history
of the development is closely parallel to that of music.
If, in considering an example of melodic composition,
one forgets the material aspect and probes down into
the artistic reason of the whole, one finds primitive
109

II O ABOUT PAINTING
geometrical forms or an arrangement of simple lines
which help toward a common motion. This common
motion is echoed by various seclions and may be varied
by a single line or form. Such isolated variations serve
different purposes. For instance, they may acl: as a
sudden check, or to use a musical term, a" fermata." 1
Each form which goes to make up the composition has a
simple inner value, which has in its turn a melody. For
this reason I call the composition melodic. By the agency
of Cezanne and la.t er of Hodler 2 this kind of composition
won new life, and earned the name of" rhythmic." The
limitations of the term " rhythmic " are obvious. In music
and nature each manifestation has a rhythm of its own, so
also in painting. In nature this r~ythm is often not clear
to us, because its purpose is not clear to us. We then
speak of it as unrhythmic. So the terms rhythmic and
unrhythmic are purely conventional, as also are harmony
and discord, which have no actual existence. 3
1 E.g., the Ravenna mosaic, which, in the main, forms a triangle. The
upright figures lean proportionately to the triangle. The outstretched arm
and door-curtain are the "fermate."
2 English readers may roughly parallel Hodler with Augustus John for
purposes of the argument.-M. T. H. S.

3
As an example of plain melodic construcl:ion with a plain rhythm,
Cezanne's " Bathing Women " is given in this book.

CONCLUSION J II
Complex rhythmic composition, with a strong flavour

of the symphonic, is seen in numerous pictures and wood-
cuts of the past. One might mention the work of old
German masters, of the Persians, of the Japanese, the
Russian icons, broadsides, etc. 1
In nearly all these works the symphonic composition is
not very closely allied to the melodic. This means that
fundamentally there is a composition founded on rest and
balance. The mind thinks at once of choral compositions,
of Mozart and Beethoven. All these works have the solemn
and regular architecture of a Gothic cathedral; they
belong to the transition period.
As examples of the new symphonic composition, in
which the melodic element plays a subordinate part, and
that only rarely, I have added reproductions of four of
my own pictures.
They represent three different sources of inspiration :
( 1) A direct impression of outward nature, expressed
in purely artistic form. This I call an "Impression."
(2) A largely unconscious, spontaneous expression of
inner character, the non-material nature. This I call an
"Improvisation."
(3) An expression of a slowly formed rnner feeling,
1 This applies to many of Hodler's picl:ures.

112 ABOUT PAINTING
which comes to utterance only after long maturing.
This I call a " Composition." In this, reason, conscious-
ness, purpose, play an overwhelming part. But of the
calculation nothing appears, only the feeling. Which
kind of construction, whether consc_ious or unconscious,
really underlies my work, the patient reader will readily
understand.
Finally, I would remark that, in my opinion, we are fast
approaching the time of reasoned and conscious composi-
tion, when the pai_n ter will be proud to declare his work
constructive. This will be in contrast to the claim of the
Impressionists that they could explain nothing, that their
art came upon them by inspiration. We have before us
the age of conscious creation, and this new spirit in
painting is going hand in hand with the spirit of thought
towards an epoch of great spiritual leaders.
CHISWICK PRESS: PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.

TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

The Art of Spiritual Harmony

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THE ART OF SPIRITUAL

BOSTON .AND. NEW YORK

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A. ABOUT GENERAL AESTHETIC

IV. THE PYRAMID .

v. THE PSYCHOLOGICAL WORKING OF COLOUR . 47

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS

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MosA1c IN S. VITALE, RAVENNA 6

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I T is no common thing to find an artist who, even if he

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and most stimulating which come direct from their author,

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Delacroix, Decamps and Courbet, the way will be seen

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objects which strike him as important. So far, good. But

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1 I am well aware that this statement is at variance with Kandinsky,

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the names of Cezanne and Gauguin, and for the purposes

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They persist, however, in giving them picture titles which

1 " L'Enchanteur pourrissant," par Guillaume Apollinaire, avec illustra-

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The question most generally asked about Kandinsky's

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in that it is the borrowing from one art by another of

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painter (and religious painters need not paint Madonnas),

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DER BLAUE REITER, vol. i. Piper V erlag, MUnchen, 10 mk. This

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E VERY work of art is the child of its age, and, in

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1"Stimmung" is almost untranslateable. It is almost "sentiment" in

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Im~gine a building divided into many rooms. The

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life of colours, this vain squandering of artistic power 1s

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The other art, that which is capable of educating further,

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T HE life of the spirit may be fairly represented in

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