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The
PHILOSOPHY
of
ART
The PHILOSOPHY of
ᎪᎡ Ꭲ
By
CURT JOHN DUCASSE
Professor in Brown University

NEW YORK
LINCOLN MAC VEAGH
THE DIAL PRESS
LONGMANS, GREEN & COMPANY, TORONTO
COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY DIAL PRESS, INC.
NORWOOD PRESS LINOTYPE, INC.
NORWOOD, MASS., U. S. A.
|
PREFACE
THE present volume is the first of a projected group,
the aim of which will be to develop in the principal fields
of philosophy a certain point of view. Some of the main
aspects of that point of view have already been set forth
in various articles published in the journals,¹ and in an
essay entitled Philosophical Liberalism, contributed to a
volume on Contemporary American Philosophy shortly
to appear. The name, Liberalism, is perhaps the least
unsatisfactory of the various labels with which might be
tagged a philosophical standpoint which, endeavoring
to push relativistic analysis as far as it will go in all fields
of philosophy, quickly finds itself confronted everywhere
by the fact that individuals as such are the only abso-
lutes to be found, and alone transform the endless "ifs"
of the relativistic scheme into "sinces." The comple-
ment of the thorough-going relativism of the philosophi-
cal standpoint in question is therefore a correspondingly
thorough individualism, in its two inseparable aspects
of freedom and responsibility.
That standpoint, in its essence at least, is of course
far from novel, but it seems to me that it has never been
developed in a manner doing it full justice. The present
volume attempts to exhibit the meaning of it in the field
of aesthetics. Some characteristic theses of the philosophy
of art which has resulted from that attempt are, that art
¹ A Defense of Ontological Liberalism, Journal of Phil. Vol. XXI, No. 13
A Liberalistic View of Truth, Philosophical Review, Vol. XXXIV, No. 6
Liberalism in Ethics, International Journal of Ethics, Vol. XXXV, No. 3
What has Beauty to do with Art? Journal of Philosophy, Vol. XXV, No. 7
iii
iv
PREFACE
is the language of feelings; that the range of human feel-
ings includes vastly more than the few emotional states
for which we have names; that language is essentially
objectification, and only secondarily communication;
that art and beauty are things essentially distinct, no
matter how closely they may tend to go together in fact;
that Beautiful and Ugly are terms predicating of objects
only the fact that some one who contemplates them aes-
thetically obtains from them feelings that are pleasant,
or unpleasant; that judgments of beauty are therefore
wholly relative to the constitution of the individual ob-
server, and are "valid" for others only so far as those
others happen to be constituted like him; that art-critics
are therefore never at all "authorities" in matters of
beauty and ugliness, but at best only guides, who may
direct our attention to things which we then sometimes
do find beautiful and might otherwise have overlooked.
My obligations to the writings of Mr. Santayana on
aesthetics are overwhelming and gratefully acknowledged.
His marvellously acute psychological insight has illumi-
nated for me many an obscure question. The obliga-
tions of which I am conscious to other writers are pretty
well indicated by the references. They are perhaps no
less great to the authors with whom I have found myself
forced to disagree than to those upon whom I have been
able to lean; for greater service to the cause of philo-
sophical truth is ever done by being definitely wrong
than by being vaguely right, - citius emergit veritas ex
errore, quam ex confusione. I have myself endeavored
to bear this maxim in mind throughout, and, instead of
politely guarded ambiguous plausibilities, I have tried to
make every important assertion clear and definite enough
to be susceptible of being conclusively disproved if wrong.
In criticizing the views of other writers, I have I hope
represented them fairly. But it seems to me that, es-
pecially in the field of philosophy, a writer should be held
responsible for what he says, since, apart from that, God
PREFACE
V
alone can know what he means. Because of the ab-
stractness and difficulty of philosophical problems, the
vagueness and logical looseness which have been the bane
of philosophy are, indeed, difficult to avoid. But this
is no reason why they should be condoned. Progress
in this respect will, here as in the field of mathematics,
be brought about by giving no writer credit for such pos-
sibly good intentions as he has failed to translate into
unambiguous words. I shall myself cheerfully welcome
criticism of the contents of this volume on that basis,
not, far from it, because I think they are proof against
it, but because the sharper the issues are made by such
criticism, the easier it will become to decide them truly.
The fourth chapter has already appeared in large part
in the Philosophical Review, and the appendix, in slightly
briefer form, in The Nation. Thanks are due to the edi-
tors of these two periodicals for their kind permissions to
use the material here.
Providence, May 4, 1929.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
1. Doing vs. Discoursing in the field of art.
2. The Philosophy of Art.
3.
Art-criticism.
4. The expert in historical matters.
5. What importance has the genuineness of a work
of art.
6. The aesthetic "consumer.
7. Aesthetics and the psychology laboratory.
11
CHAPTER I. ART AND THE CREATION OF
BEAUTY
1. Art is not a quality of things but an activity of
man.
2. Art is not an activity aiming at the creation of
beauty.
3. Many works of art are ugly.
4.
The artist aims not at beauty but at objective
self-expression.
5. The deliberate creating of beauty is not art.
6. If a thing is a work of art, it remains so. But
beauty comes and goes.
CHAPTER II. ART THE LANGUAGE OF
FEELING. VÉRON AND TOLSTOI
.
1. Véron regards art as being essentially expression
of emotion.
2. For Tolstoi, the essence of art is transmission of
emotion,
Page
1
15
21
vii
viii
CONTENTS
3. What is language? Criticism of Professor
Dewey's view.
4. Language is essentially expression of an inner
state.
5. Art, which is the language of feeling, is essentially
expression.
6. Ambiguity of the term Expression in Véron and
Tolstoi.
CHAPTER III. CRITICISM OF CROCE'S
"AESTHETIC"
1. Croce's Aesthetic must be read cautiously.
2. What he calls "expression" is a very different
thing from what is usually meant by the term.
3. His doctrine as to the theoretical relation of "Ex-
pression" to "Intuition" is obscure.
4. And his description of their psychological rela-
tion apparently incorrect.
5. Likewise his view of the nature of the physical
work of art;
6. And his view of the nature of beauty.
CHAPTER IV. ART AND THE FREUDIAN
WISH.
1. Outline of Professor Parker's view of art as the
imaginative expression of a wish.
2. Criticism of his contention that imagination is
of the essence of art.
3. Art does not necessarily simulate reality.
4. Nor can it be said to consist in the satisfaction of
a wish.
5. Against Professor Parker's contention that art is
the expression of a wish may be quoted inad-
vertent statements of his own, where he refers
to art as the expression of feeling.
42
56
CONTENTS
ix
6. An emotionalist theory of art need not neglect
the clarifying function of expression, as Pro-
fessor Parker charges.
7. Nature and mechanism of the process of clari-
fication through expression, according to the
emotionalist theory of the present volume.
CHAPTER V. ART AS IMITATION; AND AS
MEANS OF ATTRACTION
1. Plato's view of Art as Imitation.
2. His view of inspired art.
3. Aristotle and the mimetic impulse.
4. The Utility of Art. Darwin's theory.
5. Marshall's theory of art as means of attraction by
pleasing.
CHAPTER VI. THE INSTRUMENTALIST THE-
ORY OF ART
Outline of Professor Dewey's conception of art.
2. Strangeness of the instrumentalist life-ideal.
3. Aesthetic perception does not necessarily involve
meaning.
4. Nor does artistic production.
5. The view that art is expression of emotion does.
not imply the unimportance of subject-matter.
6. Emotions are not always responses to objective
situations.
CHAPTER VII. THE PLAY THEORY OF ART
1. Schiller's view.
2. Spencer's view.
3. Criticism of Spencer's view.
4. The view of Karl Groos.
5. Play is autotelic, Work ectotelic, and Art endo-
telic.
72
84
95
X
CONTENTS
CHAPTER VIII. WHAT IS ART? THE
SWER PROPOSED.
1. Art in general; Endotelic art; Aesthetic art.
2. Meaning of "objectification."
THE AN-
ம்ம்
3. In what sense objectification is conscious.
4. Correction of the product of attempted objectifi-
cation, vs. correction of the self first objectified.
5. Two things which objectification makes possible.
In what sense ulterior ends may coexist with endo-
telic art-creation
7. Lectical art.
8. Heuretic art.
Aesthetic art.
9.
10.
Jang
The definition of Aesthetic Art proposed differen-
tiates it from cases of expression which are no
art; and also from skilled work.
11. Expression of meanings or ideas is no part of aes-
thetic art.
12. The feeling which an elaborate work of art finally
objectifies is not usually present ab initio; but
develops step by step.
13. Interpretative and autogenous art; pure, and
decorative or applied art.
14. Synoptic table of species of art.
110
CHAPTER IX. THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE 134
1. The receptive, effective, and judgmental attitudes.
2. Art-creation is the effective aspect of the endotelic
life; which, however, has also a judgmental as-
pect, viz. Criticism; and a receptive, viz. Con-
templation.
3. Aesthetic contemplation is endotelic receptivity
to feeling.
4. Some empirical descriptions of aesthetic contem-
plation.
CONTENTS
xi
5. Comments on the terminology of these descrip-
tions.
6. Aesthetic contemplation is a "listening" with our
capacity for feeling.
7. It is not attention, but presupposes it.
8. It has the endotelic character.
9. It is not a rare, esoteric state, but a common and
familiar one.
10. Conditions favoring aesthetic contemplation.
11. Professor Langfeld's discussion of the aesthetic
attitude.
12. Empathy is not Aesthetic Contemplation, but
simply the process by which doing and under-
going are perceived as such in others.
CHAPTER X. EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
PERCEPTION .
1. Empathy.
2. It is interpretation of a thing as dramatic agent
or patient. Its mechanism. It is distinct from
aesthetic contemplation and from sympathy.
3. Shape-perception is not empathy.
4.
But shapes may be empathized, i.e., interpreted as
dramatic agents or patients.
5. Colors as well as shapes can be aesthetically con-
templated, but colors cannot be empathized.
6. Vernon Lee's account of empathy.
7. Her objection that inner imitation presupposes
empathy, unfounded.
8. Difference between empathy of a statue and of a
mountain.
9. Essential features of the theory of empathy of the
present chapter.
10. Peripathic perception.
151
xii
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XI. ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION,
AND THE AESTHETIC OBJECT
1. Ecpathy or aesthetic "reading."
2. The feeling-import of aesthetic objects.
3. Propriety of the term Ecpathy.
4.
An aesthetic object is any content of contempla-
tive attention, as such.
5. The relation of aesthetic object to aesthetic feeling
is not causal.
6. The aesthetic object is the natural, immediate,
and unique symbol of an aesthetic feeling.
7.
Origin of the feeling-import of any specified thing.
8. Santayana's doctrine of "Expression."
9. Relations between the terminology of it, and that
used here.
CHAPTER XII. THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
1. Aesthetic feeling is any feeling obtained in con-
templation.
2. Under certain conditions, any feeling-quality may
acquire the aesthetic status.
3. The nature of these conditions.
4. "Feeling" does not mean merely pleasure and dis-
pleasure.
5. The feelings experienced by human beings are
endlessly various, and only a very few, such as
love, fear, anger, etc., have received names.
6. Aesthetic feeling distinguished from sensation.
7. Aesthetic feeling, passion, and artistic feeling or
inspiration.
CHAPTER XIII. AESTHETIC OBJECTS. FORM
AND CONTENT IN DESIGNS AND IN DRA-
MATIC ENTITIES .
1. Aesthetic objects have both Content and Form.
2. Aesthetic objects are Dramatic Entities, and De-
signs.
173
189
202
CONTENTS
xiii
3. Form and Content in Designs.
4. The dividing of works of art into Designs and
Representations springs from confusion of
thought.
5. Form and Content in Dramatic Entities.
6. Paintings interpreted as designs in two dimen-
sions literally presented.
7. Paintings interpreted as designs in three dimen-
sions, represented.
8. Paintings interpreted as dramatic entities, repre-
sented.
9. The dramatic and design aspects can hardly be
fully isolated.
10. Remarks on Design vs. the representation of Dra-
matic Entities in modern art.
11. Painting and Illustration.
12. Representation;-through inevitable and through
accidental associations.
13. Any entity whatever may be viewed as aesthetic
object.
14. Knowledge of art forms and aesthetic apprecia-
tion.
CHAPTER XIV. THE AESTHETIC VALUES
1. Aesthetic valuation.
2. Beauty and Ugliness as inclusive and as special
categories of aesthetic valuation.
3. Aesthetic pleasure and "the pleasures of the
senses."
4. "Disinterestedness" of aesthetic pleasure.
5. Sense pleasure is a special category of aesthetic
pleasure.
6. Beauty in the narrower sense.
7. The pretty.
8. The Graceful.
9. Ugliness in the narrower sense.
233
xiv
CONTENTS
10. The Sublime.
11. The Tragic.
12. The Comic.
CHAPTER XV. STANDARDS OF CRITICISM.
1. Criticism is (a) Judgment, (b) of worth, (c) medi-
ate or immediate, and (d), respectively fallible
or infallible.
2. Possible standards of criticism of aesthetic ob-
jects.
3. Success of the attempt at self-expression, as
standard.
4. Signability of the work of art by its creator.
5. Signability of the work of art by the beholder.
6. Capacity to transmit the artist's feeling to others.
7. Judgments passed on aesthetic objects constitute
information concerning the judge.
8. Connoisseurship.
9. Beauty as standard.
10. It is relative to the individual observer.
11. Why we have a natural inclination to think other-
wise.
12. Beauty cannot be proved by appeal to consensus,
or to the "test of time," or to the type of person
who experiences it in a given case.
13. Nor can it be proved by appeal to technical princi-
ples or canons.
14. Beauty and accuracy of representation.
15. Criticism of aesthetic objects in ethical terms.
16. Liberalism in Aesthetics.
APPENDIX.
"Significant Form."
267
307
The
PHILOSOPHY
of
ART
C
INTRODUCTION
cas
1
Doing vs. Discoursing in the field of art. In his well-
known essay on The Critic as Artist, Oscar Wilde de-
clares that it is much more difficult to talk about a thing
than to do it, anybody can make history, but only a
great man can write it! I venture here no opinion as to
the truth of that seeming paradox, and mention it only
for the sake of pointing to the fact that doing and dis-
coursing are, at all events, very different things. Com-
petence in either does not automatically entail competence
in the other. The endowments, the direction of interest,
and the training required for each are distinct; and the
difficulty of attaining any measure of excellence in either
renders it unlikely that the requisites for both will often
be present in the same person. The man who has been
trained to scrupulous care in reflective analysis and the-
oretical construction will seldom possess more than in-
different skill in the practice of the activities which have
formed the subject of his reflections; and conversely the
skilful practitioners will mostly be but amateurish de-
scribers and theoreticians of the arts of which they are
masters.
W
Nowhere is this fact more commonly overlooked than
in the field of what are called the fine arts. Theoretical
questions concerning them arise in the minds of a great
many people, such questions as what, for instance, is
meant by calling a thing beautiful; by calling it a work
of art; or again, is art a form of play? has it any import-
1
2
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ant function in human life, or is it but an amusement for
hours of leisure? How do aesthetic feelings differ from
others? What, if any, are the proper standards in art-
criticism? etc. When questions of this sort present them-
selves, people generally assume as a matter of course that,
of all persons, the artist must be the one best able to
answer them. But the artist's business is to practise art,
not to talk about it. Indeed, an artist with a theory
should be regarded a priori with suspicion, for such an one
is likely to paint or to sing with his intellectual conscience
instead of his feelings, and to give us, therefore, not works
of art but moral documents.
It would not be much more foolish to expect a lecture
concerning the physiology of digestion from a man who
can eat things indigestible to others, than it is to expect
answers to questions of the sort mentioned from a painter
on the strength of his ability to paint pictures. But
people, failing to see this, insist on making the artist talk.
They regard him as an expert, and naturally he admits
being one, he as well as his questioners innocently but
unfortunately overlooking the fact that it is at something
very different from dealing with theoretical questions con-
cerning art, that he is expert.
cos
82
The philosophy of Art. Such questions belong to the
philosophy of art. Those cited and others of the same
sort, - a better idea of the nature of which may be gained
by glancing at the table of contents of the present volume,
indicate probably more adequately than any definition
could do what the philosophy of art concerns itself with.
Yet a conception of the philosophy of art and of the nature
of its proper task must be formulated briefly here if we
INTRODUCTION
3
are to distinguish it clearly from certain other things, such
as art-criticism, with which it might be confused.
Philosophy is a mysterious subject. There are few
questions which its professors have more difficulty in
answering to the layman's satisfaction, or indeed to their
own, than the question, what, anyway, is philosophy?
Were I limited to one line for my answer to it, I should say
that philosophy is the general theory of criticism. But
this statement may here profitably be somewhat enlarged
upon. To refer to anything as "the theory of" this or that,
is to say at least that it is an attempt to understand, to
exhibit reasons or grounds. For instance, if we have ut-
tered a criticism of something or other, and the correctness
or relevance of that criticism is questioned, we then find
ourselves formulating, and advancing as reasons for our
criticism, various propositions. These propositions con-
stitute a tentative "theory of" the criticism we made.
Philosophy, because it is an attempt to formulate the
"theory of" various things, is (or should be) like what is
called Science, it is or tries to be a science. And since
no other road to knowledge, as distinguished from mere
opinions or impressions, has yet been discovered than sci-
entific method, philosophy should be no less scientific in
method than chemistry or mathematics. What exactly
will constitute scientific method in philosophy, is a diffi-
cult question which I shall not attempt to discuss here.
In subject-matter, on the other hand, philosophy radi-
cally differs from "Science." There is a certain field of
facts concerning which neither physics, nor chemistry, nor
biology, nor any of the other sciences ever has a single
word to say, namely, facts of the sort called valuations.
These, with what they involve, constitute the proper and
exclusive subject-matter of philosophy. This is not to
say that philosophy's business is to pass judgments of
4
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
value, this, where immediate values at least are con-
cerned, is something which each individual has to do for
himself. So far as the philosopher, considered as such,
does any evaluating, it is evaluating of the truth of judg-
ments in which terms of value (or involving value) are,
not used, but talked about. A judgment of evaluation
is a critical judgment, i.e., it is the application to the en-
tity judged not of a merely descriptive predicate, but of a
predicate of criticism; and a predicate of criticism, or criti-
cal predicate, is one of goodness or badness of some
sort, immediate or mediate. Examples of such predicates
would be right, wrong, true, false, clear, invalid, real, un-
important, beautiful, ugly, sublime, etc.
We all use such predicates every day, and for every-day
purposes we all know well enough what we mean by them.
That is, we know it in the sense that we understand, and
ourselves can correctly frame, assertions in which such
terms occur; but we do not know what we mean by such
terms, in the sense of being able to give a correct and
precise definition of them. As soon, however, as we raise
any question of evaluation that cannot, like those of the
"every-day" variety, be answered, as it were, with our
spinal cords, we discover that in order to answer them we
must first know more exactly what we mean by "true,"
or "real," or "beautiful"; or by whichever of the other
evaluative predicates may be considered. If then we
raise explicitly the question, What exactly do we mean by
calling anything "true," or "beautiful," etc., the first
things we find are the snap-answers which we or others
are ever ready to improvise to that question. These,
however, are not precise and verified accounts of what
we mean by the terms in question, but only hypotheses as
to what we mean by them, which hypotheses are mostly
of the sort that may occur to anybody in the first five min-
INTRODUCTION
5
utes. The very tentative answers constituted by these
hypotheses therefore need to be reflected upon, made pre-
cise, and most carefully tested before we give them any
weight; and the philosopher is the specialist who makes it
his business to examine these would-be accounts of the
meaning and fields of applicability of the various critical
predicates, and to test their correctness with the same
painstaking care given by the physicist to the testing of
physical hypotheses.¹
For any precise, carefully considered answers to ques-
tions concerning the meaning and relevance of terms of
criticism, it is then to the philosopher that we have to
turn, for he and no one else investigates such questions
systematically. It is true that only too often his answers
have proved obscure, muddled, and unsatisfactory. But
this means only that philosophy is still very much in the
making, that its task is a peculiarly difficult one, and that
it has been much hampered by the lack of a clear under-
standing of the nature of the methods by which that task
could be accomplished. There is reason to hope for better
results in the future. At all events, as just stated, there
is nothing else to which we can turn for considered answers
to questions of the kind described.
cos
3
Art-criticism. From the foregoing brief account of what I
conceive to be the nature and task of philosophy in general,
the passage to the philosophy of art in particular, is obvi-
ous. We may characterize it as the general theory of the
1 The task, it should be noted, involves much beyond what is im-
mediately apparent. It requires, for instance, the investigation and
classification of the sorts of entities to which any given predicate of
evaluation is relevant; and study of the nature of the "mediation" in-
volved where mediate values are concerned.
6
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
criticism of art and aesthetic objects. Art-criticism, were
it fully and explicitly aware of the meaning of the as-
sertions that it makes, could be characterized conversely
as applied philosophy of art. Of art-criticism which, as in
the immense majority of cases, has no such conscious
theoretical background, all that can be said is that it im-
plies some philosophy of art, and, unavoidably, one replete
with errors and contradictions. And since no one can walk
a straight path in the dark except for brief moments by
chance, art-criticism of that sort is not simply futile, but
muddling.
The people who are commonly referred to as art-critics,
in the vast majority of instances may, as Max Nordau
I believe says somewhere, be described simply as persons
who criticize works of art in public. They do this, for the
most part owing to the possession not of greater capacities
but of fewer inhibitions than the man of average ignorance.
Their equipment in the main consists of what the French
call a well-hung tongue, or pen; and the very ease and
abundance of their adjectives hide the fact that what
they say is neither important nor authoritative. This
estimate of the most of what goes by the name of art
criticism — musical, graphic, dramatic, literary, etc., —
seems rather harsh and cynical, and upon a final rereading
of the manuscript of the present work, I had almost de-
cided to eliminate it. But Providence, disguised as The
Literary Digest, just then intervened to bolster up my
courage by means of a quotation from no less distinguished
and qualified a critic than Mr. Ernest Newman.2 What
he says confirms the above so fully, and is based upon
reasons so similar to those set forth in later chapters of the
present work, that I must insert it here. He writes as
follows:
2 In the London Sunday Times.
INTRODUCTION
7
"After a lifetime spent in musical criticism, I find that
I can no longer read it - thus, I imagine, coming at last
into line with the general public. It is bad enough to
have to write the stuff; to read it, except for some definite
purpose of the moment, is impossible, for the reason that
it tells me nothing about the composer, who is the real
object of my interest, but only something about the critic,
in whom I am not in the least interested. His view of
the composer is merely the result of his own personal re-
action, which is a matter of no concern and no value to
any one but himself. If he answers me with a tu quoque!
I cheerfully give him right; my own personal reactions are
valid for myself alone.
"There was a time when I, too, young and innocent,
thought my own reactions to music the only correct ones,
and believed everyone who differed from me to be wrong.
Older and wiser now, I do not trouble about these things.
The proselytizing spirit is dead within me. I have not the
vanity to think that my own mental and emotional con-
stitution should be the norm for the rest of musical man-
kind, and, therefore, I can only smile when younger writers,
or older writers, who by this time ought to know better,
implicitly claim that they are the world's norm. There
was a time when I had a half-idea that it was really quite
intelligent on the part of Providence to have sent me on
earth, for had I not been born the world would never have
known the truth as to musical 'values.' In my boyish sim-
plicity I thought that it was essential that other people
should feel as I felt; now I have developed, on this point,
a toleration so magnificently comprehensive that it
amounts to complete indifference."
There is, however, a legitimate function which the art-
critic, if he be properly equipped, can discharge. It is a
function analogous to that of the professional guide who
8
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
J
conducts the traveler through a foreign city and points
out to him the sights, —or at least the things that are
deemed such by himself. If the critic possesses an exten-
sive and intimate acquaintance with works of art, and his
faculties through much observation and comparison have
become sensitive to facts and differences which would pass
unnoticed by others, he may then similarly be able to
take the plain "consumer" of art upon a personally con-
ducted tour of a given canvas or symphony, and call his
attention to features which he might otherwise overlook,
or which it might take him much time to discover for him-
self. But of course, once such features are pointed out
and perceived, the "consumer" must do the rest. That is,
the question of their aesthetic worth is one that he must
decide for himself. The critic's judgment of it represents
neither more nor less than the judgment of anyone else;
namely, it represents his own preferences only, and is in no
sense to be regarded as "authoritative" or binding on any-
one. For in matters of aesthetic taste it is as with taste
in matters of cookery. The gourmet may gather for us
the rarest dishes most expertly prepared, or those most
relished by himself; but neither he nor his chef, however
skilled, can compel our taste. They can but succeed, if
ours be timid or suggestible souls, in making us hide that
taste in the belief that we ought to be ashamed of it. But
such psychological browbeating establishes nothing.
Tastes of course can be modified, and by appropriate and
assiduous cultivation a taste of almost any sort can be
developed. But whether it then is to be described as an
educated or as a perverted taste, is itself a pure matter of
taste. The critic, however well and abundantly trained
he may be, must therefore not for a moment be thought
of as an authority on matters of aesthetic worth. As to
that, πάντων χρημάτων μέτρον ἄνθρωπος.
INTRODUCTION
9
$4
The expert in historical matters. There is another type
of person who is sometimes referred to as an art-critic,
but who is in fact something quite different. He is the sort
of person whose opinion we seek when, for instance, the
genuineness of a given painting is in question. He is the
expert in matters not of aesthetics or of art as such, but of
the history of art. His training, if he is competent, must
have been that of a highly specialized detective. Not only
must he have learned to recognize the characteristics of
the art works of any period or school, but he must also
have made a minute study of the marks peculiar to the
work of individual artists. For instance, he must know
which colors a given painter did and did not use, what sorts
of brush strokes he employed and for what, and, indeed,
what his fingerprints were like, if any of them happen to
have been left in the paint of his canvases. Such knowl-
edge is quite indispensable for the task of saying to what
period or individual painter a given picture is to be as-
cribed; but obviously all that sort of thing has nothing
whatever to do with aesthetic worth or the aesthetic inter-
est in works of art.
cos
10
5
What importance has the genuineness of a work of art?
Occasionally we read of some factory in Italy or France
that has been turning out reproductions or imitations of
the work of famous artists or ancient periods, and doing it
with the most scrupulous care and the highest skill. Some
dealers, we read, buy these products and, being very busy
men, they occasionally forget where the things came from
and sell them as "genuine" to private collectors or muse-
10
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ums, whose experts have accepted them as such. When
the truth comes out, the joke is supposed to be on the ex-
pert and on the purchaser.
-
Viewed in the light of common sense, however, the mat-
ter seems to me to be as follows. Art museums have two
principal raisons d'être. One of them is to function as
laboratories for students of the history of art, where they
will be able to observe for themselves what the work of
a given school or of a given artist is like. And it is ob-
vious that if an imitation is so good that the best-qualified
experts mistake it for an original, it is precisely as good as
an original would be, for the purpose just mentioned. The
other great function of a museum is to be a place where
people who are interested in works of art as aesthetic
objects rather than as historical specimens, will find them
in abundance. For them the only things of importance
about any given work of art are the aesthetic feelings and
aesthetic enjoyment which they derive from the contem-
plation of it. And as to this also, it is obvious that if a
copy or an imitation of a Rembrandt, for instance, is so
faithful that only the most expert detectives, or perhaps
not even they, can tell it from an original, it is thereby
proved to be just as good for aesthetic purposes as the
original would be.
It is then evident that all the embarrassment and morti-
fication over the fact that one has mistaken an excellent
imitation for an original, means only that one is interested
not in having good pictures or good historical specimens,
but in collecting rare or expensive things as such. This is
a perfectly legitimate interest, which has many other mani-
festations; for instance, the collecting of postage stamps,
of memberships in exclusive social organizations, of let-
ters after one's name, etc. The most vital if not the only
root of that interest is probably the usually rather harm-
A
INTRODUCTION
11
less, but ubiquitous and tremendously strong human im-
pulse to be or have something unique or at least rare, in
which we may take correspondingly great pride. That
rarity is what we prize, is evident enough in the case of
the collecting of postage stamps, which is accordingly
considered a somewhat childish sort of thing to do. But
where the objects collected have an aesthetic or scientific
value, besides that of being rare, one may very easily de-
ceive oneself and others as to the nature of one's interest
in them.
The matter of genuineness is of importance also from the
standpoint of another sort of interest in works of art,
namely, that of persons who have no interest in them, but
think they ought to have! The name of the artist, with a
knowledge of the standing he has, then becomes the indis-
pensable indication of the sort of reaction which is ap-
propriate to a given work. And such is the hypnotic
effect of famous names that even in people who have a
genuinely aesthetic appreciation of works of art, a favor-
able or unfavorable bias is likely to be induced in advance
by the name of the artist alone.
cos
6
-
The aesthetic “consumer.” Beside the artists, the most
important class of persons having to do with works of art
consists of those whom we may call the aesthetic con-
sumers. They are the numerous persons who usually say
little about works of art, but who, if they voice an opinion,
are often careful to preface it with the disarming remark
that of course they "know nothing about art." They are
the people who look at pictures, or listen to music, or read
poetry, or go to the ballet, etc., simply because they really
get aesthetic feelings from such things, and more or less
12
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
of aesthetic enjoyment. I feel sure that they constitute
the public which really matters in the sight of the Muses,
and also in that of the truly creative and sincere artists, as
distinguished from the mere stuntsters and the mere no-
toriety-seekers of art. For it should be remembered that
sonatas are not played by musicians for teachers of har-
mony, nor sonnets published by poets for dissecting pro-
fessors of English, but for amateurs, i.e., lovers of music
and of poetry. The dilettante -the man who takes de-
light in works of art, is the one who, with the artist,
counts most, of all the persons who occupy themselves
with works of art. The present volume might almost be
said to be dedicated to him, not in the sense that he should
read it, but in the sense that it aims to show among other
things how much more important than critic or aestheti-
cian is the true dilettante. The vitality of art depends
upon him to a considerable extent, upon his numbers,
upon the vigor of his interest, and upon his refusal to let
himself be bluffed or his actual taste awed, by the impres-
sive but aesthetically irrelevant learning of the so-called
authorities. To be "a mere dilettante" is something bad
only where some definite task demanding strictly tech-
nical training must be accomplished. But the true "con-
sumption" of works of art is nothing of this sort. People
who think otherwise are confusing the talking about works
of art with the "consumption," i.e., the aesthetic contem-
plation, of them.
$7
Aesthetics and the psychology laboratory. The word
Aesthetic is derived from the Greek word aio@nrikós which
means perceptive, or fitted to be perceived. In 1750 A. G.
Baumgarten published a work entitled Aesthetica, deal-
INTRODUCTION
13
ing with Beauty, and the term Aesthetics has since come
to be used to mean the study of such matters as art and the
beautiful. The preceding sections of this chapter will
have served to show that art and the beautiful may be
made objects of study in a good many different ways, so
that the term Aesthetics has a rather ambiguous denota-
tion. It remains to say a few words concerning a sort of
study of aesthetic facts not yet mentioned; namely, the ex-
perimental study of them in the psychology laboratory.
Examples would be the study of color preferences; of pref-
erences in the proportions of rectangles or other regular
figures; of preferences in tone combinations; of the pe-
culiar emotional effects connected with given colors,
shapes, tones, etc., or with given combinations of them, or
with given rhythms, or types of meter in poetry; or again
the study of the relative contributions made to the total
aesthetic value of poetry, by its musical and its imaginal
elements, etc.
Such investigations are perfectly legitimate, and are
apparently interesting to psychologists; but it is very diffi-
cult in the case of most studies of that sort to see of what
possible value they might be either to the artist, or to the
critic, the consumer, or the philosopher of art. Consider
for instance the investigation of color preferences by the
method of paired comparisons. Squares of paper of many
colors but of the same size, each pasted on a piece of gray
cardboard, are shown to an observer in pairs, and he is
asked to indicate which color of each pair he prefers. His
preferences are recorded, and the process is continued until
each color has been paired with every other. One then
tabulates the record and finds that a certain color has been
preferred by him more often than any other. But now
what can be done with that hard-won fact? Virtually
nothing. The color which has been preferred most often
-
14
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
by him, is not even in many cases his "favorite" color.
One reason is that one's "favorite" color usually means,
favorite as color of some assumed sort of object. For in-
stance, blue might be one's favorite color for neckties or
dress goods for oneself, but it would not be one's favorite
color for soup, let us say, or for the hair or complexion of
one's sweetheart. The laboratory conditions are delib-
erately artificial, and yield results which are abstract in
the sense that they are true, other things being equal. But
the other things never are, outside the laboratory. This,
of course, is the case also in physics, but it has a very differ-
ent significance there, for the physical laws discovered are
fixed and universal laws. But the results of the study of
color preference for a given person may not be valid for
another, or for himself at a later time. And even if pro-
longed investigation should establish some statistical law,
to the effect, perhaps, that about eighty-seven per cent of
native-born American males between the ages of twenty
and twenty-five prefer a given color under laboratory con-
ditions, what could be done with that? Possibly it might
be of some slight use to the manufacturers of wall-papers
for love-nests, brides' tastes being equal! Perhaps a
somewhat better case for the possibility of obtaining psy-
chological "laws of beauty" might be made out in the in-
stance of some of the other laboratory investigations.
But, as will be shown later, such "laws" never can furnish
an "ought" or "ought not" to the artist; and, in any event,
an artist's studio is not to be thought of as a beauty fac-
tory. That beauty has no essential connection with art,
is a fact of fundamental importance in aesthetics, to the
consideration of which we may now turn.
CHAPTER I
ART AND THE CREATION OF BEAUTY
cas
1
Art is not a quality of things but an activity of man.
When art is mentioned, pictures, statues, music, poetry,
cathedrals, and so on, naturally come to mind; and the
question whether a given picture, for instance, is truly
art, which is sometimes put to the supposed expert, would
indicate in the questioner a naïve assumption that “art”
is some subtle attribute, to be discerned in the picture by
people whose training has fitted them to do so. But
strictly speaking, pictures, statues, and the like are not
art at all but works of art; and art is not a quality discern-
ible in them but an activity of man, the activity,
namely, of which such things are the products. The task
of stating the exact nature of this activity has often been
attempted, and one may gain an idea of the difficulty of it
by glancing at the many would-be definitions of art, by
various writers, to be found in histories of aesthetics.
§ 2
Art is not an activity aiming at the creation of beauty.
By far the most common opinion concerning the nature of
art is that it is the human activity which aims at the cre-
ation of beautiful things. This definition at first seems
plausible because most of us find some degree of beauty
15
16
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
in the vast majority of the works of art of which we think
spontaneously; for instance, the contents of museums and
art galleries. But reflection quickly shows, I think, that
art cannot possibly be defined in terms of beauty. For,
particularly in these "modern" days, we meet with many
objects which are undeniably works of art, but which are
none the less very ugly. I shall name no instances, for
they would represent only my own aesthetic evaluations,
which are no more binding on others than are theirs upon
me. Instead, I shall leave each reader to supply instances
of ugly works of art for himself out of his own experience;
and I wager he will have no difficulty in doing so unless per-
chance he be one of those misguided souls who, either be-
cause timid of being thought unperceptive, or because
persuaded that development of a pantophagous, taste is
a merit or a duty, would never confess themselves unable
to find beauty in everything. But if my reader is not
one of these, and he yet says that he cannot think of ex-
amples of ugly art, then I venture to assert that it is not
because he has never seen at exhibitions any pictures,
for instance, which he found ugly, but rather because he
holds that, as a matter of definition, something which is
not beautiful cannot properly be called a work of art.
Art may deal with the ugly or the painful, he will say, -
and the tragedy is a typical instance of it, — but the work
of art which does this somehow transmutes the ugliness and
is itself a thing of beauty.
§ 3
Many works of art are ugly. There, however, lies a pos-
sibility of misunderstanding, and to remove it I must state
explicitly that when I assert that ugly works of art exist,
I do not at all refer to examples of what has been called
CREATION OF BEAUTY
17
"the ugly in art," or "the art of pain," that is to say, to ex-
amples of the pleasing representation by art of an ugly or
painful subject. By ugly works of art, I mean on the
contrary works of art which themselves finally displease
us, i.e., works in the aesthetic contemplation of which, for
whatever reason, we got not pleasure, but displeasure (or
at all events more displeasure than pleasure), and from
which we therefore turn with aversion. Naturally enough,
works of art of this sort are not much noticed or purchased,
for most buyers of works of art want beauty; and beauty
therefore comes to be almost a condition of the social
visibility and preservation of a work of art. But beauty is
not a condition of the existence of one, for ugly art, al-
though easily overlooked or forgotten, exists in vast quan-
tities: there are ugly designs, ugly color-schemes, ugly
paintings, ugly architecture, ugly music, ugly dances, and
so on.
But it might be objected again that an ugly design or an
ugly picture should not be called a work of art but rather
of lack-of-art, for the ugliness proves the failure of the art.
This, however, is not necessarily so. The creator of such
a work might well admit the ugliness, and insist that he
was not concerned to create beauty, but to give objective
expression to something that was in him; and that his
work such as it is does just that, with complete success.
This ugly picture to which you deny the name of work of
art, he might say, was born in exactly the same way as that
other work of mine, which is beautiful and to which you
grant the name. Each proceeded from the same sort of
impulse, and was created through processes of the same
kind. Not a whit less of skill was needed in the produc-
tion of the one than in the production of the other, and
each equally is in truth a work of art. The trouble is
with your conception of art as necessarily involving beauty.
18
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
That is a conception arbitrarily framed in terms of what
you, as a "consumer" of works of art, desire to find in
them; and it reveals your lack of personal acquaintance
with the psychological state out of which pictures are born.
$ 4
The artist aims not at beauty but at objective self-
expression. This answer, indeed, voices the most decisive
of all the objections to describing art as the activity which
aims at the creation of something beautiful. Such a
description of the art-activity is simply and flagrantly
untrue to psychological fact.
Anyone who, no matter in what field or on how humble
a scale, has ever felt the art impulse and is capable of
describing accurately his then psychological state, will I
think unhesitatingly declare that his endeavor was not
"to create beauty," but much rather, and essentially, to
give adequate embodiment in words, lines, colors, or what
not, to some particular and probably nameless feeling or
emotion that possessed him. If the feeling was a pleasant
feeling and the embodiment of it is adequate, the object
created will indeed have beauty; but this in no way ex-
plains the particular nature of the object created, for the
fact that it has beauty does not in the least distinguish it
from countless other equally beautiful possible objects,
which he might have created but did not create nor try to
create. On the other hand, if the feeling which possessed
him was an unpleasant one, the object by constructing
which he gives the feeling adequate embodiment, will be
ugly, but it will be a work of art none the less. The ques-
tion in the light of which the artist criticizes his own at-
tempts at creation is not "Is this beautiful?" but "Is this
exactly what I want to do?", i.e., “Does this adequately
CREATION OF BEAUTY
19
objectify what I feel?" For this reason, when other people,
measuring in terms of beauty, praise some work of his
with which he himself is disappointed, he replies, "Yes,
but it does not really express what I felt." He is like a
man who had some definite thought to express but who
finds that, owing to his imperfect command of the lan-
guage, he has instead uttered unawares some witty remark,
for which people praise him.
85
The deliberate creating of beauty is not art. That the
characterization of art as the attempt to create the beauti-
ful is incorrect, is shown by the fact that some things to
which it would be quite arbitrary to deny the name of
works of art are ugly. But it is also shown by the further
fact that certain things which are brought into existence
through the deliberate intention to create something beau-
tiful, are not works of art. As instances of things which
can be and occasionally are so brought into being, may be
mentioned the figures created by the turning of a kaleido-
scope; the spectrum created by passing sunlight through a
prism; the forms and colors created by pouring a little
crude oil on water; the curves created by operating a cyclo-
harmonograph, and so on. Art implies among other things
the critical control of a process of objectification, and this
is absent in any true sense from the processes creative of
beauty just mentioned.
cos
6
If a thing is a work of art, it remains so. But beauty
comes and goes. Finally, attention may be called to the
variability of beauty. We may to-day not judge beautiful
20
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
a picture or a musical composition which we once pro-
nounced to be so, or which others now so pronounce. Shall
we then say that it was a work of art, but has ceased to be
so? Or that it both is and is not a work of art, according
as it gives or fails to give aesthetic pleasure to various
beholders? This, I submit, would be absurd, for to de-
scribe anything as a work of art is merely to say something
as to the sort of process through which it came into being.
If on the other hand we mean to say something, not as to
the nature of the process, but as to the pleasingness of the
product to aesthetic contemplation, then we have for this
the terms Beautiful and Ugly. These terms concern only
the object judged, and imply nothing as to how it came to
be, for we apply them no less readily to natural objects
than to objects which are products of art. The predicate
"work of art," unfortunately, has come to be used by some
people as though it were eulogistic of the object to which
it is applied; whereas the truth is that "work of art" means
nothing whatever but product of art, and this implies noth-
ing as to the aesthetic merit of any object so described.
If being a product of art has any eulogistic implication at
all, the eulogy has to do with the skill presumed to be in-
volved in the process of production, and not with the
beauty of the product.
It has been shown in this chapter that some things
which are beautiful are not works of art; and that some
things which are works of art are not beautiful. From
this it follows that no matter how close in actual fact may
be the relation between beauty and the activity called art,
no essential connection exists between them. Such con-
nection as there is remains wholly adventitious.
CHAPTER II
ART THE LANGUAGE OF FEELING
VÉRON AND TOLSTOI
cas
1
Véron regards art as being essentially expression of emo-
tion. One of the first writers to perceive that art cannot
truly be defined in terms of beauty was Eugène Véron.¹
His book is not well known to-day, and I shall therefore
give here a brief outline of his views, which constitute an
important contribution to the philosophy of art.
According to Véron, art is essentially language; and
language originates in cry and gesture. These expressions
of pain and joy are natural to man, as to the animals; but
man has the capacity to vary, diversify, and elaborate them
as the animals cannot. Such elaborations are at first
imitative; for instance, pictorial. But with the develop-
ment in man of more and more general and abstract
thought, the inadequacy of imitative means of expression
becomes greater and greater; and symbols that are essen-
tially arbitrary (in the sense of not attempting to be like
what they stand for), become indispensable. This marks
the bifurcation of language into "prose," i.e., the language
for the expression of facts and ideas, by means of symbols
in which the imitative character is attenuated or lost;
and on the other hand "poetry" (i.e., art), which is the
1 L'Esthétique, Paris, 1882. First Ed. 1878.
-
21
22
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
language for the expression of concrete and personal im-
pressions (namely, of feelings and emotions), and which
inherits the imitative and concrete signs given up by
"prose.'
Art then adapts these signs more and more to its pur-
poses, completing them, rendering them more precise,
and multiplying them till they include all forms, colors,
sounds, lines, etc. Art, therefore, is "l'expression émue de
la personnalité humaine," the emotional (literally, the
moved) expression of human personality; and Véron writes
(p. 35): "What properly constitutes artistic genius is the
imperious need to manifest externally by directly expres-
sive forms and signs the emotions felt; and the capacity
for finding such signs and such forms by a kind of immedi-
ate intuition, in which reflection and desire intervene only
as later additions." Art is therefore much wider in scope
than beauty. The truth is not that the beautiful con-
tains art, but on the contrary that art contains the beauti-
ful, just as it contains the terrible, the sad, the ugly, the
joyous, etc. (p. 133).
As a general thesis it may then be said that any work
of art is expressive, in that it manifests the manner in which
the artist apprehends a sensation or sentiment, and in
that it gives the measure of the impression he has felt,
and of his emotional power (p. 141). But, using the
word "expressive" in a more special sense, we may never-
theless distinguish two species of art, expressive and
decorative. In decorative art, which springs "from the
instinctive or voluntary seeking for the pleasures of the
eye or the ear," the intervention of ideas or sentiments is
not necessary. Beauty of form, line, color, etc. is its es-
sential object; and Véron believes (although, I should say,
incorrectly) that most of Greek sculpture is art of this
"decorative" sort. In expressive art, on the other hand,
})
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
23
grace and beauty need not enter. Art is expressive so far
as its object is the external manifestation of the artist's
emotional states as peculiar to himself. And therefore
"expressive art, which modern art really is, rests very
largely on sympathy. It depicts emotions, sentiments,
characters. It manifests in artistic form the peculiar in-
terest that man has for man. The beautiful then becomes
but a secondary matter. The goal is man himself— the
study of his accidental or permanent sentiments, of his
virtues and vices" (p. 109). What we admire in it,
Véron asserts, is the artist and his genius as much as what
he sets before us.
The distinction between decorative and expressive art
entails a certain difference in the standards of evaluation
relevant to each: "Inasmuch as decorative art is devoted
to the pleasure of the eye and the ear, that very pleasure
is the only measure of its worth. But with regard to
expressive art, the object of which is above all to express
sentiments and ideas . . . it is obvious that the worth of
the ideas and sentiments expressed must to an extent enter
into the evaluation of the work as a whole" (p. 155). And
at the last, Véron declares that the idea which he has en-
deavored to develop in his book is this: "Sincerity in art,
by the spontaneous manifestation of the personal emotion
of the artist. It alone can renew art by restoring to it
the originality forbidden by the pedantry of those who
exclusively admire Greek or Italian renaissance sculpture"
(p. 460).
$ 2
For Tolstoi, the essence of art is transmission of emotion.
Véron's views on the nature of art, on the relation of art
to beauty, on the bearing which the sentiments expressed
by art should have on the evaluation of it, and on the
24
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
primary importance of sincerity in the artist, all reappear
in Tolstoi's book, What is Art? Indeed, Tolstoi's phi-
losophy of art would seem to have been suggested by
Véron's, in much larger measure than one would be led to
think by the few merely critical references to the latter
which appear in Tolstoi's book. But in any case, there is
no doubt that it is through Tolstoi that the doctrines of
art as the language of feeling, and of art as independent
of beauty, have received their widest-reaching and most
vigorous proclamation, and exerted their most real influ-
ence. Tolstoi's interpretation of them must therefore
be compared with Véron's, in respect to certain essential
issues. But in reading Tolstoi's book it is well to bear in
mind that his discussion of the nature of art is shot through
and through with an estimate of the value of art which,
starting from Véron's suggestion that the worth of the
feelings expressed determines in part the worth of the
art, would make the conveying of Christian feelings the
essential test of good art. In the minds of many, Tolstoi's
book has come to stand for little else than this aesthetically
startling proposal, and has been judged accordingly. But
this aspect of his doctrine may be wholly disregarded with-
out affecting in any way his analysis of the nature of art.
Like Véron, Tolstoi declares that art is essentially the
language of feeling. Art, he writes, "is one of the means
of intercourse between man and man"; and what dis-
tinguishes art from speech is that "whereas by words a
man transmits his thoughts to another, by means of art
he transmits his feelings." The only important difference
between this view of the nature of art and Véron's, is to be
found in what "the language of feeling" is taken to mean
in each. Véron thinks it means the expression of feeling,
whereas Tolstoi takes it to mean the transmission of feel-
ing.
ܐ܂
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
25
§ 3
What is language? Criticism of Professor Dewey's
view. The question whether language is to be thought of
rather as expression, or as communication, is an important
one for the philosophy of art, and must therefore be ex-
amined here with some care. Most discussions of it have
had in view language in the sense of ordinary speech, rather
than the language which art constitutes. But the two are
so closely related that an inquiry into the one will shed
much light on the other.
Professor Jespersen, through an inductive inquiry into
the psychological history of language, comes to the con-
clusion that language does not spring from, and therefore
does not essentially consist in, the endeavor to transmit
thought or feeling. He writes: 2 "One point must be
constantly kept in mind. Although we now regard the
communication of thought as the main object of speaking,
there is no reason for thinking that this has always been
the case" (p. 437). Utterances "were at first, like the sing-
ing of birds and the roaring of many animals and the cry-
ing and crooning of babies, exclamative, not communica-
tive that is, they came forth from an inner craving of
the individual without any thought of any fellow crea-
tures" (p. 436).
2 Language, Its nature, development, and origin. Ch. XXI.
3 Experience and Nature. P. 175.
-
-
3
Professor Dewey, on the other hand, would deny to such
utterances the name of language. "The story of lan-
guage," he writes, "is the story of the use made of these
occurrences . . . they become language only when used
within a context of mutual assistance and direction..."
And, more explicitly: "The heart of language is not 'ex-
pression' of something antecedent, much less expression of
26
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
antecedent thought. It is communication; the establish-
ment of coöperation in an activity in which there are part-
ners, and in which the activity of each is modified and regu-
lated by partnership." (p. 179). He also writes that the
human being, as distinguished from the animals, "puts
himself at the standpoint of a situation in which two
parties share. This is the essential peculiarity of lan-
guage, or signs" (p. 178).
Now, I should admit that the utterances mentioned by
Professor Jespersen are not developed speech as we have
it to-day. On the other hand, everyone seems agreed that
it is out of them that our speech has evolved. Moreover,
no matter how elaborately molded they have become or by
means of what influences, no matter what social ends they
have served or what effects they have had on the minds.
of the speakers themselves, such acts of expression of what
Professor Jespersen calls "an inner craving of the indi-
vidual" are I think, to-day no less than at first, intrinsically
present in speech, and indeed constitute the very stuff of
which it is made.
Another admission which I willingly make is that speech
is an extremely powerful factor in the development of
thought. Words make possible thinking which is abstract,
or at least abstract to any extent worth mentioning. But
it is I think no less true to say that thinking which was be-
ginning to be abstract made words, i.e., arbitrary signs,
necessary. What made thinking begin to be abstract is
another question.*
4 Professor Grace de Laguna, in a most able work (Speech, its Func-
tion and Development, Yale press, 1927) which came into my hands since
this chapter was written, plausibly argues that the passage of the proto-
humans from arboreal to ground life, with the resulting greater need of
coöperative action, is mainly responsible for the advent of "speech." Her
study of the social function of speech and of the social factors in the de-
velopment of both speech and thought, is an outstanding contribution
to the subject, and many of her conclusions seem to me very sound. But
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
27
But I find myself quite unable to agree with Professor
Dewey's contention that meaning is a product of coöper-
ative behavior," and with his account of the genesis of signs
and meaning. He calls attention first to what Max Meyer
refers to as the "signaling reflexes" of animals, e.g., the
crowing of a rooster, the spreading of its tail by a peacock,
etc., “which have no direct consequences of utility to the
behaving animal, but which call out certain characteristic
responses, sexual, protective, food-finding ... in other
animals"; which responses themselves in some cases have
an important consequence for the first agent, or for the spe-
they do not seem to me to affect the essential contention of the present
chapter, which concerns what speech is, and not (except incidentally),
how it came to be what it is. I am aware that there is a tendency to-day,
(with which I do not charge Prof. De Laguna), to think that the answer
to the second question constitutes the only meaningful answer to the first,
and therefore to consider oneself enlightened as to what a dog is, for
instance, when, instead of being named, it is referred to in terms of its
genealogy. As against this, I should maintain that a statement of what a
thing is, is one from which may be deduced the various possible functions
that it is capable of serving, including, of course, that to the necessity
of serving which it may owe its development. (The distinction between
what a thing is essentially, and its various possible uses, is thus of the
same sort as the distinction familiar to logicians between a "propositional
function" and the various propositions obtainable from it by assigning
to its "variables" their various possible "values.") A statement of what
a hand is, for instance, enables us to infer the possible uses to which it
can be put, including the grasping use incidental to the arboreal life
which developed it (in the ape but not in the squirrel!). If this meaning
of the question as to what speech is, is kept in mind, then, the answer
still seems to me to be that it is external expression of an inner state
(no matter what the cause or occasion of that inner state itself may be).
This is true of speech at all stages of its development from the animal
cry, to the utterances of civilized man. If and only if speech is this, can
it be anything more, for instance an instrument of conscious coöperation.
On the other hand, speech need not be serving (nor even be intended
to serve) as an instrument of coöperation, in order to be speech, in a
given case.
5 "Intelligence and meaning are natural consequences of the peculiar
form [viz., reciprocally coöperative] which interaction sometimes assumes
in the case of human beings. Primarily meaning is intent and intent is
not personal in a private and exclusive sense. . Secondarily, mean-
ing is the acquisition of significance by things in their status in making
possible and fulfilling shared coöperation" (p. 180).
28
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
cies (p. 176). Similar activities without intent in human
beings would be facial changes, which are signs to others
of our emotions, the baby's scream, etc. Professor Dewey
goes on to say that such acts, although a material condition
of language, are not language nor the sufficient condition
of language. "Only from an external standpoint, is the
original action even a signal; the response of other animals
to it is not to a sign, but, by some preformed mechanism,
to a direct stimulus." Then comes the passage in which
Professor Dewey sets forth his view of the difference be-
tween such acts and language, and of the way in which
the transition from them to language is effected. It is as
follows: "By habit, by conditioned reflex, hens run to the
farmer when he makes a clucking noise, or when they hear
the rattle of grain in a pan. When the farmer raises his
arm to throw the grain they scatter and fly, to return only
when the movement ceases. They act as if alarmed; his
movement is thus not a sign of food; it is a stimulus that
evokes flight. But a human infant learns to discount such
movements; to become interested in them as events pre-
paratory to a desired consummation; he learns to treat
them as signs of an ulterior event so that his response
is to their meaning. He treats them as means to conse-
quences. The hen's activity is ego-centric; that of the
human being is participative. The latter puts himself
at the standpoint of a situation in which two parties share.
This is the essential peculiarity of language, or signs"
(pp. 177/8).
I am unable to perceive, however, that the passage just
quoted in the least supports its conclusion. On the con-
trary, it seems to me to contain evidence against that very
conclusion. Professor Dewey mentions two ways in which
the hen's reflexes become conditioned (by the farmer's
call, and by the rattle of grain in the pan). As regards
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
29
these, the hen has done exactly what he says the human
infant does, viz., discount (or here rather take account of)
a noise which in the absence of previous experience it would
ignore, or possibly flee from, but certainly not respond to
as if it were food. The fact that a given hen or flock of
hens has not yet learned in a similar way to discount an-
other act of the farmer (the movement of his arm) seems
to me quite irrelevant. That act could undoubtedly be
made to condition the food-approaching response of the
hen as do the noises mentioned. But this would be noth-
ing new. It would be only one more fact against the con-
clusion contended for by Professor Dewey. That is, it
would show again that the hen can learn to perform the
food-approaching act, in response to a stimulus which is
not food, but a quite arbitrary sound or sight, and which
means or signifies to the hen both the imminence and the
location of food, because in its past experience it has been
invariably associated therewith. The hen thus does ex-
actly what Professor Dewey claims for the human infant;
and so far as the passage quoted goes, the infant does noth-
ing different in kind (although of course much in degree)
from what Professor Dewey grants that the hen does. If
the infant's activity thereby ceases to be ego-centric and
becomes entitled to be called participative (which I can-
not see), then so does the hen's.
The difference between the hen and the infant is not that
the latter, but not the former, learns to discount (and take
account of) certain stimuli, i.e., to respond not to what
they are but to what they mean or signify; for the hen
as well as the infant does exactly that. The true difference
between them, I submit, is the extent to which this identi-
cal process of "conditioning" can be carried in each. Words
are merely one kind of signs among others, to which both
animals and men can learn to respond. But for man,
30
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
words are an extraordinarily useful sort of signs, for a
number of reasons. One is that he can both distinguish,
make and remember an immensely greater variety of
sound (or line) combinations than can any animal. An-
other is that (partly as a cause and partly as a result of
this, as well as of other factors), man goes far beyond the
animals in his interest in and capacity to discern the ab-
stract, that is to say, the likenesses and unlikenesses, or the
kinds, of the concrete things, relations, and actions which
he perceives. This interest and this capacity both call
for words, and are fostered by words."
The passage quoted above, it is true, is immediately
followed in Professor Dewey's chapter by a discussion of
what is involved when, for instance, a person A points.
to a flower and requests B to bring it to him. Professor
Dewey there stresses the fact that in such a case the flower
is considered, both by A and by B, partly in terms of its
function in the other's experience, i.e., the situation in-
volves coöperation; and he then declares: "Such is the
essence and import of communication, signs and meaning"
(p. 178).
Of course, since the situation described assumes lan-
guage as already in existence, analysis of that situation
cannot fail to reveal in it signs and meanings. But so far
as I can see Professor Dewey exhibits no evidence what-
6 On the matter of abstract ideas, Mr. Bertrand Russell writes as fol-
lows (Philosophy, p. 54): “It has often been supposed that, because we
can use a word like 'man' correctly, we must be capable of a correspond-
ing 'abstract' idea of man, but this is quite a mistake. Some reactions
[on our part] are appropriate to one man, some to another, but all have
certain elements in common. If the word 'man' produces in us the reac-
tions which are common but no others, we may be said to understand
the word 'man'." To this I would reply that the psychic state in ust
which corresponds to this making by us (incipiently) of only the reactions
appropriate towards any man, is precisely what constitutes having an
abstract idea of man. To have an abstract idea, however, does not auto-
matically confer the capacity to give an analytical account of it.
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
31
ever that situations of that particular sort are needed to
beget signs and meanings. As we have already seen, signs
and meanings already existed for the hen, whose correct ap-
prehension of the meaning of the farmer's signals involved
no coöperation on its part. The sort of situation described
by Professor Dewey is not, then, what begets signs and
meanings; on the contrary, it presupposes them, and, be-
ing a situation involving coöperation, they are used (in it)
for purposes of coöperation. The most that could be
claimed for situations of that sort would be that they beget
the special sorts of signs and meanings needed for purposes
not just of communication, but of coöperation. For the
viewing of one thing by two persons each in terms of the
possible function of the thing in the other's experience, i.e.,
coöperatively, is not at all an invariable characteristic of
the cases where language is used as a means of communica-
tion. It represents, on the contrary, an advanced stage
of linguistic communication, the special features of which
mask, instead of revealing, those which are alone essential
to communication in general. A much simpler and more
typical case of the use of language for communication
would be such commands as "Get out," "Shut up," "Stop,"
"Run," etc. These are recognizable relatives of, for in-
stance, the spontaneous growl of anger. The next level
in communication might be represented by commands not
merely of action, and not yet of coöperation, but only of
operation on an object, e.g., "Catch it," "Kill it." Com-
munication of either of these two sorts presupposes signs.
and meanings, but goes beyond them in that it involves
signals, which are not the same thing as signs, although
Professor Dewey's discussion does not distinguish between
them. A signal is always a sign, viz., it is a sign made with
intent to affect someone, a sign addressed to someone.
But a sign, on the contrary is by no means always a signal;
32
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
in fact only a small fraction of signs are signals. A signal
is in its very nature communicative, but a sign need not in
the least be so. Words have not only to exist, but also
to be signs for those who hear them, and to be known by
the utterer to be such, before they can properly be called
signals. A signal, on the other hand, is only a particular
form of tool: one stops an animal with a club, a man with
a word. With other words one starts him, turns him to
right or left, or directs him to the performance of more
complicated acts. Man, we could say, is the animal that
can be controlled by puffs of wind! To signal is to use as
tool a sign. But to do this is not ipso facto to coöperate
with, but only to operate on another, or both on and by
means of another. Coöperation is only a special case, in-
volving reciprocal signaling. It is worth noting, in this
connection, that animals no less than men face situations in.
which elaborate, consciously directed coöperation would
be very useful to them. Men are the only ones to practice
it, however, not because they alone possess signs and mean-
ings, but because they alone have in sufficient degree the
necessary capacity for abstraction, and interest in kinds
(vs. cases), already mentioned. On the other hand, as
noted above, man's possession of signals in addition to
signs, does not mean that signals have exclusive reference
to situations involving conscious coöperation.
cos
4
Language is essentially expression of an inner state.
With these considerations in mind, we may now return to
the question which led us to them. That question was,
what essentially is language? Is it intentional expression
of an inner state (a belief, doubt, volition, emotion)? Or
is it intentional communication of such an inner state to
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
33
someone else? The answer to this question seems to me
to be that the former hypothesis is correct, and not the
latter. To remove any possibility of misunderstanding as
to the import of this assertion, however, the following ob-
servations are in order:
(a) That the language act in developed speech (with
which we are here primarily concerned) is an intentional,
and not a merely reflex or mechanical act, is assumed.
That the language act not only in developed speech, but
at all stages of its evolution, is expression of an inner state,
is asserted.
(b) The alternative hypotheses in the question as form-
ulated both imply the antecedent presence of an inner
state. Even on a purely behavioristic view, this would
be true, but the antecedent inner state which eventuates
in overt utterance would then be described in purely
physiological terms. The purely behavioristic view, how-
ever, is not here taken. The antecedent inner state meant
is a psychical one. And the evidence for asserting its ex-
istence is that of introspection. For instance, before I
began writing the present words, I was aware of intending
to say something, and not merely something but a particu-
lar something. In other words, there was antecedently
present in my consciousness a thought, which it was my
problem to express in words; and in the light of which I
passed upon the adequacy or inadequacy of the words
which presented themselves. Moreover, having now writ-
ten the sentence, I read it and gather its meaning; and ask
myself, Is this meaning that which I was trying to express?
And inasmuch as, upon comparison, I judge that it is, I let
the sentence stand as written.
(c) It is freely admitted that language would not have
reached its present stage of development, nor assumed its
present forms, had it not been for the fact that, in a being
34
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
having the capacities of man, words were extraordinarily
useful as signals, that is to say as means of communication
of certain inner states, viz., meanings. On this account,
language as it is to-day has, thoroughly built-in, the pos-
sibility of functioning as instrument of communication.
The possibility, however, is not the necessity. Silver
coins have, likewise built-in, the possibility of functioning
as money, but that does not prevent them from being used
as ornaments for the person by savages and others, or, by
the Hopi Indians, as material from which to make rings
and buckles. Indeed, the very characters built into the
coins to fit them to serve as money, such as recognizable
design, and being made of precious, non-corrosive, hard
metal, also fit the coins to serve ends such as just men-
tioned, which are quite other than the end to which the
coins actually owe the possession of those characters.
That a certain function which needed to be performed has
led to the use of a thing that had characters fitting it to
perform that function does not imply that the essence of
the thing consists in performing it, not even if such use has
led to the development in the thing of characters increas-
ing its capacity to perform that function. The essence of
the thing is a matter of the actual characters which it
possesses, and which constitute the basis of all its possi-
bilities including (but only as one among others), that
of doing what it has been used for. When we ask what a
man is, it is not literally an answer to drag in his evil past,
or his noble lineage. This tells us at most how he got
to be what he is, and it is relevant only as a datum from
which we may be able to infer the answer to our question,
in default of being able to examine the man's inner nature
directly.
But in the case of language, we can make a direct ex-
amination. What it reveals is that (developed) language
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
35
is an (intentional) external expression of an inner psy-
chical state. Expression of one's meaning in words may
be undertaken with the further intention of conveying
that meaning to someone else, and possibly of affecting his
behavior through this. But it may fail to effect this con-
veyance of meaning, and yet it remains speech. More-
over, expression of one's meaning in words may be under-
taken without any intention of conveying the meaning,
then or eventually, to another, even supposing that other
to be one's own future self (as when one writes not a
letter, but a memorandum or record for one's own use).
For one may undertake the expression of one's meaning in
words, purely for the sake of the clarification of it which
results from the immediate contemplation of the product,
apart from anything further that one might do with that
product. And this again truly constitutes speech, or writ-
ing, i.e., language. Or again, one may engage in expression
of one's meaning in words without any ulterior purpose,
i.e., for the sake of such expression, simply because one
craves the achieving of it. This is doubtless the case with
a large part of creative writing. And this, too, beyond
question constitutes a genuine language act. An account
of what the language act, speaking or writing, con-
sists in, does not in any way involve the notion of com-
munication, and still less that of coöperation. These no-
tions are connected only with something quite different,
namely, with an account of factors which have contributed
to the development of language as it is to-day, out of
animal cries; or with an account of the various purposes
as means to which language may be used. Indeed, as con-
cerns the purpose of communication, speech is only a part
of the means to it; for that purpose further requires that
the speech be heard, that the hearer bestow on it enough
attention to gather its meaning, and that the words have for
36
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
him the same meaning as for the speaker, all of which
conditions are subsequent to or independent of the act
of speech. Language is one thing; and community of
language another.
cas
5
My
Art, which is the language of feeling, is essentially ex-
pression. The conclusions reached above concerning the
language of meaning, and the considerations upon which
they were based, apply equally to the language of feeling,
that is to say, art. Indeed the conclusion that art is not
essentially communication but expression, derives addi-
tional strength from the fact that no such strong case can
be made for the biological utility of art, as was possible (al-
though, as we have seen, irrelevant) in the case of speech.
In art, it is equally possible, and most important for
clearness, to distinguish between the art-impulse itself,
viz., the impulse to express a feeling by creating something
that objectifies it, and the other impulses which the thing
created (the work of art) may serve at the same time or
later, e.g., the impulse to communicate the feeling to
others. The fact that the latter impulse very generally
exists in the artist together with the former, is no reason
for confusing the two. The artist's display of his work to
others in the hope that it will transmit to them the feeling
objectified in it, is a manifestation not of the art-impulse
but of one quite other, namely, the gregarious impulse.
Man dislikes to be alone not only physically, but also in
his opinions, and no less in his moods and feelings. Yet
the impulse to express his feelings is different, separable,
and very often actually separate, from the impulse to share
those feelings. The latter constitutes merely one of the
many factors which in various ways condition the mani-
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
37
festations of the art-impulse, furnishing it opportunities,
limiting its scope, forbidding or permitting it to use a given
vocabulary, and so on."
In addition to distinguishing between what the art-
impulse does, and what can then be done with what it has
created, we must distinguish also between the art-impulse
and the other impulses or needs which may put the artist
in the way of experiencing and surrendering himself to the
art-impulse. Art, we are sometimes told, is more often
than not born of utilitarian impulses, or at least of an
admixture of such with the true art impulse. Thus we hear
that Balzac's novels were, many of them, written as pot-
boilers; that the art of primitive peoples springs not from
the art-impulse, but from belief in the magical powers of
certain shapes or designs, etc. But in all such cases we
must distinguish the need which determines the practical
features given to the object created, from the impulse
which determines the non-practical, namely, the aesthetic
features, which are also given to it. Thus, the need to
make a living may well urge an author to set about writing
something, and determine further that what he writes shall
be a novel rather than poetry, that it shall deal with the
queen of Sheba rather than with Queen Victoria, that it
7 Cf. L. Abercrombie (Towards a Theory of Art, p. 45, ff.) who writes
for instance, that a man "does not begin to be an artist until he begins to
publish his experience" . . . “unless he produce something in which others
can share, he has not produced what is called art." . .
"External expres-
sion then-publication - there can be no art without that"
"the essence of its [art's] activity is communication." But ex-
ternal expression and publication are not the same thing; and the first
can and often does occur without the second. In his healthy reaction
against the Crocean kind of "expression" theory of art, Abercrombie falls
needlessly into the arms of Tolstoi. The fallacy on which rests the view
that art consists in the communication or "transportation" of feeling, is
well pointed out in the following words: "That transportation of certain
acids can be effected only in stoneware carboys is a fact; that stoneware
is very convenient for this purpose is possible; but it is none the less true
that stoneware is not thus defined." (P. Guastalla, Esthétique, pp. 25, 26.)
38
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
so on.
shall be written in English rather than in Esperanto, and
But these and similar requirements imposed by
the need to make his work pay, do not completely deter-
mine what he shall write. Within the limits they im-
pose, the artist in him is free to write as he will, and he has
to thank the need to make a living both for the definiteness
of the artistic opportunity that finally confronts him, and
very possibly also, for the fact that he eventually finds
himself actually at work in the field of his art, instead of
loafing still vaguely in wait for an inspiration. Again, prac-
tical needs determine that a spoon, for instance, shall be
made and in a general way what its size and shape shall be.
But the merely practical requirements still leave the spoon
very indeterminate; and this is to say that in addition to
providing an opportunity otherwise lacking for the exercise
of the maker's artistic impulses, the practical needs at the
same time leave to those impulses a very wide scope. It
is only when scope is left by the demands of utility for the
free expression of feeling that the maker of an object may
from an artisan become an artist. Art as such, is thus never
born except of the pure art-impulse, although other im-
pulses may provide and prepare for it a stage on which
to perform, that it could not itself have afforded. Art is
essentially free. It is true that the artist's freedom, like
that of anyone else, is always ultimately of the sort which
a prisoner enjoys in jail, where he is free to sit, stand, lie,
or pace in his cell, or to sleep or wake. Such freedom as
exists is always freedom within limits. One's cell may be
large or small, shaped this way or that, and so on, but real
walls there always are whether of the visible sort or the
invisible. Art is possible when the imposed limitations
are not so cramping as to preclude all initiative; and it
actually begins only when the limitations are not only
understood and accepted, but are perceived as definite and
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
39
positive opportunities for free spontaneous self-expression.
Walls shut out possibilities, but they no less truly create
possibilities. Without walls, one is indeed free,- to
spread oneself out thin. With walls, a dam or a channel
is created, which permits one's energy to accumulate pres-
sure or to concentrate in a given direction.
§ 6
8
Ambiguity of the term Expression in Véron and Tolstoi.
Since for the reasons that have now been stated, the trans-
mission of feeling from the artist to others cannot possibly
be regarded as of the essence of art, Véron, in describing art
as the expression of feeling, appears to have come closer
to the truth than Tolstoi. Véron's characterization of art
is open to criticism only owing to the ambiguity of the
word Expression. Owing to this ambiguity, we are left
in doubt as to the import of Tolstoi's objection to it, for
Tolstoi says no more than that a man might express his
emotions by means of lines, colors, sounds, or words, and
yet might not act on others by such expression. If in so
writing Tolstoi had in mind such cases as that of the pic-
ture which moves no one because it remains unbeheld, or
because it is beheld only by indifferent or insensitive per-
sons, then his objection is ill-taken for the reasons that
have already been mentioned. But if he is on the con-
trary referring to such "expressions of emotion" as swear-
ing, laughing, crying, the angry slashing of an offensive
caricature, etc., then his objection is rightly rooted in the
perception that Véron's definition is too broad, covering
as it does not only art, but also such other expressions of
emotion as just named, which certainly are not art.
But then a precisely analogous defect characterizes Tol-
8 What is Art? Ch. V.
J
-
40
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
stoi's own definition of art as transmission of feeling, since
it likewise covers cases which are certainly not art. Tol-
stoi, indeed, clearly perceives this and himself explicitly
mentions as instances of such emotionally infectious acts,
yawning, laughing, crying, and acts expressive of suffer-
ing, to exclude which his definition must be narrowed in
some way. The distinction by means of which he pro-
poses to do this is one between transmission of feeling by
spontaneous acts instinctively performed at the time we
ourselves are prey to the feeling; and transmission of feel-
ing by acts that are consciously performed "in order to
evoke in others" a feeling we have ourselves experienced,
"with the object of joining" them to ourselves in that same
feeling. This distinction would indeed serve to rule out
the cases of transmission of feeling that are not art, but
unfortunately it rules out at the same time most of what
is truly art. For such deliberate plotting to move others.
as he describes, is in fact no more a part of the state of
consciousness out of which art is born, than was the pre-
occupation with beauty already considered. This con-
scious planning to evoke a feeling in others much rather
characterizes the state of mind of the professional manu-
facturers of emotion who, whether from conviction or for
a consideration, go pulpiteering, patrioteering, or promo-
teering through the length and breadth of the land. But
Tolstoi really knows this; for a hundred pages later (Ch.
XV), when he is no longer looking for some distinction
that will make his definition of art exclude what is not art,
but is on the contrary turning untrammelled to a direct
empirical examination of the state of consciousness out of
which true art is born, he tells us that in the creation of
true art the artist "writes, sings, or plays for himself and
not merely to act on others," and that when on the con-
trary he does not write, sing, or play for his own satisfac-
M
LANGUAGE OF FEELING
41
tion, but does these things for others, then he fails to move
them. True art, Tolstoi believes, unavoidably infects
others with the feeling that gave it birth. Counterfeit art
does not. And the difference between art that has this
contagiousness and art that lacks it, -between genuine
and counterfeit art, - is that in genuine art the artist is
"impelled by an inner need to express his feeling" (Ch.
XV).
Véron and Tolstoi, we may now conclude, are right in
conceiving art to be the language of feeling. Tolstoi, how-
ever, is wrong in taking this to mean either actual or in-
tended transmission of feeling from mind to mind. Véron
is right in taking language to consist essentially in expres-
sion; but he fails to qualify the term Expression in a man-
ner which will exclude expressions of feeling that are not
art.
G
-
I shall attempt to supply the needed restriction, and in
other ways to develop systematically and in details the
view that art consists in the expression of feeling. Before
turning to this task, however, it is necessary to examine
critically certain other theories of the nature of art which
might be held to stand in the way of the one I shall advo-
cate. And since contrast, as Royce used to say, is the
mother of clearness, the discussion of those rival theories
will serve very effectively also to sharpen various import-
ant parts of the outline of the theory to be propounded in
these pages.
CHAPTER III
CRITICISM OF CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
cas
1
Croce's Aesthetic must be read cautiously. A more re-
cent writer, Benedetto Croce, also regards art as being es-
sentially language, and language as being essentially "ex-
pression," but he uses that term otherwise than does Véron.
Croce's characterization of art as "expression" is often
heard of to-day, and has appeared strikingly correct to
many people. However, I should venture the opinion
that agreement with it has been the more ready, the less
clearly has it been realized how vast a difference there is
between what Croce means by "expression," and what is
commonly understood by the term. It will therefore here
be well to consider his doctrine of expression with some
care. Croce's Aesthetic is a book which must be read very
cautiously,¹ for the merit of the just, instructive, and often
pithily stated concrete observations in which it abounds
goes far towards obscuring the arbitrariness and precari-
ousness which, I think, nevertheless characterize the foun-
dations of its aesthetic theory. That which it is above all
necessary to notice as one reads the book is that Croce,
when he appears to be analyzing the meaning of certain
C
1 And more cautiously still in the English translation, by Douglas
Ainslie (2nd Ed. 1922) to which are my page references; for the transla-
tion at more than one important place takes with the text liberties that
would furnish occasion for certain objections, to which the author's doc-
trine as stated in his own words does not.
42
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
43
familiar concepts, is on the contrary for the most part only
prescribing for them meanings to suit his needs. This
entails that, when he uses these concepts, he is then often
speaking a private language of his own, in which indeed
the same terms occur as in ours, but not in the same sense;
and therefore, when he seems to be discussing certain
familiar problems, he is really doing nothing of the sort,
but only elaborating the implications of his own arbitrary
use of words. That this should be the case is no doubt
hard to believe, but the evidence, some of which I shall
produce directly, permits of no other conclusion; and per-
sons familiar with the history of philosophy know that
instances have not been lacking where a writer's pre-
occupation with what Croce calls "the theoretical system-
atization of the forms of the human spirit," has caused him
to do such violence to certain terms as to ruin them almost
altogether.
$ 2
What Croce calls "expression" is a very different thing
from what is usually meant by the term. In the case of the
word Expression, with which we are here particularly con-
cerned, Croce indeed leaves his readers no excuse for be-
lieving that when he uses it he speaks the same language as
most of them, for in Chapter XIII he lays down a distinc-
tion between expression in the "aesthetic sense," and ex-
pression in the "naturalistic sense." He first sets forth a
creditable list of cases exemplifying various meanings
which the word Expression actually has in language. But
instead of then attempting to formulate definitions of the
term that would fit these solid language facts, thus mak-
ing explicit the common intensions that the term in fact
has, Croce on the contrary says: "One can well imagine
what sort of scientific results would be attained by allowing
44
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
oneself to be governed by verbal usage and classing to-
gether facts so widely different" (p. 95). Now it is indeed
true that often there is no core of common meaning in
various occurrences of the same term which all constitute
cases of already well-established usage of the term. But
in any given case it is perhaps still less safe to assume a
priori that there is no such core of common meaning, than
to assume that there is. At all events, the scientific pro-
cedure is not to dismiss the possibility off-hand and boldly
appropriate the word to one's own purposes in defiance
of such usage or usages of it as are already established.
Such a procedure can result only in misleading others and
oneself into thinking that one is talking about a familiar
thing when one uses the term, when in fact one is talking
about something quite other. The scientific thing to do
is to examine carefully the manner in which the term is
actually used in established language, and to formulate
tentative definitions covering such usage or variety of
usages, checking the correctness of such definitions by their
capacity to cover not only the cases of which they repre-
sent an analysis but also other cases that were as yet unex-
amined.2 But Croce, as the statement quoted shows,
scorns to do this, and attains "scientific results" by merely
laying it down that there is "nothing in common between
the science of spiritual expression and a semiotic, whether
2 No doubt, as Croce says in another place, "language is perpetual
creation." The meaning of terms is not something fixed once for all,
and for everyone. Indeed there is no reason why each person should
not express his thoughts in a private language of his own; and to a certain
extent, each person actually does this. But when language is addressed
to others, with the purpose of communicating to them the thought one has
expressed in it, the matter stands otherwise. Unless in such a case one
uses one's terms in the sense which is the established one at the time,
one conveys nothing to others, or,
which is worse,
one imparts to
them a thought different from that which one intended to convey. One
misleads them and also probably oneself, since the force of habit makes
it very easy for one to forget a sense arbitrarily imposed on a familiar term.
M
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
45
it be medical, meteorological, political, physiognomic, or
chiromantic" (p. 95).
If this be so, I submit that the proper thing to do would
then have been to leave the word Expression to such lowly
semiotic employment as Croce suggests already belongs
to it, and to coin some new term to designate the "spiritual
aesthetic synthesis" (itself much in need of elucidation)
which is what Croce means when he talks about "expres-
sion." But one is shocked to find that far from thinking
of doing so, Croce on the contrary considers himself free
to do with the word "expression" as he likes, and expects.
the rest of us to regard our use of it as metaphorical, for on
page 96 he refers to the "expression or spiritual aesthetic
synthesis . . . which is lacking to the merely naturalistic
manifestation or construction also metaphorically called
expression" (italics mine).
3
There are other passages in the Aesthetic, and in the
Breviary of Aesthetic, which further support the charge
made above, that Croce forces upon words having an es-
tablished common use wholly arbitrary meanings of his
own; but the example just given will be enough to show
that it is not safe to assume that Croce is talking about
what he would seem to be according to the ordinary usage
of terms.
Let us now turn to Croce's declaration that art is "ex-
pression," and endeavor to apprehend more definitely
what meaning he attaches to that term. Some of his
statements bearing on this question will first be quoted.
Intuition and Expression, he asserts for instance, are identi-
cal. "To intuite is to express; and nothing else . . . than
to express" (Aesth. p. 11); and elsewhere (Brev. p. 259)
allusion is made to "the false distinction of the indistin-
guishable, intuition and expression." We read also that
3 Rice Institute Pamphlet, Vol. II. pp. 223/310.
46
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
4
"art is vision or intuition" (Brev. p. 229), and that expres-
sion is "spiritual aesthetic synthesis" (Aesth. p. 96). These
statements, however, are bewildering rather than enlight-
ening, and perhaps what Croce means by expression is
made more clear in the following passage: "Everyone can
experience the internal illumination which occurs when
he succeeds, and only to the point that he succeeds, in
formulating to himself his impressions and feelings. Feel-
ings or impressions, then, pass by means of words from
the obscure region of the soul into the clarity of the con-
templative spirit." Feelings, moreover, can be formu-
lated not only in words, but also in line, color, and sound
(p. 8) and this formulation, this giving form to, is "expres-
sion.'
""
If this were the whole story, there would be little occa-
sion to quarrel with Croce's use of the term Expression, for
what the words quoted above (taken by themselves) de-
scribe, is indeed very nearly Expression in one of the mean-
ings commonly given to that term, although, of course,
those words do not specify what it is that differentiates
this sort of expression from other sorts. But from the im-
mediate context of the passage quoted, as well as from other
passages (e.g., pp. 95, 96) it appears that by Expression
Croce means not really formulation in words, lines, colors,
sounds, etc., but only formulation in word-images, line-
images, color-images, and so on. Expression, he says, is
intuition, and intuition of a geometrical figure, for
instance means possession by us of so accurate an image
of it as to be able to trace it immediately (p. 8, italics mine).
Expression in images is expression in the "aesthetic" or
Mag
-
4 Mr. Ainslie says instead (p. 8), “which follows upon his success.
But the original says nothing about following. It reads: "la luce che gli
si fa internamente quando riesce." (Estetica, p. 11.) Croce's doctrine is
on the contrary that the "intuition" coexists with, not follows, the ex-
pression.
">
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
47
"spiritual" sense; but expression in physical material is
only expression in the "naturalistic" sense, and "lacks
expression in the spiritual sense" (p. 95). It is a "merely
naturalistic manifestation or construction" (p. 96), a me-
chanical "translation of the aesthetic fact into physical
phenomena" (p. 96); and these physical phenomena are
merely aids to the re-performance of the act of expression-
in-image-stuff, "physical stimulants of reproduction"
(p. 97), “expedients which succour the weakness of mem-
ory and are its aids" (p. 96). They are thus but mem-
oranda or "monuments of art" (p. 97); and Beauty is at
this place characterized by Croce as the "hedonistic accom-
paniment" of expression.
Croce thus believes that aesthetic expression is neces-
sarily expression in images, and that the physical work
of art is nothing but a subsequent mechanical copy of what
the artist has created and beholds in imagination. The
basis of this doctrine, however, is, I submit, only a certain
confusion which is rather frequent, namely, the confusion
of creation, origination, invention, with imagination. It
is true that there is such a thing as aesthetic expression,
i.e., art-creation, in image-stuff. But it is not true that
aesthetic expression needs to be, or always is, in image-
stuff; nor is it true that imagination is always an active,
creative process. Although expression in images, to a
limited extent, often precedes expression in physical terms
(as in writing, for instance, a few words at a time are
thought of in advance of being written), this is by no means
universally or necessarily the case. In ordinary conversa-
tion, for example, the usual fact is that one literally thinks
aloud. And, a priori, there seems to be no reason why one's
thoughts could not be expressed directly in perceptible
sounds, but should have first to go through a stage of ex-
pression in mere sound-images. There is nothing conse-
48
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
crated about image-stuff, that would render it alone fitted
to be the direct medium of expression. That expression
in image-stuff often precedes to a small extent physical
expression, is rather due to the fact that expression in
image-stuff is usually (but not always) easier and quicker
than expression in perceptible stuff. For instance, it is
easier and quicker to try a word mentally, than to write
it and then scratch it out if inadequate. But in the speech
of ordinary conversation it is otherwise. As noted above,
our thoughts then express themselves directly in physical
words; and if what we have thus uttered without previ-
ously trying it out in imagination proves unsatisfactory to
us, additional statements are then made, amplifying, qual-
ifying, modifying, or withdrawing it. And, in passing,
it may be said that some books give the impression that
such also is the method according to which they were
written. One German philosopher, it will be recalled,
was accused by another of thus doing his thinking in public.
The use of image-stuff as the medium in which to carry
out the trial-and-error process incident to any difficult
expression of feeling or meaning, has exactly the same
significance as the use of paper and pencil by an architect,
instead of steel and stone, in planning a building. If some
Jinn out of the Arabian Nights conferred upon him powers
rendering steel and stone as cheap, as quick, and as easily
and directly responsive a medium of expression for him as
are paper and pencil, he certainly would use steel and stone
to sketch and try with. The peculiar dignity that image-
stuff possesses as a medium of expression is thus not that
of being sacred to creative activity and alone appropriate
to it; but that of being cheap and easy stuff to build and
experiment with. It is quick and responsive, but on the
other hand, like clay which is too wet, it also very quickly
becomes blurry and is impermanent. Therefore, while
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
49
a short poem may be composed wholly in imagination, no
whole book ever was, nor any other difficult and compli-
cated work of art; and where, as in representative art, the
object created consists in large part of images, they have
to be fixed by firm association with the perceptible material
of which the object also in part consists. They are in such
cases used as constituents of the object, not in preference
to perceptible material, but in default of sufficient capacity
on our part to produce, mold, and do with the latter as we
would."
There is then no reason to depart from the ordinary
usage of the term Work of Art, according to which it means,
not exclusively something made of images, but also, and
indeed primarily, the perceptible statue, picture, music,
and so on.
cos
3
Croce's doctrine as to the theoretical relation of “Expres-
sion" to "Intuition" is obscure. We may note next that
Croce would seem to be himself rather uncertain both as
to what he means by intuition and as to what he thinks
is the relation between intuition and expression, for he
5 According to Croce's doctrine, Beethoven, had he lived two thousand
years earlier, could have composed all his music even then, since all art-
creation takes place in Imagination, which needs no instruments or tech-
nique; but he could not have played it. The actual fact, however, is
that the scope of the Imagination, although wider than past experience,
is rather closely dependent upon past experience. For this reason, the
feelings which artists express, even in mere imagination, do not go very
far beyond what they are able to embody in some perceptible medium,
be it, perhaps, as tenuous as words. As new musical or other instruments
are invented, artistic creativeness is made aware of new ranges of possi-
bilities. Feelings which before had to remain unexpressed even in mere
imagination, now reach objectification, and so do the far more numerous
ones which are the progeny of these, that is to say, the feelings which
the artist comes to have at all only owing to the fact that he has already
objectified others, and been able to contemplate the objective embodiment
of those others. (Cf. Delacroix, Psychologie de l'Art, p. 157.)
J
50
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
>>
implies at one place (p. 8) that what is expressed is intu-
ition: "that which does not objectify itself in expression.
is not intuition . . . but sensation i.e., impression;
whereas elsewhere (p. 13) he tells us on the contrary that
what is expressed is impressions: "Art is expression of im-
pressions, not expression of expression." Yet impressions
and intuitions are for him so far from being the same thing
that they are rather each the other's very opposite.
6
One moreover wonders why Croce needed to use con-
stantly two words (Intuition and Expression) when he
tells us that only one thing is designated, saying, for in-
stance, that "they are not two but one"; this indeed being
given as the reason why what he yet refers to as the one
and the other, appear at the same instant, and are indis-
tinguishable. They are also said to be inseparable."
Moreover there is to be added a third word, viz., Beauty, as
synonymous (for Croce) with Expression and therefore
also with Intuition, for he says that "Expression and
beauty are not two concepts, but a single concept" (Brevi-
ary, p. 263). This insistence by Croce that two, or even
three words which nobody but himself uses as synonymous,
mean the same thing, reminds one of what occurs in the
eleventh proposition of the first part of Spinoza's Ethics,
where, as Schopenhauer points out Spinoza's need of con-
founding Cause with Reason (in order to maintain his
system) "becomes so urgent, that he never can say causa
or ratio alone, but always finds it necessary to put ratio seu
causa," this occurring as many as eight times on one page.8
What Spinoza wants is to be able to speak of God as the
6 Estetica, 4th Ed., p. 12.
7 The English translation gratuitously makes Croce say that expres-
sion is an inseparable part of intuition (p. 8); but the original says nothing
about part, but only that expression cannot be wanting to intuition "dalla
quale e propriamente inscindibile" (Estetica, 4th Ed. 1912, p. 11).
8 Schopenhauer, Fourfold Root, Engl. Transl. by Hillebrand, p. 16.
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
51
cause of the world; but others will be better able than
myself to say just why it is that Croce's system requires
him to treat as synonymous two words which are not.
cas
4
Croce's description of the psychological relation of intu-
ition and expression is apparently incorrect. Let us, how-
ever, now examine some of the descriptions that Croce gives
of what occurs in "Expression"; for instance, those on p. 9,
and on p. 118 of the Aesthetic. Grave reasons, as it seems
to me, quickly appear to question their soundness. For in-
stance, the illumination or intuition of one's impressions or
feelings, which Croce says occurs at the same instant as ex-
pression, does not, I submit, occur at the same instant but,
if at all, later. The illumination does not come in the act
of creative expression, but only in the subsequent con-
templation of its product. It is then only that we appre-
hend clearly what we meant or felt, or, as likely, did not
mean or feel. What coexists with the creative act is only
pleasurable exaltation which, incidentally, is not at all
what the term Beauty designates. But whether or not we
say with Croce that expression which is not successful is
not expression, the fact remains that the successful crea-
tive act is not distinguished in any direct and immediate
manner from the unsuccessful; it does not, in the very
occurring, automatically proclaim itself by turning on a
light. The light is turned on by subsequent contempla-
tion of the object created; it is in such contemplation that
we discover whether the attempt at expression failed or
succeeded. In the latter case, we also then apprehend
clearly what it was we were attempting to express. In the
former, we apprehend, also clearly, something which is
other than what we were trying to express.
Sh
52
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
In very simple bits of expression the fact that illumina-
tion as to what we were trying to express, comes not in
the expressive act but only in the contemplation of its
products, easily escapes attention, for the alternation of
creation, and of contemplation of its results, is then very
rapid. But when a long and elaborate piece of work is
attempted, contemplation of the total achievement up to
any given moment, can easily be postponed and thus dis-
tinguished. Who has not spent a tense evening writing
page after page in the full thrill of expression, only to find
on re-reading the stuff the next morning that it is not really
what he meant, and that he has thus failed of adequate
expression? That which at the instant feels different
from successful expression is not unsuccessful expression,
but lack of any expression for existing feeling or meaning.
Such lack begets depression, instead of the exaltation which
accompanies the expressive act whether or not its product
turns out to have been adequate.
§ 5
V
Also incorrect is Croce's view of the nature of the physi-
cal work of art. Croce's view that the physical work of art
is essentially an aid to the reproduction of the act of expres-
sion which created it seems to me to rest on a very question-
able psychological analysis. For in the aesthetic contem-
plation of a work of art, what takes place is not at all an in-
duced repetition of the act of expression in which it origi-
nated, but on the contrary the very inverse of it. In such
contemplation what we attempt is not to express a feeling,
but to obtain one; that is, to have impressed upon us the
feeling which the artist expressed. We do this, not by a
creative act, but on the contrary by lending our attention
with wholly docile compliance to every invitation of the
object before us, and letting the resulting feeling quietly
-
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
53
develop in us. The object, as it were, is allowed to take
our attention by the hand, and lead it as it will. There
is a vast and all-important difference between the express-
ing of a feeling by (actively) drawing a line, and the ob-
taining of a feeling by (passively) following a line. The
fact that in both cases the eye or the hand moves, and
along the same path, is a purely superficial likeness, which
leaves the fundamental difference between the two quite
untouched. This difference, obvious as it is, Croce en-
tirely overlooks when on p. 97 he describes what he calls
the process of reproduction in ourselves of an already pro-
duced expression, by means of the stimulus which the
presence of the physical work of art provides. For what
we do when we are passively obeying external guidance
is as radically different from what we do actively from
inner impulse as, for instance, massage is from exercise,
or reading from writing. When by aesthetic contempla-
tion we have succeeded in extracting from the contem-
plated object the feeling which was objectified by it, and
have thus made that feeling our own, we then if we please,
can, and sometimes do, express it for ourselves either in
imagination or in reality. This, however, is something
totally different from the contemplative act, and is to be
described as interpretation by us of the given work of art.
It is what the concert musician, for instance, does with
the music of the composers that he plays. His hearers,
on the other hand, if the music is new to them, are not
expressing or re-expressing a feeling at all, but on the
contrary being impressed with one, by the aesthetic con-
templation of the music they hear.
Aesthetic contemplation is to artistic expression ex-
actly as reading is to writing. The difference is only that
in aesthetic contemplation and expression, feelings are
what is obtained or expressed, while in reading and writ-
54
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ing it is not feelings (at least not directly), but meanings.
But reading, even when it involves muttering, is not a kind
of speaking or writing in the sense of self-expression in
words, but the very inverse of it. The relation of the
two is that which obtains between ciphering and decipher-
ing.
$ 6
Untenable also is Croce's view of the nature of beauty.
This complete misapprehension, as it seems to me, of the
nature of aesthetic contemplation by Croce, is closely con-
nected with his extraordinary declaration, already quoted,
that Expression and Beauty are not two concepts, but a
single concept. For if this were true, or even if beauty
were only (as he says in other places) the pleasure of the
expressive act, then indeed no beauty could possibly be
found in a work of art in contemplation, unless contem-
plation of it did consist of re-expression. But as I have
tried to show above, aesthetic contemplation is in fact no
such thing; and nevertheless it is only in aesthetic contem-
plation that beauty is perceived. Moreover, such joy as
there is in the creative, expressive act, is something so to-
tally different and distinct from the experience of beauty,
that it is difficult to see how anyone could confuse the two.
Yet Croce tells us that the term "beautiful" can be applied
to things only elliptically (p. 98), for the beautiful "does
not belong to things, but to the activity of man, to spiritual
energy" (p. 97).
To perceive clearly what this assertion involves, and
make easy the reaching of a decision as to its merits, all that
is necessary is to translate it into concrete terms. The doc-
trine means, for instance, that if Antony ever compli-
mented Cleopatra upon her beauty, and she was pleased
thereat, it was only because, not having read Croce, she
CROCE'S "AESTHETIC"
55
failed to understand that when Antony said to her “You
are beautiful," he was not really talking about her at
all, but, man-like, only about himself, and was simply
praising his own "spiritual energy." To her, what he lit-
erally meant to say was only that she was a natural memo-
randum or aid to reproduction of his pleasant spiritual
activity!
When one thus realizes what the "literal" use of the
word Beauty involves, one can only regret that the author
of the Aesthetic should after all weaken, and announce his
intention of using the term "elliptically" himself (p. 98).
The truth which lies behind the contention that beauty
does not belong to things but to the activity of man is
only that in the contemplation of a sunset, for instance,
it is of course not the sunset that is experiencing pleasure,
but ourselves. But the very way of declaring precisely
that fact, is to say that the sunset is beautiful. On the
other hand, to say that it is not the sunset but our spiritual
activity at the time, which is beautiful, is not at all to use
the word "beautiful" more literally, but only to use it in-
correctly. This sort of procedure takes us not one single
step nearer an understanding of the nature of beauty. It
is a step not towards the needed analysis of the concept,
but only towards the useless invention of an arbitrary
private language.
CHAPTER IV
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
1
Another conception of the nature of art, which also
characterizes it as Expression, is that formulated by Pro-
fessor De W. H. Parker in his recent volume The Analy-
sis of Art.¹ Professor Parker, however, believes that
emotionalist theories of art are infected by a fundamental
vice, and regards art as being the expression not of emotion,
but of wish. Art, he says, is the imaginative expression of
a wish (p. 19).
The lucid and agreeable style of Professor Parker's book,
its abundant documentation, its candor, and the subtlety
and at times the profundity of insight that it exhibits,
make of it without doubt one of the most important recent
contributions to the field of aesthetics. The second and
following chapters of it, if thoroughly digested by our art-
critics, would make impossible the one-sided, doctrinaire,
and even wholly irrelevant judgments which they so often
deliver. But the conception of the nature of art which he
sets forth (in the first chapter) seems to me so widely open
to attack at vital points as to be quite untenable. The
case which he makes for it, however, is on the surface so
plausible as to require careful examination.
§ 1
Outline of Professor Parker's view of art as the imagina-
tive expression of a wish. In its most condensed form,
1 Yale Press, 1927.
·
56
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
57
Professor Parker's contention, as already mentioned, is that
"art is the imaginative expression of a wish" (p. 19). Ac-
cording to him, "there are two ways in which wishes may
find satisfaction; one of which may be called the real way
and the other the dream way" (p. 3, 4). The first, or prac-
tical way, is that which appropriates from the environment
what is needed. In the second, on the contrary, "the wish
is satisfied by something that occurs entirely within my-
self, within my own mind and body, in the realm of my fan-
tasy" (p. 4), namely, by a dream or imagination. A typi-
cal characteristic of dreams (whether night or day dreams),
is the "as if" attitude; i.e., while the dream lasts, it is be-
lieved as if it were reality. But this acceptance, Professor
Parker says, is seldom complete; a part of us believes, but
a part of us knows better, "and it is this unique combina-
tion of belief and unbelief which creates the 'as if' attitude,
the attitude of make-believe" (p. 5). In the dreams that
we call art, there is equipoise of the two: "we dream on,
knowing full well and luminously that we are dreaming"
(p. 5). Professor Parker then goes on to argue his thesis
by endeavoring to show, first, that all art induces us to make
believe by creating a semblance of reality, and second, that
all works of art satisfy wishes, both for their creators and
for their beholders. Lastly he points out the differences
between ordinary dreams and art. Dreams in the ordinary
sense exist wholly in the imagination, but in art the dream
is given sensuous shape, viz., it is expressed in colors, lines,
sounds, etc. But this must not be thought of as a leaving
of the world of the imagination for that of reality; on the
contrary, what the artist does is to take the senses into
the imagination (p. 21) and thus give the latter "a steadi-
ness, clarity, and independence that permit us to observe
it, as we cannot observe a dream" (p. 25). On this account,
in addition to satisfying a wish as does any sort of dream,
58
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
art becomes also a means for "the clarification and com-
munication of imagination, with its values" (p. 24). The
expression that the work of art constitutes, unlike practical
and scientific expression, "is expression for the sake of ex-
pression because in the process of expression a dream is
embodied, a wish satisfied" (p. 30). And when expression
thus becomes an end in itself, "it tends to assume a har-
monious, delightful form," viz., design.
82
Criticism of the contention that imagination is of the
essence of art. The first point in Professor Parker's doc-
trine which calls for comment is the assertion that art is
essentially imagination. This term is meant by him to
imply four things, viz., (1) springing from a wish, (2) satis-
fying the wish, (3) not being real, (4) effectively simulat-
ing reality. I propose to consider each of these supposed
characters of art.
Beginning with the third, according to which art is not
reality but imagination, it seems to me obviously to con-
tradict the plain fact that works of art in numberless cases
are at least in part quite real objects of the perceptual
world, and not merely (when at all) mental images. Pro-
fessor Parker, indeed, not only admits this sensuous aspect
of works of art but insists upon it, saying for instance that
"a dream is an inner fact only, an affair wholly of the
imagination, while a work of art belongs also to the outer
world, to the senses" it "is something to be seen,
heard, perhaps even touched" (p. 21).
But he nevertheless writes: "Yet the artist never does,
of course, achieve reality . . . he takes the senses into the
imagination, he does not leave the world of the imagina-
tion.
Despite its sensuous side, a work of art re-
mains within the sphere of imagination"; the colors seen
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
59
by the beholder of a canvas "might as well be hallucina-
tions" (pp. 21, 22).
Now I submit that the statements of this second group
plainly contradict those quoted immediately before, and
are plainly false if "imagination" is used in them in the
same sense as in the first group. On the other hand, if they
are to be regarded as true, then the sense in which "imagi-
nation" must be taken in them is not only different from the
first but arbitrary and impermissible. In other words,
the meaning which the statements of the second group have
if true, cannot correctly be expressed by saying that art
is imagination. The reasons are as follows:
In the statements of the first group, sensation and the
external world are contrasted as real with the unreal and
subjective world of images. In the second group, on the
other hand, reality and imagination are used as defined by
Professor Parker on p. 4, namely, reality is now taken to
mean that which gives to our wishes satisfaction in the
practical way, and imagination that which (supposedly)
satisfies them otherwise than practically. The essential
import of the second group of statements is then that al-
though the work of art contains sensuous elements, their
capacity to satisfy our wishes is independent of the fact
that they belong to the practical world; i.e., they are not by
art treated practically; and therefore they "might as well
be hallucinations" although in fact they are not.
G
This, of course, is perfectly true, but does not in the least
imply that art is imagination or has any necessary con-
nection with imagination. It is true that images or dream-
contents cannot really be dealt with in practical fashion;
but a fallacy of undistributed middle would be involved in
-
2
2 My use of the words "really" and "practical" in this sentence ob-
viously rejects the alleged synonymity of "real" and "practical." I would
admit only that the practical is what a distinguished philosopher has
characterized as our "Americanly real."
60
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
arguing that because images cannot be so dealt with, and
works of art are not so dealt with either, works of art
are therefore essentially images. That this conclusion not
only does not follow, but is actually not true, is shown by
the fact that if the practical attitude, which cannot really
be taken towards dream images, is taken towards them in
imagination (as indeed almost always is the case both in
night and in day dreams), then the dream images have
in no way the status of aesthetic objects; whereas if the
contemplative attitude is taken towards something which
is not dreamt or imagined at all but ever so really existing,
that thing then at once does assume the status of aesthetic
object. That status is thus a consequence not at all of
the fact of being an image, but only of the fact of being
aesthetically contemplated; and the contrast which, in the
second group of statements Professor Parker describes as
one between reality and imagination, is therefore in truth
no such thing, but is on the contrary a contrast between the
practical attitude and the aesthetically contemplative at-
titude. And the object towards which the aesthetic atti-
tude is taken may equally well be a real, viz., a sensuous,
external object, as a merely imagined or dreamed object.
3
§ 3
Art does not necessarily simulate reality. I pass now to
the fourth of the characters listed above, which are ascribed
by Professor Parker to art. His specification of the simulat-
ing of reality as a character of the imagination, taken with
his assertion that art is imagination, commits him to the
3 I am forced to use "aesthetic object" and "work of art” here as if
they were essentially the same thing, by the fact that for Professor
Parker the beholder's satisfaction in contemplating an aesthetic object,
and the artist's satisfaction in creating it, are essentially of the same
nature, viz., satisfaction of a wish.
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH 61
abolishing of the distinction between representative and
non-representative art. All art, from his premises, must be
representative, and on pp. 6 ff. he makes a skillful but, as it
seems to me, an unsuccessful attempt to show that music.
(other than program music), the dance (other than panto-
mime), and architecture, are representative, i.e., are a
make-believe, a simulation of reality.
With regard to the dance as watched (vs. as danced by
oneself), he writes: "I enjoy it fully only when it is as if
I, too, were dancing; when, in the imagination, I move
with the motions of the dancer, experiencing vicariously
her ease and her joy." Now to this I would first reply
that the enjoyment, whether full or not, of the dance,
and the dance's status as either work of art or aesthetic
object, are wholly different matters. The perceiving of
the dance as an aesthetic object or a work of art does not
require that it be enjoyed, rather than disliked or found
indifferent.
But secondly, it should be remembered that the claim
which Professor Parker is here supposedly establishing is
that the work of art (viz., the dance) effectively simulates
reality (which here can be only the spectator's inwardly
imitative activity); whereas what his statement quoted
above shows is, on the contrary, that in the case considered
it is the reality which imitates the work of art.
Lastly and chiefly, however, it must be insisted that
the dance that we behold neither is a dream, nor does, like
a dream, possess the "as if" character, of making us believe
that we are perceiving something which as a matter of fact
is not there. What our inner imitation does in the case
of the dance we behold, is not to make us believe that we
are ourselves dancing, but to enable us to perceive that
dance as action instead of as mere changes of place and
shapes; and the action thus perceived is really there, and
62
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
is not our own but the dancer's, and is believed such by us.
With regard to the dance considered from the dancer's
standpoint, Professor Parker says that although the
dancer's motions are not make-believe but real, her experi-
ence nevertheless "possesses the essential character of
imagination. For it is a satisfaction of impulses through
occurrences within her own mind and body. For the mo-
ment it is as if she were having her way . . through ac-
tion within her own self" (p. 7). The answer to this is ob-
viously that she is really having her way. Her impulse
at the moment is to make certain movements, and she
really does make just those movements. There is no "as
if” about it at all, unless the dance is not only rhythmical
action but also pantomime, and such a case is not here
being considered.
•
•
Professor Parker, indeed, admits that the action which
satisfies the dancer's impulses is "not confined to her mind,
but overflows into the body." But what was needed
here was not to admit the obvious bodily actions, but to
show that the actions need to take place at all in the
dancer's mind, viz., in images; and this he does not so
much as attempt. He merely asks who has ever set the
limits of the mind or the body. But I submit that to ask
this is in effect to throw overboard his own contrast be-
tween the actual and the dream satisfaction of impulses;
for the satisfaction of the dancer's impulse to move her
own body, by actually moving it, can no more legitimately
be described as satisfaction by the imagination than could
yawning and stretching, which are also cases of impulses
satisfied within the body. And the dancer's actions in
many cases doubtless flow from her impulses just as di-
rectly (i.e., without the intervention of images), as do
yawning and stretching from the impulses which these acts
satisfy. Nothing, perhaps, better shows how violently
J
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
63
Professor Parker wrests the word Imagination from its
ordinary meaning, than his characterization of the dancer's
satisfaction by her actual movements as satisfaction by the
imagination.
The attempt to show that absolute music has the make-
believe character is along the same lines as with the dance,
and is open to the same objections. Still greater, I think,
would be the difficulty of showing that the character of
make-believe is present in such a work of art as, for in-
stance, a piece of Mexican lace.
cos
4
Art cannot be said to consist in the satisfaction of a wish.
Passing now to Professor Parker's characterization of art
as the satisfaction of a wish, we have to note in it
first a certain ambiguity. There are four distinguishable
"wishes" that might be in question.
There is first of all the artist's wish that expression shall
take place. But the expression is expression of something
which is itself a feeling, not a wish. The "wish" that ex-
pression shall take place rather than not take place, does
not in the least determine what the expression shall be.
That is determined by the nature of the feeling to be ex-
pressed. That feeling is what gets expressed, i.e., objecti-
fied. On the other hand, the "wish" that this should occur
does not get "expressed," but merely indulged, carried
out, satisfied. The "satisfaction of a wish," in that sense,
is equally involved in every act whatever that we perform,
and not in any special way in acts creative of art-works.
Secondly, there is the artist's possible wish (if he hap-
pens to be working from an image), to draw just this line,
to paint just that patch of color, to utter just this sound,
etc., the wish, namely, to translate the image into sen-
64
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
sation. Now this impulse to the perceptual precipitating
of an image is satisfied both really and practically by his
activity at the moment, for what he has the impulse or
wish to do is to alter the environment, e.g., his canvas, in
certain definite ways, and he really does just that. This
sort of "satisfaction of a wish," however, although it is gen-
erally involved to some extent in the process of art-crea-
tion, does not of itself produce art, for satisfaction of a
wish in the same sense, is no less involved in what is done
by the house-painter or the engineering draftsman. It is
only a wish to copy, and Croce is right so far as he insists
that copying, as such, is not art.
From this wish to copy an image in perceptible stuff, is
to be distinguished another, namely, the probably more
momentous wish or longing of which the assumed image
or dream or the represented situation, itself constitutes
the expression. In the case of this wish, however, the
word Expression, if used, means the imagining or the
representing of a situation which would satisfy the wish;
and, let it be well noted, that imagined situation is one
in which the wish receives satisfaction of the practical sort.
That is, when we dream, we imagine ourselves as doing or
getting what we want; as having our practical way with, or
in, or about the environment. This is so even when what
we attain in the dream is (as in travel) the realization of
the desire to contemplate some beautiful scene. Now
this fact, that the satisfaction which the dream-content
gives to our desire is essentially practical satisfaction, is
here all-important, for it means that there are not, as Pro-
fessor Parker contends, two ways of satisfying a wish, but
only one, namely, the practical way, which consists in ob-
taining or in achieving what one wants. This getting
what one wants, however, may either really occur, or else
it may be only imagined to occur. And it seems to me
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH 65
that what Professor Parker describes as the genuine satis-
faction of a wish by the imagination, is in truth only the
imagining that the wish is genuinely satisfied - which is
quite another thing.*
To imagine that, may indeed rid us of the wish, but such
manner of riddance is not to be called satisfaction of the
wish. It is but a special case of something very different,
namely, sublimation of the wish. In it, we do not really
get what we wanted; instead, we find ourselves wanting, or
at any rate, enjoying, something else which we really are
getting, namely, the act of dreaming, as distinguished
from the situation dreamt. The wish which is satisfied
not fictitiously in the dream, but really by the act of dream-
ing, is thus yet a third wish. It is the wish to dream, or
in more general terms, the wish to sublimate the original
wish, since dreaming is but one among other possible
means of sublimation.
-
But even when the wish to sublimate a given wish re-
ceives satisfaction by means of the act of dreaming, the
performing of that act does not constitute the creation of
a work of art or of an aesthetic object. Nor as we have
seen is the dream-content which if real would give practi-
cal satisfaction to the original wish, to be called a work
of art or an aesthetic object. Nor, as we have also seen,
does the satisfying of the wish to copy an image in sensuous
material eo ipso result in a work of art. Nor, lastly, is art
the satisfaction of the wish to act rather than not to act,
which occurs when the act of art-creation is performed,
4 A lady who is a painter, and who finds it necessary to diet much
more strictly than her wishes would dictate, once in my presence ex-
claimed with great conviction: "I want cake!" I advised her to paint
a picture of a cake, telling her it had been maintained that wishes could
be genuinely satisfied by imaginative expression of them in art. But
I was unable to persuade her that the experiment was worth trying, -
perhaps because I did not think so myself.
66
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
since satisfaction of the same wish occurs equally in the
performance of acts of any other sort. But these four are
the only sorts of wishes out of which art might be thought
to arise. Therefore the position that art is essentially
the satisfaction of a wish is untenable.
cas
5
Against Professor Parker's contention that art is the
expression of a wish may be quoted inadvertent statements
of his own, where he refers to art as the expression of
feeling. With Professor Parker's statement that art is
expression for the sake of expression, I am on the other
hand in full agreement, but, as stated above, the expres-
sion is of a feeling, not of a wish. And it is interesting to
note that although according to Professor Parker it is a
wish which determines the "what" no less than the "that"
of a work of art, there are nevertheless numerous passages
in his book where, not being at the moment deliberately en-
gaged in formulating a theory of art, he spontaneously
refers to art as expression of emotion. The explanation
of his doing so, if every such passage is not to be regarded
as a lapsus calami, might be that Professor Parker regards
a wish and an emotion or feeling as being virtually the
same thing. This is suggested, for instance, when he
writes "I hum the tune because it pleases me; because some
wish, some emotion of mine, is satisfied thus" (p. 8). But
Professor Parker himself (p. 3) refers us for the mean-
A
5
•
color . . . is
5 “melody . . . is a glowing experience of motion.
a thrill of feeling
ing . . .”
any work of art. . . is an expression of feel-
(p. 33). “But the artist, as aiming always at the expression of
feeling is not interested even in the primary qualities of nature for their
own sake, but only so far as they are embodiments of emotion” (pp. 78,
79, italics mine). See also the reference to cubism on p. 91; and p. 26,
where a certain procession is described as an expression of grief, a “way of
giving form to . . . mixed and varied feelings."
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
67
ing of the term "wish" to Professor Holt's book, The
Freudian Wish, where we read not only that the wish is
a course of action which some mechanism of the body is
set to carry out whether it actually does so or does not, but
also that “All emotions, as well as the feelings of pleasure
and displeasure, are separable from the wishes" (pp. 3, 4).
But that an emotion or feeling is by no means the same
thing as a wish hardly needs to be established by quoting
authorities.
cos
§ 6
An emotionalist theory of art need not neglect the clari-
fying function of expression, as Professor Parker charges.
Lastly, I come to Professor Parker's assertion that "one
fundamental vice of emotionalist theories of art is their
neglect of the clarifying function of expression in its ef-
fects upon the dream
the dream ... they overlook the need in man
to reflect upon, to come to some certain understanding of
his experience" (p. 28).
It may be that some emotionalist theories of art are
guilty of the neglect of which Professor Parker speaks,
but he says nothing to show that incapacity to deal with the
clarifying function of expression is a vice necessarily in-
herent in every emotionalist theory. At all events, the
emotionalist theory of art advocated in the present work
seems to me to have no difficulty in giving an account of
the clarification which follows expression. Something as
to this has already been said above while discussing Croce's
account of the psychological relation of "expression" and
"intuition"; and also at the place where the conclusions
of the discussion of language in the second chapter were
stated.
68
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
cos
7
Nature and mechanism of the process of clarifica-
tion through expression, according to the emotionalist
theory of the present volume. A more explicit and sys-
tematic statement of the nature and mechanism of the
process of clarification through expression may, however,
well be given here. An account of clarification will first
be given, point by point, in terms of the language of mean-
ing; and the modifications of this account needed to make
it apply to the language of feeling, i.e., to art, will then
be stated. The account proposed is as follows:
(a) Speaking or writing is essentially an attempt to
express objectively in words a meaning present at the time
in the speaker's or writer's mind. This proposition has
already been argued at length in Chapter II.
(b) What "presence of a meaning in a mind" (apart
from and antecedent to any expression of it even in
images), consists in, is something that each person has to
observe for himself by introspection. It is something no
more describable than is color to a person born blind. All
that it is possible for me to do in order to enlighten my
reader (if he should need it), as to the nature of such
antecedent "presence of a meaning in a mind," is to lead
his introspective attention to the "water" of which it itself
must "drink" to be enlightened; and I can do this only by
saying that there is such a thing, in introspection, as the
state of “having something to say," or "being ready to
formulate something," or "meaning something"; and that
this state is quite distinguishable from, and precedes, the
saying even inwardly or partially to oneself of what one
has to say. That state is sometimes what is referred to
by the words "having an idea," as distinguished from any
formulating as yet, of the idea.
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
69
(c) Moreover that state is one of "being ready to formu-
late," or "having to say," not anything but something.
That is, the state has, previous to and apart from any for-
mulation of it, an individual nature, a proper tang of its
own, as real but as unanalyzed at the time as that of, for
instance, the color blue. Thus, two such states of "having
something to say" are, previous to any formulation, differ-
ent from each other in the same immediate, intuitive way
as are the sensations of blue and red.
(d) By expressing this meaning that one had in mind,
one analyzes it, and gives it a more or less lasting objective
embodiment, the words, namely, in which one expresses
G
it.
(e) The words make possible the prolonged contem-
plation of the analyzed meaning; and the clearness results
from the double fact that what is then contemplated is an
analyzed meaning, and that the contemplation of it is
prolonged at will. The clearness does not come directly
and automatically from the performance of the analysis,
but from the contemplation of its results. It is one thing,
for instance, to have formulated a doctrine, and another to
know clearly what it is. The latter requires reading one's
own formulation with studious care. That the clearness
does not come directly from the performance of the analy-
sis, but from the contemplation of its results, is something
which tends to be veiled by the fact that one naturally
thinks of examples consisting not of one act of formulation,
but of a series of such acts, the meaning analyzed by each
subsequent act having occurred to one as an aftermath of
the clearness obtained by contemplating the results of
the analysis of the previous one. In other words, writing
more than a few words involves more or less of contemplat-
ing what we have written just before.
(f) Thus the clearness as to what we meant, obtained
70
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
in the way now described, itself constitutes a new fact, as
a result of which new meanings may occur to us which
otherwise would not, and which are likely to have some
intrinsic connection with the meaning that we originally
had. In this way the clarification which expression makes
possible is an indispensable step in the writing of anything
that goes beyond a few words, because (but only because)
such an elaborate piece of writing is the product of the
expression not of one meaning, but of a series of mean-
ings, genealogically related in the way just mentioned.
This account of the process of clarification through ex-
pression in the case of writing (or speaking), may now be
carried over bodily to the case of art, with only the follow-
ing modifications:
(a) In the case of art, what is to be expressed is not a
meaning but a feeling, an emotional state. It should
in this connection, however, be carefully noted that emo-
tional states are not merely the few (e. g., anger, love, fear,
jealousy) for which the existing language has names, but
are on the contrary infinitely numerous and various. This
fundamentally important fact will be dwelt upon later,
when the aesthetic feelings are discussed, but must be
mentioned here if misunderstandings are to be avoided.
-
(b) The relation of a meaning to its analytical com-
ponents is that of "resultant"; but the relation of a feeling
to its analytical components is that of "emergent." These
terms to-day are familiar to readers of Lloyd Morgan, C. D.
Broad, and others. I need only recall here that a complex
is a resultant, so far as the nature of it can be predicted
from the nature of its elements and their relations; and
that it is on the contrary an emergent, so far as such predic-
tion is impossible.
(c) Clarification, in the case of a meaning, means the
becoming conscious of the elements (and relations between
ART AND THE FREUDIAN WISH
71
them) of which the meaning is the resultant. In the case
of a feeling, clarification means the becoming conscious
of the elements (and their relations), of which the feeling
is the emergent.
However, this speaking of the meaning and the feeling
as respectively the resultant and the emergent of certain
elements in relations, makes it appear that the elements
and relations existed somehow first, and that the meaning
or feeling then resulted or emerged. But as a matter of
psychological fact, the very reverse of this is the case. The
misleading character in this respect of the way in which
the matter was stated above, may, however, be avoided if
one notes that emergence (and likewise resultance) occurs
no less as the outcome of the disintegration of a complex
into its elements, than as the outcome of the integration
of elements into a complex. We may thus distinguish
between integrational and disintegrational emergence (and
likewise with resultance) and reword our statement of
what clarification consists in by saying that in the case of
a meaning, it is the coming to consciousness of the disinte-
grational resultants of it; whereas in the case of a feeling,
clarification means the coming to consciousness of the dis-
integrational emergents of it.
6
Before proceeding with the formulating of the theory
of art as the objective expression of feeling, which consti-
tutes the main task of the present volume, it is necessary
to consider yet certain other theories of the nature of art,
which at various times have been plausibly argued.
6 I am indebted for these terms and for the distinction that they ex-
press to a paper by Dr. Charles A. Baylis, entitled The Philosophic Func-
tions of Emergence. (Philosophical Review, July, 1929.)
}
CHAPTER V
ART AS IMITATION; AND AS MEANS
OF ATTRACTION
8 1
cas
Plato's view of Art as Imitation. The view that art is
essentially imitation is closely associated with the name
of Plato. In the third and the tenth books of The Republic,
for instance, Plato refers to poets and painters as imitators,
and since mere skill in imitation does not imply any ca-
pacity to discern whether what is imitated is good or bad,
the artist is regarded by him as an irresponsible and there-
fore dangerous sort of person in a community where every-
thing is to promote the growth of the citizens in virtue.
Plato therefore writes: "When any one of these clever
multiform gentlemen, who can imitate anything, comes
to our State, and proposes to exhibit himself and his po-
etry, we will fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy
and wonderful being; but we must also inform him that
there is no place for such as he is in our State, the law
will not allow them. And so when we have anointed him
with myrrh, and set a garland of wool upon his head, we
shall send him away to another city." ¹ In the tenth book,
the art of painting is described by Plato as an imitation of
appearances, and its excellence as consisting in such ac-
curacy as may lead to the mistaking of the copy for the
model: "A painter will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any
other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts; and,
1 Republic Bk. III, p. 221, Jowett's trans.
1
72
C
ART AS IMITATION
73
if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple
persons, when he shows them his picture of a carpenter
from a distance, and they will fancy that they are looking
at a real carpenter." 2
-
From such passages it would be unfair, however, to infer
that Plato was as completely devoid of insight into the
nature of art as they appear to indicate. The "artists"
of whom Plato there speaks would seem to have been more
nearly what to-day we should describe as vaudeville en-
tertainers. Their sole gift, as he depicts them, is cleverness
in imitation. This is shown, for instance, by the follow-
ing account of what the mere imitator, who has no knowl-
edge of or care for the worth of what he imitates, will do:
"He will be ready to imitate anything, not as a joke, but in
right good earnest, and before a large audience . . . he
will attempt to represent the roll of thunder, the rattle of
wind and hail, or the various sounds of pulleys, of pipes, of
flutes, and all sorts of instruments; also he will bark like
a dog, bleat like a sheep, and crow like a cock." 3
-
$2
4
Plato's view of inspired art. That Plato is well aware
of the existence of another sort of art, abundantly appears
from other passages. Thus in the Phaedrus he writes,
"There is also a third kind of madness, which is a possession
of the Muses; this enters into a delicate and virgin soul,
and there inspiring frenzy awakens lyric and all other
numbers; with these adorning the myriad actions of an-
cient heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who,
not being inspired and having no touch of madness in his
soul, comes to the door and thinks that he will get into the
2 Ibid. Bk. X, pp. 428/9.
3 Ibid. Bk. III, p. 220
4 Jowett's transl., p. 550.
74
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
temple by the help of art [i.e., of imitative skill]-he, I
say, and his poetry are not admitted; the sane man is no-
where at all when he enters into rivalry with the madman."
Moreover, when a few pages later (p. 553) Plato ranks hu-
man souls on nine levels according to the measure of truth
that they have seen before birth, and names the sorts of
earthly occupations appropriate to each, he tells us that
a soul belonging to the first or highest level will come to
birth as a philosopher or artist, or musician or lover; while
to a soul on the sixth level, life as a poet or imitator will be
appropriate. Concerning inspired art, as distinguished
from imitative skill, Plato has nothing but good to say.
It proceeds from a vision of the pure celestial forms of
Beauty, Goodness, Truth and the like, and the works that
it brings forth are of necessity good in every way. In spite
of current opinion, then, Plato does not regard art as being
mere copying skill, if the word art be used to designate the
sort of activity which we consider entitled to that name.
Art in this sense is for Plato the expression of an inner
inspiration. What we can blame him for is not blindness
to the nature of true art, but rather the bad judgment
which made him class Homer as "a mere imitator" (Rep.
p. 431).
The passages in which Plato speaks of artists that are
mere imitators, moreover, can hardly be interpreted as
implying that even art of the purely imitative sort is the
fruit of the mimetic impulse. Such artists are represented
not as imitating in obedience to such an impulse, but rather
for the sake of applause, or perhaps of gain. Plato's theory
of the impulse which produces works of art properly so
called, so far as he has any theory of it, is rather as we have
seen that it is an inspiration from within, due to a dim
recognition of the pure Beauty once directly beheld by
the soul.
ART AS IMITATION
75
§ 3
Aristotle and the mimetic impulse. On the other hand,
the view that art is imitation not merely in the sense that
its products for various reasons more or less resemble vari-
ous natural objects, but in the sense that the mimetic im-
pulse itself is responsible for the creation of works of art,
is to be found in a passage of Aristotle's Poetics. He writes
that "poetry in general seems to have sprung from two
causes," the instinct for imitation and the instinct for har-
mony and rhythm. "The instinct of imitation is im-
planted in man from childhood, one difference between him
and the other animals being that he is the most imitative
of living creatures, and through imitation learns his earli-
est lessons."
5
-
Aristotle's references to this "instinct of imitation" leave
the supposed nature of it somewhat uncertain. The urchin
who on the street spontaneously walks behind some pom-
pous person, aping his gait, his air, and his movements,
might be said to illustrate the working of the imitative
impulse. On the other hand, the person who goes about
with a camera and snaps whatever particularly attracts
his attention, might also be said to be indulging his inclina-
tion to imitate or copy nature. And indeed this second
case would connect itself more closely than the other with
what Aristotle seems to have had in mind, as indicated by
the remarks immediately following the passage just quoted.
"No less universal," he writes, "is the pleasure felt in
things imitated. . . . Objects which in themselves we
view with pain, we delight to contemplate when repro-
duced with minute fidelity: such as the forms of the most
ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this
again is, that to learn gives the liveliest pleasure.
5 Poetics IV. 2, 3. Butcher's tr., p. 15, 4th Ed.
76
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that
in contemplating it they find themselves learning or in-
ferring, and saying perhaps, 'Ah, that is he.'" The im-
plication would seem to be that, inversely, men enjoy mak-
ing a likeness because in so doing they find themselves
teaching, or recording for themselves interesting informa-
tion. The case of the man with the camera exactly illus-
trates imitation so motivated, and is as such obviously
not art. Moreover, a drawing such as explorers and oth-
ers used to make of places of interest before the days of
cameras, would not be art either, but simply a document.
The instance of the aping urchin, however, would have to
be described otherwise. The pompous man's walk ap-
pealed not to his curiosity, but to his dramatic sense.
It gave him a particular feeling, which his actions now ex-
press objectively. In so acting, however, he is not essen-
tially imitating the man, but editing him. He is not en-
deavoring just to copy him; he is endeavoring to express
objectively what the man made him feel. What he
creates is not a document but a work of art, viz., in this
case, a caricature. The work of art is here more or less
like a certain natural fact, because the feeling which the
artist is trying to express was obtained by him by contem-
plation of that natural fact, which objectified it. On the
other hand, the work of art is also different to some extent
from the natural fact, because the latter objectified also
other inner facts, which do not at the moment interest
the artist, and which he leaves out of his objectification.
That objectification constitutes a caricature, because the
feelings which it expresses proceed, as Schopenhauer has
pointed out, from the model's individual characters, more
or less in abstraction from those of the species to which it
belongs.
The term "mimetic impulse" is then rather ambiguous.
>
ART AS IMITATION
77
It may be said, however, that in its rather vague com-
moner acceptance, the "tendency to imitate" is a primarily
passive sort of thing, whereas in art the active, originative
aspect is prominent; and the tendency to imitate is on
the whole too weak and transitory an impulse to account
for the extraordinarily laborious productions of art. The
imitation theory of the nature of art, moreover, is totally
unable to account for the non-representative arts. But
most decisive against the proposal to identify the mimetic
impulse with the art impulse, is the testimony of direct
introspective observation of the nature of the latter.
cos
4
The utility of art. Darwin's theory. From the Imita-
tion theory of art we may now pass to another very differ-
ent, the starting point of which is the felt need to find some
useful function served by art, to explain its persistence.
Art as we observe it being practiced and "consumed" about
us, seems to be a biologically useless activity. The prac-
tice of it is, perhaps, a pleasant hobby; and the beholding of
its products an agreeable way of occupying one's leisure;
but biologically considered all this seems to be only a by-
product of life. Human beings would apparently live
just as long and be just as healthy without it. How then
is the fact to be explained that art is a phenomenon to be
found at virtually all stages of human development, even
the most primitive? The thought inevitably suggests it-
self that art must somehow have contributed to survival
in the competitive struggle for existence; for vast quanti-
ties of time and energy have almost always been expended
upon it, which could ill have been spared had the expendi-
ture not in some way constituted a biological investment.
The most famous hypothesis concerning the evolution-
78
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
6
ary utility of art is doubtless that formulated by Darwin
who, in The Descent of Man sets forth the view that
art, beauty and the capacity for aesthetic appreciation,
are important factors in sexual selection. An excellent
brief summary of Darwin's position is given by Yrjo Hirn
in the following words: "Darwin supposes a necessary con-
nection between beauty and art. He takes it for granted
that music, poetry, drama, and the rest chiefly aim at
pleasing. When he sees that activities and forms, which
at least technically correspond to the various kinds of art,
are to be met with not only among the lower tribes of
man, but even among some of the higher animals, he there-
fore explains these forms and activities as emanating from
a conscious or unconscious endeavor to please through
beauty. And for this endeavor he finds a reason in the
necessity of gaining preference in the favor of the female.
By endowing the female with aesthetic attention and aes-
thetic judgment he has been able not only to explain the
appearance of art amongst savages and animals, but also
to account for the importance of beauty in life."
As Hirn, following Wallace and Westermarck, points
out, however, in the case of animals at least, all the facts
of gaudy plumage, dancing, and singing can be accounted
for without supposing the hen, for instance, to be endowed
with aesthetic judgment, or the cock with artistic endeavor.
Plumage is accounted for partly as protective coloration
in the bird's natural surroundings, and partly as marks by
which birds of the same species recognize each other as
such. The latter is also in part an explanation of song.
The dances and displays of plumage of male birds at mating
time are most naturally interpreted as direct manifesta-
7
6 Parts II and III, and in particular, with regard to birds, Ch. XIV.
Also Origin of Species, Ch. VI, p. 192.
7 The Origins of Art, pp. 186/7.
ART AS IMITATION
79
tions of sexual excitement, which serve to induce it in the
hen, quite apart from aesthetic considerations. To all
this may be added the fact that recent researches into the
color-vision of animals have tended to show that many of
them are partially or totally color-blind.
According to the conception of art and of aesthetic con-
templation of the present volume, as more precisely set
forth in later chapters, the bird's display could not be called
art in the absence of any evidence that he exercises over
it the critical control which differentiates art from expres-
sion of feeling in general; nor could the hen's attitude
towards the display be that of aesthetic contemplation
since, when the fact to be contemplated is a dance or like
activity, empathic apprehension of it is first necessary;
whereas the hen does not so apprehend the cock's display:
she reacts not with it but to it.
cos
5
8
Marshall's theory of art as means of attraction by pleas-
ing. A more recent writer, H. R. Marshall, has formu-
lated a view of the evolutionary utility of art which also as-
sumes that the products of art are naturally beautiful, but
which does not limit the utility of art to sexual selection.
In our more passive life, he points out, we find certain
emotions arising instinctively in typical situations: Joy
upon the approach of the advantageous, and Dread, of the
disadvantageous; and on the other hand, Sorrow upon the
departure of the advantageous, and Relief, upon the de-
8 Pain, pleasure and Aesthetics, Ch. II. Aesthetic Principles, Ch. III.
The Beautiful, Ch. VIII. The second of these works, Aesthetic Principles,
is out of print, and, as I understand, not to be reprinted. This is very
unfortunate, for this short, non-technical, and lucidly written work is,
from the standpoint of the general reader (to say nothing of the students
in aesthetics courses), much the more serviceable of the several state-
ments of his views by Dr. Marshall.
80
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
parture of the disadvantageous. We should expect, analo-
gously, certain typical emotions to be connected with our
own active responses to situations, and we do find Love,
connected with the tendency to go out toward an advan-
tageous object; Fear, connected with the tendency to flee
from a disadvantageous; and Anger, connected with the
tendency to act to drive away a disadvantageous object.
But we do not find an emotion connected with a tendency
to act so as to attract an advantageous object. Such a
tendency, however, does obviously exist, and the absence
of a corresponding typical emotion is accounted for by the
fact that that tendency does not lead to any immediate re-
action, and that the reactions to which it eventually leads
are too various to be accompanied by any fixed mental
elements.
9
" 10
There are two typical ways in which the tendency to act
so as to attract an advantageous object, manifests itself,
namely, either by benefiting, or by pleasing the being to be
attracted. And it is with it as manifesting itself in the
latter way that Dr. Marshall identifies the art-impulse:
it is the "instinctive tendency within us which, with no
knowledge on our part of the end in view, does work
for results which shall please others, and which has no other
raison d'être than this pleasure-giving. More briefly,
the art-impulse would be the (blind) impulse to act
so as to attract by pleasing. The phrase is somewhat
awkward, and, fortunately, the possibility exists to-day
of boiling it down, if we wish, to one single word, that
expresses it exactly. The word, which is one of the few
things for which we have to thank the "movies," is still
to be reckoned as slang, and for the sake of respectability I
shall therefore put it in quotation marks. That word is
• Aesthetic Principles, pp. 55 ff.
10 Aesthetic Principles, pp. 62, 63.
•
ART AS IMITATION
81
"vamping," which means precisely, to act so as to attract
by pleasing. We could then say that according to Dr.
Marshall's view, the art-impulse is the "vamping" impulse,
blind as to its end. It leads to self-adornment and self-
exhibition, in its cruder manifestations; and in the more
refined, to the construction and exhibition of pleasing ob-
jects, viz., works of art.11 Like the other "instinct-feel-
ings," the art-impulse is wholly blind as to its utility. Just
as "we love and hate and fear spontaneously, and without
any notion whatever that we are doing what nature calls
us to do for the protection of the individual and the race,'
so in the case of the art-instinct, we find it "impelling the
man to his work without any appreciation whatever that
he is really aiming to do what shall attract others to him.
In other words, the art instinct under this view . . . is to-
tally unselfish." 12 Its function in the development of
man is social consolidation 13
"
Dr. Marshall's view of the art impulse might be said to
include Darwin's as a special case, inasmuch as attracting
by pleasing is something which will, among other things,
act as an instrument of selection in mating. But Dr.
Marshall's view leaves room for the fact that there are
many other “advantageous objects," beside females, which
it is very useful to the individual to be able to attract. This
11 Cf. J. Mark Baldwin, Social and Ethical Interpretations in Mental
Development. Ch. IV, § 3. It seems to me that Prof. Baldwin (p. 150)
goes a good deal too far when he writes: "The reaction of this social
recognition upon the producer [of art] is not alone the foundation of his
stimulus and the test of his success; it is also the very source of his sense
of values." This may be true of journeyman artists, but it is not true of
the greater ones, who have been pioneers and who, far from deriving their
sense of values from society, have on the contrary imposed their own
upon society, producing in the face of social disapproval sometimes
until their death, and eventually succeeding in opening society's eyes
to the values that they, as individuals, saw long before and held to
firmly.
12 Aesth. Princ., pp. 67/68.
13 Aesth. Princ., p. 82
82
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
theory does furnish a clear account of a sort of utility that
art-production may have, which would enable us to under-
stand its survival. It seems to me, however, that, to be
completely sound, it requires modification in some im-
portant respects.
One of them is that, here as in the case of the "com-
munication" view of language discussed in an earlier
chapter, what we have is not a statement of what the ac-
tivity considered is, but of one important function that it
has. That function, of course, may well explain the fact
that the sort of activity considered has been preserved in-
stead of eliminated in the course of evolution. But, for
the reasons stated in the discussion of language, I should
hold as unsound the procedure which would define the art-
impulse in such manner. As to this, however, I do not
believe there is any fundamental clash between Dr. Mar-
shall's views and mine, for he recognizes quite well in what
consists the directly observable nature of the art-impulse,
as distinguished from its possible evolutionary function,
when he writes: "The true artist is driven to his work by
an overwhelming impulse. A man may, of course, delib-
erately determine upon an attempt to express himself
aesthetically in some manner, to be an architect say, or a
writer of verses, but this does not constitute him an artist,
however much he may attain of skill in the profession he
chooses. He shows himself a true artist when he appears
compelled to the production of his art expression by an
impulse that seems often to come from without himself,
to be a voice calling him, a muse inciting him."
A more fundamental objection to Dr. Marshall's theory
arises from his sharing in the general but, as I have argued,
false assumption, that the art-impulse is something the
exercise of which naturally results in the production of
beauty. This false premise seems to me to vitiate his
ART AS IMITATION
83
main conclusions. Thus, I should insist that the exer-
cise of the art-impulse actually leads to the production of
things which repel by displeasing, no less than of things
which attract by pleasing. And each is equally important
from an evolutionary standpoint. From that standpoint,
art may be regarded as the chief means of soul-exhibition.
The nature of the "soul" which it exhibits in any given case
determines whether the artist attracts or repels, and whom.
That is, the social function of art is not to be described as
social consolidation, but rather as social assortment. It
is, to human beings in whom the "soul" of another is more
important than his external appearance, what plumage is
to birds: a means of recognition of kind. Even the "plum-
age" of human beings, i.e., their clothing and other adorn-
ments (which can be altered by them at will as it cannot
by birds), serves to this end; for the would-be-decora-
tion of the person, although engaged in with the conscious
aim of attracting, does, from the standpoint of others,
actually discharge a broader function, of which attracting
is only one case. That broader function is guidance to
others, attracting, repelling, or leaving them indifferent,
through the revelation of the individual's nature which is
constituted by the sort of "bait" of which he avails him-
self.
G
This description of the social function of art as revela-
tion of the individual's inner nature, obviously connects
itself directly with the conception of art as language of
feeling, that has been argued earlier, viz., language as first
and essentially objectification of feeling, which makes pos-
sible the social function to which it may well owe its pres-
ervation, namely, transmission of feeling.
CHAPTER VI
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY
OF ART
cos
1
Outline of Professor Dewey's conception of art. Pro-
fessor Dewey's conception of the nature of art is in harmony
with his well-known instrumentalism. In Experience
and Nature (p. 369) he writes that "all the intelligent ac-
tivities of men, no matter whether expressed in science, fine
arts, or social relationships, have for their task the con-
version of causal bonds, relations of succession, into a con-
nection of means-consequence, into meanings. When the
task is achieved the result is art."
On the basis of this view of the nature of art in general,
fine art is then conceived to be more particularly what oc-
curs "when activity is productive of an object that affords
continuously renewed delight. This condition requires.
that the object be, with its successive consequences, in-
definitely instrumental to new satisfying events.... Any
activity that is productive of objects whose perception is
an immediate good, and whose operation is a continual
source of enjoyable perception of other events exhibits
fineness of art" (p. 364). Again, Professor Dewey writes,
it is a commonplace "that a measure of artistic products is
their capacity to attract and retain observation with satis-
faction under whatever conditions they are approached,
while things of less quality soon lose capacity to hold at-
84
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY
85
tention becoming indifferent or repellent upon subsequent
approach." This shows "that a genuinely esthetic ob-
ject is not exclusively consummatory but is casually pro-
ductive as well. A consummatory object that is not also
instrumental turns in time to the dust and ashes of bore-
dom" (p. 365). In art, means and end are indissolubly
bound together: "The end-in-view is a plan which is con-
temporaneously operative in selecting and arranging ma-
terials”; and the means "literally, are the end in its
present stage of realization" (pp. 373/4).
The distinction between the artistic or objectively pro-
ductive, and the aesthetic, is conceived by Professor Dewey
as follows: "In esthetic perceptions an object interpene-
trated with meanings is given ; in the esthetic object
tendencies are sensed as brought to fruition; in it is em-
bodied a means-consequence relationship ; in appre-
ciative possession, perception goes out to tendencies which
have been brought to happy fruition in such a way as to re-
lease and arouse." Sensual pleasures as distinguished
from aesthetic are on the contrary "pleasing endings that
occur in ways not informed with the meaning of materials
and acts integrated into them." On the other hand, the
artistic or objectively productive sense "grasps tenden-
cies as possibilities." In it "there predominates the invi-
tation of an existent consummation to bring into existence
further perceptions. Art in being, the active productive
process, may thus be defined as an aesthetic perception to-
gether with an operative perception of the efficiencies of the
esthetic object" (pp. 374/5).
cas
2
Strangeness of the instrumentalist life-ideal. The aes-
thetic philosophy of which the foregoing quotations exhibit
86
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
the essential positions would seem to be the only one con-
sistent with a thoroughgoing instrumentalism; but on this
very account it seems to me that it contributes to show
what a strange picture of human life such an instrumen-
talism must paint. The life of man, or rather of intel-
ligent man, that is to say of man as he supposedly ought
to be, is in effect depicted by it as a life of toolmaking, all
the tools made (whether physical or psychological) being
themselves essentially tools for toolmaking. In a life of
that sort there is no such thing as tool-using except for the
making of other tools; and the only satisfactions acknowl-
edged are those arising from the process of toolmaking
itself, or from the perception of the utility of some tool
for toolmaking. Immediate satisfactions are paradoxi-
cally said to be "their own excuses for being just because
they are charged with an office” (p. 366).
Such a life would indeed avoid the "dust and ashes of
boredom" to which Professor Dewey says that a consum-
matory object which is not also instrumental turns in
time; but it would bring to replace it a characteristic evil
of its own,
the fatigue and weariness which no less surely
result in time from the ever renewed stimulation of the
ever instrumental; and the ingrained restlessness and in-
capacity for contemplation, all too widespread to-day,
which insistence on somehow turning everything into
a means, produces. The only prescription that seems to
have any chance of curing all the evils of life is, I submit,
as with the ills of the body, to vary the prescription ac-
cording to the disease. There is thus, I should insist, room
in life for meaningless satisfactions,' anarchistic pleasures.
1 I do not use Professor Dewey's word, viz., (purely) "consumma-
tory," for such pleasures, because that word has at least the appearance of
implying that pleasure can arise only from either pursuit or attainment.
But such a theory of pleasure could be maintained only by assuming the
existence of "unconscious tendencies" in cases of the occurrence of pleas-
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY 87
And if it were objected that the pleasure to be found in
heedless, self-absorbed feeling, for instance, (such as I
claim aesthetic pleasure to be), is in the long run suicidal,
I should admit the fact. But I should insist that it is
arbitrary to assume that prolongation of life is worth more
than a short period of bliss. The choice between them is
a matter of individual taste. There are all sorts of things
which some persons, in full awareness, have actually pre-
ferred to the prolongation of life. And if a man, with his
last dime, should prefer to buy himself a rose rather than
bread, all that we could say ultimately would be that his
scheme of relative values is other than ours.
Al
Moreover, that the happiness to be found in mere feel-
ing apart from meanings is suicidal in the long run, is ir-
relevant if one does not propose to live one's long run ex-
clusively or principally in terms of it, but only to grant
it some room in one's life. Irrational, meaningless, an-
archistic satisfactions have a price, of course; but then, so
do rational, meaningful, systematic satisfactions; and like
the latter, they are sometimes worth it. If the purchaser,
counting his costs, is satisfied with his bargain, what sage
will call him fool?
These observations are not to deny that what most of us,
in our own reflective estimate, find ourselves in need of, is
more meaning and rationality in our lives, rather than less.
But, for one thing, this is only the verdict of our rational,
reflective self, and it is naturally such as might have been
expected of that self, which, like any other, posits itself as
supreme, and fights for its life and growth. Secondly,
ure where no tendencies (of the fruition of which it could be the result),
are actually observable. And with regard to such "unconscious tenden-
cies," I should be pragmatist enough to urge that unless the inventions
required by a theory have some function beside that of saving the
theory, the theory is not worth saving, and is anyhow then only verbally
saved by them.
88
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
however, even if our irrational self needs combating, I
should insist that the proper end of combat is not death
to the enemy, but a fair peace. Combat induces hate,
and hate blinds one to the rights to existence of its object.
$ 3
Aesthetic perception does not necessarily involve mean-
ing. Let us, however, leave the question of the funda-
mental assumptions that underlie Professor Dewey's phi-
losophy of art, and turn to some of its doctrines. The
assertion quoted above, for instance, that in aesthetic
perception what is given is an object interpenetrated with
meanings and a sense of tendencies brought to fruition,
seems to me very questionable. The most that could be
said, I think, is that that is sometimes the case. Meanings,
at least, there are in works of representative art, and in
instances of what Santayana calls beauty of expression.
And tendencies, whether brought to fruition or not, may
be discerned in the sorts of aesthetic objects for the appre-
hension of which empathy is required. But this falls far
short of exhausting the field of aesthetic objects, i.e., of
facts in the contemplation of which aesthetic feelings are
obtained. In the aesthetic perception of colors and tones
as such, for instance, no interpenetrating meaning or sense
of tendencies brought to fruition need in the least be in-
volved; nor, in my own case, is it involved in numerous
instances of the aesthetic perception even of facts into
which it might more easily be imported, rainbows, sun-
sets, the colors and patterns of flowers, fabrics, etc. A dis-
tinction will be made in a later chapter among aesthetic
objects, between those which are dramatic entities or are
interpreted as such, and those which are, or are interpreted
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY
89
as, entities of pure design (independently of empathy).2
From the second group, meanings and the sense of ten-
dencies are absent, and yet they constitute genuine ob-
jects of contemplation, from which aesthetic feelings are
obtained. As Santayana observes, the feeling of nausea
in seasickness does not consist of fear of the possible ship-
wreck which it may mean to us; nor, it may be added, of
regret for the overindulgence in some favorite dish, which
in other circumstances it may signify. It has its own
intrinsic disagreeable nature, quite apart from that of the
company that fate may have given to it in our individual
history. The matter stands likewise with the objects
of aesthetic perception. A certain beauty or ugliness be-
longs to them as directly present in our experience at a
given time, whether or not they derive some beauty or ugli-
ness also from what they represent or mean to us.
Meaning within the object of aesthetic perception is pos-
sible, but not at all necessary. Not possible, on the other
hand, is meaning of (vs. in) the object of aesthetic con-
templation; for as it seems to me, the very phrase consti-
tutes a contradiction in terms. As Schopenhauer rightly
perceived, the attitude of aesthetic contemplation is pre-
cisely that in which one ceases to trace the meanings and
connections of one's content of attention, and gives oneself
wholly to its immediate nature. It should, however, be
clearly realized in this connection, that to trace and appre-
hend meanings and connections is not to contemplate them
aesthetically, but to understand them, noetically, which
is very different. The object of aesthetic contemplation
may contain meanings; but in such a case what we do in
the act of aesthetic contemplation is not to gain an under-
standing of them, but to contemplate aesthetically that
-
2 It will be shown later that the aesthetic attitude is by no means
identical with empathy, as some writers think.
90
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
which we have already come to understand. In other
words, the fact aesthetically contemplated, in such a case,
is presented for contemplation not by the senses but by the
understanding, — it is a fact conceived instead of a fact
perceived.
The existence of the state of aesthetic contemplation (as
more particularly described in a later chapter) is some-
thing which Professor Dewey's account of aesthetic per-
ception does not appear even to recognize, mentioning as
it does only what is accidental to it, and leaving out what
is truly essential. That account seems to me a Hamlet
with the Prince of Denmark left out.
$ 4
Artistic production does not necessarily involve mean-
ing. A similar criticism seems to me to apply to Professor
Dewey's account of the nature of artistic creation. It
is not of the essence of art-creation to take place piece-
meal,
- on the instalment plan, as it were, in such fash-
ion that each step taken constitutes a faced situation, and
the next step a response to or solution of it. As already
pointed out, this is only an account of the history of the
creation of works of art that go beyond a certain degree
of complexity or difficulty. The unit-art-creative-act may
be and often is adequate and finished at one stroke, and,
as will be shown presently, often is not a response to any
situation. It does involve a critical judgment of its prod-
uct, but that judgment often pronounces it adequate,
in which case the product is not modified.
$ 5
The view that art is expression of emotion does not im-
ply the unimportance of subject-matter. The art-creative
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY
91
act, moreover, is essentially one of self-expression, and it
is only by accident that the feeling to be expressed is itself
directly due to some perceived situation. This, however,
leads us to Professor Dewey's criticism of the view that art
is expression of emotion or feeling. His objection to this
view seems to arise from its (supposedly) implying that
"subject-matter is of no significance except as material
through which emotion is expressed" (p. 390).
As to this, I should not only agree but insist that in art
in which there is a subject-matter, that subject-matter is
of cardinal importance. I shall have occasion in the sequel
to express myself on this point and hope to do so in a man-
ner which will make clear that the philosophy of art I am
setting forth does not countenance the liberties which our
"moderns" at times allow themselves with subject-matter.
But I should emphatically deny that unimportance of the
subject-matter is an implication of the thesis that art is
the expression of emotion, when that thesis is taken in the
sense which I shall indicate. Artists indeed have some-
times endeavored to justify the atrocities on subject-
matter of which they were guilty, by appeal to a view of
the nature of art stated by them in terms of "expression
of emotion." Such appeals, however, indicate not the
falsity of the thesis, but only the appellant's blindness to
the distinction between objective expression and mere ex-
cretion, of emotion. The feeling which any given sub-
ject-matter expresses cannot be expressed by anything else;
and any feeling that can be expressed independently of
that subject-matter must be so expressed. Willy-nilly
the subject-matter makes its own contribution to the feel-
ing finally objectified by the work in which that subject-
matter was introduced.
-
92
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
§ 6
Emotions are not always responses to objective situa-
tions. The statements concerning emotion upon which
Professor Dewey bases his criticism of the view that art
is expression of emotion, may next be examined. He
writes: "Emotion in its ordinary sense is something called
out by objects, physical and personal; it is response to an
objective situation. It is not something existing some-
where by itself which then employs material through
which to express itself" (p. 390). But it seems to me ob-
vious that what Professor Dewey sets forth in the above
words is not at all, as it claims to be, what emotion is, but
only when it (sometimes) occurs.
What emotion, or any given emotion, is, can be learned
only by experiencing it; and remains what it is no matter
in what way we came to experience it. The history or
aetiology of an emotional experience or feeling is one thing,
and its intrinsic, concrete nature another. There are few
people who have not some morning awakened with a dis-
interested, a priori, objectless grouch, indistinguishable in
quality from the a posteriori grouches which at other times
were called out by objects. Again, the feeling called De-
pression remains qualitatively the same whether caused
by objective difficulties in one's way, or by obscure, un-
conscious physiological causes. The emotion called Con-
viction occurs under nitrous oxide, as well as in the presence
of a coercive argument. The feeling of exhilaration oc-
curs as a response to good news, or as a result of the presence
of alcohol in the blood stream, etc. In short, the plain
fact, as distinguished from theories, is that emotions, feel-
ings, and moods, in a large proportion of their occurrences
do well-up in us spontaneously from the unconscious work-
ings of body and soul, and not at all in response to an
-
-
THE INSTRUMENTALIST THEORY
93
objective situation. This, I submit, is an everyday occur-
rence even with regard to the "standard," labeled emo-
tions; and with regard to the vast wealth of less violent
and less stereotyped nameless feelings which we may ob-
serve in ourselves at any time we free our attention from
the bondage of labels, the proposition that they are "called
out by objects," or responses to objective situations, could
only be termed an article of faith, true in only a part of
the cases.
As Santayana justly observes: "Emotion is
primarily about nothing, and much of it remains about
nothing to the end.” 3
Now every instance of an emotion which thus arises
"about nothing," constitutes an actual case of what Pro-
fessor Dewey says that emotion is not, viz., something ex-
isting in us by itself, which then employs material through
which to express itself. The expression of it may be ar-
tistic, that is, it may consist in creating an object which
will mirror back to us in contemplation the emotion which
was objectified in it; or it may be utilitarian. Utilitarian
expression of emotion, in cases where the emotion does
arise as a response to an objective situation, consists in
action adapted to destroy or preserve (as the case may be)
the objective situation which was the cause of the emotion.
On the other hand, in cases where the emotion has no such
cause, but wells up in us spontaneously from unconscious
physiological or other subjective causes, the utilitarian sort
of expression of it cannot be spoken of as a reaction upon
the arousing object, since there is none. In such cases,
the same sort of thing occurs as in the case of the a priori
matutinal grouch already referred to. Although not born
of the presence of anything offensive, it does hunger-
like soon enough pick out for itself, and "pick-on," an
object. Most anything will do. Fault-finding and the like
3 Reason in Art, p. 56.
94
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
is its typical, predetermined practical expression, and the
particular object upon which it happens to vent itself is
of importance not owing to its nature, but only as an occa-
sion for the venting of the grouch. In every such case,
practical expression of the emotion constitutes no longer
man's act of self-defence from a threatening universe, but
man's spontaneous attack upon an unprovoking world
(whether the a priori feeling to which practical expression
is given be of the malevolent or the benevolent sort).
I do not by any means contend that the emotion which
the artist expresses through art-creation cannot be an
effect or resultant, more or less direct, of some situation
that he faces. On the contrary, that is often the fact. But
it is a fact which in no way alters the nature of art as
objectification of emotion, or the nature of the artistic
as distinguished from the utilitarian sort of expression of
emotion. How the artist came by the emotion which he
objectifies is an interesting question perhaps, but it is
one wholly irrelevant to that of the nature of art.
As con-
cerns that, the only important facts are that the artist has
first an emotion to express, and then does employ material
through which to express it; and that he expresses it not
in the utilitarian way, (which deals with the object of the
emotion), but by creating something which objectifies,
i.e., mirrors back, the emotion.
Categ
CHAPTER VII
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART
စာ
1
Schiller's view. In his Letters on the Aesthetic Edu-
cation of Man,¹ Schiller depicts art as a development of
the play impulse, and play as the manifestation of a super-
fluity of energy. Thus he writes (letter 27): "If no hun-
ger gnaws the lion, and no beast of prey provokes to battle,
his slumbering energy creates for itself an object; he fills
the echoing waste with vehement roaring, and his exuber-
ant power satiates itself in an aimless effusion. . The
beast labors, when a want is the incitement to its activity,
and it plays, when profusion of vigor is this incitement,
when superfluous life is its own stimulus to activity..
The imagination of man, like his corporeal organs, has also
its free emotion and its material play, in which it merely
enjoys its native power and liberty, without any reference
to shape." This play of the imagination consists in a free,
unconstrained flow of images, which, however, because of
the absence of form, is not yet aesthetic. But from this
free play of ideas, "the imagination . . . makes at length
a leap to aesthetic play. . . An entirely new power
comes here into requisition; for the directing spirit for
the first time interferes in the operations of a blind in-
stinct, subjects the arbitrary process of the imagination to
1 Schiller's Aesthetic Prose. Tr. by J. Weiss; Little, Brown. 1845,
pp. 139, ff.
95
96
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
its immutable, eternal unity . . ." Art, in other words,
is born when taste, asserting itself, imposes a form upon
the products of the free play of man's imagination.
cas
2
Spencer's view. Herbert Spencer, in the chapter of his
Principles of Psychology dealing with the Aesthetic Senti-
ments,² tells us that many years before, he met with a
quotation from a German author whose name he does not
remember, to the effect that the aesthetic sentiments
originate from the play impulse. This view, thus doubt-
less reaching him from Schiller, constitutes the foundation.
of his own discussion.
"The activities we call play," he writes, "are united
with the aesthetic activities, by the trait that neither sub-
serve, in any direct way, the processes conducive to life."
The functioning of a faculty, in normal circumstances,
results in three things: the pleasure of its exercise, the
maintained or increased ability due to exercise, and the
objective result achieved. On the other hand, in the case
of the functioning of a faculty in play or in an aesthetic
pursuit, the first two of these results are present, but not
the last; that is, no direct objective result is accomplished.
Play is "an artificial exercise of powers which, in de-
fault of their natural exercise, become so ready to dis-
charge that they relieve themselves by simulated actions
in place of real actions" (p. 360). This, "which holds of the
bodily powers, the destructive instincts and those emotions
related to them, . . . holds of all other faculties..
The higher but less essential powers, as well as the lower
but more essential powers, thus come to have activities
that are carried on for the sake of the immediate gratifica-
2 Vol. II. Part VIII. Ch. IX.
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART 97
tions derived, without reference to ulterior benefits; and
to such higher powers, aesthetic products yield these substi-
tuted activities, as games yield them to various lower
powers" (pp. 631/2). Thus, "the conception of beauty is
distinguished from the conception of good in this, that it
refers not to ends to be achieved but to activities incidental
to the pursuit of ends" (p. 635). The primary requirement,
for aesthetic activity, being that the activity shall not be
one of a directly-life-serving kind, "we conclude that it
rises to the aesthetic form in proportion as it is great in
amount and is without the drawback of any such units of
painful feeling as result from discordant actions" of stim-
uli (p. 636). Aesthetic pleasure, however, is traceable not
only to such activity of the higher powers, but also, sec-
ondarily, to the diffusion of the voluminous stimulus
through the organism, with a resulting glow of agreeable
feeling; and, thirdly, to the partial revival by this dis-
charge, of agreeable associations established by past ex-
perience (pp. 636/8).
§ 3
ca
Criticism of Spencer's view. Concerning Spencer's doc-
trine just summarized, it may be observed in the first place
that it is ostensibly a theory of the aesthetic sentiments.
It is not definitely presented as a theory of art, although at
many points one is virtually forced to construe it as such.
The aesthetic experience in contemplation, and the art-
creative act, are phenomena of the realm of feeling just as
distinct from each other as reading and writing, which are
their exact analogues in the realm of meaning. But
Spencer, like Schiller and many another writer, appears
not to be clearly conscious of this, and his treatment there-
fore at more than one place has the ambiguity which can-
not fail to characterize any discussion that does not sharply
J
98
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
distinguish the aesthetic experience in contemplation from
the art-creative act.
3
4
Granting a similarity of the general sort described by
Spencer, between play and what he ambiguously calls
"aesthetic activity," objection may however be made to
his view of play as the spontaneous expenditure of surplus
energy accumulated in an organ, in the absence of any
real situation calling for the exercise of that organ. Groos,
for instance, points out that a game once begun is often
carried not only to the point where superfluous energy has
been expended, but indeed to the utmost limit of exhaus-
tion. And elsewhere he writes: "It is the simple force
of the demon instinct that urges and even compels to ac-
tivity not only if and so long as the vessel overflows .
but even when there is but a last drop left in it." As re-
gards the beginning of the playful act, he points out that
a stored up surplus of energy is no more needed for it
than for the performance of the corresponding serious act:
"When a ball of cord is rolled toward a kitten, nothing more
is needed to set her claws in motion than in the case of a
full-grown cat that starts up at the sight of a mouse.'
Surplus energy is only a favorable circumstance, but would
be a necessary factor of explanation only if there were ab-
solutely no external stimulus, which is usually not the case.
Groos' view is that "the life of impulse and instinct alone,
can make special forms of play comprehensible to us.
In many cases the inherited impulse toward prescribed
reactions in certain brain tracts seems to be in itself a suf-
ficient cause for play without the necessary accompaniment
of superfluous energy." "
3 Groos, The Play of Man, p. 366.
4 The Play of Animals, p. 21.
5 Play of Man, p. 363.
6 Play of Man, p. 363. See also The Play of Animals, pp. 19/24, where
he argues this thesis at length.
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART
99
Again Spencer's assertion that "in play or in an aes-
thetic pursuit there results only the immediate gratifica-
tion plus the maintained or increased ability" of the fac-
ulties employed, but not the achievement of any objective
end or fulfillment of any requirement (p. 628) is obviously
incorrect. As Groos points out," "It seems a very mis-
taken proceeding to characterize play as aimless activity,
carried on simply for its own sake. Energetic exertion may
be provocative of pleasure . . . but it is by no means the
only source of the pleasure produced by play.
It
may be an insignificant aim that inspires us, but there is
always some goal that we are striving for, an ‘end to at-
tain,' whose value our imagination usually enhances.'
And he quotes Paul Souriau's statement that "to talk about
such a thing (as disinterested play) is to expose our igno-
rance. Players are always interested in the results of their
efforts." Spencer's opinion that in play there is no achieve-
ment of any objective end is thus only a misinterpretation
of the fact that the objective end pursued in play usually
has no real utility, and that that pursuit is enjoyed. The
mistake is probably a corollary of his error in regarding
play as consisting essentially in the spontaneous discharge
of surplus energy.
Play may, I think, accurately be characterized as the
systematic pursuit of an end set up or accepted expressly
for the purpose.8 The end which is ostensibly pursued in
play, is in fact only a means to, or precondition of, the pur-
suing activities which constitute the play. The immediate
enjoyment of these (which is not necessarily due to ex-
penditure of surplus energy) is the true "end" of play, i.e.,
Baby
•
W
7 The Play of Animals, p. 291.
8 As will be noticed, the well-known facetious definition of philosophy
as the systematic abuse of an elaborate technical terminology invented
expressly for the purpose, has for its very effect the exhibiting of phi-
losophy as mere play.
100
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
*
it is the answer to the reflective question, Why do it?
Play is thus activity, telic in form only, performed for its
own sake. Taken in this sense, the characterization of it
as autotelic activity is correct. It is to be noted, inci-
dentally, that the question whether an end which is being
pursued is really wanted, or is only a pretext for the pleas-
ure of pursuing it, is one which can be answered by the
spectator as well as by the performer. Thus an activity
may be play from the standpoint of the one, and not from
that of the other; and we find adults calling play some
activities of children about which the children themselves
are in deadly earnest, and which they would not class with
the activities that they call play.
There is, however, another defect, which touches Spen-
cer's theory of the "aesthetic activity" directly rather than,
as those just considered, indirectly through its foundation
in his theory of play. This defect lies in Spencer's over-
looking the "leap," the "new power," which in Schiller's
account distinguishes, although none too precisely, "aes-
thetic play" from non-aesthetic. In other words, al-
though art, like play, differs from work in not being a
means to an end external to itself, there is yet between art
and play this great difference (and between art and work
this likeness), namely, that art is essentially productive,
creative; while play is not. Hirn, who clearly perceives
this, writes: "The aim of play is attained when the surplus
of vigour is discharged or the instinct has had its momen-
tary exercise. But the function of art is not confined to the
act of production; in every manifestation of art, properly
so called, something is made and something survives." 10
9
It must further be objected to Spencer's view, that the
difference between play-enjoyment, and aesthetic enjoy-
• The Origins of Art, p. 29.
10 The view of play implicit in the above quotation is, however, not
here endorsed.
1
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART 101
ment is not, as he claims (p. 636) a matter of quantity and
purity, but a matter of the difference between the sorts of
activities yielding the enjoyment, the one, play as de-
scribed above, and the other aesthetic contemplation as
described farther on in these pages.
Lastly, it should be noted that it is to the object, whether
created by art or found in nature, that the predicate Beau-
tiful can properly be applied, and not, as Spencer asserts,
(p. 635) to our "activities incidental to the pursuits of
ends," whether the activities so referred to be understood
to be the art-creative activity or (as Spencer rather appears
to intend) the contemplative."11 But what Hirn has called
"the fatal confusion between art-theory and the science of
beauty" 12 pervades the whole of this passage in Spencer,
for a few lines below he nevertheless writes that "in the
conception of a thing as ... beautiful... consciousness...
is occupied with the thing itself as a direct source of pleas-
ure" (Italics mine); whereas in the next sentence this
pleasurable consciousness is referred to as "a pleasurable
consciousness in the object or act" (Italics mine). In the
preceding paragraph, moreover, while setting forth the
separateness of the "aesthetic consciousness," from life-
serving function, he declares that "the aesthetic conscious-
ness is essentially one in which the actions themselves . .
form the object-matter,' a highly ambiguous statement,
which would be true if high-handedly made to mean that
the art-creative activity is itself enjoyable; but false in
most cases if taken to mean, as Spencer says it does, that
"the thing contemplated as a source of pleasure" is "an af-
fection of self," whether direct or indirect.
""
.
11 Attention may incidentally be called to the fact that on pp. 646/7
Spencer gives an excellent characterization of the aesthetically receptive
attitude, as distinguished from the utilitarianly practical. It will be
found quoted in the chapter on the Aesthetic Attitude, below.
12 The Origins of Art, p. 24.
102
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
From the foregoing examination, it would then on the
whole appear that Spencer's view of the relation of "aes-
thetic activity" to play, although much more elaborate
than Schiller's, does not improve upon it in essentials but
rather the reverse, ignoring as it does the creative expres-
sion of self which, as Schiller seems to have understood,
differentiates the sort of non-utilitarian activity that art
is, from the sort specifically called play.
cas
4
The view of Karl Groos. The general nature of the
theory of play set forth by Karl Groos in his two books on
the play of animals and the play of man, already appears
in what has been said above.
In the first chapter of The Play of Animals, he criticizes
the Schiller-Spencer theory of play as expenditure of sur-
plus energy on the grounds already indicated; and he also
expresses dissent from Wundt's view of play as “imitation
of the business of practical life stripped of its original aim
and having a pleasurable mental effect," 13 on the ground
that although many plays originate in such imitation, "the
most important and elementary kinds of play can be attri-
buted neither to imitative repetition of the individual's
former acts, nor to imitation of the performers of others." 14
The recreation theory of play, Groos also regards
as inadequate. Although freely admitting that play can
furnish recreation, he does not believe anyone can seriously
maintain that the necessity for recreation originates play.15
His own view is that the real essence of play, the source
from which it springs, is to be sought in instinct” (p. 15),
13 Wundt. Vorlesungen ueber die Menschen und Thierseele. Eng.
Tr. p. 357.
14 Play of Animals, p. 9.
15 Play of Animals, p. 17.
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART 103
the imitative impulse being only a special instinct, related
to the others (p. 13, note). Play has thus "a clearly de-
fined biological end, namely, the preparation of the
animal for its particular life activities" (p. 23) and may
be defined objectively, as "practice in distinction from
the exercise of important instincts." 16 But although in-
stinct is the real foundation of play, not all play is purely
instinctive activity. As we ascend in the scale of ex-
istence, psychological phenomena "supplement the mere
natural impulse, ennobling it, elevating it, and tending
to conceal it under added details" (p. 24). And in The
Play of Man (p. 375), he writes: "Play is the agency
employed to develop crude powers and prepare them for
life's uses, and from our biological standpoint we can say:
From the moment when the intellectual development of a
species becomes more useful in the 'struggle for life' than
the most perfect instinct, natural selection will favor those
individuals in whom the less elaborated faculties have
more chance of being worked out by practice under the
protection of parents that is to say, those individuals
that play."
S
The relation of play as so conceived to art is through the
psychological accompaniments of play just mentioned.
Play is at first mere satisfaction of instinctive impulse in
response to a stimulus. That is, the act is not performed
for its own sake, nor for that of an external aim, but auto-
matically. At the next stage, although the situation faced
is not objectively a serious and real one, it is subjectively
regarded as such, and the animal exerts to the attainment
of an aim such power as it does have. At the third stage,
"a consciousness of make-believe is rising gradually, and
to the force of instinct is being added the recollection of
the pleasure-giving qualities of play." This acts as a
16 Play of Animals, p. 292.
104
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
restraint, checking the earnestness of the instinctive acts.
Finally, "the make-believe is fully developed and con-
scious . . . the animal, playing a part as an actor, comes
very near to art; henceforth he plays for play's sake with
very little external aim."
In the case of man, however, the outward aim reappears
at this stage in a modified form, "in the desire to impress
the hearers or spectators, and is at bottom our familiar
pleasure in power, delight in being able to extend the
sphere of our ability." In the artist this becomes "the
hope of influencing other minds by means of his creations,
which, through the power of suggestion, give him a spirit-
ual supremacy over his fellow-creatures. This suggestive
effect is his real aim, for while it is true in a sense that the
artist should not regard applause by the multitude, but
listen rather to the voice in his own breast, it is yet non-
sense to say that a great artist has no thought of the effect
on others.
Spiritual supremacy is the aim of the
highest art, and there is no real genius without the desire
for it." 17
Groos is quite conscious of the difference between aes-
thetic enjoyment and artistic production. But the con-
ception of play is for him applicable to both, inasmuch as,
from a psychological standpoint we recognize as play “any
act that is practised purely for its pleasurable effect." 18
Thus, aesthetic enjoyment is not only "playful sensor
experience," but also the playful exercise of "the higher
psychic grounds of perception," especially "the subjective
activity of inner imitation as such," which gives us the
joyful "feeling of being a cause"; aesthetic enjoyment
arising thus both from the exercise of the sensory and
other faculties, and from the nature of what is sensed or
17 Play of Animals, pp. 292/5.
18 Play of Man, p. 390.
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART
105
imitated.19 With regard to artistic production, he de-
clares that, especially in highly developed art, it is fur-
ther removed from play than is aesthetic enjoyment (p.
393), but that the relatedness of artistic production to
play becomes more and more conspicuous as we approach
the springs of art (p. 394). In the child's artistic efforts,
for instance, enjoyment of his own productive activity
predominates over the idea of making an impression on
others; and although highly developed art transcends
the sphere of play, yet "it too is rooted in playful ex-
perimentation and imitation," which, indeed, "is present
in all creative activity, gilding earnest work with a sportive
glitter.” This it is which gives to artistic production the
enjoyable character which distinguishes it from ordinary
toil (p. 394/5).
S
§ 5
Play is autotelic, Work ectotelic, and Art endotelic.
Groos' theory of play is obviously more adequate than the
Schiller-Spencer theory, or the imitation and recreation
theories, and it is, I think, sound in essentials. But it does
not seem to me that Groos has succeeded any better than
Spencer in showing that art is to be regarded as the play of
the higher faculties.
If, biologically considered, play is what Groos maintains,
namely, the agency through which crude powers are devel-
oped and prepared for life's uses, then it seems impossible
to regard either artistic production or aesthetic contem-
plation as play. No one would maintain that the art
of singing, for instance, is a playful exercise of the voice,
preparing it to be used perhaps in calling for help more
loudly when dangers arise; and in the case of most other
arts, — piano or violin playing, for instance, or painting,
it would be still more difficult to suggest even such an
19 Play of Man, p. 391.
106
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
absurdly far-fetched biological utility to either the per-
former or his public. The most plausible instance that
could be adduced of an art closely similar in externals to
an activity that constitutes play as biologically defined by
Groos, would probably be the art of acting; and the ca-
pacity to act a part does have biological and social utility
in deceiving enemies, rivals, or prey. Yet no one could
seriously maintain that what the actor, or the novelist, or
in general the practitioner of a representative art, is en-
gaged in, can be described as the developing and preparing
for life's uses, of his crude natural powers of lying! Thus,
art is not biologically, like play, practice or rehearsal of
anything. Moreover, art-production, and aesthetic con-
templation, are, like work, serious activities, while play
and amusements are not, but only at times intent and
absorbing. Again, as already mentioned, art is essen-
tially creative, while play is not; and the experimentation
which Groos mentions as present in all creative activity is
not, as he terms it, playful, but on the contrary earnest.
It is enjoyed, but is not engaged in with the view of en-
joying oneself, as games are. It is engaged in for the sake
of creating something, i.e., it has an end, and the creating
of it is regarded as something that one must do,
it is a
real end, not, as in play, a trumpery one. The obligation to
attain it, however, is not as in work external and con-
ditional, but internal to art, and categorical. Art, as thus
containing a real end, is not autotelic but endotelic;
whereas work is properly termed ectotelic (or heterotelic).
The obligation of art is a categorical imperative, uttered, as
it were, to ourselves by ourselves. It is the obligation im-
posed by the laws of one's inward being, to give birth to that
which one bears darkly in oneself. From play, however,
this character of obligation is wholly absent. Playing
chess, for instance, so long as it is play, could not be de-
S
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART 107
scribed as a means to the mating of the opponent's king;
nor is any obligation to attempt it felt. Play, as already
stated above, is only the enjoyed systematic pursuit of an
end set up or accepted expressly for the purpose.20
Between art and work, moreover, there is also this dif-
ference: In work the particular nature of the end to which
the work is (or is believed to be) the means, is clearly
known beforehand. In art, on the contrary, the particular
nature of that which one is in process of creating is clearly
known only after it is created. Therefore, whereas work
can be described as successful or unsuccessful in the sense
that the product of it does or does not copy the particular
antecedently conceived desired end; art, on the other hand,
can be spoken of as successful or unsuccessful only in the
different sense that its product is or is not such as to re-
impart in contemplation the same subjective state from
which it sprang, and of which that product is not at all a
copy in a material denser than images, but an objectifica-
tion, no matter whether in image or in sensation-material.21
In other words, in work, what occurs is the creating of a
real object copying a desired and merely imagined object.
But in art what occurs is the creating of an object, whether
real or imaginal, and of a nature not antecedently known,
20 Cf. Henri Delacroix, Psychologie de l'Art:
"The true difference [between play and art] is elsewhere. Play is al-
most indifferent to its material. It does not attempt to make of it any-
thing beyond the momentary signification which it confers upon it. The
player uses his playthings only as means to reach his ends, as symbols on
which to hook up his intentions. The intrinsic nature of his objects
matters little to him; it is enough that they be transfigured by the action
and the theme of the play" (p. 44); and also: "Play has disclosed itself
to us as an activity exercising itself outside the constraint of reality and
which creates, according to the interests and the mental level of the
player, the themes and the objects necessary to its exercise" (p. 42).
21 As already noted Croce correctly perceives that the copying in per-
ceptual stuff of something already existing in image stuff is not art. His
error, as it seems to me, is in not recognizing that art may and often does
create as directly in perceptual stuff as in image stuff.
108
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
which in a unique way corresponds to something that was
not an object at all, viz., to a feeling.
In bringing to an end these remarks with regard to the
mutual relations of play, art, and work, it may further
be noted with regard to play that, especially in the plays
of youth, the biological function of play is doubtless what
Groos asserts, namely, to prepare, educate, or develop the
powers involved. But in other cases, such as many of the
plays of adults, the biological function of play is rather
to be thought of as the keeping from atrophy of powers
already developed; and in other cases yet, as that of harm-
lessly sublimating surplus energy. This, however, does
not necessarily imply (although it admits as a possibility
more or less often realized) that in such cases the pressure
of accumulated surplus energy itself occasions the play;
nor does it imply that the surplus energy expended was
stored up in the particular organs used in the play. Fit-
ness of a given organ to function, and surplus of energy in
the organism as a whole, seem to be rather distinct things.
It is worth noting also that it is not of the essence of play
not to be directly productive of valuable external results.
A useful activity in which one has attained considerable
virtuosity may come to be engaged in independently of the
fact that its result possesses utility. That is, it may be en-
gaged in for the fun of it, — with the mere pleasure of the
performance as end, and thus be play, although useful.
Thus, we hear it said that some expert surgeons at times
remove appendices for the pleasure of the operation, i.e.,
in play. Supposing this true, the possibility that the
appendix in a given such case really needed to be removed,
so that the surgeon's act in that case turned out to have a
directly useful objective result, would not rob that act of its
character of play from his standpoint.
Lastly, in addition to work, play and art, mention must
THE PLAY THEORY OF ART
109
also be made of activities which are carried on automati-
cally, and to which the teleological categories of means and
end are inapplicable. Such activities may therefore be
called atelic. Automatic activities are the reflex, instinc-
tive, and habitual activities, such as swallowing, breathing,
undressing, shifting one's position in a chair, scratching
oneself, and many others. Such activities, when truly
describable as automatic, take place without conscious at-
tention either to them or to their results, and therefore
cannot be characterized either as means or as ends, from the
standpoint of the performer of them at the time. Auto-
matic activities of some sorts may well, as Groos contends,
be preliminary to play, but they themselves are not prop-
erly called play.
CHAPTER VIII
WHAT IS ART? THE ANSWER PROPOSED
The preceding chapters have been to a considerable ex-
tent critical and controversial in character. They never-
theless constitute an indispensable part of the formula-
tion of the philosophy of art to which the present volume
is dedicated, serving as they do partly to state it posi-
tively; partly to show the existing doctrines upon which
it leans or from which it borrows; partly to contrast it
with other doctrines with which it has more or less super-
ficial or accidental resemblances; and partly to clear out
of its way various doctrines, or portions of them, which
seem to me in some cases simply false and in others pos-
sibly true but irrelevant.
The point has now been reached, however, where the es-
sential features of the answer which the present work pro-
poses to the question, What is Art? must be stated in posi-
tive terms, and as clearly and explicitly as possible. To do
this is the aim of the present chapter; and in those fol-
lowing it, various important questions which in one way
or another connect themselves closely with the doctrine
here advocated, will be considered and discussed in detail.
cas
1
Art in general; Endotelic art; Aesthetic art. Art, in the
broadest sense of the term, is activity which is consciously
so controlled as to produce a result satisfying some speci-
110
WHAT IS ART?
111
fied condition.
On the basis of the classification of telic
activities made in the last chapter, we may divide art as
so defined into ectotelic art (the utilitarian arts, skilled
work, or engineering in the widest sense), autotelic art
(skill in games and play), and endotelic art (skilled self-
objectification), of which "art" in the most common sense
of the term (and that with which this volume is essen-
tially concerned), is one species.
Endotelic art resembles play in that the end aimed at
is not imposed from without, as in work, but is imposed by
oneself. In play, however, the ostensible end which one
adopts or sets to oneself, is not really valued; its true status
is that of a means to or condition of the pleasure of pursuit,
which is what is really wanted or valued. Play is thus an
activity, telic in form only, which is performed for its own
sake. In this sense it may properly be called autotelic
activity. Endotelic art differs from play in that the self-
imposed end which it aims at is really wanted; it is not
trumped up for the pleasure of pursuing it but is con-
sidered as something that ought to be achieved. In this
respect, endotelic art resembles work; but it differs from
work in that the "ought" of work is conditional, imposed
from without, whereas the "ought" of endotelic art is cate-
gorical, imposed by the artist's own being; or, as we may
therefore say, endotelic art is a free activity, and work as
such and directly, is not.
GRA
The end which endotelic art seeks, is objectification of
the artist's self, i.e., of his feelings, meanings, or volitions.
The art which is endotelic may then be said to consist in
conscious or critically controlled objectification of self; or,
equivalently, in consciously objective self-expression. En-
dotelic art then is of three sorts, according as what it seeks
to objectify is feeling, meaning, or will. Aesthetic art,
which is what usually is referred to when the word Art
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
is used without qualification, is the conscious objectifica-
tion of one's feelings. As distinguished from it, the con-
scious objectification of one's meanings, usually in words,
may be called lectical art; and the conscious objectifica-
tion of one's volitions, heuretic art. Something will be
said in a later section of this chapter concerning these last
two species of endotelic art, and the reasons for designating
them by the above names. Since the present work will not
deal with them further than that, the reader need not fear
that this multiplication of technical terms will burden the
text of the remaining chapters.
cos
2
Meaning of "objectification." The definition of endo-
telic art in general, given above, is highly compact, and,
to make its meaning fully clear it is necessary to consider
next some of the terms that enter into it. After that, we
shall limit our discussion to the one species of endotelic
art with which we are essentially concerned in these pages,
namely, aesthetic art.
The first thing that needs to be made clear is the mean-
ing attached in the definition of endotelic art to the words
Objectification, or Objective Expression. They are not
intended to imply that the feeling, meaning, or volition
which is expressed is necessarily expressed in perceptual
material, i.e., in material rendering observation by others
than the artist possible. Objectification, indeed, is usu-
ally partially at least in perceptual stuff, but it might take
place wholly in image-stuff, and thus remain private to the
artist. The limitations of image-stuff as medium of ex-
pression have already been pointed out; they are empirical
only. Theoretically, therefore, image-stuff is possible stuff
for any expression. This is recalled at this point only to
G
<<
WHAT IS ART?
113
make clear that objectivity does not necessarily mean per-
ceptual objectivity.
P
What is meant here by speaking of objectification, or
of expression as objective, is that the act of expression is
(in such a case) creative of something (1) capable of being
contemplated by the artist at least, and (2) such that in
contemplation that thing yields back to him the feeling,
meaning, or volition of which it was the attempted expres-
sion. Thus, one would be said to have objectified or ex-
pressed objectively one's meaning if, in reading the words
which one wrote, one obtains back from them the very
meaning which one attempted to express, so that one is
then able to say, "Yes, that is exactly what I meant." If
on the contrary one finds oneself forced to say in reading or
listening to one's own words: "No, this is not just what I
meant," then one's attempt to objectify one's meaning has
failed. Such an unsuccessful attempt constitutes expres-
sion only in the subjective sense of the term. That is, al-
though it may rid us, at least for the time being, of the
impulse to express our given meaning, it does not rid us of
it by objectifying it. But as noted in an earlier chapter,
unsuccessful attempts at objective self-expression cannot
be distinguished from successful by the way they feel at
the time, but only by contemplating their products and
noting whether or not the latter mirror back to us accu-
rately what we attempted to express. It should be noted,
however, that this obtaining back from the object cre-
ated, of what we tried to express, is only the proof of the
success of the attempt at objective expression. It is not
an end, other than objective self-expression, to which the
object is intended as means and for the sake of which it is
created. Or, if it is that, then our creative activity was
essentially not endotelic art, but ectotelic, viz., skilled work,
as when we construct a physical mirror to the end of ex-
amining ourselves.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
However, even in cases where the attempt at objective
self-expression is, upon contemplation of its product,
judged to have been wholly successful, one might question.
whether the feeling, meaning, or volition reflected to us
in such contemplation can be said to be truly the same as
that which originally we had to express. As to this, it must
of course be admitted that something happens as a result of
objectification. But what happens is not a change in the
intrinsic nature in the "what" of the feeling, mean-
ing, or volition; it is only a gain in the clearness or the
steadiness with which we experience or live it. Unless
qualitative identity were preserved in the process of clari-
fication, (described in detail in § 7 of ch. IV), there would
be nothing of which we could say that it has been clarified.
Ever since the early days of Greek philosophy, it has been
recognized that if anything is to be described as a change,
and not as an outright substitution, something must re-
main identical through the process.
§ 3
In what sense objectification is conscious. Acts of self-
expression are blind and irresponsible whenever they have
not been rehearsed, that is to say, whenever the expres-
sion is of something original, new, not expressed before.
Although one's every feeling, thought, or volition is some-
what like some other or others, yet it is usually also some-
what different from others, and to that extent new. To
that extent the expression of it is therefore blind. Such
blind self-expression might nevertheless possess objectiv-
ity in the sense of that term specified above, but even then
it would not yet constitute art, for it is of the essence of
art to be not blind like automatic action, but conscious and
responsible. That is, art is not merely self-expression, nor
WHAT IS ART?
115
even merely objective self-expression, but consciously ob-
jective self-expression; its product must not only be capa-
ble of passing the test of objectivity described, but must
have actually passed it. This means that art can objectify
the new only by a process of "trial and error," or more ac-
curately, of trial and criticism, and if need be, correction.
There may very well be, and often there is, but a single
trial, completely successful by itself. But whether there
be but one, or more than one, every trial at the moment it
occurs is itself blind as to whether or not it has achieved
objectivity of expression. Consciousness of this has to be
gained, and is gained immediately afterwards, by contem-
plation of the product of the trial, and critical judgment of
it, i.e., judgment either that it does, or does not, truly mirror
back the inner state to which we wished to give expression.
To say that the objective self-expression which is (en-
dotelic) art, is conscious, or, which is the same thing,
that the self-expression which is (endotelic) art is expres-
sion critically controlled in such manner as to achieve
objectivity, therefore does not mean that it need be.
conscious or so controlled either antecedently to or con-
temporaneously with the expressive act. Only rehearsal
would make this possible. But it does mean that a critical
judgment is an intrinsic, essential constituent of the pro-
ductive activity called art; and indeed, not merely a criti-
cal judgment, but a favorable one. That is to say, the art
has failed, there has been not skill but rather blunder-
ing, unless one has not merely judged the product of
one's activity in respect to its objectivity, but judged it
actually to have attained to objectivity. One must be
able to acknowledge the product as an adequate state-
ment of oneself.
The activity in which a new feeling, meaning, or voli-
tion expresses itself proceeds from an impulse which at the
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
moment is blind, and as such cannot strictly be said to be
aiming at anything, but only manifesting itself. It is
therefore only in terms of the later observation of the sort
of product which it tends to have, that it is describable as
impulse to self-objectification. Thus, the telic character,
which truly belongs to art since a critical moment is an
intrinsic part of it, may be said to accrue to the expressive
activity which is its first moment, ex post facto. That ac-
tivity is telically construed and criticized, after it has oc-
curred. And the work of art is not the product of that
activity simply, but of that activity telically construed
and criticized, and if need be repeated until correction of
the product results, i.e., until objectivity of the expression
is obtained.
$4
Correction of the product of attempted objectification,
vs. correction of the self first objectified. The process of
correction (if any) which culminates in the acknowledg-
ment of the product as adequate statement of oneself is,
however, susceptible of two different interpretations. It
may mean that the earlier attempt at objective self-
expression was not completely successful; but it may also
mean that it was a successful objectification of a self which,
when it confronted us clearly, we disowned and repudiated
in favor of another, namely, of the self which found ade-
quate objectification in the "corrected" product, the
product being then better describable as objectification of
a corrected self.
§ 5
Two things which objectification makes possible. This
observation points to two functions which (endotelic) art
may discharge more or less automatically in the life of the
WHAT IS ART?
117
artist as an individual, and as a member of society. Such
art, which as we have just seen is an "official,” i.e., an
acknowledged objective registering of oneself, is at the
same time self-exhibition, to oneself primarily, and usu-
ally to others also. This self-exhibition to oneself makes
possible the self-editing just mentioned. Art holds a mir-
ror to the self, and with it therefore comes the possibility
of emendation of the appearance of that self, whether by
real change or by spiritual maquillage and possibly the
mere maquillage may there be the very means of real
change. For one tends to live up to what one has officially
declared oneself to be. That which originally was a part
to be played may become one's true nature; for a part
which is played thoroughly, consistently, and spontane-
ously owing to ingrained habit, is a part no longer. It has
been said that shams are the illegitimate offspring of ideal-
ism; but the illegitimacy belongs only to the shams that
are not thorough enough. Man, it may be said, is the being
for whom to be natural is to play a part. However, what
once was a living up to the best part he could think of, may
in time come to constitute a living down to a part which
is no longer that, and to which he is kept by habit or by the
"foolish consistency" which Emerson condemns. A book
which, when written, constituted a high-water mark up to
which the author then endeavored to maintain his thought,
may in the course of time turn into a tight seal which
henceforth keeps his mental tide from mounting higher.
In registering us objectively, art may and usually does
reveal us not only to ourselves but also to others; and
then attracts or repels them according both to the sort
of self it displays to them, and to the sorts of selves that
they themselves are. As pointed out in connection with
the discussion of Dr. Marshall's view of the social func-
tion of art in an earlier chapter, that function is guidance
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
in certain relations with our fellow-man; for instance, rec-
ognition of those belonging to one's own inner kind, and
to inner kinds not one's own; and effecting the cohesion
of the potentially coherent, and, no less, the dishesion of
the latently disherent.
cas
6
In what sense ulterior ends may coexist with endotelic
art-creation. The endotelic character of the activity
which has been described as conscious objectification of
self, involves, as we have seen, that it is a free or autono-
mous activity. This autonomy of endotelic art does not,
however, exclude the possibility that ulterior purposes
should be at the same time served by it. What it forbids
is that such ulterior purposes should govern, or even have
any voice in, the critical process mentioned above as con-
stituting an intrinsic part of art-creation. The fact is
often brought forward that many lyrical poems, for in-
stance, have actually been composed to win the favor of
a lady. One may, however, seek to win the favor of a
lady by revealing to her one's inmost self, such as it may
be; or, on the other hand, by displaying to her such a self
as one thinks she will like, pretending it to be one's own.
In the first case, the composing of the poem that bares
one's soul is (aesthetic) art. It is an autonomous activity,
in the sense that the only consideration in the light of which
the critical process involved is exercised, is that of the
adequacy with which what was done objectifies oneself.
That is, such corrections as may be made, are made not so
that the product may objectify something more adequate
to the end of winning the lady, but so that it may more
adequately objectify that which is oneself. The burden
of winning the lady is left to the nature and quality of that
WHAT IS ART?
119
self, such as it is; and the concern of art in the whole affair
is only to reveal it truly. The art-activity even here de-
termines and contains within itself its own end, and is
responsible only to itself. Such ulterior purposes as its
product may then be turned to, remain irrelevant to that
activity. The man as a whole may have such ulterior
purposes, but the man as artist has not.
In the second case, on the other hand, where verses are
written displaying whatever sort of self one thinks the
lady will like, - which self one passes off as one's own, -
what we have is not aesthetic nor even endotelic art at
all. It is only beautiful lying skilfully adapted to the
end of seduction. It is angling with spiritual bait, ama-
tory engineering, i.e., an instance of ectotelic art, skilled
work.
cos
7
Lectical art. Of the two species of endotelic art other
than aesthetic, viz., lectical and heuretic art, only enough
need be said here to sharpen by contrast the conception
of aesthetic art already formulated. The language of
meaning has already been discussed at some length in
earlier chapters. Although words are not the only sort of
material that it uses, they are the principal and most ade-
quate; and for this reason the term lectical is here pro-
posed to designate the species of endotelic art concerned
with the objective expression of meanings. The term
"logical," which naturally suggests itself for this, is al-
ready in common use in a somewhat different sense, from
which it cannot be wrenched. Lectical art would be what
Véron proposed to call "prose," giving to that term the
very broad sense in which "prose" would be contrasted
with all aesthetic art, - the latter being designated "po-
etry" in an equally broad sense.
120
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
§ 8
Heuretic art. Heuretic art is the conscious objectifica-
tion of will, and is so designated because that is what in-
vention essentially consists in. This becomes evident
when the meaning given to the term Objectification is re-
called. To objectify a volition is not to carry it out in
action, but to create a state of affairs in the contempla-
tion of which that volition is reflected back, reimparted to
one. The volition which is actually carried out in such
creation is another, namely, the volition to objectify the
given volition. The mere will-to-objectify-consciously is
what we may call the (endotelic) art-impulse in general,
and it is present not only or peculiarly in heuretic art, but
equally in aesthetic and lectical art. Thus without some
other and particular volition as content to be objectified,
the general will-to-objectify would in heuretic art remain
barrenly general, and futile. It would have nothing in
particular to objectify and could not manifest itself at
all.
The product of the conscious objectification of a volition,
i.e., the product of the inventive process, is what we com-
monly call an instrument, which may be a tool, an institu-
tion, an organization, etc. Inventing is means-creating,
made an end; and it is a very different thing from means-
using. For the heuretic artist, i.e., for the inventor as
such, the putting of his invention to work is not the begin-
ning of the reaping of something which he wanted, and to
which he devised the means, but only the final step in
the construction of the invention. It is not a using of the
invention but only a testing of it.
To make clearer the fact that conscious objectification
of a volition consists in invention, i.e., in instrument-cre-
ation, reference may be made to Schopenhauer's state-
WHAT IS ART?
121
ment that the steer does not butt because it has horns, but
has horns because it (unconsciously) wills to butt. The
horns, according to his view, would thus be describable
as the (unconscious) objectification of the will-to-butt.
Because of the unconscious character of the objectifica-
tion of the assumed will-to-butt, there is here of course no
question of art; but if we consider instead the inventing of
something, for instance, of the telephone, then conscious
control of the process is present throughout, and we have
therefore a true case of heuretic art, for the telephone
can evidently be correctly described as the consciously
achieved objectification by its inventor, of the will-to-
speak-far. Thus, to objectify (as distinguished from car-
rying out) a volition, is to create the means or possibility of
its being carried out. The volition which the inventing of
the telephone actually carried out was not the volition-to-
speak-far, but the volition-that-it-be-possible-to-speak-
far.
According to the definition of objectification formulated,
the test of success of any attempt to objectify a volition
would be the fact of its product being such as to reflect
back or reimpart in contemplation the volition which one
attempted to objectify. In a later chapter it will be shown
that the state called Contemplation is to one's capacity
for feeling, for meaning, or for willing, essentially what
listening is to one's capacity for hearing. The contempla-
tion of a work of heuretic art may thus be described as a
"listening" to it with one's capacity for willing, a throw-
ing open of one's will to such invitations as may come to it
from the object. Now, an instrument constitutes just such
a (determinate) invitation to the will; it is a temptation
to do a particular sort of willing. Contemplation of an
instrument considered as product of heuretic art (and not
as aesthetic object) therefore consists in "listening" for
122
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
the characteristic temptation which it constitutes and
obeying it, that is to say trying out the instrument, whether
in imagination only, or actually. If the sort of thing
which we find ourselves thus induced to do, is exactly the
sort of thing which we had willed that it should become
possible to do, then we say that our creative attempt has
been successful.
By way of a posteriori confirmation of the correctness of
the foregoing analyses of the three species of endotelic art,
attention may be called to the kinship which common
sense recognizes between the artist in the ordinary sense
of the term, the writer, and the inventive thinker. They
represent three species of the same queer genus, which the
"practical," i.e., the ectotelic man, finds equally impossible
to understand.
$9
cos
Aesthetic art. The conscious objectification of one's
feelings was designated above, aesthetic art. The reason
for not calling it "fine art," is the implication which this
term carries that the art so referred to is an activity essen-
tially concerned with the production of something beauti-
ful. That this is a fundamentally false and a pernicious
view of the nature of Art, has already been argued in an
earlier chapter. Any activity of which the deliberate aim
is to produce something beautiful, is ectotelic art, i.e.,
skilled work. It is exactly analogous to the activity of the
confectioner, for instance.
?
The definition of aesthetic art given is wholly independ-
ent of the notion of beauty, and the term Aesthetic Art
itself, at least as a matter of etymology, is free from any
implication of beauty, since it means simply art the prod-
WHAT IS ART?
123
ucts of which are things to be perceived.¹ A word which
in itself might have been better than "aesthetic art" to
designate the art which objectifies feeling, would be
"pathematic art," but owing to the fact that the denota-
tion of the term "aesthetic art" is likely to be obvious to
everybody without recourse to a dictionary, it is prob-
ably the best term to use.
The word "aesthetic" to-day is ambiguous. Some-
times it is used in its etymological sense of "perceptible,"
or having to do with perception; for instance, in the title
"Transcendental Aesthetic" given by Kant to the first part
of his Critique of Pure Reason. It is also used to desig-
nate several more or less distinct sorts of inquiries, such
as the philosophy of art and of beauty; empirical investi-
gations of the characters possessed by the things judged
beautiful by certain persons (e.g., statistical investigations
of color-preferences, of preferred proportions in rectangles,
etc.); and also, art-criticism. The term Aesthetic is also
loosely used as more or less synonymous with Beautiful.
And again it is used by some as an adjective intended to
differentiate feelings obtained in the contemplation of
things which are meant to be mere designs, from feelings
obtained in the contemplation of other things, such as
dramatic entities (so that a drama could not then, by
definition, be an aesthetic object or a source of aesthetic
feelings!).
Since there is thus no one firmly established sense in
which the word Aesthetic is used in the language of the
plain man, I feel not only free to use my own discretion
in defining it, but also called upon to say explicitly in
what sense the word is employed throughout the present
1 Lalo's proposal to make aesthetic mean beautiful; inaesthetic, ugly;
and anaesthetic, neutral, i.e., neither beautiful nor ugly, has to recommend
it neither etymology nor necessity since we have already the three un-
ambiguous and perfectly good words, Beautiful, Ugly, and Neutral.
124
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
volume. The word Aesthetic, then, in these pages, is used
to mean, having to do with feelings obtained through con-
templation. This departs from the etymological sense,
and the word Pathematic would have been better in this
respect, involving as it does a reference to feeling, although
not to contemplation. But it seemed advisable to keep
the word Aesthetic, and the sense assigned to it above does
not radically depart from the ways in which it is actu-
ally used. Rather, I think, it mediates between them, be-
ing related as it is to a comprehensive and definite phi-
losophy of art, instead of, as usually, to a fragmentary and
more or less indefinite one.
Since works of aesthetic art, in spite of the essential
independence of art from beauty, nevertheless usually have
more or less of beauty, a brief statement of what beauty is
(if the doctrine of the present work is correct), may be
introduced here parenthetically to indicate in a general
way what relation beauty has, and does not have, to aes-
thetic art. Any object is to be called beautiful when, or in
so far as, the feelings which one obtains in the aesthetic
contemplation of it are pleasurable feelings. A beautiful
object therefore may be, but need not be, a work of art;
and a work of art may be, but need not be, beautiful.
Beauty, being purely a matter of the sort of feeling that
an object gives us in contemplation, remains wholly inde-
pendent of the manner (whether artificial or natural) in
which the object itself came into existence. On the other
hand, a work of aesthetic art, being simply the consciously
achieved objectification of a feeling, will not be beautiful
unless the feeling objectified in it and reflected by it in
contemplation, is a pleasurable feeling. There are, how-
ever, reasons which will be stated farther on, why objects
that are works of aesthetic art are more likely to be beau-
tiful than ugly or neutral.
WHAT IS ART?
125
§ 10
The definition of Aesthetic Art proposed differentiates
it from cases of expression which are not art; and also from
skilled work. From this point on, we shall be concerned
only with aesthetic art, and we may therefore agree for
convenience and in conformity with ordinary usage, to
employ simply the word Art whenever aesthetic art is
meant, unless special notice is given that this convention
is for the time being departed from.
Various questions to which the philosophy of art out-
lined in the present chapter gives rise, will be dealt with
in the chapters to follow. Here it remains to show that
the definition of (aesthetic) art proposed does apply to
whatever is acknowledgedly so called, and at the same time
excludes various things which in spite of certain likenesses
to art nevertheless are not art. It may be pointed out in
the first place that the definition given distinguishes ex-
pressions of feeling which are art from those which, like
yawning, laughing, stretching, etc., are not art. The char-
acter which truly distinguishes art from such other expres-
sions of feeling is the critical control in respect to objec-
tivity, which is an intrinsic part of art; and not (for reasons
already stated) the deliberate intention to infect others
with feeling, proposed as specific difference by Tolstoi.
As to Croce's proposed differentia for the expression which
is art, viz., being "aesthetic" as distinguished from "na-
turalistic," it is useless because virtually but verbal. That
is, it does little except give a name to the distinction sought,
since the terms "spiritual" and "active" by which he
further describes the sort of expression which is "aesthetic,"
are themselves left far too ambiguous and vague to sepa-
rate clearly the "aesthetic" sheep of expression from its
"naturalistic" goats.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Critical control, again, is what distinguishes art from
expressions of feeling which achieve objectivity but do so
unconsciously. There are probably, for instance, cases
where a feeling is expressed spontaneously and naturally
in an action, and where the action at the same time happens
to constitute as objective an expression of the feeling as it
could if it were not action but acting. However, because
no critical control is involved in such cases, they do not
constitute art. Still farther, of course, are we from having
art in the much more numerous cases where the spontane-
ous, natural expression of feeling does not have objectivity
as defined above.
It is to be noted also that a work of art would not be suffi-
ciently characterized as an artificial thing embodying a
feeling. That the creative process shall be critically con-
trolled in the particular manner described, viz., so that it
shall exactly objectify the creator's feeling, is a specifica-
tion necessary to rule out processes by which an object
embodying a feeling is created, but which do not consti-
tute art. An instance of such would be the technical proc-
esses of color-photography, printing, and so on, by which
are produced accurate copies of original paintings. The
critical control involved in such processes is directed not
as in aesthetic art to the end that the thing created shall
adequately objectify the creator's feeling, but to the end
that it shall discharge as effectively as possible the
function of substitute for an already existing object,
namely, the original. If the copy is faithful, it will indeed
constitute an embodiment of the same feeling as the
original; but the process which brought the copy into ex-
istence is nevertheless not to be called aesthetic art, for
it does not constitute an attempt by the performer to ob-
jectify a feeling present in himself. He is not expressing
a feeling but copying an object, whether mechanically or
P
WHAT IS ART?
127
otherwise; and he need never have himself so much as ex-
perienced the feeling which is objective in the product of
his work. What we have in such a case is only skilled
work, ectotelic art.
§ 11
Expression of meanings or ideas is no part of aesthetic
art. A certain doubt might well arise when the essence
of aesthetic art is declared to consist in conscious ob-
jectification of feeling, -the doubt, namely, whether this
is indeed the whole of what art does, or whether on the con-
trary it does not also express meanings, thoughts. That
art does this also, seems at first obviously to be the case;
but on closer examination the truth I think is perceived to
be that not all feelings by far can be objectified in exclu-
sively perceptual stuff; that is to say, the range of feel-
ings that can be expressed in pure design, which makes no
use of representation but directly presents to perception
the whole aesthetic object, is extremely limited. The
entities which objectify most of the feelings that human
beings experience and desire to express in art, are entities
that cannot be presented directly, but only indirectly, that
is to say, represented. For instance, most of the feelings
with which the drama deals can be expressed only in an
object consisting of some scheme of human relationships;
and these are not to any considerable extent directly per-
ceptual entities. Such things as human relationships can
be presented to consciousness only by being thought,
meant, signified through some perceptual fact (such as
words, raiment, etc.). The objectification, let us say in
words, of a particular scheme of human relationships
meant, is not performed with objectification of meaning as
its essential end, but as a means to the objectification of
feelings not embodiable otherwise than in an object con-
S
128
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
sisting of human relationships. We have therefore here to
distinguish clearly between the objectification of feeling
in or by the scheme of human relationships meant, and
the objectification of the latter in words, which mean it
and at the same time lend it the permanence and exactness
which can be borrowed from perceptual stuff. The artist
sets up before consciousness the object which expresses
his feelings, by whatever devices he needs in the particular
case, e.g., by meaning that object, representing it, if it is
not one capable of direct perceptual presentation. But
such presence of representation within the work of art
leaves wholly untouched the radical difference between ob-
jectification of meaning in perceptual or imaginal stuff,
e.g., words; and objectification of feeling in the object
or situation which the words mean.
§ 12
The feeling which an elaborate work of art finally ob-
jectifies is not usually present ab initio; but develops step
by step. There is another matter concerning which mis-
understanding might arise when a work of art is character-
ized as the objective expression of a feeling. This might
be taken to imply that the rich and highly determinate
feeling which contemplation of an elaborate completed
work of art reveals as embodied therein was present in its
fullness from the very outset in the artist. But as already
pointed out, the presence there ab initio of the feeling that
the work finally objectifies is on the contrary likely to be
a fact only in simple, elementary expressions of feeling.
The usual state of affairs is rather that the feeling which the
work of art finally comes to embody is born in the artist
only gradually, its growth preceding by but little the proc-
ess of its objectification. What generally is present in
WHAT IS ART?
129
the artist at the outset is a feeling which, in its relation to
the feeling which the finished elaborate work will embody,
may be characterized both as germinal and as general. It
is the germ out of which gradually grows the feeling finally
embodied, — the steps in its growth following contempla-
tion of the object already created at any given moment.
The original feeling is at the same time general in the sense
that it provides a test of the relevance of the multifarious
other feelings which, as the artist works, crowd into his
consciousness and clamor for expression; the original feel-
ing thus being, in relation to the later ones, analo-
gous in function to a framework or rough sketch, into
which the later must either fit or be ruled out. As already
insisted upon in an earlier passage where this step-by-step
process was described, it does not essentially belong to the
nature of the art-creative activity. It only constitutes the
history of the psychological genesis of the feeling which
certain works of art, (viz., complicated, elaborate ones), ob-
jectify when they are called finished. The art-creative
act, whether it be one of a series or not, and whether it be
itself performed not at one stroke but in several, (i.e., with
correcting strokes), nevertheless always consists in an at-
tempt to express objectively such feeling as exists at the
time; and the act is complete when this is judged to have
been done adequately.
There are exceptional cases on record, where, in highly
gifted artists, even the feeling which a completed elabo-
rate work of art objectifies appears to have been present
in its fullness and vigor at the very start. For instance
there is the case referred to by Stewart,2 of a girl, a talented
musician, who speaks of an "absolute music," "music in
her head," "music with a sound which she cannot quite
hear," music which it often "annoys her to have to embody
2 Plato's Doctrine of Ideas, Oxford U. Press, pp. 152 ff.
130
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
)"}
(so imperfectly!) in the actual sounds of voice or instru-
ment." Or again, the case of Mozart: "The piece, he tells
us, came to him as a whole, often in bed, or when he was
walking. It articulated itself in his head, till he 'heard' it,
not as a succession of sounds, but, as it were, 'all together'
(p. 153). This, so far as the description permits of judg-
ing, might be either the feeling that the piece as a whole
embodies as eventually played; or else perhaps an ade-
quate objectification of that feeling purely in imagined
terms, and of which the actual playing would then be in
this particular case for Mozart, mere copying.
§ 13
Interpretative and autogenous art; pure, and decora-
tive or applied art. Something must be said, lastly, con-
cerning certain possible, although not very important
distinctions within aesthetic art, namely, between interpre-
tative and what may be called autogenous art; and between
pure and applied or decorative art.
Interpretative art consists in objectification of a feeling
which we previously extracted by means of aesthetic con-
templation from a work of art or a natural object that em-
bodied it. Art, the feeling objectified by which was not
so obtained, may be termed autogenous. Art of both of
these sorts is equally creative; and one cannot be said to be
intrinsically more meritorious or praiseworthy than the
other. Moreover, a given work of art can seldom be said
to be a case of one to the entire exclusion of the other.
G
-
A typical example of interpretative art, already men-
tioned in a different connection, would be the playing of a
musical composition not our own but already known to us.
The first reading of it, however (whether on an instrument
or purely in auditory images) would not constitute art
WHAT IS ART?
131
because it would not be expression at all, but its very in-
verse, namely, impression, i.e., the extracting from the
score of the feeling it embodies. But when this feeling has
been obtained by us, and made our own, we may then pro-
ceed to express it for ourselves; just as when we have read
a page of a book and gathered such meaning as it has for us,
we may then proceed to express it for ourselves. The
result constitutes what is properly called our interpreta-
tion of its meaning. Interpreting is thus something wholly
distinct from copying, whether of an author's work or of
a composer's music.
Other instances of typically interpretative art would
be landscape painting and in general painting "from a
model"; acting; the dance; in literature, character deline-
ation more or less from observations; etc. All this, in so
far as it is truly art, is also obviously quite another sort of
process than copying. Copying may enter into the proc-
ess, i.e., be used here and there as a means of creating the
objectification of what we feel, if we find that nature has
already partially done it for us. But this only means
that the artist has the utmost freedom as regards the proc-
esses by which he brings into existence the object which
embodies his feeling. That process may be direct, as
when creation is wholly in image-stuff (directness, inci-
dentally, not in the least implying automatic success); or
it may be very indirect. That is a matter of no theoreti-
cal importance. For this reason, a painter may perfectly
well without ceasing to be genuinely an artist, use photo-
graphs, or an air-brush, or a pantograph, or even a whisk-
broom if he wants to. Any restrictions in this respect
would merely turn the whole matter into a form of sport,
i.e., into play, which by means of arbitrary rules, puts the
emphasis upon the exercise of skill of some sort for the
sake of the enjoyment found therein, instead of upon the
-
132
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
success of the product in objectifying the artist's feeling.
On the other hand, a man who with the most orthodox
paints and brushes were to set himself the task of simply
copying the landscape in front of him with the utmost
accuracy, and succeeded in doing it, would be not
an artist at all, but only a walking and breathing camera.
The other distinction to be considered here, namely, that
between pure and applied or decorative art, may be stated
as follows: In decorative art, the raw material in which
the expressive process is carried out, consists of an object
already having some practical function. That is, it con-
sists of an object intended primarily to be used, and only
incidentally to be contemplated. The use to which the
object is to be put requires in it certain characteristics of
shape, size, weight, material, or what not, which limit the
scope of freedom of the art that takes it as raw material, but
at the same time provide that art with a clear opportunity.
Pure art, on the other hand, is art which, eschewing such
association with things of practical use, procures for itself
the maximum of freedom-thereby, however, taking upon
itself the maximum of responsibility. A statue, for in-
stance, unless it be intended to function perhaps as a
memorial, would thus usually be a work of pure art. But
book-ends, or a paper-weight, are objects of practical
utility that a sculptor may well take as raw material for
a statuette, which will then be termed a work of decorative
art. Although the scope within which that sculptor's
freedom could exercise itself in this case will have been
restricted by certain requirements of size, stability, etc.,
imposed by the practical function of the object, the creat-
ing of the statuette will not on this account be any the less
truly art. There is thus no warrant for regarding decora-
tive art, when it is really art, i.e., self-expression by its cre-
ator (and not mere "embellishment," which is only skilled
-
WHAT IS ART?
133
work), as in any way inferior in merit or dignity to pure
art. To make this evident, one need only mention the
extraordinary achievements of Japanese decorative art,
for instance, and compare them with the stuff that some of
our devotees of pure art exhibit.
§ 14
Synoptic table of species of art. The classification of the
varieties and subvarieties of art in general, set forth in the
present chapter, may in conclusion be synoptically ex-
hibited in the following table:
A
Art (skilled
activity)
Autotelic
(skilled play)
Ectotelic
(skilled work)
Endotelic
(skilled self-
objectification)
Lectical
(Skilled
objectifi-
cation of
meaning)
Heuretic
(Skilled
objectifi-
cation of
will)
Aesthetic
(Skilled
objectifi-
cation of
feeling)
Interpreta-
tive
Autogenous
Pure
Decorative
CHAPTER IX
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
In the last chapter, the contention was set forth that art
essentially consists in consciously objective expression of
feeling; and expression was defined as being objective when
its product is such that, in contemplation, it reflects back
accurately the feeling which was to be expressed. The no-
tion of aesthetic contemplation being thus involved in the
conception of art formulated, it is necessary to inquire next
more particularly what aesthetic contemplation is.
cas
1
The receptive, effective, and judgmental attitudes.
Three fundamental possible orientations, directions of in-
terest, or attitudes in respect to any given object of atten-
tion may be distinguished, the receptive, the effective or
practical, and the judgmental. These three sorts of orien-
tation may be discerned not only in the life of man as artist,
but also in his life as a worker, as a playing being, and as a
being carrying on various automatic activities. The char-
acters differentiating from one another, play, art, work,
and automatism, have been discussed in the last two chap-
ters, and the conclusions reached summarily expressed in
respect to the notion of telism, by describing automatic
activities as such as atelic, play as autotelic, work as ecto-
telic, and art as endotelic. It is no part of the task of the
present volume to discuss the forms under which the recep-
tive, effective, and judgmental orientations appear in play,
134
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE 135
in work, and in the automatic life; but only to consider
the phenomena to which they give rise in the endotelic life.
соз
$2
Art-creation is the effective aspect of the endotelic life;
which, however, has also a judgmental aspect, viz., Criti-
cism; and a receptive, viz., Contemplation. As to this,
we must now note that art-creation is not the whole of
endotelic life, but constitutes only its effective or practical
aspect. Contemplation and Criticism are the other two
aspects of it, corresponding to the receptive and the judg-
mental orientations in it. These three aspects of the
endotelic life are not, indeed, mutually insulated. We
have already seen that in art-creation, a contemplative and
a critical moment are involved, although they are not there
the central thing. Each, however, is capable of being made
central: Contemplation is made central in the life of the
"consumer" of works of art and other aesthetic objects;
and Criticism, naturally, in the life of the critic, the
other two aspects in these cases, being not absent, but
present as necessary means or conditions only, as were
contemplation and criticism in art-creation.
The word Practical is somewhat ambiguous, and owing
to this it may sound strange to hear the artist's activity
referred to as practical. It is not practical in the sense of
attempting to create something "useful"; but it is practi-
cal in the sense of effective, i.e., it produces effects in or
upon things: the painter effects changes in the surface of
his canvas, the sculptor in the shape of his marble, the
musician in the audible environment, etc. This is so
whether the stuff in which creation takes place be percep-
tual or purely imaginal stuff. But it is not so when one's
orientation is, instead of the effective, the receptive or the
136
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
judgmental. Effectiveness, although, as stated, present
then also, does not then consist in creativeness.
§ 3
cos
Aesthetic contemplation is endotelic receptivity to feel-
ing. In the light of the foregoing considerations, contem-
plation, or the contemplative attitude, may be defined as
the receptive orientation in the endotelic life. But that
to which one holds oneself receptive may, as we have seen,
be either will-impulse, meaning, or feeling. Therefore
endotelic receptivity to feeling, constitutes an accurate
definition of what is called aesthetic contemplation, or the
aesthetic attitude. That aesthetic contemplation actu-
ally has the endotelic character will be shown later on.
It is enough here to point out that, like art-creation, it con-
tains a true end, which is not as in play the mere pleasure
of the process going on, nor, as in work, external and useful
to something beyond.
Inasmuch as aesthetic contemplation alone is directly
connected with aesthetic art, with which primarily we are
here occupied, I shall from the present point on claim the
privilege of using for short the single words Contemplation,
Contemplative, etc., instead of the longer Aesthetic Con-
templation, Aesthetically Contemplative, etc., whenever
it is convenient, giving on the contrary some special
indication if occasion arises to use the word Contemplation
in the generic or in one of its other two specific senses.
§ 4
Some empirical descriptions of aesthetic contemplation.
From this brief outline of the setting of aesthetic contem-
plation in a theory of art in general, we may now pass to
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
137
C
an empirical examination of that much-discussed state.
One of the best accounts of it in the classical literature is
that given by Schopenhauer. Divested of technical termi-
nology and of references to particular doctrines of that
philosopher's system, it would read substantially as fol-
lows: If a man relinquishes the common way of looking
at things, which is always ultimately concerned with their
relations to desires and purposes; if he thus ceases to con-
sider the where, the when, the why, and the whither of
things, and looks simply and solely at the what; if, further,
he does not allow himself to think of them conceptually
(e.g., as things to be recognized, distinguished, classified,
etc.), but instead of all this, gives the whole power of his
mind to perception, sinks himself entirely in this, and so
yields himself to the quiet contemplation of the object pres-
ent that he loses himself in this object, then his state is
that of aesthetic contemplation, and the object of it is the
aesthetic object.¹
The following passage from Spencer's Principles of Psy-
chology 2 is rather differently worded but is more or less
to the same effect: "Throughout the whole range of sen-
sations, perceptions, and emotions which we do not class
as aesthetic, the states of consciousness serve simply
as aids and stimuli to guidance and action. They are
transitory, or if they persist in consciousness some time,
they do not monopolize the attention: that which monopo-
lizes the attention is something ulterior, to the effecting
of which they are instrumental. But in the states of mind
we class as aesthetic, the opposite attitude is maintained
towards the sensations, perceptions, and emotions. These
are no longer links in the chain of states which prompt and
1 The World as Will and Idea. Trans. Haldane and Kemp, vol. I,
p. 231.
2 Vol. II, pp. 646/7.
138
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
guide conduct. Instead of being allowed to disappear with
merely passing recognitions, they are kept in consciousness
and dwelt upon.'
3
A more recent writer, Vernon Lee, effectively contrasts
the contemplative attitude with the practical and the sci-
entific by reporting an imaginary conversation between
three persons on the top of a hill, one of whom dwells on
the economic possibilities of what lies before them, and
another on its geological and geographical aspects, while
the third on the contrary is intent only on beholding
it and letting its aesthetic aspect affect him as it may.
4
The contrast between contemplation and the ectotelic
life is dwelt upon also in the following passage from a recent
French work: "Its essence is always to set aside useful
signs, conventional appearances, all that masks the reality
itself, in order to set before us the existence of the object
of art, wholly concrete and nevertheless devoid of empirical
existence." 5
"}
8 5
Comments on the terminology of these descriptions.
In the light of the careful distinctions made in this and
earlier chapters and embodied in technical terms having
exact meanings, it is obvious that such accounts as the fore-
going, of the contrast between the contemplative, the prac-
tical, and the scientific attitudes, although essentially
3 The Beautiful, Ch. II.
4 H. Delacroix, Psychologie de l'Art, p. 67.
5 The documents by which Professor Delacroix endeavors to sup-
port his contention that there are several varieties of aesthetic contem-
plation, seem to me to show only that the response of some people to
works of art is not aesthetic contemplation but something else. For in-
stance, he himself says that the enjoyment derived from reading novels
is usually that of giving us the illusion of living through the adventures
described. But obviously then, this enjoyment is that of vicarious ad-
venture, which is no more aesthetic than the precisely similar pleasure
of watching a football game, a thrilling rescue, or a dramatic escape.
(loc. cit. p. 118.)
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
139
6
sound, nevertheless leave room for a good deal of confusion.
This is largely owing to the ambiguity pointed out above,
of the word Practical, which, as most commonly used,
means having an end (usually economic), external to the
process that seeks it, i.e., being what we have called Ecto-
telic; but which means also very properly, simply Effec-
tive, without implication as to whether the effectiveness
is connected with the ectotelic life, or with life of one of
the other sorts distinguished. Owing to this ambiguity
of the word Practical, we may agree here to use it as a rule
for the more popular of the two senses, whenever the tech-
nical term Ectotelic would be merely pedantic; and to use
the word Effective for the other sense whenever there might
be any doubt as to what is meant if Practical were used.
If now, for the sake of theoretical precision, the reader
will forgive a very brief indulgence in technical termi-
nology, the "practical” man of Vernon Lee's account will
have to be described as ectotelically judgmental, for as she
represents him to us he is not effecting anything, but judg-
ing with reference to certain external (and economic) ends.
The word "scientific," on the other hand, when used to
describe an orientation contrasted with the effective and
the receptive, means only judgmental, i.e., judgment-
forming, cognitive, but it does not indicate that the judg-
ing activity has the endotelic character usually thought of
when the "scientific interest" or "pure science" are spoken
of, rather than the ectotelic character which on the con-
trary belongs to the judging activity of the engineer as
such.
cos
6
Aesthetic contemplation is a "listening" with our ca-
pacity for feeling. Let us now pass to a direct empirical ex-
6 The word Practical being from πpáσσe, to do, to effect.
140
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
amination of the state of aesthetic contemplation. It is,
we may note first, a throwing oneself open to the advent of
something, and in this respect it resembles the endeavor to
understand. But whereas in the latter it is to the advent
of meaning, that one throws oneself open, in aesthetic
contemplation it is to the advent of feeling. What takes
place is something analogous to listening. That is, the
attention is withdrawn from everything other than the ob-
ject of aesthetic contemplation, and inwardly the ground
is cleared for the reception of the import of feeling of that
object. This clearing of the ground means the elimination,
as complete as possible, of any antecedent feeling. Aes-
thetic contemplation may thus be described as (endotelic)
"listening," or "looking," with our capacity for feeling.
The words "listening," or "looking," are of course figura-
tive, but they are nevertheless perfectly accurate if only
so much of their meaning is kept as remains after leaving
out their special reference to the faculties of hearing and
seeing and to impressions of sound and light. There is no
general term in the language (other than the term Con-
templation) to denote without special reference to kind
of impression and kind of faculty, the attitude of directed
but contentless receptiveness; but if the present explana-
tion is kept in mind, the use of the word, "listening," to
designate that attitude, is adequately descriptive without
being misleading.
§ 7
Aesthetic contemplation is not attention, but presup-
poses it. To this account of the nature of aesthetic con-
templation, it is, however, necessary to add that the
"listening" with our capacity for feeling, is a "listen-
ing" for, not a "listening" to. That is, it is not to be con-
fused with`merely attending, for it presupposes a content
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE 141
of attention, towards which it is that the aesthetic attitude
is taken. It is to that content that our attention is directed,
but it is for the feeling import of it that we "listen," i.e.,
make ourselves receptive. This essential point is made
clearer still if we note that, given attention to the very
same content, we might have "listened" not for feeling, but
instead for meaning or for will-impulse. The fact of rapt
attention is thus not peculiar to the aesthetic attitude.
What differentiates the latter, is what we "listen" for and
with, (viz., feeling and our capacity for feeling), when we
attend (endotelically) to the given content. That con-
templation is something more than attention is obvious in
the case of reading. Attention to the words on the page is
necessary, but in addition, a throwing oneself open to their
meaning has to take place (and constitutes lectical or
logical contemplation of them, as distinguished from
aesthetic).
To say, however, that in the sort of "listening" which
constitutes aesthetic contemplation, we "listen" for a feel-
ing, is not to be taken as meaning that our attitude is
describable as contemplative only up to the advent of the
aesthetic feeling to be obtained through it. It means only
that it is then that the aesthetic attitude, as distinguished
from its fruit, can best be studied introspectively. But the
feeling that we obtain is aesthetic feeling only so long as
our attitude remains the aesthetic; and this means, only
so long as our interest, our aim, is in feeling itself as such.
"What we are interested in," and "What we attend to,'
cannot therefore here be regarded as synonymous expres-
sions. Spinoza pointed out that emotional states cannot
be attended to without being destroyed, and modern psy-
chologists, e.g., Titchener, having confirmed this. But it
is possible to make feelings or emotional states as such,
what one aims at; it is possible to make them the center
"
142
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
of one's interest, i.e., to treat them not scientifically, as
states to be compared, studied, etc., but as states to be
simply "tasted" to the full and in all their most subtle nu-
ances. And this is precisely what occurs in successful
aesthetic contemplation. Our attention is, say, on the pat-
tern and color of a fabric, but our interest is in its feeling-
import to us. And if our interest at the moment is on the
contrary in the origin, or history of that pattern, and such
feelings as we have in the presence of it are then merely by
the way, (incidents but not ends), then our attitude is not
the aesthetic, and the feelings are not aesthetic feelings.
88
Aesthetic contemplation has the endotelic character.
Lastly, the "listening" with our capacity for feeling, which
constitutes aesthetic contemplation, is endotelic; that is,
this throwing oneself open to the advent of feeling is for
the sake of the feeling to be obtained, which is treated
not as something to be recognized or compared; nor as
something leading to or furnishing a drive for some act;
but solely as something to be tasted, and as it were, rolled
under one's emotional tongue. In aesthetic contempla-
tion, feeling is then the end, and the occurrence of it
constitutes the completion, the success, of the contem-
plation, which is thus truly endotelic.
§ 9
Aesthetic contemplation is not a rare, esoteric state, but
a common and familiar one. Almost any attempt to give
an analysis of the nature of aesthetic contemplation is
likely to convey the impression that it is some strange
state, difficult of attainment, and, like the mystic trance,
accessible only to the elect. It is therefore not amiss to
emphasize the fact that, on the contrary, it is a state in
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE 143
which every normal person has entered countless times,
even if only for brief moments; and that only a little
introspection is needed to render him aware of that fact,
and to place him in position to decide for himself as
to the accuracy of the description of it given above. The
occasions upon which the persons who have any doubt
concerning their own acquaintance with that state are
most likely to have truly entered it, are not so much
visits to art galleries, as cases where they have had to
formulate some simple but genuine judgment of taste.
To judge, for instance, whether the color of a given
necktie "goes with" that of the suit with which it is to
be worn, is to judge whether the feeling obtained in the
aesthetic contemplation of the color combination is pleas-
ant or not. But virtually everyone is aware of having
made judgments of this sort, which would have been im-
possible had one been incapable of aesthetic contempla-
tion. To observe for oneself the nature of that state, one
but needs to report oneself to the moment when one was
giving one's attention to the color combination, but had
not yet obtained from it the inner experience, (viz., the
feeling) which, when obtained, was judged, as the case
may have been, pleasant or unpleasant.
Aesthetic contemplation is an attitude which would
seem to have little if any biological utility; and it is there-
fore natural that our capacity for it should be far less
developed than for the attitudes connected with the ecto-
telic, so-called practical, life. The immediate consequence
of this is that it is only in the absence of any temptation
to take those other, more practiced attitudes, that aes-
thetic contemplation becomes possible. As Spencer justly
observes, before the sort of action of our faculties can arise,
which is characteristic of the states of mind we class as
aesthetic, "it is necessary that the needs to be satisfied
144
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
through the agency of sensational, perceptional, and emo-
tional excitements shall not be urgent. So long as there
exist strong cravings arising from bodily wants and unsatis-
fied lower instincts, consciousness is not allowed to dwell
on these states that accompany the actions of the higher
faculties: the cravings continually exclude them.""
The taking of so-called practical dispositions, the satis-
fying of so-called practical and to some extent of “idle"
curiosity, occupy most persons most of the time. Ordi-
nary life is for the most part lived among objects which
we do not contemplate but merely use, or, to some extent,
study for use, whether as themselves instruments or as
signs informing us of matters of practical concern that
we cannot at the time directly perceive. It is thus that
we may paradoxically say of a town, for instance, that the
more we see of it, the less we see it. On the other hand,
when we travel and first come to a town new to us, a given
building in it cannot be treated by us as mere sign of the
nearness of the shoe-store around its corner, for we do
not yet know that one is there. And because there is
thus little temptation, and if we be in funds, little need to
take the town practically, it is correspondingly easy to take
it aesthetically. As Schopenhauer and others have pointed
out, this absence of practical relation of the object to us
is one of the chief sources of the pleasure of travel, of the
glamour of distant times and places or other objects from
which we are in some way insulated for any practical pur-
pose. Such interest as we take in things of this sort can
then hardly be other than of the endotelic sort, whether
contemplative, (i.e., receptive), or judgmental; with the
consequence that, for the time being, we find ourselves
free from the specter of fear which ever more or less dis-
creetly lurks through the so-called practical life.
7 Principles of Psychology. Vol. II, p. 647.
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
145
The fact that the possibility of taking the aesthetic at-
titude depends to so great an extent upon the absence of
practical relation between ourselves and the object, ex-
plains why the terms "detachment" and "psychical dis-
tance" are sometimes used in accounts of the nature of the
aesthetic attitude. Distance in time or space is the typi-
cal bar to action upon us by a thing or upon a thing by us,
and is the typical factor which discourages or inhibits the
practical interest. It is therefore natural that the word
"distance," and for analogous reasons the word "detach-
ment,” should have come to be used figuratively in at-
tempted characterizations of the aesthetic attitude, which
is fundamentally non-practical. These words, however,
do not point in the aesthetic attitude to anything addi-
tional to what has been said in the account of it given
above; nor do they stand for either the whole or any part
of the positive description of the attitude. Their import
is essentially negative, since all they really say is that the
aesthetic attitude is fundamentally non-practical.
In addition to the negative conditions facilitating aes-
thetic contemplation, already considered, there exist also
certain possible positive inducements to prolong it. The
chief of them is to be found in beauty of the object offered
to contemplation, i.e., in pleasantness of the feelings ob-
tained in contemplating the object. That the beautiful
is so much easier to contemplate at any length than the
ugly, which on the contrary requires of us an effort, is one
reason for the fact that, on the whole, beauty is expected
in works of art by almost everyone in spite of its being, as
we have seen, not in the least implied by art. Therefore,
as already remarked, it would be very nearly true to say
8
8 Respectively, by Münsterberg in his Principles of Art Education,
and by Bullough in an article on Psychical Distance, in the British
Journal of Psychology, vol. V. pp. 87/118.
146
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
that, for most people, beauty is the condition of the “aes-
thetic visibility" of anything. For the ugly does not,
like the beautiful, bribe and encourage contemplation, but
immediately punishes and discourages it, and thus tends to
become aesthetically quasi-nonexistent.
-
On the other hand, so far as the artist is concerned, the
fact that on the whole his works have beauty rather than
ugliness is due partly to the selection exercised, among
the feelings he might attempt to express, by the extraneous
desire that his work shall be thus aesthetically visible to
the public; and partly to the fact that unpleasant feelings,
by themselves, (i.e., when not somehow tied up with oth-
ers that are pleasant), tempt one to ectotelically effective
action, that is, to interference with their real or fancied ex-
ternal occasion, rather than to objectification by art. But
when for any reason remedy by practical action is im-
possible and the unpleasant feeling yet cannot be dis-
missed, it may then receive expression through art by the
creation of the ugly. Examples of art thus predominantly
ugly are at times to be found in propagandist art, which,
whatever the merits of the cause it is used to promote, often
in the very nature of the case springs from rebellious, harsh,
bitter feeling.
-
The negative aids to contemplation, so far as artificial,
consist of all the devices which make difficult or impossible
the actual establishment of a practical relation to the
object; or which inhibit practical or idle curiosity concern-
ing it. Thus, the frame of a picture sharply differentiates
it from the objects of practical moment that surround it.
The framing and raising of the stage in the theater achieves
the same result, and as other writers have noted, the separa-
tion of it from the audience contributes to the inhibiting
of such impulses as might arise in its members to rescue
the heroine in distress. Again, the requirement that a
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
147
work of art must be a self-sufficient whole implies among
other things that one's curiosity must not be tempted to
supply missing elements. Nor must the work of art, for
the same reason, contain anything in the nature of a puzzle.
If it is representative, it should be so unambiguously. If
the representative element, on the contrary, is either ab-
sent or merely incidental, the giving to the work a title that
invites the beholder to perform an act of recognition or
identification only hinders his taking towards it the aes-
thetic attitude. The name of a painting, therefore, should
either be a mere identification tag, for instance, as in
music, "Opus No. -", or else, if descriptive at all, it
should be such as immediately to focus the beholder's at-
tention on the essential aspect of the work. "Landscape,"
"Woman seated," "Portrait of a Young Man," would be
good titles for such subjects. But something which is in-
tended to be primarily a woman seated, but includes say
a red cigarette box, should not just for oddity be called
"The red cigarette box." For a wholly or partly “abstract"
picture, on the contrary, such titles would be bad, inasmuch
as their effect would be to present the picture to us not
as an object for aesthetic contemplation, but as a picture-
puzzle challenging us for instance to "find the young man."
For abstract or semi-abstract pictures, titles such as "syn-
chromy," "composition," "study in blue and green," "ar-
rangement of solids," etc., would be appropriate in that
they would at once force the beholder's attention to the
aspect which the artist means him to contemplate. The
title of a work of art, in short, should not pique our curi-
osity, but on the contrary anticipate it and set it at rest
from the very start, so that nothing remains for us to do
but to contemplate the work aesthetically.
148
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
§ 10
9
12
Professor Langfeld's discussion of the aesthetic attitude.
A detailed account of aids for the aesthetic attitude in the
various realms of art is to be found in the fourth chapter of
Professor Langfeld's book The Aesthetic Attitude. The
third chapter of it contains a review of the principal re-
cent opinions concerning the essence of the aesthetic atti-
tude. Absence of utility and purpose; non-practicalness;
detachment of self and isolation of object; 10 repose in the
object and loss of sense of personality; 11 psychical dis-
tance; and the feeling of unreality,13 are considered and
criticized. But in empirical problems, such as that of
the nature of the aesthetic attitude, the only sort of criti-
cism of errors which can be consistently rather than only
accidentally significant, is criticism based upon a clear per-
ception of the positive truth in regard to the matter con-
sidered; and Professor Langfeld's criticisms, keen as they
often are, do not seem to me to be so based. For one thing,
his book like most other works on aesthetics, assumes
throughout an essential connection between art and
beauty, and I have already given the reasons which force
me to regard such an assumption as incorrect and fatally
confusing. It is responsible, for instance, for such a passage
as the following: "Not only should the work of art touch
our wishes and in that way interest us, but it must provide
the means for the complete fulfillment of the wish within
the object itself, if it is to remain art for the observer,"
in which "to remain art" is improperly used instead of
"to remain beautiful."
9 Kant, Critique of Judgment.
10 Münsterberg, Principles of Art Education.
11 Puffer, Psychology of Beauty.
12 Bullough, loc. cit.
13 Konrad Lange, Das Wesen der Kunst.
THE AESTHETIC ATTITUDE
149
But, and this is more directly to the point, Pro-
fessor Langfeld apparently identifies the aesthetic atti-
tude with empathy, whereas the truth seems to me to be
that the two are quite distinct and very different. The
nature of empathy and its relation to the aesthetic atti-
tude will be considered in detail in the next chapter, but
the opinion there to be set forth must at least be men-
tioned here since it constitutes the positive ground for
regarding Professor Langfeld's view of the nature of the
aesthetic attitude as incorrect.
§ 11
Empathy is not Aesthetic Contemplation, but simply
the process by which doing and undergoing are perceived
as such in others. Empathy, I submit, is nothing
more nor less than the particular psycho-physical
process by which conscious doing and undergoing (and
not mere motion, or shape, or relation) are perceived
where they are present in others, or imagined in
things where they are not actual facts. Empathy, in
other words, is simply the process by which dramatic ¹4
agents or patients are perceived or imagined as such. But
to perceive or imagine action is one thing, and to contem-
plate aesthetically the action perceived or imagined is
quite another, and an additional, thing. There can be
no aesthetic contemplation of another's action without em-
pathy, because it is empathy which enables us to perceive
action as such, in another; and this is the reason why the
cases of the taking and the losing of the aesthetic attitude
given by Professor Langfeld on pp. 57/65 are all good.
They are all cases of the aesthetic attitude towards action,
and therefore when empathy in these cases ceases, so, a
14 From Spaw to do, to perform.
150
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
fortiori, does aesthetic contemplation of the action which
empathy presented. But there can be aesthetic contem-
plation without empathy; for instance of colors, tastes and
odors, which are little if at all susceptible of being empa-
thized, i.e., interpreted as doing or undergoing anything.
Moreover shapes, lines, motions, and so on, can also be
aesthetically contemplated without being empathized, al-
though it is not as easy for us to do so since the dramatic
interpretation of things is the most natural to us. On the
other hand, there can be (and in the vast majority of cases
of empathy there is) empathy without aesthetic contem-
plation of the fact of which it makes us aware, since we at-
tend to and apprehend what others are doing or under-
going, not usually for aesthetic but for practical or for
sportive purposes.
It may be noted further that, no matter what motor
phenomena may be found in empathy when studied, em-
pathy when performed is for the performer not an effective
but a perceptive process,15 and thus, like contemplation,
entails "psychic distance." This is one reason for the
soundness of Professor Langfeld's observations concern-
ing "distance" in the last section of his third chapter, in
spite of his (as it seems to me) fundamentally mistaken
identification of empathy and aesthetic contemplation.
Another reason for the soundness of those observations is
that, in them, he considers cases where not merely em-
pathy, but also aesthetic contemplation of what is per-
ceived by emjathy, is occurring.
G
15 Professor Langfeld brings this out very clearly. Op. cit., pp.
117/121.
CHAPTER X
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC PERCEPTION
cas
1
Empathy. Empathy is the word coined by Professor
Titchener¹ to translate the German einfuehlung, a term
probably most closely associated with the name of Lipps,
but used before him and since by others. Sich in etwas ein-
fuehlen means, to feel oneself into something; and the best
examples of what this would designate are furnished by
sculpture, figure-painting, the dance, the drama. An il-
lustration would be as follows: If, on entering a room, we
find ourselves faced by a statue with extended hand, we
may react in one or two typical ways, viz., either toward it,
with the impulse to grasp the hand; or else with it, i.e.,
as it acts,² identifying ourselves for the moment with the
man represented by the marble. Through the doing so,
we apprehend more or less distinctly his particular mode of
action, as action. This way of reacting in the presence of
the statue constitutes the empathic way, and its result
is empathic perception.
$2
Empathy is interpretation of a thing as dramatic agent
or patient. Its mechanism. It is distinct from aesthetic
1 A Text Book of Psychology, p. 417.
2 I borrow this excellent example, and the account of it up to this
point only, from Professor Langfeld's The Aesthetic Attitude, p. 64.
151
152
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
contemplation and from sympathy. Concerning this mode
of response it may be noted first that "feeling ourselves
into" the statue does not constitute a correct description
of what we do; and therefore that the words Einfuehlung,
Empathy, although by now too well established to be
changed, are etymologically inappropriate to that which
they are used to denote. What we actually do in the so-
called empathic response to the statue, is not to "feel our-
selves into" it (which strictly speaking is nonsense), but
to suppose ourselves into it, or identify ourselves with it.
This we do by inwardly imitating the mode of action of
the man represented by the statue, at least to the extent of
establishing the "motor set" which constitutes the ten-
dency to the performance of that action. To do this while
our attention remains on the statue, is to perceive that ac-
tion as action, and as action of the object attended to. To
say that it is perceived as action, means that what we per-
ceive is not mere motion, or a mere snap-shot of motion;
or not mere relative position of parts in space; but action
or posture properly so-called, the conscious doing or
undergoing of something by a (really or supposititiously)
living being.
The action perceived through the process of inner imi-
tation may be then aesthetically contemplated, and the aes-
thetic feelings which it objectifies thus obtained. This in-
ner imitation, as Groos maintains,³ is probably in most
cases not merely a matter of motor brain-set, but to a not
inconsiderable extent also one of actual even if usually
minimal innervation of muscles, constituting a partly
literal but mainly a symbolical imitation of the action per-
formed by or imputed to the object. In pointing out that
there is such a thing as symbolical imitation, and that most
of the imitation in the empathic response is of this sym-
3 K. Groos The Play of Man, pp. 322-333.
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
153
bolical character, Groos has contributed a valuable point
to the theory of the subject.
Much mystery has hovered about Empathy, largely ow-
ing to the failure to distinguish it clearly from aesthetic
contemplation. But if the word Empathy denotes any
real fact, it is simply that by supposing ourselves being
some given other (e.g.) person, we do intuit the nature of
the action or experience of that other (person) in the same
direct way as we do the nature of our own. This should
have been designated by some such term as homoeotropic
perception, as distinguished from prostropic, which is per-
ception of the ordinary sort; and the confusion of aesthetic
contemplation with Empathy is partly due to the mislead-
ing character of that term. To this also is in part due the
failure of some French writers to distinguish clearly Em-
pathy from sympathy. Someone, I forget who, has
pointed out that in empathy we enter into another, whereas
in sympathy another is received by us into ourselves. To
this it may be added that sympathy is truly and directly
a phenomenon of the realm of feeling; whereas the phe-
nomenon (inappropriately) called Empathy is not this but
is, directly, a phenomenon of knowing.
4
cos
3
Shape-perception is not empathy. In the presence of
the statue, it is likely that more is done by us than has so
far been described. For instance, we may perceive also
the external outline of the statue in two dimensions, and
its surface in three. But we do this not by imitating or
entering into or identifying ourselves with the action of
the man which the statue represents, but by following the
outline or surface of the statue with the eye, or even, mini-
4 For instance, De Gramont-Lesparre, in his Essai sur le Sentiment
Esthétique.
154
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
mally, with the hand, head, etc. Such actual or incipi-
ent movements are the response by means of which the
shape of the statue is perceived; and from the aesthetic
contemplation of the shape as such, so perceived, we can
also get aesthetic feelings. But in this perception of mere
shape, there is no longer any imitation of what the statue
represents, viz., the action of a human being; nor imitation
of anything else. And it is not at all a case of Empathy.
For if we go to the statue and actually pass our hand over
the outline or the surface of it, that obviously does not in
any sense constitute any imitation of the action of any-
thing. We are not in so doing identifying ourselves with
the man which the statue represents and acting out his
posture or action. And there is therefore no empathy
either, i.e., no imitation of represented action, when the
exploring movements of the hand, instead of being overt,
are only imagined or minimal movements or tendencies to
movements. The mere fact that perception of shape and
of motion has, like perception of action, a partly motor
basis, is no reason for overlooking the essential difference
between them, and applying to the former the term Em-
pathy which, if it is to be used at all, is descriptive only
of the latter. Perception of shape and of motion as such,
is not empathy at all. If we want a special name for it, we
must call it Design Perception.
$ 4
But shapes may be empathized, i.e., interpreted as dra-
matic agents or patients. The fact should be clearly real-
ized, however, that we can if we wish, and indeed generally
do, perceive empathically also lines, surfaces, motions, or,
in general things supposed to be, or supposedly considered
as, pure designs or design-elements. But this is to drama-
tize them, i.e., to substitute for, or add to, shape- or de-
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
155
sign-perception, something else quite different, viz., em-
pathic interpretation.
Thus, empathy is no part or condition of the process of
mere shape-perception, nor any part or condition of the
process of aesthetic contemplation of the shape perceived.
The empathy of lines and surfaces (as of anything else),
is the interpretation of them as dramatic agents or pa-
tients; and it becomes possible only if we regard the line
or surface as representative of an action, e.g., the line as
representing the act of flowing, darting, turning, or what
not. Such action can be and is then spontaneously per-
formed by us imaginally or minimally and in more or less
symbolic manner, just as was the action that the statue rep-
resents.
cos
5
Colors as well as shapes can be aesthetically contem-
plated, but colors cannot be empathized. Another thing
which we may perceive in the presence of the statue is its
color; and in the case of paintings color becomes one of
the important constituents of the aesthetic object. But,
still more than in the case of shape-perception, it is ob-
vious that color-perception is not empathy at all; and that
the aesthetic contemplation of color is not empathy. A
well-known English protagonist of a Lippsian view of em-
pathy, Vernon Lee, apparently does, like Professor Lang-
feld, think that empathy and aesthetic contemplation are
the same thing. This opinion, which has a certain plausi-
bility so long as the only objects considered are shapes, be-
comes much more difficult to hold when colors are the ob-
jects considered, for empathy is generally regarded as a
phenomenon having a motor basis; but color-perception
is not that.5 Vernon Lee realizes the difficulty thus in-
5 I am arguing here ex concessis. Reasons will be given later to show
that empathy is not always a motor phenomenon; but the cases where it
156
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
6
volved in the idea of empathizing colors, but instead of
giving up empathy at this point, and admitting that aes-
thetic contemplation, which is perfectly possible with
colors, is therefore something else than empathy, she on
the contrary attempts to trim down the facts to the point
where they might fit into her view of empathy. This she
does by arbitrarily restricting the meaning of Contempla-
tion to contemplation of shapes, for she writes: "It is Shape
which we contemplate; and it is only because they enter
into shapes that colours and sounds, as distinguished from
temperatures, textures, tastes and smells, can be said to
be contemplated at all." That only shapes can be con-
templated is a proposition quite fundamental to her aes-
thetic theory; but there is no reason to regard it as any-
thing but a wholly arbitrary dogma. For I submit that the
word "contemplation" carries no such limitation in ordi-
nary good English; and I, for one, find no difficulty in
taking the aesthetically contemplative attitude not only
towards colors in abstraction from shape, or out of shape,
(e.g., the blue of the sky, looking straight up), but also
towards odors and textures, and even temperatures and
tastes. Moreover, the assertion also made in Vernon Lee's
pages, that things cannot be contemplated, but only as-
pects of things, appears equally arbitrary. The truth, as
it seems to me, is on the contrary that there is no entity
whatever towards which it is a priori impossible to take the
aesthetically contemplative attitude.
§ 6
Vernon Lee's account of empathy. Vernon Lee's most
accessible account of empathy is built around an analysis
is not motor, are facts very different in kind from color-perception, which
therefore could not be regarded as a case of even non-motor empathy.
• The Beautiful, p. 76.
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC 157
197 She
of the meaning of the phrase "the mountain rises.'
points out that, literally, the mountain does not move at
all; the only rising or raising actually occurring on the
occasion when we so speak, is that of our own eyes and
head. What then takes place is that the experiencing of
the latter releases in us the general idea of rising, as built
up by all our previous experience; and that this conscious-
ness of rising-in-general, together with that of the particu-
lar rising actually going on in us at the moment, gets
transferred and ascribed to the shape of the mountain
which is the object of our attention, in accordance with
our natural tendency to "merge the activities of the per-
ceiving subject with the qualities of the perceived ob-
ject" (pp. 62/65). Vernon Lee goes on to observe quite
correctly that this merging is not to be thought of as a
projection of the ego-consciousness into the object at-
tended to, for in so far as we identify ourselves with the
object, our own customary ego-consciousness no longer
exists. She argues, moreover, that empathy does not con-
sist of mimicry, inner or outer; for such mimicking as oc-
curs is "of movements and actions which, like the rising of
the mountain, take place only in our imagination” (p. 67);
so that the mimicking of the really inanimate object does
not explain but on the contrary presupposes the animation
of the object by empathy as just described.
§ 7
Vernon Lee's objection that inner imitation presupposes
empathy, unfounded. This objection to the "inner imita-
tion" view of empathy would be an important one if it were
-
7 In her book The Beautiful, Ch. II. See also Beauty and Ugliness by
V. Lee and Anstruther Thompson, an earlier and much more technical
work.
158
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
well founded, for in the light of it we might well ask our-
selves whether, even in the case of the statue, i.e., of a
carved block of marble (which is no more really active than
is the mountain), we are after all entitled, with Groos, to
regard empathy as a process of minimal automatic imi-
tation.
-
But to see that we may properly so regard it, it is only
necessary to remember that a statue is not a carved block
of marble as such, but a carved block in so far as repre-
sentative of a human being doing something. And it is
the human action represented, and not the stone which
represents it, that we can and do imitate. The same thing
is true of the mountain. If there is empathy of it, it is
only because and in so far as the mountain too is con-
sidered as representative of action. We empathize it by
performing, minimally, an action more or less like that
which attention to the mountain makes us think of; and
to perform even only symbolically and only to the extent
of establishing its motor-set, an action resembling one
which we conceive, is truly to imitate the latter. It should
be borne in mind in this connection that the perceiving,
and likewise the imaging of an action as action, (i.e., dis-
tinguished from mere motion), require the inner perform-
ance of it; but the mere thinking of the action, concep-
tually, does not require it. Vernon Lee's objection is
valid only to the extent that it is not the mountain, or the
line, or marble, that we imitate, but the actions which they
make us think of. It is also true that ordinarily, the
thinking of the action and the inner performance of it
are virtually synchronous. But this is not of the essence
of the situation since it is quite possible to refrain from
the inner imitating, and yet to be clearly aware (concep-
tually) of what it is that we are then not inwardly imi-
tating.
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC 159
88
Difference between empathy of a statue and of a moun-
tain. Although empathy of the statue and of the moun-
tain are alike in the respects described above, there is
between them a difference without the stating of which
the analysis would remain incomplete. This difference
concerns the representative character of each. In the
case of the mountain, its representativeness to us of such
an act as that of rising is largely fortuitous, i.e., it is a
matter of our individual psychology. To another person
what it will suggest is as likely to be descending. A third
will conceive the mountain as protruding, hard and tooth-
like, through the tender landscape, etc. There are, how-
ever, other dramatic characters which the mountain con-
notes not as a matter of psychological accident, but
because they are a more or less inseparable part of any
attempt at a literal description of a mountain, or of the par-
ticular mountain. For instance, apart from the peculiar-
ities of any given person's psychology, it may truly be said
that the mountain is heavy, stable, hard, massive, space-
occupying, etc. Such characters (which living beings
too may possess), are also capable of being more or less
literally acted out inwardly by us; and when we so act
them out we are empathizing the mountain as "realisti-
cally" conceived. We are thus led to distinguish among
the various dramatic characters, (viz., characters suscepti-
9
8
8 Cf. Langfeld. The Aesthetic Attitude, p. 133.
9 I.e., conceived as a being resisting various physical forces such as
winds, rains, gravitational pull, etc. Characters of this sort constitute
"what the mountain really is" only from the standpoint of its own physi-
cal preservation. But from the standpoint of the aesthetically con-
templative beholder of the mountain such characters do not, rather
than any others, constitute a priori "what the mountain really is." That
is purely a matter of the particular characters which he finds his indi-
vidual aesthetic experience in the presence of the mountain, springing
from.
160
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ble of being acted out) which the mountain connotes to
us those which are, as we may say, intrinsic to it, and those
which on the contrary are quite adventitious to it, and of
which it is representative for a particular mind only as a
matter of psychological accident, (e.g., sternness, protru-
sion, rising or falling, etc.).
If now we turn to the statue and compare its representa-
tive character with that of the mountain, we find that both
the statue and the mountain make us think of certain ac-
tions or attitudes of living beings; but the mountain does
not have the form of a living being, whereas the statue has;
and therefore the statue suggests inevitably to us the par-
ticular modes of action intrinsically present in a living
being having its form; whereas the mountain suggests
to us only by accident the modes of living action which it
does suggest. This explains why empathy of the statue
is so much easier, more complete, more definite; and why
it is less variable in content in the case of the statue than
in that of the mountain.
8 9
Essential features of the theory of empathy of the pres-
ent chapter. The essential features and relations of the
conception of Empathy set forth in the present chapter
may now be restated without admixture of controversy,
and more explicitly, as follows:
Empathy is nothing more nor less than the interpreta-
tion of a thing as dramatic agent or patient. The "real"
nature of the thing so interpreted is of no importance so
long as we find ourselves able to interpret it in the manner
stated. This interpretation as dramatic agent or patient
is moreover not an intellectual and discursive process, but
a more or less automatic and intuitive process like any
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC 161
other case of perception, e.g., perception of the third dimen-
sion of space. A dramatic agent or patient, as such, is
doing or undergoing something consciously; and the mech-
anism of the empathic interpretation of a thing, i.e., of the
perceiving it as dramatic agent or patient, consists in
inner (i.e., imagined or minimal or incipient) and more
or less symbolic imitation of the action or experience which
we regard the thing as performing or undergoing. This
inner imitation is not a process that we watch and control
as we perform it; we are not conscious of performing it
at the time we do so. Usually it takes place spontane-
ously, without intent. We can, however, deliberately at-
tempt to embark upon it. Such attempt consists in sim-
ply supposing oneself into the thing or into what it
represents; in identifying oneself with it, in supposing
oneself being it. If one effectually does this, one thereby
ceases to be conscious of one's own customary self as such,
and one intuits the action or experience of the empathized
agent or patient as in and of that agent or patient. That
is to say, one intuits it with the same sort of immediacy as
that with which one ordinarily intuits one's own doings
and undergoings. Empathy thus effects not a "thought
transference," but a virtual, i.e., a pseudo-transference, of
conscious action or experience.
Empathy was characterized above as the interpretation
of a thing as dramatic agent or patient. The word Dra-
matic is derived from the Greek Spaw which means to do,
to perform, to act. The word Drama is however not
synonymous with the word action. On the one hand it
implies the presence of consciousness, whereas the word
Action might be held not to do so necessarily. On the
other hand, the word Drama refers not only to action and
doing, but also to their passive correlates, experience
and undergoing. It is therefore proper that we should
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
use the word Dramatic to qualify the terms Agent and
Patient, thereby signifying beings consciously doing or
undergoing something. After these explanations, how-
ever, the single word Action may safely be used in the pres-
ent connection for the sake of brevity, instead of the pre-
cise but clumsier expression "the conscious doings and
undergoings (experiences) of agents and patients." A
list of what the word Action as so used denotes, would
thus include, for instance, straining, standing, sitting, ly-
ing, keeping still, sleeping, reclining, resting, jumping,
languishing, longing, triumphing, raging, comforting, wor-
shipping, crying, speaking, listening, acquiescing, think-
ing, perceiving, imagining, etc. It would also include
many modes of behavior which, for various reasons, have
no names of their own in the language, and are designated
only in terms of the sorts of feeling that go with them,
and of which they are merely labelled the appearances, e.g.,
looking or seeming sad, comfortable, hungry, tired, joyous,
hopeful, doubtful, defeated, convinced, etc. The list
would include beside these also countless modes of be-
havior which, because neither they nor their accompanying
feelings are standard or typical, have received no names
at all. Lastly, the list would include all the cases of what
living beings may consciously undergo, for instance, being
pushed, praised, blamed, compelled, insulted, struck, com-
forted, teased, etc. Such a sample list and the explana-
tions preceding it indicate what is meant by Action in the
present connection, clearly enough not to require burden-
ing the exposition with an attempt to give a technical logi-
cal analysis of the meaning of the term.
C
If Empathy is the interpretation of a thing as dramatic
agent or patient, it then becomes obvious that empathy is
not always a motor phenomenon, as commonly assumed.
One can perceive another man empathically not only in
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC 163
so far as the experiences he is undergoing are kinaesthetic
in nature, but also when they are auditory, olfactory,
visual, etc., if only adequate clues are provided. The clues
in such cases will be of a different sort, but they will still
be clues to empathy of him, i.e., to imaginal imitation of
what takes place in him.
Empathy may be perception, or it may be illusion. It
is truly and literally perception, (viz., of action as charac-
terized above) when two conditions are fulfilled. The first
is that the object empathized should in fact be a conscious
(not necessarily self-conscious) being, consciously doing
or undergoing something; and the second is that the nature
of what that being is doing or undergoing should, through
the empathic process, be intuited correctly. If it is incor-
rectly intuited, the result of the process then constitutes
an error of (empathic) perception.
When on the contrary the thing empathized is an inani-
mate or unconscious one, then the empathic interpreta-
tion of it does not constitute either correct or incorrect
perception, but illusion or hallucination, namely, the in-
tuition of conscious action, as action of a thing in which
actually no conscious action at all exists.
It is not possible to say definitely where empathy ceases
to be perception and begins to be illusive invention. When
the empathized objects are human beings and higher ani-
mals, empathy (for anyone but a solipsist) is certainly
perception, correct or incorrect. When on the other hand
the objects are low forms of animal life, then if the em-
pathy remains typically anthropic in kind, it is doubtless
illusive; but if not so anthropic, it may still truly con-
stitute perception. With regard to plants and minerals
most people, who are not panpsychists, would doubtless re-
gard empathy of them as a gratuitous intuitive ascription
to them of a consciousness they do not have. Panpsy-
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
chists however may think otherwise, and I shall not here
attempt to decide whether or not they are right. The em-
pathic interpretation even of objects belonging to the
lower kingdoms is, in any case, of constant occurrence in
literature and poetry, where the aesthetic values to be ex-
perienced in the contemplation of the aesthetic object set
up by means of such empathic interpretation are the suffi-
cient measure of its justification. In the case of such
things as the lines and shapes of a design, no one would
think of regarding the empathic interpretation of them as
other than gratuitous, i.e., it is empathic illusion, animat-
ing and dramatizing the certainly inanimate. Empathy
thus enables us to perceive conscious action where it is
and also to imagine it, and have the vivid illusion of it,
where it is not.
Empathy is the process through which alone modes of
conscious doing and undergoing are perceived or imagined;
but to perceive or imagine these is not ipso facto to con-
template them aesthetically. Empathy as such is not,
and does not involve, aesthetic contemplation. On the
other hand aesthetic contemplation presupposes empathy
whenever the object of aesthetic contemplation is Action,
(i.e., is something that a conscious being is doing or under-
going) since empathy is the very process by which alone
that sort of object is set before the aesthetically contem-
plative attention. Through the intuitive apprehension,
by empathy, of what a conscious being is doing or ex-
periencing, one indeed automatically obtains the sort of
feeling which goes with that sort of doing or experiencing.
But this is not an aesthetic feeling, and the process of
obtaining it is not aesthetic contemplation, unless the feel-
ing obtained was being "listened for"; i.e., unless the em-
pathy was for the sake of the feeling to be so obtained; or
at all events, unless at the moment the feeling is experi-
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
165
enced, the interest comes to be essentially in the feeling
itself, as such. In other words, the attitude in the approach-
ing or at least in the obtaining of the feeling, must have the
endotelic character. If it has, it constitutes aesthetic con-
templation, whether or not the object contemplated be of
a sort perceptible only through empathy. If on the other
hand the endotelic character is absent, then the attitude
is not that of aesthetic contemplation and such feeling as
may be experienced is not aesthetic feeling, even though
empathy be the process through which perception is taking
place. The action which empathy reveals in such a case
is adjusted-to practically, or is judged about; instead of
being just tasted, i.e., the emotional "taste" of it noticed
and made end. And the feelings that may be experienced
in the course of practical adjustment to or judgment about
the action revealed, are not aesthetic feelings, but passions,
whether mild or strong.
Thus, to intuit, by empathy, the actions or experiences,
e.g., the feelings, of the participants in a tragedy, is not
ipso facto to have an aesthetic experience. That the
That the proc-
ess of intuiting them is endotelic in addition to being em-
pathic, is precisely what makes the vast difference between
the beholding of a tragedy represented on the stage, and,
on the other hand, the beholding of an actual tragedy in
practical life. In the latter case, the empathy is present,
but not the endotelism.
Incidentally, however, it is probably safe to assert that
many if not most people witness the tragedy on the stage
not with the attitude of aesthetic contemplation, but in
essentially the same spirit as they do some actual tragedy,
or else, some game. Therefore what they get from it is not
aesthetic pleasure, but either the pleasure that accom-
panies the acquisition of wisdom without the customary
price; or the pleasure that goes with excitement and ad-
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
venture without the otherwise attendant risks, i.e., the
pleasure of play.
Similar remarks would apply to literature, e.g., to the
novel. The writing of a novel may be (endotelic) art ac-
tivity; but with most readers the reading of the novel con-
stitutes anything but aesthetic contemplation. It is not,
usually, even endotelic activity at all but autotelic, i.e.,
it is a case of play, and not a case of the consumption or
appreciation of art as such. This fact is not usually recog-
nized, and is therefore worth stressing. The assumption
that novel-readers and theater-goers are seekers of aes-
thetic enjoyment, which is the one commonly made, has
caused endless misunderstandings, for it is true of only
a small minority of them. For most people, the only way
to get to the aesthetic perception and appreciation of a
drama would be first to exhaust that drama's possibilities
as source of play-enjoyment, or as source of wisdom. But
how many persons would wish to see it performed, or to
read it, the two or more times at short intervals, needed by
them to reach that point? They would meet the proposal
with the declaration that, until enough time had elapsed
to make them forget, their enjoyment of it would be gone.
That another sort of enjoyment might however then come,
most of them do not suspect. These remarks, I may add,
are not to be taken to imply that the aesthetic enjoyment
of something, e.g., a drama, is necessarily "better," or
"higher" than the enjoyment of it as a play or game. I
only mean to point out that it may be and I think usually
is in fact enjoyed in the latter way, rather than the former.
That empathy does not necessarily involve aesthetic
contemplation is something which is obscured by the fact
that for the most part we empathize inanimate things only
in so far as we are interested in them aesthetically, inas-
much as empathy of them generally has little practical or
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
167
scientific utility. But in the case of animate beings,
human beings and animals, it is otherwise, for empathy of
them, yielding as it does an intuition of what they are
doing and undergoing, is in practice a valuable help in
coöperating with them or thwarting them intelligently.
To say this is to say that the facts which empathy re-
veals are, in such cases, often treated not aesthetically at
all but practically. Or they may be simply noted, com-
pared with others, etc., i.e., treated scientifically. Whether
in fact true or not, the story according to which Campa-
nella, while in prison, was able through inner imitation of
the behavior of his visitors, to apprehend their secret in-
tent, testifies that empathy has no necessary connection
with aesthetic contemplation, but may have and very com-
monly does have a purely practical rôle.
The fact that empathy admittedly takes place on all
sorts of occasions where aesthetic appreciation or interest
are very far indeed from our consciousness, remains
strangely unnoticed by the authors who identify aesthetic
contemplation with empathy, even when they themselves
mention cases of that very fact. Professor Langfeld, for
instance, who certainly does seem to identify the aesthetic
attitude with empathy,10 writes: "In watching a football
game, we suddenly realize that in the excitement of follow-
ing our team, we have been unconsciously pushing against
our neighbor on the bench" (p. 112). This is, I take it, in-
tended as an illustration of particularly vigorous empathy,
and beyond question it is such. But, no less obviously, the
attitude of the typical, empathically-neighbor-pushing
spectator of football games, is anything but the aesthetic
attitude, which by this alone would be proved to be some-
thing quite distinct from mere empathy.
10 See for instance p. 113 of The Aesthetic Attitude.
W
Z
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
§ 10
Peripathic Perception. It was stated earlier in this
chapter that although empathic perception may be added
to the perception of design merely as such, the perception
of the design aspect of things neither constitutes nor re-
quires empathy. That is, to perceive it, we do not in the
least need to identify ourselves with the things and in-
wardly imitate their real or supposititious action.
This is true also of another mode of perception which,
for the purposes of aesthetics, it is important to distinguish
clearly both from Design-perception and from Empathic
perception. It is the mode of perception which is the
most familiar and natural to virtually all of us, and for
which, therefore, no special name exists. It is the mode
which, when reflectively analyzed, is seen to regard things
as elaborate complexes of possibilities and impossibilities;
such a complex being what any given "thing" or sort of
thing, most usually is for us. Thus, a knife is a possibility
of (for instance) cutting; and, being solid, it is also the im-
possibility of having something else at the time in the
place it occupies, etc.
However the possibilities and impossibilities of which
things are complexes may either be or not be related to
living human interests, to human hopes and fears. Al-
most any given thing embodies many possibilities which
have, as one would commonly say, only a scientific interest,
this sort of interest being precisely that which, abstracting
from existing human hopes and fears, needs and desires,
notes impersonally all the properties that things do have,
or, which is the same thing, the possibilities which they em-
body. Whether or not these possibilities are such that
any body has, or ever will have, any use for them is, from
the point of view of pure science, irrelevant.
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC 169
The perception of things in this impersonal way, as com-
plexes of essentially theoretical possibilities, is obviously
not the common way. The common way is that which
views things as complexes of possibilities that are on the
contrary essentially living, in the sense of related in some
evident manner to needs, purposes, interests, hopes, fears,
etc., that human beings considered otherwise than in their
possible capacity as pure scientists, commonly have. That
is to say, the common way views things in terms only of
such of their possibilities as have some dramatic import.
Things, as perceived in the ordinary way, may thus be
described as dramatic instruments.
The dramatic interpretation of things is then of two pos-
sible sorts. One of them is the empathic, which is homeo-
tropic and altrocentric. That is, it proceeds by imitating
the orientation or behavior of its object; and, as one does
this, another self, that of the object, virtually re-
places one's own for the moment. In terms of this mode
of dramatic interpretation, the object is perceived as es-
sentially dramatic agent or patient. The other mode,
which we are now considering, is on the contrary prostropic
and egocentric. That is, it proceeds by (also inner and
largely symbolic) orientation or behavior towards the
object, on the part of our own ego. In terms of it the thing
is perceived as essentially dramatic instrument (positive
or negative). This perception of it as instrument, how-
ever, may be either from the standpoint of our own cus-
tomary ego, or from that of another ego which we have em-
pathically identified ourselves with, and, for the moment
only, made our own.
As stated above, no special name exists for this perceiv-
ing of things as dramatic instruments, for it is the ordinary
mode of perception and is that which we usually have in
mind when we speak merely of perceiving. A special name
A
-
170
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
for it would have the disadvantage of hiding the familiar
under strange garb, and of giving the impression that some
unfamiliar process is in question. Nevertheless, for our
present purpose, which is to contrast sharply this mode
of dramatic interpretation with the empathic mode, it is
very desirable to give it an appropriately descriptive
name. The term Peripathy is now proposed for this, as
having the advantage of suggesting very clearly the rela-
tion of the mode of perception so described, to the mode
designated by the established term Empathy. The disad-
vantage of the term Peripathy, on the other hand, is the
same as that of the term Empathy, namely, the disadvan-
tage already pointed out, that in strictness it constitutes
a misdescription of what it denotes, viz., it is not a "feeling
oneself about," but a supposing oneself about, i.e., in rela-
tion with, the object said to be “peripathized." The really
important thing, however, is that the nature of that proc-
ess, and its contrast with the empathic process, should be
very clear; and a concrete case will help to make it so at
this point.
I have before me a picture representing a mountainside
meadow dotted with flowers, with a curved path through
it which disappears between two clumps of fir trees in the
middle distance. Between them high in the background
is a dark fir-grown mountain with a snow cap and snow
fields. Now, I can interpret this landscape dramatically
in the empathic way if I wish. I then intuit the path as
perhaps cutting the meadow, or stretching itself lazily
among the flowers; the sharp treetops as stabbing the clear
sky; the branches as reaching out from the mass for light
and air; the mountain as thrusting up powerful shoulders
under its mantle of verdure and snow, etc. But on the
other hand I can interpret the various parts of the repre-
sented landscape in the peripathic way, i.e., view them not
EMPATHIC AND PERIPATHIC
171
in terms of what they are to themselves as dramatic agents
or patients, but in terms of what they are as dramatic in-
struments to me, or to some dramatic agent or patient
among them with which I have empathically identified
myself. The path will then be perceived by me as some-
thing to be walked on and leading to imaginable other
mountain scenes; the flowers as things to be picked,
smelled, looked at closely, put into one's buttonhole, etc.;
the forest as a cool shady place carpeted with dry pine-
needles pleasant to the feet, or as a lurking-place for bears,
chipmunks, or mosquitoes, or as a shelter from showers,
etc.; the mountain as something to be climbed, or as some-
thing dangerous, or inconvenient, etc. In other words, I
can inwardly, i.e., supposititiously and more or less sym-
bolically also here, act the part which the various objects
suggest for me in external relation to them, using them
according to their natures; or letting myself be affected by
them, or by their dramatic relations to one another, in such
manner as to undergo the various experiences which their
presence will provide. This too is to view the landscape
dramatically (i.e., not as design merely); but it is not to
empathize it.
Peripathy obviously is not any more than empathy an
exclusively motor phenomenon, for to regard a thing as
dramatic instrument is not to regard it as instrument of
operation exclusively, but quite as much as instrument of
passive experience, e.g., sensation.
It is next to be noted that peripathy does not any more
than empathy, either constitute or of necessity lead to
aesthetic contemplation. Our attitude in peripathy and
towards the facts perceived by means of it, is undoubtedly
practical in the vast majority of cases. Peripathy, more-
over, again like empathy, may be not only truly or falsely
perceptive, but also arbitrarily illusive. This is the case
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
when we regard entities not having certain (instrumental)
dramatic properties as if they had them, for instance when
we regard a line as if it had impenetrability like a wall,
or tension like a string, or weight like a rod; or again a color
as if it were warm or cool, a cloud as if it had the properties
of a mattress, etc.
Lastly, it is to be remembered that peripathic percep-
tion or invention is not a discursive, analytical or inferen-
tial process, but (like the perception of depth in space)
an automatic process, yielding a direct intuition of the
nature of its object. Peripathic perception, let me say
again, is not something new or strange, but is only what
ordinarily is called simply perception (viz., dramatic per-
ception other than empathic). However, between ordi-
nary peripathic perception, and peripathic perception for
aesthetic contemplation there is this difference. The
former, being usually for some practical purpose, is made
very partial by that purpose, which blinds it to any non-
relevant aspects of the object. Ordinary peripathic per-
ception thus usually apprehends its objects not as indi-
viduals, but as cases-of-a-kind. On the other hand, where
the attitude is the aesthetically contemplative, peripathic
perception is freed from the service of any narrow, ex-
ternal and pressing purpose, and it can then be more fully
hospitable and approach the individuality of its object
more closely (although still from the outside, i.e., still as
instrument).
CHAPTER XI
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION, AND
THE AESTHETIC OBJECT
In the last chapter, the attempt was made to show that
the phenomenon called Empathy is something quite dis-
tinct from aesthetic contemplation, and is simply the proc-
ess by which are perceived (whether for aesthetic or other
purposes) dramatic entities of the sort called Actions and
Experiences. Dramatic entities of the sort called Instru-
ments, on the other hand, are perceived by a process which
was designated Peripathy.
reasons.
That discussion of Empathy was necessary for two
On the one hand, it served to free the concep-
tion of Aesthetic Contemplation from any obscurity which,
owing to the prevailing confusion of it with Empathy,
might still have clung to it after the account that was given
of it in Ch. IX. On the other hand, it served to bring
out a fact which we shall find to be of considerable im-
portance when we come to discuss the kinds, or aspects, of
aesthetic objects, the fact namely, that the aesthetic
objects that are dramatic entities are of two possible sorts:
dramatic agents or patients, and dramatic instruments.
G
S
§ 1
Ecpathy or aesthetic "reading." With the mists of Em-
pathy out of the way, we may now return to aesthetic
contemplation, and the aesthetic experience in which it
173
174
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
culminates. Contemplation was described as a "listening"
with our capacity for feeling, -a "listening" for the feel-
ing-import of some content of attention. In proportion
to the blankness and intentness of such "listening," we
gather from the object contemplated its import of aesthetic
feeling if that import lies at all within the range of our
emotional capacities. This constitutes the aesthetic ex-
perience. As already pointed out, the process of getting
a feeling from the object embodying it, by aesthetic con-
templation of that object, is the exact analogue in the lan-
guage of feeling, of what we call reading or deciphering in
the language of meaning. If we desire a technical term
which is accurately descriptive of the process just men-
tioned, we must call it Ecpathy, for ecpathizing of the ob-
ject is precisely what occurs: an extracting from it of the
feeling which it embodies. To make the propriety of the
term fully evident, something may be added here to what
has already been said concerning the objectification of
feeling by art.
cos
2
-
The feeling-import of aesthetic objects. The objectifi-
cation of feeling, i.e., the putting of a feeling into an object
created ad hoc, is no more mysterious a process than that
of putting our meanings into words. Just as the words of
the language have each its own import of meaning to the
reader or hearer of them, so does every line, color, shape,
sound, thing, etc., have its own import of feeling to the
aesthetically contemplative observer of it. To bring home
this fact the best examples are things so simple and devoid
of meaning, that little can be done with them except con-
template them aesthetically. Let the reader for instance
take pen or pencil and draw on a sheet of paper any simple
nonrepresentative line that, after collecting himself for
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 175
a moment, he may feel like drawing. It may turn out to be
a curve, a zigzag line, a combination of straight and curved
lines, or anything else. Then let him contemplate it and
ask himself whether it exactly corresponds to the feel-
ing that impelled him. He will then possibly become aware
that the line does not feel quite right, and if so he will cor-
rect it here or there.¹ Each discernible correction, no mat-
ter how slight, results in a line which not only looks differ-
ent, but also feels different. That is, the line is not only
describably different (i.e., different in a manner statable in
geometrical terms) from its predecessors; but it is also dif-
ferent from them in a purely emotional way, quite immedi-
ate, unique, and therefore strictly speaking indescribable,
since the emotional adjectives which alone would be rele-
vant only indicate its relation to general emotional kinds,
but never reach its emotional individuality. This indi-
vidual emotional import of each line can be expressed by
nothing else whatever than the individual line itself.
H
Through the simple experiment suggested, the reader
will have created something which, although very humble,
is no less truly a work of art than are the pictures of Rem-
brandt. He will himself actually have had an art-inspiring
feeling, and have gone through the process of objectifying
it. Moreover, he will have entered into the state of aes-
thetic contemplation in so far as he will have experienced
the emotional feel of the line drawn; and he will have be-
come an art-critic in so far as he will have judged that
emotional feel to correspond, or not, to the particular feel-
ing which originally moved him to draw that sort of line
rather than some other.
1 Such corrections may render the line more graceful, or on the other
hand, less so. A change towards ugliness will nevertheless constitute
a correction if it makes the line correspond more accurately to the feel-
ing that impelled him, and of which the line drawn is an attempted ex-
pression.
176
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
A
Now just such a unique emotional import in contempla-
tion as is possessed by each line that he drew, is possessed
also by every distinguishable color, sound, shape, motion,
taste, odor, etc., and also by every distinguishable thing,
action, etc., and by every distinguishable combination
and relation of any of these. And just as a given meaning
is objectively expressed by writing or uttering the words
which constitute its proper symbol, out of which it
can be extracted by reading; so is a given feeling expressed
by constructing its own peculiar external symbol, from
which, by aesthetic contemplation, it can likewise be ex-
tracted.
83
Propriety of the term Ecpathy. What occurs through
the aesthetic contemplation of an object may therefore fit-
tingly be called the ecpathizing of the object. It is true
that the feeling-import of an object (or the meaning-im-
port of a word), is not in it and to be taken out of it, in the
same literal sense that water is in and may be taken out of
a bucket. Nevertheless, from the standpoint of human
beings, it is pragmatically true to say that a thought or a
meaning can be put into words, and can be extracted from
words; and in a similar sense it is likewise true to say that
a feeling can be put into an object constructed ad hoc, and
that by aesthetic contemplation, a feeling can be extracted
from an object. In this pragmatic sense of the words
"into" and "out of" (which is the only one of importance
here), it is then obvious that the term Ecpathy is perfectly
proper, and accurately descriptive of what aesthetic con-
templation performs.
It is true also that the feeling-import of an object blends
with it even more closely and intimately, than does the
meaning of a word with the word; and therefore that in
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 177
ecpathy the object is not apprehended as out of us and
the feeling as in us, any more explicitly than are respec-
tively in reading, the word and the thought which it means.
The feeling is apprehended as if it were a quality of the
object. Nevertheless, when we are not actually going
through the ecpathizing process, but describing it, we are
well aware of the duality of object and subject, and of the
fact that the feeling is experienced by the subject. From
this descriptive standpoint, then, it is correct to say that
we get the feeling out of the object.
cos
4
An aesthetic object is any content of contemplative at-
tention, as such. It should be clearly understood that
when a feeling is spoken of as objectified by or as embodied
in an object, the word object then means aesthetic object,
and that an aesthetic object is simply a content of atten-
tion (both focal and marginal), aesthetically contemplated.
The aesthetic object and the physical object thus need not
be and usually are not the same, although they may be the
same since it is possible to take as content of attention a
physical object considered as such, and contemplate aes-
thetically just that. When we speak of contemplating a
line, however, we almost invariably mean the perceptual,
or the imaged line, i.e., the phenomenal line, and not the
line as physics regards it. Again, it must be clearly real-
ized that the aesthetic object usually consists of much
more than the actual, literal content of sense observation;
for many elements of the total content of attention are
present not sensuously but imaginally or conceptually.
The essential import of the assertion that the aesthetic
object is the content of attention aesthetically contem-
plated, is then that whatever is not part of the content of
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
attention, whether marginal or focal, does not for aesthetic
purposes exist at all, no matter how truly it may have
physical existence, or perceptible existence; and that, vice
versa, whatever is part of the content of attention, marginal
or focal (and whether sensuous, imaginal, or conceptual),
has all the existence it needs for aesthetic purposes, no
matter what other sorts of existence, for instance physical,
it may lack.
§ 5
The relation of aesthetic object to aesthetic feeling is
not causal. Once it is clearly understood that the aes-
thetic object is neither more nor less than the content of
attention considered as matter for aesthetic contemplation,
it becomes evident enough that the relation between the
aesthetic object and its import of asthetic feeling is no more
one of cause and effect, or of stimulus and response, than
is the relation between a word and its meaning.2 A causal
relation, on the contrary, does exist between the behavior
of the physical object beheld, and that of the beholder's
visual organs. The physical object reflects light, thereby
causing a train of psycho-physical processes beginning in
2 Ogden and Richards (The Meaning of Meaning) regard the rela-
tion between a word and its meaning as causal, and describe their theory
of objective references as a causal theory. To do so, however, they find
themselves forced to substitute for the word "caused" something which
they call "an expanded account" of its meaning, but which is, I should
say, only an arbitrary and erroneous account of that meaning, namely,
essentially Hume's account, with its complete confusion of the two no-
tions of cause and law. As they themselves declare, every right-minded
person will be shocked by the assertion that to say "I am thinking of A,”
is the same thing as to say "My thought is being caused by A." But this
shock is evidence enough that an account of the meaning of the word
"caused" which makes these two statements mean the same thing, is not
an empirical analysis but (unconsciously) only a fanciful invention.
What the term "cause" actually does mean, I have attempted to show
in a monograph entitled "Causation and the types of Necessity. Univ. of
Washington Press, 1924, and more briefly in a paper On the Nature and
the observability of the Causal Relation, Jour. of Phil., Vol. XXIII.
No. 3.
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 179
the eye. Much obscurity is likely to pervade the question
of the relation between aesthetic object and aesthetic
feeling, unless one distinguishes sharply a number of things
which, with careless language, might easily pass as but one.
These diverse things are the cause of a feeling, the reason
for a feeling, the object of a feeling, the evidences of a feel-
ing, and lastly the aesthetic symbol of a feeling, i.e. the
aesthetic object. Taking as a concrete case the feeling
called anger, the cause of it (as distinguished from the
reason) would be, for instance, the air-vibrations imping-
ing upon our ear-drums when somebody utters insulting
words. The reason for anger, on the other hand, would be
some dramatic fact present to consciousness such as a blow,
an insult, a betrayal of trust, etc. The object of the anger
(in the common, not the aesthetic sense of the word ob-
ject), would be the person or thing whose mode of be-
havior was the reason for anger. The evidences of anger
would be any mode of behavior of a person, that makes
us realize that that person is angry, for instance, his curs-
ing and stamping, or his striking another, of his vehement
assertion that he is angry, etc. An aesthetic symbol of
anger, on the other hand, i.e., an aesthetic object embody-
ing anger, would be, among the sorts of things which are
evidences of anger, any situation allowing, or still better,
inviting aesthetic contemplation, and such as to yield
through it to us the "taste" of anger, not the mere intel-
lectual information of inference that some one is angry.
Such a situation might consist merely in the representation
of behavior empathically evidencing anger (rather than
in the actual presentation of such behavior, which might
make impossible the contemplative attitude); for instance,
it might consist in the representation of a scowling face, or
of the speeches of an angry man, such as those of Achilles
in his quarrel with Agamemnon over Briseis in the first
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
book of the Iliad. Or again, the situation aesthetically
objectifying anger might consist in the representation, in
terms of Achilles' point of view, to be empathically taken,
of the reasons for his anger; and so forth. In the case of
such a feeling-quality as that called anger, the aesthetic
object objectifying it must obviously be dramatic; but
in the case of numberless other feelings (which have no
names) the aesthetic objects yielding them in contempla-
tion are neither dramatic in fact, nor dramatized. Patches
of colors, many odors and tastes, many nonrepresentative
designs, etc. would be instances of entities that may con-
stitute such aesthetic objects.
cos
CO
6
•
The aesthetic object is the natural, immediate, and
unique symbol of an aesthetic feeling. The relation be-
tween the aesthetic object, viz., the content of attention
aesthetically contemplated, and aesthetic feeling, is a re-
lation much more intimate than the causal, and very differ-
ent from it. That relation is Symbolization, but it is sym-
bolization of a particular sort, which must now be precisely
differentiated from the other and more familiar sort na-
turally thought of when symbolization is mentioned. The
two sorts may be designated respectively, aesthetic sym-
bolization, and logical symbolization.
The symbolizing of aesthetic feelings by aesthetic ob-
jects is not ultimately arbitrary and conventional, as is the
symbolizing of meanings by words. One can make a given
word mean what one pleases, by simply laying down a
definition or stipulation to that effect. But one cannot
3
-
3 Such a definition or stipulation, let it be well noted, is itself possible
only by means of words that are already understood. It presupposes a
language, with its terms and its logic. This is a point overlooked, I think,
by people who maintain that "other logics than ours" are possible. The
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 181
in any such manner make a given object the "aesthetic
symbol" of any feeling one pleases. The import of
aesthetic feeling which a given aesthetic object has
for a given person at a given time is a bare matter
of psychological fact, a fact hard and impervious
to stipulation in the same sense as, let us say, the fact of
the overtones which I shall distinguish if a given note is
struck just now on the piano. Such facts are not indeed
immutable but they are not to be changed simply by laying
down a stipulation. The changes that occur in the feeling-
import of a given aesthetic object for any given person are
psychological effects of experiences of various sorts, and
occur in their own good time. Associations, of course,
affect the feeling experienced, and are variable. But asso-
ciations are internal to the aesthetic object, not external;
and this means that when the associations of some entity
change, the aesthetic object (consisting as it does of the
entity and its associations) itself has changed. The fact
that a given meaning is symbolized by a given word is, in
all but onomatopoeic words and a few others, ultimately
a matter of pure chance, or of arbitrary stipulation. That
is, any other word would have served just as well; there is
no intrinsic psychological appropriateness of just that word
to just that meaning. In aesthetic symbolization, on the
contrary, arbitrary stipulation plays no rôle, or virtually
none. For this reason, in the language of feeling, there is
nothing corresponding to what a definition is in the lan-
ordinary language, by means of which we are given the fundamentals of
these other logics, is a sort of "transformation formula," which relates
them to ours. What could anybody make of Principia Mathematica,
if the Introduction to it in plain English, were left out? The so-called
"Laws of Thought" are, I believe, primarily the rules of the game of
"Saying something." The game "Talking Nonsense," which is not bound
by them, may sometimes be more fun; but it is not the same game.
Therefore, whoever says anything at all whether about a new logic or
about anything else, has already assumed these "laws of thought."
182
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
guage of meaning, viz., a pair of sets of symbols having
exactly the same import, and therefore always strictly
interchangeable for logical purposes. In the language of
feeling, no symbol or set of symbols is ever completely
interchangeable with any other which is discernibly dif-
ferent from it.
.
Another fundamental difference between aesthetic and
logical symbolization is that in the former, only two terms
are involved, viz., the aesthetic object and the aesthetic
feeling which it directly symbolizes; whereas, in the latter,
three terms are involved, viz., the word, the meaning (the
thought), and the (possible) thing meant, i.e., the logical
object. The word symbolizes the meaning directly, but the
logical object only indirectly, through the meaning.¹
The relation between the aesthetic object and the aes-
thetic feeling that "corresponds" to it, may, after these
explanations, be summarily described by saying that the
aesthetic object is the natural, immediate, and unique sym-
bol of the feeling. These qualifications accurately differ-
entiate aesthetic symbolization, i.e., symbolization of feel-
ing, from logical symbolization, which is what usually is
meant when the word Symbolization is used alone.
In spite of what has been said above concerning the in-
ternality to the aesthetic object, of all associations or
meanings, the objection that the same person gets differ-
ent feelings at different times in the contemplation of the
same object, might still be felt to have some force. It
4 The essentially mediate character (viz., through thoughts) of the
symbolization of things by words is perceived and rightly emphasized
by Ogden and Richards, in their valuable work, The Meaning of Mean-
ing. That there is a language of feeling, however, as well as of mean-
ing, and that matters stand otherwise there, has not I believe been no-
ticed by them. For a discussion of immediate as well as of mediate
symbolization, and of the sorts of entities constituting the terms of such
symbolization, see the writer's Causation and the Types of Necessity, pp.
103 ff.
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 183
will therefore be well to state explicitly here in which
various ways (as the case may be) is to be explained the
fact which that objection purports to describe.
per-
First, it may be that the "object" referred to is not the
aesthetic object as defined, but only some part of it,
haps the part of it only which is sensuously present, or per-
haps even only a part of that, in a different sensuous con-
text. This would mean, of course, that the aesthetic
object contemplated at the different times by the given
person, is not the same; and its import of feeling there-
fore cannot be the same either.
Or, second, it may be that the emotional blankness re-
quired in aesthetic contemplation was imperfectly
achieved on the earlier or the later occasion, or both, and
that the blending of the feeling-import of the aesthetic
object with the residuum of feeling then present in us, per-
mitted us to experience only a mixture or compound of the
two, different on the various occasions.5
Or, third, it may be that the meaning, i.e., the representa-
tive power, of certain entities which are parts of the aes-
thetic object, has changed for us as a result of the growth
of our information or understanding, so that the parts of
the total aesthetic object which these representative en-
tities set before our attention are now other than before.
If so the total aesthetic object is also different and natur-
ally has a different import of feeling.
Lastly, it may be that through the establishment of hid-
5 Such imperfection, to a varying extent, in the attainment of the
emotional blankness or passivity required in contemplation, is obviously
the normal state of affairs. The state of perfect emotional blankness de-
manded is an ideal, only approximated more or less, in practice. But it
is nevertheless indispensable as a defining postulate, in characterizing the
state of aesthetic contemplation (and, by implication, the aesthetic
object, and aesthetic feeling). The defining of aesthetic contemplation
in terms of a condition probably never exactly realized, is thus not ob-
jectionable nor futile any more than the analogous defining of gravitation
in terms of conditions never actually realized.
184
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
den, subconscious associations and dissociations, our own
emotional nature has itself so changed that (at least in
respect to certain sides of it) we are hardly any longer
the same person. This process, in varying degrees, is a
normal one in all of us. The difference between this case
and the previous one is only that the associations or mean-
ings which have changed are unconscious, instead of con-
scious. That is, they are not part of the content of at-
tention, even marginal. And this is to say that the
aesthetic object (which is the actual content of attention)
has not then changed. The difference in the feeling-
import of it is due to the fact that in this case, the person
who contemplates it is, in essentials, a different person.
8 7
ာ
S
Origin of the feeling-import of any specified thing.
These considerations lead to the question how it happens.
to be that in the presence of some specified thing, we, as
aesthetically contemplative beholders, experience such
particular aesthetic feeling as we then do. There are
three possibilities.
It may be that the aesthetic feeling we experience is
the native feeling-import of the thing as literally present
to us, which feeling-import is a function jointly of our
individual psychological constitution, and of the nature
of the thing. An example of a connection native in this
sense would be that between the odor of decaying organic
matter and the feeling of disgust.
Or it may be that the feeling we experience is the native
feeling-import of what the thing literally present repre-
sents to us explicitly. That may itself be either the thing's
proper meaning, i.e., something intrinsically connected
with it (as when the noise of an automobile represents to
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 185
us the proximity of the latter); or else it may be some-
thing of which the thing is able to make us think only
by accident, i.e., owing to a purely chance connection (as
when a certain melody brings up for us the image of a
particular person).
Or, lastly, the feeling we experience may be the native
feeling-import of something which the thing literally pres-
ent before us can be said to represent to us only virtually,
or potentially (and which again may be either essentially
or only accidentally connected with the thing). To speak
of the representation in such a case as only potential and
virtual, is to say that it does not actually occur at all to
consciousness, but that we feel what we would feel if it did
so occur. But in such a case the feeling is experienced by
us as feeling-import of the thing directly present to us.
We may call it the thing's aesthetic connotation, or the aes-
thetic feeling connoted by the thing, as distinguished from
the thing's truly native feeling-import.
This account of the origin of the feeling-import of things
in contemplation shows, incidentally, that the language of
feeling is ultimately rooted throughout in native feeling-
import. But in the language of meaning, there is no such
thing as a native meaning-import of words; so that it is
throughout ultimately rooted in arbitrary convention or
adventitious association.
$8
cos
Santayana's doctrine of "Expression." The aesthetic
connotation of things, as just described, is what Santayana
calls their expression, a term which, in spite of the clear
statement he gives of the meaning he attaches to it, has
confused many of his readers. There are several reasons
for this. One of them is that there are other and more
186
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
familiar meanings in which the term Expression is used.
Another is Santayana's threefold division of beauties, as
of Material, of Form, and of Expression, which suggests
that Expression denotes, like "Material" and "Form," an
aspect of aesthetic objects, instead of referring as it does
for him to the history of the aesthetic powers which they
have for the beholder. Another is the fact that the term
Expression seems at times to be so used by him as to include
the aesthetic import of what has been described above as
the actually represented, and proper meaning of a thing,
as well as the only virtually represented and accidental
meaning of a thing.
6
The conditions under which "expression," or (to use the
term suggested above), aesthetic connotation, comes to
be acquired by anything, are analyzed by Santayana with
such insight and set forth by him so lucidly, that I can do
no better here than to reproduce the substance of his ac-
count. "In all expression," he writes, "we may thus dis-
tinguish two terms: the first is the object actually pre-
sented, the word, the image, the expressive thing; the sec-
ond is the object suggested, the further thought, emotion,
or image evoked, the thing expressed." There must be
an association in our minds between the two terms, but
the first term will not by virtue of it possess expression if
such an analysis into a first and second term is at the
time explicitly present to the mind. The two terms
must be so confounded in consciousness that the first term
becomes suffused with the emotions attaching to the
second (p. 197). Lastly, in order that there be beauty
6 "Expression then differs from material or formal value only as habit
differs from instinct in its origin. . . . An observer, looking at the
mind historically, sees in the one case [viz. that of Expression] the sur-
vival of an experience, in the other the reaction of our innate disposi-
tion" (p. 195-Sense of Beauty).
7 Sense of Beauty, p. 195.
ECPATHY, OBJECTIFICATION 187
of expression, the second term must possess positive value,
i.e., pleasurableness. This and the preceding require-
ment are stated together in the single sentence: "The
value of the second term must be incorporated in the
first." This incorporation means that "the beauty of
expression is as inherent in the object as that of material
or form, only it accrues to that object not from the bare act
of perception, but from the association with it of further
processes due to the existence of former impressions"
(p. 197).
§ 9
Relations between Santayana's terminology, and that
used here. It may be worth while at this point to give as
precise a statement as possible of what seems to me to be
the relations between the terminology in these pages
and that of Santayana's doctrine of Expression.
(a) Santayana's discussion is throughout essentially
concerned with beauty, while mine is concerned with aes-
thetic emotion or feeling, and abstracts in most places from
its value aspect (i.e., from its pleasantness or unpleasant-
ness, and from the corresponding beauty or ugliness of the
object).
(b) Santayana accordingly means by the expression of
an object, both the acquired feeling-import of that object,
and the pleasant or unpleasant tone of that feeling. On
the other hand, when I speak of the Aesthetic Connota-
tion of an object, I refer essentially to its acquired feel-
ing-import due to associations (whether essential or ac-
cidental) not at the time present to consciousness either
imaginally or conceptually; and while I do not deny that
such feeling always has some value (positive, negative,
or neutral), I abstract from that value unless particular
occasion arises to talk about it. In such a case, I refer to
188
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
it specifically as the value, or the algedonic tone, of the
aesthetic connotation of the object, or of the aesthetic
feeling connoted by the object.
(c) Santayana used the word "expressiveness" to mean
"all the capacity of suggestion possessed by a thing,” and
reserves "expression" for "the aesthetic modification which
that expressiveness may cause in the thing" (p. 197). As
it seems to me, his term "expressiveness" then denotes in-
differently four things which, although they are indeed all
cases of "what a thing suggests," I have felt the need of
distinguishing rather than assimilating. The first and
second are explicit representativeness (proper, or acciden-
tal); and the third and fourth are merely virtual represen-
tativeness (again proper, or accidental).
CHAPTER XII
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
$1
Aesthetic feeling is any feeling obtained in contempla-
tion. The question how aesthetic feelings differ from
others has received considerable attention from writers
on aesthetics. Some have attempted to differentiate the
aesthetic feelings from the non-aesthetic on the basis of
the sense organs through which the objects yielding the
feelings are perceived, -the eye and the ear alone being
considered "aesthetic senses." Others have proposed dis-
interestedness and universality, as distinguishing marks
of the feelings called aesthetic and of aesthetic pleasure.
These attempts to formulate the distinction between aes-
thetic and other feelings, however, have all been effectively
criticized by various writers,¹ and need not be reviewed in
detail here. On the basis of what has now been said con-
cerning the nature of the state of aesthetic contemplation,
aesthetic feelings may be defined simply as follows: Any
feeling whatever which is obtained in aesthetic contempla-
tion, is aesthetic feeling; and no feeling is aesthetic feel-
ing, which we experience while our attitude is other than
the aesthetically contemplative. In other words, feeling
is aesthetic feeling whenever its status is neither that of a
mere incitement to or accompaniment or result of practical
activity, nor that of an accessory or by-product of cog-
1 See for instance, Santayana, Sense of Beauty, part I.
C
189
190
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
nition, but is on the contrary the status of something being
sought or entertained for itself, and simply "tasted."
§ 2
Under certain conditions, any feeling-quality may ac-
quire the aesthetic status. The aesthetic feelings are thus
not qualitatively different from the non-aesthetic, and
this involves that there is no sort of feeling which may not
on occasion acquire the aesthetic status, or which art may
not attempt to objectify. Spencer rightly observes that
"The aesthetic feelings and sentiments are not, as our
words and phrases lead us to suppose, feelings and senti-
ments that essentially differ in origin and nature from
the rest. . . . The same agencies are in action; and the
only difference is in the attitude of consciousness towards
its resulting states.”2
As concerns intensity rather than kind, it is obvious that
feeling of a given sort may without losing the aesthetic
status have any degree of intensity which will not pre-
clude the maintaining of the aesthetic attitude towards
the object; for it is one and the same thing to say that the
feeling is experienced in that attitude, and that the feeling
is aesthetic feeling.
To say that feelings of any sort may, at least theoreti-
cally, be aesthetic, is of course also to say that any subject
may be treated by the artist, if he is able to present it in a
manner which will invite, or at least permit aesthetic con-
templation. Thus the problem of the conditions of aes-
thetic contemplation, that of the restrictions of subject-
matter in art, and that of the possible kinds and degrees of
aesthetic feeling are virtually but three aspects of one
and the same problem. That problem arises from the fact
that in each of us other interests, such as the practical, the
2 Principles of Psychology, Vol. II, p. 646.
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
191
G
scientific, the sportive, etc., compete with that which mani-
fests itself in aesthetic contemplation. The various in-
terests of man have but limited independence, and usu-
ally they are not equally strong. In most of us, probably,
the practical man is the strongest and the aesthetic man
the weakest. As already pointed out, the aesthetic man
is therefore allowed by the others to appear, only when
there is no temptation or no great temptation for those
others to come forward. But in this respect individuals
differ greatly both by nature and by training. In artists
the capacity to take the contemplative attitude is usually
much more highly developed than in other persons. Un-
fortunately, artists often overlook this and leave in or
about their work handicaps to contemplation that cannot
be overcome by the public to whom they exhibit it.
-
§ 3
The nature of the conditions of aesthetic feeling. If we
ask for the conditions, in terms of kind and degree of feel-
ing, which facilitate the taking or the maintaining of the
aesthetic attitude, i.e., the obtaining of aesthetic feelings,
we note that any of the feelings which by instinct or by
habit are intimately connected with an important practical
reaction may not be aroused in any but a mild degree if the
contemplative attitude is not at once to be displaced by the
practical. Examples of such feelings would be fear, dis-
gust, horror, lust, greed, hunger, and so on. The tempta-
tion to give up contemplation, which the arousing of such
feelings furnishes, can, as already pointed out, to some ex-
tent be counteracted by the introduction of positive in-
ducements to maintain it. Tragedy is the outstanding ex-
ample of this possibility. The tragic emotions are unpleas-
ant and therefore closely connected with the practical reac-
Tag
192
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
tions of avoidance of, or interference with, the situation
from the presence of which those emotions arise. If in
spite of this temptation to practical action, contemplation
is maintained, it is because the positive values present at
the same time in contemplation are sufficient to overcome
that temptation. As Santayana points out in his excellent
discussion of tragedy, these positive values are found not
only in beauty of form and in the nobility of characters
and setting, but also and perhaps chiefly in the felt value
of the wisdom which may be garnered from the presenta-
tion of a case of some typical problem of human life.
As he says, "However unpleasant truth may prove, we
long to know it, partly because experience has shown us
the prudence of this kind of intellectual courage, and chiefly
because the consciousness of ignorance and the dread of
the unknown is more tormenting than any possible dis-
covery" (Sense of Beauty, p. 230).
It is not to be forgotten in the present connection, how-
ever, that while some measure of beauty is as we have
seen almost a condition of the aesthetic "visibility" of
works of art to most persons, such "visibility" and there-
fore such beauty nevertheless are no necessary constitu-
ents of the work of art. The importance which they un-
doubtedly have, concerns not the nature of art, but its
social services and rewards. As already stated, no con-
tradiction is involved in speaking of something as being
both a work of art and irredeemably ugly. But aesthetic
contemplation of such a work of art, though possible, and
indeed necessary to the apprehension of its ugliness, would
under normal circumstances be abandoned at once.
$ 4
'Feeling" does not mean merely pleasure and dis-
pleasure. Feeling, whether aesthetic or not, does not con-
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
193
sist of mere pleasure or displeasure. Most feelings, in-
deed, are either pleasurable or the reverse, but there is
much to a feeling beside pleasure or displeasure. Each
feeling has its essence in a unique qualitative residuum
which differentiates it from all others; whereas, in respect
to pleasurableness or the reverse, it is like numberless oth-
ers. Therefore the nature of love, fear, hatred, jealousy,
or of any other feeling whether named or nameless, is some-
thing that no description can impart. Just because a feel-
ing is, as already pointed out, not a resultant but an emer-
gent, one necessarily has to experience it either at first
hand, or not at all.
If there were to a feeling nothing more than its pleas-
antness or unpleasantness, then, since the beauty of an
object consists in the pleasantness of it to contemplation,
any two equally beautiful objects would be interchange-
able as modes of expression for the artist and as objects
of contemplation for the beholder. But obviously this is
not the case. Casanova says that "Love is not like some
merchandise that one desires, and for which one substi-
tutes another more or less similar when one cannot get
that which one covets. Love is a sentiment or caprice
of sympathy; only the object which inspires it can ex-
tinguish it or make it burn.3 It is the same in art. Paint-
ing a landscape, or a figure, is not for the artist a possible
substitute for the painting of a bowl of pansies, even
though the beauty of the landscape or the figure be in its
way as great as that of the pansies, or greater. His en-
deavor is to express objectively the particular feeling he
happens to have, and this can be done only by the con-
structing of the one particular object which is for him the
aesthetic symbol of that feeling. From the standpoint
of the beholder instead of the creator, the same unsub-
-
3 Mémoires, Vol. V, p. 273.
194
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
stitutability holds. To suppose otherwise would be much
like supposing that any piece of information can be sub-
stituted for any other if only both are equally true.*
-
It is interesting, however, to ask why this unsubstituta-
bility is a fact even from the standpoint of a merely hedo-
nistic "consumer." The answer is that it is a matter of
context. We speak of exchanging one beauty, or one ex-
perience of beauty, for another; but this can be done only
indirectly. What we do directly is to exchange one beau-
tiful thing for another. And a beautiful thing, is almost
invariably only a part of the total aesthetic object con-
templated, which includes more or less of the context in
which the thing is. When we declare the things exchanged
to be equally beautiful, we probably assume a context ap-
propriate to each; and therefore if we exchange the things
without the contexts, we destroy the equality. The case
is the same here as with the pleasures of eating. The most
delicious soup ceases to be such if served after dessert.
And if the attempt were made to substitute the pleasure
of a symphony for that of our dinner, the pangs of hunger
would prevent the pleasure which otherwise we should
find in the music.
However, if the matter of contexts is eliminated by
speaking not of equally beautiful things, but of equally
beautiful aesthetic objects (which, by definition, have no
contexts); and by supposing the emotional blankness spe-
cified in the definition of the aesthetic attitude, to be at-
tained perfectly, then, for a purely hedonistic "con-
sumer," equally beautiful aesthetic objects are strictly
interchangeable. Different but equally true pieces of
information are not interchangeable for any purpose ex-
cept that of having equally true propositions. But
4 This should not be taken to imply a complete analogy between
beauty and truth, in their respective realms.
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
195
Beauty (unlike truth), being an immediate value, can
involve no differences of ulterior purposes; and a con-
sistently hedonistic theory of values must insist on the
fact that, not pleasant feelings, but the feeling called
pleasure, always remains qualitatively the same whatever
the object that gives it (e.g., whether a piece of candy or
a sonata); and is susceptible only of quantitative varia-
tions, for instance, of volume, intensity, and duration.5
$ 5
The feelings experienced by human beings are endlessly
various, and only a very few, such as love, fear, anger, etc.,
have received names. There is a fact which it is most
important to realize clearly and to bear constantly in mind
throughout the present volume, for otherwise the philoso-
phy of art set forth in its pages is bound to be completely
misunderstood. The fact referred to is that the feelings
experienced by human beings are endlessly numerous and
various, and that the immense majority of them cannot be
referred to by name because they have received none.
Only a very few feelings, such as those already alluded
to, love, anger, fear, jealousy, anxiety, etc., — have
names. They are feelings which are closely connected with
typical, recurrent situations in life, and are usually ac-
5 Although I am convinced that none but a hedonistic theory of
values is sound, I am also convinced that any hedonistic calculus that
involves the notion of sums of pleasures, is nonsense because that notion
is itself nonsense. Pleasures are what logicians call "intensive” quanti-
ties, not "extensive"; that is to say, there is no known operation by means
of which any two pleasures uniquely determine a third greater than either,
which is what summation means. Pleasures can be compared as to
intensity and duration, but we cannot add them any more than, to use
one of Royce's examples, we can "add' together the excellence of Byron's
poetry and the excellence of Shelley's and get thereby a third factual ex-
cellence greater than either. The additive "program," in such cases,
remains but empty words. It denotes no actual operation yielding facts.
M
196
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
""
companied by overt and easily recognizable modes of be-
havior. The terms "the emotions," and "the passions,'
designate principally those standard, labelled feelings, and
indeed those feelings primarily as out of the aesthetic
status, that is to say, as mere accompaniments or incidents
of practical endeavor of one sort or another. But to one
such named feeling, there are a thousand that have re-
ceived no name, but which are none the less real experiences
of the very same general sort, viz., emotional.
Unfortunately, in our inner experience still more than
in outer, what is not labelled commonly escapes our
notice. As La Rochefoucauld almost says, some people
would never have known love, had they not heard of it.
Those of our feelings for which no names exist are so easy
to overlook that when much is made of them, as in these
pages, many persons are likely to be somewhat bewil-
dered, and, as with the aesthetic attitude, to think that
some quasi-mystical sort of experience must be in question,
which they themselves do not have. But this is not so.
Almost every one has feeling-responses, i.e., experiences
emotional in kind but quite distinct from love, fear, anger,
or other namable emotions, in the presence of such things
as patches of colors, bits of lines, single tones, the patterns
of rugs, lace, wall-paper, and so on. These emotional
experiences are not merely experiences of pleasure or dis-
pleasure. Each of them has, in addition to its pleasur-
ableness or the reverse, its individual feeling-tang, or emo-
tional "taste," different with each color, tone, line, etc.
For the purpose of bringing to awareness the often unsus-
pected abundance and variety of the emotional states we
experience, such simple sources of unlabelled feelings as
just suggested are better than more elaborate objects; for
the latter, although even more fertile of such feelings, also
in many cases touch off to some extent one or another of the
CAS
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
197
labelled feelings, which, because of its familiarity and its
label, we at once notice to the probable exclusion of the
unlabelled.
The feelings which are unlabelled, are so for various
reasons. They are commonly of lower intensity than "the
passions"; they do not last so long; and do not recur so
often. They have no immediate and obvious practical
manifestations. The chief reason, however, is probably
that they are individuals without a kind. The names
Anger, Love, Anxiety, etc., are not proper names but
names of kinds, and the cases of those kinds are not no-
ticed by us as individuals but as cases-of-a-kind. The
individuality of each is overlooked by us as generally as are
the unlabelled feelings. This overlooking is due to the
fact that most of the time we are living practically, ecto-
telically, and that for this sort of living, kinds, which have
laws that we can apply (while individuals as such have
not), are alone important, alone noticed, and alone given
names.
The deliberate aesthetic contemplation of the objects
of the unlabelled feelings, makes the noticing of those
feelings very much easier. Even then, however, one is
usually not to expect an experience comparable in inten-
sity to the experiences we spontaneously think of when
"the emotions" are mentioned. Moreover, the unlabelled
feelings (or indeed any feeling), in so far as then having
the aesthetic status, will not, like "the emotions," be ap-
prehended as in us; but will on the contrary be objectified,
i.e., apprehended as emotional qualities of the aesthetic
objects contemplated.
Failure to recognize that the realm of feeling contains
not merely love, fear, anger, and so on, but a vast wealth
of other unnamed but just as truly emotional experiences,
is I believe the principal explanation of such opposition
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
as there has been to "emotionalist" theories of art. The
so-called formalists, like Hanslick, seem wholly blind to
the fact that form is important in aesthetic objects for the
very reason that it itself, in contemplation, is the source
of certain aesthetic emotions which nothing else can ob-
jectify. And they are blind also to the fact that contents
as well as forms, and in abstraction from forms, e.g., single
tones and stray patches of color, are also sources of certain
aesthetic emotions, which nothing else can yield. A state-
ment such as that "A tone becomes musical material only
by association with other tones," should therefore be rec-
ognized for what it is, namely, a piece of sheer formalistic
dogmatism, and not at all a report of empirical fact.
cas
6
6
Aesthetic feeling distinguished from sensation. It is
important not to confuse aesthetic feeling with sensation.
When a content of attention is referred to as "a sensation,"
it is usually then being regarded as an object of cognition.
An object of cognition is essentially something which
comes to us, as it were, with an introduction. Thus if
the color blue is at a given time for us an object of cogni-
tion, it is so in virtue of its coming introduced, for instance,
as "the color of the sky," or as "a color like or unlike the
color of this or that," or as "something we desired to see,'
etc. In short, we meet it as object of a reference of some
sort, past or about to come, i.e., as answering, or forestall-
ing, a question; or satisfying or anticipating a perhaps
unformulated curiosity. It thus functions as an element
in a judgment whether explicit or not, and belongs to the
realm of information.
""
• The Beautiful in Music.
7 How to Listen to Music, by H. E. Krebiehl, 2nd Ed., p. 17.
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
199
But if on the contrary a patch of blue is out of relation
to our curiosity, and constitutes only a content of atten-
tion from which in aesthetic contemplation a feeling is
obtained, then the patch of blue is no longer object of
knowledge, but aesthetic object. It functions as aesthetic
symbol of a certain feeling, — of a somewhat different one
with each distinguishable shade of blue. Since such a
feeling has no proper name, we are able to refer to it
when occasion arises to do so, only by either pointing to
its aesthetic symbol or by naming that symbol when it
has a name, saying, for instance, the feeling of cerulean
blue. But a source of confusion is latent in this mode of
speech, due to the ambiguous manner in which the word
Feeling has been used, viz., sometimes, as by William
James, to denote any psychological state, and sometimes to
denote only states of the nature of emotion. As already
stated, it is in the latter sense that the word Feeling is used
in these pages, so that by "the feeling of cerulean blue" is
not here meant the color, cerulean blue, but the emotion of
which we become conscious when, attending to that color,
we take toward it the attitude which we have called the aes-
thetically contemplative. That emotion or feeling is a
fact distinct from and additional to the mere blueness,
for at least in the case of so trivial a content of attention
as a mere patch of color, no noticeable feeling usually arises
unless we deliberately "listen" for it, i.e., unless we take
the aesthetic attitude towards the blue attended to.
§ 7
Aesthetic feeling, passion, and artistic feeling or inspira-
tion. A question which presents itself here is how to de-
scribe, not the feeling that the spectator obtains in contem-
plation, but the feeling which possesses an artist at the
200
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
time he is attempting to create an objective expression of
it. We cannot speak of it as aesthetic feeling, since aes-
thetic feeling, by definition, presupposes the contempla-
tive attitude, and what we are now considering is the feel-
ing at the moment when the artist's attitude is creative, viz.
effective. We may designate it Artistic feeling, remem-
bering that, as with passion and aesthetic feeling, the term
refers not to a qualitative difference, but to a difference in
external relations. Artistic feeling, which is what most
often is called artistic inspiration, is like passion in that
both express themselves in action, i.e., in the case of each,
the attitude is effective; but in the case of passion it is
ectotelically effective, and in that of artistic feeling on
the contrary, endotelically so. Passion expresses itself
by dealing with the facts that constitute the reason for
its existence, destroying or preserving them. Artistic
feeling or inspiration does nothing of the sort, but ex-
presses itself by creating what we may call a mirror of
itself.
It might be objected, however, that in some cases the
distinction above between aesthetic feeling and artistic
feeling cannot be maintained. One might urge, for in-
stance, that in painting the artist almost always has a
model, from the contemplation of which, or of some as-
pect of which, arises the feeling he attempts to express,
which is therefore aesthetic feeling. But it must be re-
membered that the distinction between aesthetic and ar-
tistic feeling is not based on any internal difference be-
tween the two, but solely on a fact external to the feeling
itself, viz., on the attitude at the time, of the person having
the feeling. And it is obvious that when the artist's atti-
tude changes from the contemplative to the effective, the
status of his feeling automatically changes also from the
"aesthetic" to the "artistic," even if the feeling happens to
THE AESTHETIC FEELINGS
201
remain wholly unchanged in point of intrinsic quality.
Thus, from the standpoint of the feeling itself, the dis-
tinction between aesthetic and artistic feeling is factitious
and of no importance. But from the standpoint of the
total state constituted by the feeling and the attitude at
the time, it is on the contrary a very real and necessary one:
the state of aesthetic receptiveness is a very different state
from that of artistic inspiration.
CHAPTER XIII
AESTHETIC OBJECTS. FORM AND CONTENT
IN DESIGN AND IN DRAMATIC ENTITIES
The aesthetic object was defined earlier as the content
of attention (marginal as well as focal), aesthetically con-
templated. Something must now be said concerning cer-
tain questions which arise in connection with aesthetic
objects, for instance, the distinction in them between Form
and Content; the distinction between Dramatic Entities
and Designs; and the relation which Representation has
to these.
cas
Aesthetic objects have both Content and Form. In
any aesthetic object it is possible to distinguish two funda-
mental aspects: Form, and Content (or Material). By
form is meant simply arrangement or order; and by con-
tent or matter, whatever it happens to be that is arranged,
ordered. A landscape in black and white, and the same
landscape in colors, illustrate partial sameness of form and
diversity of content. On the other hand, the numberless
patterns in which the same bits of colored glass in a kalei-
doscope arrange themselves as it is revolved, illustrate di-
versity of form with sameness of content. Content and
form, although thus sharply distinguishable, are never-
theless inseparable. No existing content is wholly form-
less, and all existing form is form of some content. The
202
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
203
terms are thus correlatives, as are Genus and Species in
logic, and Uncle and Nephew in the realm of family re-
lationships among males. And just as the same man may
be, but need not be, both uncle and nephew, though of
different persons, so a thing which in reference to its ele-
ments is form or arrangement, may itself be, but need
not be, an element of the content of a larger arrangement.
Thus a circle which is an arrangement of points may itself
be one of many similar circles which together are arranged
in a pattern.
Although form and content are inseparable in fact, our
attention may focus on one of the two and relegate the
other to the margin of consciousness, thereby subordinat-
ing that other to a condition sometimes approaching that
of nonexistence. The possibility of thus "giving the
center of the stage" to the form-aspect of the object, and
of then apprehending in contemplation its import of aes-
thetic feeling, is well recognized by the formalists. But
they overlook the fact that in a precisely similar way the
content, instead of the form, may be made to occupy the
focus of attention and be contemplated; and, that it too is
then found to have a definite feeling-import of its own.
Normally, however, the attention tends to take in both
form and content rather than to center upon one to the
virtual exclusion of the other.
82
cos
Aesthetic objects are Dramatic Entities, and Designs.
There are two other fundamental aspects which may be
discerned in almost any aesthetic object, namely the de-
sign aspect, and the dramatic. As to these, the usual thing
is that one of the two is more prominent than the other;
and when the object is a work of art rather than of nature,
į
204
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
one of the two aspects just mentioned is almost invariably
intended to be preeminent, and is made so. In such cases
we might then better speak not so much of two aspects,
as of two sorts of aesthetic objects, viz. Designs and Dra-
matic Entities.
It is important to note that the duality of Form and
Content considered above is present within each of these
two sorts of aesthetic objects. Dramatic entities as such
exhibit it no less than Designs, and the tendency in some
quarters to regard Form as something identical with, or
possessed only by Design is completely indefensible. To
make this evident it is enough to call attention to the
kinds of relations that constitute respectively design-
form and dramatic form. By doing so we shall at the
same time be stating in a precise manner the difference
between Dramatic Entities and Designs; and the clear
recognition of the existence of these two sorts of aesthetic
objects, and of the essential nature of each, is of the ut-
most importance if a one-sided and merely doctrinaire
theory of the aesthetic object is to be avoided.
§ 3
Form and Content in Designs. In Designs, the formal
aspect consists primarily of relations of space, or time, or
both; and in addition, of the relations (such as those of
pitch, intensity, and volume in the realm of sounds; and
of hue, saturation, and tint or "value" in the realm of
colors), which are peculiar to the nature of the content,
and permit of establishing in it a variety of order pat-
terns.
The content-aspect of designs, on the other hand, con-
sists of whatever entities are capable of entering into evi-
dent relations of space, or time, or both. The commonest
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
205
are sounds and colors. Odors, tastes, temperatures, and
the other sense-qualities cannot to anywhere near the same
extent (when at all) be arranged in space or time orders;
nor (with unimportant exceptions in the case of odors) do
they seem to permit of any ordering on any basis analogous
to hue and pitch. They therefore are not design-materials,
or only to a negligible extent.¹ Their place for aesthetic
purposes is that of qualities of things, experiences which
dramatic instruments can procure to us.
As examples of designs, or of entities in which the de-
sign aspect rather than the dramatic, is preëminent, may
be mentioned arabesques, fabric patterns, kaleidoscope
patterns, lace, and other systems of shapes, space relations,
and colors in a plane. There are also three-dimensional
design-entities, for instance the crystals of various sub-
stances, as viewed by the mineralogically ignorant visitor of
museums. Flowers too (and of course any three-dimen-
sional objects) can be viewed as design-entities, although
their aspect as dramatic instruments is for various reasons
likely to be more prominent than in the case of crystals. As
examples of design-entities in three dimensions that are
products of art, may be mentioned some modern pictures,
which are deliberately intended to represent nothing but
arrangements of volumes in three dimensions. Design
in time is, at its barest, rhythm, whether simple or com-
plex. When the elements entering into the time-rhythm
are sounds, then variations of pitch, intensity, volume,
duration, and tone-color, give us musical compositions.
When the elements in the time-rhythm are colors, spatial
relations are added to the temporal, and we get such silent
"color-music" as that of the Aurora Borealis, and of Mr.
1 The idea of using them as design-materials has occurred to some, but
leads to nothing. Huysmans, in his A Rebours, has played with the no-
tion. The hero (?) of the book is represented as entertaining himself
with olfactory and gustatory "music."
206
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Wilfred's Clavilux. If the third dimension is added, we
have an arrangement of colored volumes in time as well
as space. An example of this would be furnished by the
(non-pantomimic) dance, if it is not empathized but is
considered as a purely visual event. "Designs," of course,
can be empathized, and normally are so in varying degrees;
but obviously so far as this is done they are not being
viewed as designs but as (fictitious) dramatic entities.
8 4
cas
The dividing of works of art into designs and repre-
sentations springs from confusion of thought. It is well
to note at this point that the opposition which some
writers 2 would set up between Design and Representation
in art is an impossible one, and that the attempt at estab-
lishing it proceeds only from confusion of thought. For
designs can be and are represented, no less than dramatic
entities. Thus, music, even when considered purely as
design, is represented by the customary symbols of musi-
cal notation just as truly as are the happenings constitut-
ing a romance, by the novelist's words. And when de-
signs in the three dimensions of space are in question, it
is obvious that only a representative process can bring
them before consciousness. Depth in space is perceived
only as the result of a process of interpretation of clues
of various sorts (linear perspective, occlusion, disparity
of double images, etc.), which, although automatically car-
2 For instance Mr. Ralph Pearson in his book How to See Modern
Pictures. The fourth chapter of it is one which people who do not suspect
that there is such a thing as design, may read with much profit. But
unfortunately the author is so intoxicated with design that he is appar-
ently rendered completely blind to the aesthetic import of anything but
design, or indeed of anything but design-form. And practically every
confusion and extravagance against which the present chapter would give
warning, is to be found in his pages.
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS 207
ried out, is none the less a process of representation. And
when the arrangement of volumes in space, which consti-
tutes a three-dimensional design, is given us by means of
the painted flat surface of a canvas, it is still more clearly
evident that the depth dimension, the volume, is
only represented by what actually is on the canvas.
God
P
§ 5
Form and Content in Dramatic Entities. The opposi-
tion which people who thus mistakenly contrast design
and representation really have in mind, is that between
Designs and Dramatic Entities. What constitutes de-
sign has been stated above, in terms of the sorts of rela-
tions upon which design-form depends, viz., primarily rela-
tions of time and space, as such, and secondarily other
relations which (somewhat ambiguously) may be described
as mathematical in kind. Dramatic entities may now be
characterized in a similar way in terms of the sorts of rela-
tions they essentially involve, — and thereby be sharply
differentiated from Designs. All dramatic relations are
relations of actual or potential causation or causal depend-
ence, considered, however, not in their merely ecbatic
or mechanical aspect, but on the contrary in so far as hav-
ing bearings on desires and aversions. That is to say, the
essence of dramatic relations lies in their telic character,
positive or negative (and telism presupposes causation³).
Spatial and temporal relations are thus not as such dra-
matic relations, but only so far as they constitute means
or obstacles to, or conditions of, action or experience of
some sort.¹
•
3 In a paper entitled Explanation, Mechanism and Teleology (Journal
of Philos. Vol. XXII, No. 6.) I have attempted to define the exact rela-
tion of telism to causation.
4 The question then arises, where causal relations merely as such, i.e.,
out of telic interpretation, belong. I am inclined to think that, theoreti-
208
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Dramatic entities, as we have seen, are of two sorts, -
dramatic agents (and patients) in action of one sort or
another, and dramatic instruments (positive and nega-
tive). The form and content aspects are discernible in
the dramatic entities of each of these two sorts. The
formal aspect is constituted by the kind or type to which
the entity belongs, e.g., the kind "man," or "house," etc.,
and the content aspect by the particular exemplification
of it in the concrete case. Whereas in designs the form is
more difficult to perceive than the content, but, when
once perceived, is likely to be deemed the more important
of the two as a source of aesthetic value, the opposite seems
to be the case where dramatic entities are concerned. In
them the kind is generally easy to perceive, and the vari-
eties of kinds are comparatively few. The contents, on
the other hand, viz., the modes of individuation of the kind,
are endlessly various, and the perception of their varieties
and nuances, which requires much sensitivity in the
observer, is when perceived usually found to be more
fertile in aesthetic values than the kind.5
Many examples to illustrate what is to be understood
by the actions and experiences of dramatic agents and pa-
tients, were given in the course of the discussion of Em-
pathy, and no more are needed at this point. As to dra-
cally, they would belong (for aesthetics) to the realm of design. The
sorts of designs of which they constitute the form-aspect, however, can
become contents of attention only by conceptual representation (through
the concepts of the sciences), and are therefore possible aesthetic objects
only for persons who are equipped with these concepts, and these persons,
as a rule, are not I believe much given to aesthetic contemplation. De-
signs of this sort, therefore, do not constitute an important class of aes-
thetic objects. The same would be true of designs in which the relations
fundamentally involved are not causal, but implicational. That abstract
mathematical and logistical structures have a design-aspect has long been
recognized; but it is accessible, even among mathematicians, only to those
who have an unusually long and thorough acquaintance with any such
given structure.
5 Cf. Santayana, The Sense of Beauty, p. 115.
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
209
matic instruments, however, it may further be said that
all the familiar objects around us, tables, chairs, pencils,
watches, books, trees, food, light, wind, rain, clouds, etc.,
are cases of dramatic instruments. Each such entity con-
stitutes a constellation of means or obstacles, conditions
or opportunities, with respect to all sorts of possible human
ends. And it is to be noted that these dramatic instru-
ments constantly combine, in actual or potential causal
interrelations, to form more complex dramatic instru-
ments of more or less well-recognized dramatic type.
Dramatic instruments also include animals and human
beings in so far as they are interpreted not empathically,
but functionally, in terms of their various possible rôles
in relation to someone else, e.g., policeman, husband, baker,
king, friend, sweetheart, teacher, etc. Institutions, such
as the Church, the State, the Family, etc., and indeed any
other entity whether abstract or concrete, which is viewed
as having some actual or potential function, positive or
negative in respect to human ends, is also a dramatic in-
strument.
-
The present work not being intended to constitute a
manual of art-criticism, but only aiming to set forth funda-
mental principles of the philosophy of art, no more detailed
consideration of particular art-forms and materials in
the various arts will be attempted here. However, by
way of making clear the bearings of the distinctions formu-
lated in the preceding sections of this chapter, something
will now be said concerning the dramatic and the design-
interpretation of paintings, and the rôle in them of Repre-
sentation.
§ 6
Paintings interpreted as designs in two dimensions lit-
erally presented. For most paintings we may distinguish
210
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
three typical modes of interpretation. In the first, the
attention is given solely to that which is actually pre-
sented, as distinguished from represented, namely, to the
colors, lines, and shapes which cover the flat surface of
the canvas. Thus, when we interpret for instance a por-
trait or a landscape in this first manner, we abstract not
only from the particular nature of the objects depicted, i.e.,
from their character as dramatic agents or instruments,
but also from the fact that the flat lines, colors, and shapes,
on the two-dimensional surface of the canvas represent
volumes and the relations of volumes in a three-dimen-
sional space world having depth, in addition to length and
breadth. That which in a painting we should ordinarily
describe at once as "a head," will therefore not, in this first
manner of interpretation, be perceived at all as such, nor
will it even be perceived as a roughly spherical solid.
The content of attention will simply be an irregularly
shaped, flat patchwork of certain colors. Any painting
or other visual entity, for this first mode of interpretation,
will then be nothing whatever but a flat design in colors,
to be appraised on precisely the same sort of grounds as
for instance the pattern and color arrangement of a rug,
a fabric, or a piece of lace. In all cases considered in this
first manner, the aesthetic object is directly and completely
presented to aesthetic contemplation by sensory attention,
and by attention to the lines and the shapes and spatial
relations of the color areas in the plane of the canvas.
It is to be noted, however, that when a design is per-
ceived as having or lacking symmetry or balance, em-
pathy generally occurs, although I do not think that the
perception of symmetry necessarily requires empathy any
more than does the perception of shape. As we have
seen, however, empathy is a representative process in the
sense in which perception (or equally, illusion), as dis-
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS 211
tinguished from mere sensation, is representative; that is,
it is an (automatic, not a reasoned) interpretation of clues.
The perception even of entities which are intended to be
essentially designs, or which are supposedly being viewed
purely as designs literally presented, thus usually as a mat-
ter of fact includes dramatic elements, imported into it
by a representative process. In the perception of music,
which is generally said to be a nonrepresentative art, em-
pathic interpretation plays a most important rôle, so that
music can be truly be said to be nonrepresentative only in
the sense that it does not represent dramatic instruments.
As empathically interpreted, however, it certainly repre-
sents most vividly (of course not through visual but
through auditory clues) a variety of unlabelled acts, cor-
responding in contemplation to a range of dramatic aes-
thetic feeling vastly greater than that which visual de-
signs can objectify even in the case of the persons who
are most richly gifted to interpret them empathically.
စာ
7
Paintings interpreted as designs in three dimensions,
represented. The second mode of interpretation of a
painting is that in which the lines, colors, and shapes on
the flat canvas are taken as representing volumes and the
relations of volumes in three-dimensional space, while at
the same time the dramatic nature of the entities of which
these are the volumes is still abstracted from and ignored.
According to this second mode of interpretation, then, a
head and a cabbage will not be perceived as such, but
only as space-occupiers of approximately the same size and
shape. They will thus, apart from color and details of
shape, be roughly equivalent for this mode of interpreta-
tion, as regards essentials; whereas, considered dramati-
212
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
cally, they would on the contrary be essentially different.
When the flat varicolored surface of the canvas is thus
interpreted as representing a number of meaningless col-
ored volumes of certain shapes in certain relative positions,
the object of aesthetic contemplation may again be char-
acterized as pure design. This time, however, what we
have is not two- but three-dimensional design.
Here again, however, the perception of the presence
or absence of symmetry, or of balance, whether in the lat-
eral dimensions or in the depth dimension of the space
represented, will normally either be accompanied by em-
pathy, or take place through empathy. But the repre-
sentation of dramatic characters hardly stops there, even
if we deliberately neglect to note whether a given colored
volume is a head, or a cabbage; for we can hardly help
considering that volume as having some dramatic qualities,
as being, for instance, light or heavy, rough or smooth,
solid or tenuous, etc. It is therefore evident that although
a visual design, whether in two or three dimensions, con-
sists of colored space-occupiers in spatial relations and
color-relations, this does not normally constitute the whole
story of the perception of it. Dramatic interpretation
almost invariably is introduced to a greater or less extent.
§ 8
Paintings interpreted as dramatic entities, represented.
The third typical mode of interpretation of a painting,
and the most natural to the majority of persons, is that
in which the attention is focused not on the design aspect
of it, but upon what is usually called the subject-matter
represented. The varicolored pattern on the flat canvas
is now interpreted as representative not only of volumes of
certain shapes having certain relations in deep space, but
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
213
of dramatic entities of familiar kinds, having individual
traits of their own differentiating them from other enti-
ties of the same kinds. An orange, for instance, as a dra-
matic entity (instrument), is something of vastly differ-
ent aesthetic import from a bomb, which in size, shape and
color might conceivably be much like the orange, and
would therefore as design-element have essentially the
same aesthetic import. Again, from the design stand-
point, a live dog, and the same dog in the same place and
posture but dead and stuffed, are strictly equivalent and
interchangeable. But from the dramatic standpoint they
are so far from being equivalent that they even have hardly
any resemblance at all. Once more, from the design
standpoint, an old shoe in a bowl of fruit on a dinner table,
might in color and shape and position have exactly the
proper relation to the colors and patterns and volumes of
that context, but from the dramatic standpoint it would
on the contrary be shockingly incongruous, and would
therefore be justified only if the feeling of shocking in-
congruity were the very one to which the artist intended
to give objective expression.
cas
9
The dramatic and design aspects can hardly be fully
isolated. It was pointed out above that the contempla-
tion of supposedly pure designs is in fact hardly ever free
from dramatic elements of one sort or another. That
in the contemplation of dramatic entities, design elements
also inject themselves, is true in still larger measure, for in
perceptual and imaginal dramatic entities, at least, the
design-aspect is actually there; it does not need to be
invented, as on the contrary must be, through empathic
imagination, the dramatic character of lines. And just
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
as in the field of ordinary vision we perceive, although
not clearly, many things which we do not directly look
at, so in the field of attention in general we find a margin
as well as a focus, a region of blurred or vague aware-
ness, and one of sharp and clear. When we focus on one
aspect of a painting we are marginally somewhat aware
of the others. This means that the painter has to watch
several things at once, as he criticises his work. For in-
stance, the view of a picture as a three-dimentional design
does not include but rather potentially competes with
the view of it as a two-dimensional design. In a given
case something which the composition of the three-dimen-
sional design is felt to require may upset that of the two-
dimensional; and yet neither can be ignored, for although
attention may be focused on the one, we nevertheless re-
main marginally aware of the other, and, for good or ill,
it contributes its aesthetic import whether we wish it to
or not. The same sort of complication, but in more acute
form, arises when the dramatic aspect of the entities repre-
sented by a painting is taken into consideration. For
when the lines, shapes, etc., represent things, they not only
become in contemplation the source of aesthetic feelings
additional to and different in kind from those which they
yield as design elements, but, as Mr. Roger Fry has pointed
out, they also acquire a different weight as design elements.
§ 10
Remarks on Design vs. the representation of Dramatic
Entities in modern art. The possibility of abstracting
more or less from the dramatic nature of the objects de-
picted in a painting, and of viewing the painting essen-
tially as a design, whether flat or deep, is one which some
artists have always recognized. Or at least they have
*
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
215
been conscious that the design aspect of a painting was
an important factor in the total aesthetic effect of the
painting. But in modern times the design aspect seems
to have been so violently rediscovered by some artists and
critics as wholly to monopolize their attention, with
the result that they became totally blind to the fact that
the dramatic aspect of the objects represented also has
aesthetic import, and indeed taps a realm of aesthetic feel-
ings fully as vast as that touched by design, or vaster, and
of probably greater significance in the lives of human
beings as such. If painting were to leave out the repre-
sentation of dramatic entities and confine itself to color
and pattern, it would thus enormously and quite wantonly
restrict the range of feelings that it is capable of express-
ing. We hear it said, of course, that the "proper" ele-
ments of effect for painting are color, shape, and the repre-
sentation of plastic form. But this is nothing but a pious
opinion or personal preference arbitrarily erected into a
dogma by faddists in the realm of aesthetics. It only il-
lustrates the danger in which the craftsman ever is, par-
ticularly if he has not very much to express, of coming to
think that the tools and tricks and technical devices which
he must of course have and constantly practice himself in,
are not made to be used but only to be played with and
displayed. Common sense, however, tells us that any
element of effect is proper for painting, which painting
can successfully use; and there are hundreds of years of
the successful use in painting of the representation of dra-
matic entities as sources of aesthetic feeling, to vindicate
the practice. Schopenhauer, indeed, went so far as to say
that the human countenance was the peculiarly proper
subject-matter for painting. Without accepting this state-
ment as it stands, it is pertinent to inquire how else than
by the means which actually were used could the feelings
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
objectified for instance in the "Old woman cutting her
nails" of Rembrandt (or Nicholas Maes?), have been ex-
pressed.
To hear some of our "moderns" one would think that if
only a picture is well composed nothing else matters, and
that looking at pictures is only the latest form of dancing!
Hands have come after feet, then hips, stomach and knees,
but now come eyes. They enter the picture here, we are
told, then follow this line, turn here and return there.
They dart this way, zigzag, wiggle, cavort and caper. In-
deed, the only thing lacking is the music, and, in default
of road signs, perhaps a critic or two with a go-go tree at
the crossings to steer eye traffic on the canvas! The good
public, which has no inkling of all this, naturally is be-
wildered by what it sees, and still more by what it hears
about it. The public is, truly, blind in one eye, perceiving
(with luck) the dramatic entities represented, and noth-
ing else. But the addicts of composition are no less blind.
in the other eye, perceiving as they do everything except
what the picture represents. People who have the use
of both eyes, however, can only deplore that where pure
design effects are aimed at, recognizable and horribly ugly
objects should so often be used as elements, instead of more
or less meaningless space-occupiers, which would not draw
the attention from the design to themselves.
We are it is true instructed to disregard the nature and
the ugliness of the objects represented, and to consider only
the design. But this is like placing a steel trap in a pub-
lic passage, and, when a man gets his foot caught in it,
telling him that that object was not meant to be used as
a trap, but only admired as an instance of fine mechanism.
As we have seen, it is psychologically hardly possible to
ignore the dramatic nature of the entities represented. Or
at least, it is not possible to do it to a sufficient extent,
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
217
without a long course of deliberate psychological perversion
for the undergoing of which there is no good reason, since
it would confer on us only the dubious blessing of becom-
ing able to enjoy pictures painted by the half-blind for
the half-blind. Blindness to subject would be a desirable
infirmity only if the subjects of pictures had of necessity to
be ugly. But that this, fortunately, is very far from being
the case is abundantly shown by the very pictures of old
masters, of which the excellent design is trumpeted as if
it were the whole by the moderns who claim to carry on
their traditions. As well might the cabbage, because of
its general shape, claim to carry on the traditions of the
rose! In those old masters there is invariably, for those
who can see, much beside the design, the chief rôle of
which, indeed, is not to attract the attention to itself, but
to lead it automatically to the rest. But the modern
nouveaux riches of design, who think they emulate but in
truth only ape the old masters, may be compared to per-
verse hosts, who bid us to a beautifully appointed table,
and on it then serve refuse.
That which has given to the products of the art of
painting the significant place which they have occupied
in human life throughout the centuries, is very obviously
their dramatic aspect, and not their design aspect, of
which as such but a negligible number of persons outside
of those who painted them have ever been explicitly con-
scious. The design, of course, makes its own contribu-
tion, which is far from being unimportant, to the total
aesthetic effect. But on the whole, the design is like a
household servant: it becomes conspicuous through its
faults but not through its merits. Its business is not to
attract attention to itself, but to serve the attention-to
guide it to and hold it on the various objects represented,
according to their dramatic significance. It is primarily a
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
psychological instrument of visual attention. To praise a
picture for its composition is thus the same as to praise
a book for its grammar or its arrangement. That sort of
praise, in each case, is appropriate when the work is a
school exercise; but it is only pedantic and silly, or at most,
of only secondary relevance, when the work came to be
because its maker really had something to express.
Of course, the design of a picture could not be function-
ally good if it were intrinsically bad, for it would, as such,
attract attention to itself. But it would not be function-
ally good either, if it were to force itself upon the attention
through the striking character of its intrinsic merit. Any
design which fulfills well its task of holding the attention
within the picture and guiding it appropriately to the ob-
jects of essential significance therein, is eo ipso proved to
be intrinsically as good as it should be. If, however, the
work is intended as essentially a piece of design, then the
representation of dramatic entities, so far as present at
all, should be frankly subordinated to the design (for in-
stance by conventionalization, or repetition, etc.), and thus
be made to remain in the margin of attention, instead of
the focus. In a work of this type, striking ugliness, or
equally striking beauty of the represented dramatic enti-
ties will be as fatal a defect as bad design in a picture pri-
marily dramatic, and for the same reason, viz., it will draw
the focus of attention away from that on which it should
remain. Repulsive ugliness in subject, in design-pictures,
is thus a fault which is the exact analogue of bad design
in subject-pictures. The former, however, is the more
hopeless of the two, for to be conscious in a picture only
of the subject-matter is but naïve; whereas to overlook or
slight it is perverse. The naïve person may be educated
to discern the design which he as yet does not see, and
come to appreciate its aesthetic import. But blindness
•
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
219
to subject-matter is something which, like delirium tre-
mens, is usually acquired only through deliberate and as-
siduous cultivation. Those who have it may therefore
literally be described as addicts, and they are generally
incurable for they think of themselves as on the contrary
connoisseurs or initiates equipped with the only true sort
of aesthetic vision. Unfortunately they often are be-
lieved such also by the innocent, who are so bewildered and
impressed by technical-sounding talk that they dare not
call their aesthetic souls their own.
That sort of intoxication with half-truths, although
common enough among the aesthetigentsia, is perhaps less
acute among painters who merely paint than among paint-
ers who teach, teachers who paint, and critics, whose daily
task it is to talk about pictures and to say what "ought" or
"ought not" to be done or have been done in them. For
this, they need a bag of rules which, being constantly pres-
ent to their minds and ever reiterated, become with fatal
ease so many fetishes blindly worshipped and thereby emp-
tied of whatever merit they otherwise might possess.
Often when such people themselves attempt to create, it
becomes obvious to everybody but themselves and those
whom they have brought up on their pet set of rules, that
their works are but aesthetic corpses, constituting not the
objectification of artistic feeling, but in truth only the ob-
jectification of a recipe. Their pupils too, get the feeling
of superior insight when they discover in themselves the
capacity to "prove" that the work is "very fine painting"
. . . by pointing out that it obeys every one of teacher's
rules! This is obviously like proving that a pudding
is good by showing that it was made exactly according to
recipe. Some of us, however, have tongues, and can taste,
and therefore insist that, as the saying is, the proof of the
pudding is in the eating. Rules have no authority over
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
facts; they only sum up past facts, and may humbly hope
to anticipate some future ones. In matters of taste rules
are the little dogs that lead the aesthetically blind or half-
blind along paths well-worn . . . by such as did make
them. When we hear much mention of "technically very
fine painting," it is salutary not to forget that there can
be also such a thing as a technically very fine murder.
§ 11
Painting and Illustration. It is sometimes said that
paintings which attempt to represent anything more than
lines, colors, and plastic form become illustrations; and
this is supposed somehow to damn them beyond the pos-
sibility of aesthetic redemption. To judge of the merits
of that assertion it is necessary to be quite clear as to what
exactly constitutes an illustration. An illustration is es-
sentially a translation of the import of a description into
concrete visual terms. It is thus fundamentally a means
of satisfying curiosity more adequately than is possible by
an abstract description. In other words, to be an illustra-
tion is to be an answer to the question, What does . .
look like?
It is obvious then, both that a given design can be an
illustration, and that paintings representing dramatic
entities need not be illustrations. All the designs in the
pages of manuals of instruction in design are intended as
illustrations, and function mainly as such. If, when we
see the Rembrandt picture mentioned above, we say or
think: "So that is what an old woman cutting her nails
looks like," then it is obviously functioning for us as an
illustration. On the other hand, if we take what the
picture depicts, not as a piece of information, but as an
object of aesthetic contemplation, then the picture is not
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
221
for us an illustration. A picture representative of dra-
matic entities is thus not intrinsically either an illustration
or not. Whether it is depends wholly on how we take it.
Many pictures which were originally intended as illustra-
tions by those who commissioned them if not by those
who painted them, have long ceased to be used as such by
most of those who look at them. As instances may be
mentioned all the religious paintings in museums, and
many book illustrations, such as those of Dulac, Parrish,
and others, not to go back to Doré, Hogarth, William
Blake, etc.
The illustrative character in a painting condemns it aes-
thetically only when that character is of a nature to pique
our curiosity, to set us speculating, or to tempt us to ac-
tion; for this means, in each case, to give up or fail to take
towards the painting the aesthetic attitude. A picture
that provokes us to ask, Who are these people? or, When
did this happen? or, Where is that mountain? and so on,
is thus aesthetically bad or else we are aesthetically bad.
Worse yet however, would be a picture entitled, let us say,
"Man playing the violin," but which puts before us only
a meaningless jumble of lines and colors, and sets us as
do children's puzzle-pictures, to "find the man" who in this
case is not there. As stated already, the title of a picture,
if descriptive, should be such as to set at rest at the very
beginning any possible curiosity of ours as to what the
picture represents, so that nothing remains but to con-
template that. In the same blameworthy category as the
puzzle-pictures come pictures, perhaps without any title,
which are representative in a partial or indefinite way and
thus again present themselves to us not as objects to be
contemplated, but as riddles to be solved. Bad also are
pictures of food that are such as to "make one's mouth
water," and thus appeal not to one's aesthetic sense but
Ma
222
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
to one's hunger. Illustrativeness, in a picture, is aestheti-
cally bad if it makes difficult the aesthetic contemplation
of it; but in countless cases it does not do so. On the other
hand, there are many things other than the illustrative
character, which may make contemplation difficult.
§ 12
Representation; — through inevitable and through ac-
cidental associations. The capacity of anything literally
presented, to represent something to us, depends upon
the possession by us of an appropriate set of associations;
or, if we wish to put the same thing in more fashionable
terms, it depends upon an appropriate "conditioning" of
our ideational responses. For this reason, representative-
ness is a very variable thing. For example, it presupposes
in some cases an acquaintance with historical facts, or with
the customs and conventions of a particular epoch and
place, or even with those of some given individual. For
when we know a person well, trifling modifications in his
behavior or appearance, which to a stranger would indi-
cate nothing, represent to us clearly his mood, attitude,
or train of thought. It is therefore possible that the artist
who objectifies his feeling in an object which he cannot
present but must represent will, to represent it, use a
"vocabulary" that will be intelligible to few people, and
may indeed amount to a secret code of his own.
The associations owing to the presence of which in a
person's mind, a given entity signifies or represents to him
some other are then, as already pointed out, roughly of
two sorts. They are either accidental, or on the other hand
more or less necessary and inevitable. The associations
established in our minds between the various properties
of a thing, are associations of the "inevitable" sort. Thus
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
223
the visual appearance of fire and its capacity to burn us,
to communicate itself to certain near objects, to melt
others, etc., inevitably become associated in the mind of
every normal human being before he has lived many years.
So long as our efforts to represent what we cannot for any
reason directly present, avail themselves of such inevit-
able associations, we speak a well-nigh universal language.
But many other attempts at representation are much more
precarious. The association between a certain uniform
and the functions of a policeman, for example, can hardly
be regarded as inevitable except at most for the inhabitants
of a given town. And the capacity of some faded flower,
perhaps, to represent some vivid scene, or of some rare per-
fume to signify the near presence of some particular person,
may be called wholly accidental. The accidental character
of the association owing to which an object represents
another is of course no objection to the use of it by an
artist, but if as generally is the case he desires not only
to express his feeling objectively, but also to impress it on
others, he will be unable to do so unless that which he con-
cretely places before them has, for them too, associations
which make it represent adequately the aesthetic object
embodying his feeling. His case is the same as that of
the creative writer, who writes, indeed, endotelically, -
to express himself; but who, if he publishes, publishes for
some public, and must do so in a language intelligible to
that public.
§ 13
Any entity whatever may be viewed as aesthetic ob-
ject. From what has now been said of the importance as
constituents of many aesthetic objects, of imaginally and
conceptually represented elements, it is evident that the
realm of possible objects of aesthetic contemplation is
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
immensely wider than that of objects of direct perception,
and includes every entity which in any way whatever can
become a content of attention. Thus, not only colors,
odors, tastes, sounds, forms and their relations; and the
things-as-wholes of which these may be aspects or com-
ponent parts, and whether or not these things them-
selves be brought before the attention through their
natural perceptual signs as, for example, in painting, or
through the artificial signs we call words, as in literature;
- but also movements, and the actions of living beings,
and, no less, highly abstract entities such as Justice, Right-
eousness, Malice, Strength, Swiftness, Energy, or even the
completely impersonal entities of mathematics and logic,
- any and every such thing may be faced as an aesthetic
object, and ecpathized, i.e., from it may be extracted in
contemplation its import of aesthetic feeling. It is to be
noted moreover that to view aesthetically any of these
things, we need no more wait for the artist to exhibit them
to us than we need wait for the painter to exhibit to us
landscapes or persons. However, works of art generally
do not call forth our practical or inquisitive impulses as
natural objects are apt to do; they place something before
our attention in a manner which invites aesthetic con-
templation, and they are therefore readier and easier
sources of aesthetic feeling than natural objects. Again,
natural objects and situations are often transitory; or the
circumstances under which they have to be viewed preclude
prolonged attention; whereas works of art either have
relative permanence, or in the case of the time arts (music,
the dance, the drama) can be reproduced again and again.
In these respects also, therefore, works of art have the ad-
vantage over natural things, as to capacity for function-
ing as aesthetic objects. And lastly, although the re-
sources of art in some cases fall short of those of nature,
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
225
(the painter's pigments, for instance, not possessing the
range of lights and darks found in nature), it may never-
theless safely be said that more often art can do much
that nature nowhere attempts. This is true, for instance,
in the case of music, to compare with which the best that
nature offers is the song of birds.
§ 14
Knowledge of art forms and aesthetic appreciation. It
is often held that a knowledge of art forms is indispensable
to the aesthetic appreciation of works of art, and, with this
belief as a basis, numerous courses in music appreciation,
the appreciation of painting and sculpture, the apprecia-
tion of poetry and literature, etc., are given in colleges,
schools, and women's clubs. In these courses, one is told
about and more or less successfully taught to recognize,
for instance, the distinguishing features of the sonata
form and other musical forms; of literary forms such as
the short story; of poetical forms such as various sorts of
verse, the sonnet, the ode, etc.; of various types of pic-
torial composition; of lines of "dynamic symmetry"; and
so on.
Knowledge of this sort is indispensable to persons of
one class, namely, those who desire to be able to talk about
works of art in a manner that will be intelligible to those
who are similarly equipped, and impressive to the humble
who are not. To persons of another class, namely, those
who desire to create works of art in the respective fields,
such knowledge is, not indispensable, but useful within
limits. It is, however, at the same time somewhat danger-
ous to them, inasmuch as overpreoccupation with it is
likely to turn them into professional solvers of technical
problems, stuntsters instead of artists. But there is a
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
third class of persons, whom we may term the "consumers"
of art, namely those who read stories and listen to music
and look at pictures simply for the enjoyment they find
therein; and it is a serious question whether, for such per-
sons, knowledge of the sort described is not more likely
to be fatal than useful.
-
This is not to be taken as denying that there is such a
thing as beauty of form, or as refusing to admit that form
is a most important contributor to beauty. It is also
here freely admitted that in designs at least the perception
of form is generally more difficult than the perception of
content, and therefore that, as Santayana points out, form
does not appeal to the inattentive. If one is form-blind
or form-deaf, as nine-tenths of mankind may well be said
to be to any but simple forms, then obviously one is cut
off from the possibility of enjoying beauty of form. My
quarrel with "art-appreciation" courses turns only on the
question whether, or how far, the knowledge of forms which
they impart is of the kind needed for aesthetic response
to and aesthetic enjoyment of form; or whether on the
contrary it is not of a sort that may easily destroy one's
capacity for such enjoyment.
In order to obtain from the form of an aesthetic object
of any sort its contribution of aesthetic feeling and aes-
thetic enjoyment, it is obviously necessary to be aware of
that form, but it is not at all necessary to recognize it as
entitled to some certain technical name, or to remember
that it is like or unlike the form of some other familiar
aesthetic object, or to know what are the characteristic
features of that form, or to be familiar with the history of
its development. All this sort of knowledge about form
is as directly irrelevant to the obtaining of the form's con-
tribution to aesthetic feeling and enjoyment, as analogous
knowledge-about wines would be irrelevant to the enjoy-
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS 227
ment of a fine wine. What is needed for that is only the
capacity to taste. However, if we desire to enjoy not
merely the taste of the wine, but also the fineness of it,
then indeed for this we need lore and learning, since the
pleasure we seek is not then sensuous pleasure merely, but
also the intellectual pleasure of recognition, comparison,
judgment, etc. That the wine he tastes is rare, old, and
famous, is to the so-called "connoisseur" a source of
keen pleasure, but that pleasure is one quite distinct from
that of the taste of the wine, which any untutored man, if
he but have a sensitive tongue, can enjoy quite as keenly
as the connoisseur or possibly more so, since his atten-
tion to the taste as such runs no risk of being distracted
by other considerations, as in the connoisseur.
The writer has an old friend who thinks himself a great
lover of beauty, but who in fact would seem to be much
rather (or, one is sometimes tempted to believe, exclu-
sively) a lover of intellectual enjoyment of the sort just
mentioned, which his lively intelligence is well fitted to
procure him, and for which objects of beauty constitute
merely one kind of occasion among others. In the pres-
ence of mountain scenery, for instance, his behavior indi-
cates that his real interest is not in contemplating but in
judging; for what he does is to try to decide whether the
scene is more or less beautiful than some other and why
so, and how much more or less so. At a concert what he
appears to be essentially concerned with is, spotting all
that he knows about the structures of the compositions
played, and "grading" each composition as one does stu-
dent's examination papers, with a mark, C+ or B— or D,
etc., both as to execution and as to intrinsic merit. It
might be thought that in order to do all that, the experience
and enjoyment of aesthetic feeling is presupposed; but this
is not necessarily the case. All such judgments concern-
-
S
228
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ing values can be arrived at without actually experiencing
much if any value oneself, and purely as inferences from
signs that one has learned. It is possible to learn to rec-
ognize the sorts of "points" upon which blue ribbons are
awarded to Mexican hairless dogs at the dog shows, and to
decide purely on the basis of such memorized "points" that
a certain dog of which, perhaps, one personally disapproves
in every way, is a "good" dog. In the same way, it is pos-
sible to memorize, and learn to recognize in pictures, music,
etc., the points upon which depends the approval of some
certain person (or class of persons), whose judgment of
aesthetic values one accepts as authoritative. One so ac-
cepts it because, if one is oneself blind, one has ultimately
to trust somebody's sight, and somehow one has persuaded
oneself that that person can see, that is, has a high degree
of aesthetic sensitivity. Then by intelligent inferences on
the basis of a well-learned system of signs, one is able to
anticipate the valuations of one's authority, without any
need of experiencing any values oneself and one's audi-
ence never knows the difference! The fact that someone
makes confident judgments concerning the aesthetic worth
of various works of art, and supports his judgments by im-
pressively technical reasons, is therefore no more a proof
that he possesses any capacity for aesthetic feeling or
aesthetic pleasure than is Helen Keller's ability to say
when she is among trees a proof that she possesses the ca-
pacity to see them. That the sort of knowledge of art-
forms that renders technical criticism possible, may at the
same time render aesthetic feeling and enjoyment impos-
sible, is shown by the report of a friend of the writer's, who
once attended a play in the company of an actor. The
actor's comments made it amply evident throughout that
he was conscious not of the drama being acted, but only
of the acting, considered technically, -- not of the action
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS 229
being represented, but only of the efficacy and nature of
the means by which the dramatic effects were achieved.
Another illustration is furnished by the writer's own ex-
perience with the short-story. He once took a course in
short-story writing, the chief result of which was that, as
he became able to recognize the structural elements of
any story he read, he also became unable any longer to
experience the dramatic effect of it. For years afterwards,
a story remained for him not something to be read and
enjoyed, but something to be dissected and technically
judged. Aesthetic appreciation of a story as drama had
been replaced by admiration for the cleverness of a diffi-
cult literary stunt. For aesthetic purposes, X-ray vision
is a dubious blessing. People who have or cultivate this
sort of interest in works of art might be called the Coroners
of Art, for they are like some inveterate autopsist that has
come to be interested in his friends only as material for
eventual post-mortems. The counterpart of this sort of
thing on the creative side is to be found in artists who
paint not out of the impulse of artistic feeling experienced
by them, but deductively from some theory or other. Not
knowing that, as Schopenhauer long ago pointed out, con-
cepts, in art-creation, are barren, and touch art only a pos-
teriori, for criticism, such painters proceed under the illu-
sion that the way in which art-works are created is by con-
ducting the post-mortem backwards, beginning with the
theoretical skeleton, and then upholstering it. But this
produces nothing but upholstered skeletons. Art-crea-
tion is the objectification of feeling, not the objectification
of a conspiracy!
It is perhaps needless to add here that "appreciation"
courses in which the emphasis is placed upon the lives, per-
sonalities, and environment of the artists, are still less
likely than those already described, to develop their takers'
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
latent capacities for aesthetic contemplation and enjoy-
ment. Anecdotes and other biographical material of the
great painters, musicians, and writers, make entertaining
gossip, but have nothing directly to do with the aesthetic
enjoyment of the works that such men have left behind.
For purposes of aesthetic feeling and aesthetic enjoy-
ment, what is necessary in respect to form is not the recog-
nition of it but the intuitive and functional apprehension
of it. In many cases, for instance, in elaborate musical
compositions, it may truly be said that for most persons
the form, that is to say the relation of parts and elements,
is buried in the profusion of sounds heard, almost as deeply
as is the law of the inverse square in what is present to
sense whenever an apple is seen to fall. This means that
most persons apprehend in such compositions merely a
chaotic multitude of sounds, and not, as on the contrary
they do in a simple melody, an ordered multitude. They
simply do not hear the music; they hear only musical ele-
ments, musical material, and perhap now and then emerg-
ing from the chaos, some bit of musical phrase. The en-
joyment, if any, which they get out of such an experience,
is not enjoyment of the music since they do not really hear
it at all, but the enjoyment of the musical tones and frag-
ments, and chiefly of the revery that the situation easily
induces.
Now, from this state of virtual music-deafness, there are
two possible ways leading to genuinely musical full enjoy-
ment. One of them, which for the "consumer's" purposes
is much the best, consists in listening to the same composi-
tion again and again at various times. If by doing this one
reaches the point where one can say that one "knows every
note of it," this means that one has then become able to
apprehend not so much the relations (as such) of the musi-
cal elements, but the musical elements in their relations,
THE AESTHETIC OBJECTS
231
which is exactly what music really is. Similarly with
pictures, the best way to obtain from them their full aes-
thetic import is not to approach them with a conceptual
scalpel and dissect them, but much rather to have them
about and live with them for some time, so that they may
"soak into us" of themselves.
The other way to the apprehension of the full aesthetic
import of the musical composition (or other work of art)
is to approach it as it were with a "map," i.e., with advance
information as to its parts and structure. In this way we
approach it knowing, conceptually, what to listen for, or
how to listen to it. This is a possible help or short-cut to
the hearing of the musical elements in their relations, which
is the goal since the concrete musical elements in their
concrete relations constitute the music, i.e., the aesthetic
object to be contemplated. But this short-cut, like many
others, is dangerous. The danger is that, in approaching
the given musical composition with a map, our interest
shall become and remain centered in the recognizing in the
concrete, of the features on our map; whereas what we
should do is to forget the map when it has guided us to
and through the concrete music, and center our attention
in the latter. We probably all have known people whose
enjoyment of traveling is derived not from what they come
upon, but from the fact of coming upon what their map or
their Baedeker indicated. What they really want is not
the sight of the thing, but the knowledge that they have
seen it and can find it. That is what the troops of summer
tourists who race through museums book in hand or in
tow of a guide, quite innocently but really are after. And
that is also the sort of interest which the customary courses
in "art-appreciation" are in danger of fostering. The most
effective way to aesthetic appreciation of the products of
the various arts and of nature is abundant first hand ac-
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
quaintance with them, and contemplation of them without
the distraction of a deluge of "explanatory" words the
while, or the expectation of "words of appreciation" after-
wards. As Debussy says, "Surely you know that a genuine
appreciation of beauty can only result in silence. Tell me,
when you see the daily wonder of the sunset have you ever
thought of applauding?"
CHAPTER XIV
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
cos
1
Aesthetic valuation. Aesthetic valuation is the valu-
ation of aesthetic objects in aesthetic terms. As we shall
see when we come to consider standards of criticism, aes-
thetic objects may be evaluated otherwise than in aes-
thetic terms. It is possible, for instance, to ask, concern-
ing an aesthetic object, i.e., concerning something
considered as object of aesthetic contemplation, whether
it is such that through aesthetic contemplation of it the
state of soul of another person is adequately reproduced in
oneself. One might ask also whether the object is such
that the after-effects if any of the aesthetic contemplation
of it will make one for instance a better citizen; etc.
Evaluation of aesthetic objects in such terms is not aes-
thetic evaluation; it is evaluation of the aesthetic in non-
aesthetic terms. The converse of such evaluation, namely,
the aesthetic evaluation of non-aesthetic objects, is not
similarly possible, for aesthetic evaluation is evaluation
in terms of the immediate value, i.e., the pleasantness or
unpleasantness, of the feelings obtained in aesthetic con-
templation; and the aesthetic contemplation of anything
automatically confers upon the thing the status of aes-
thetic object. Therefore nothing that is not being con-
sidered as an aesthetic object is capable of being aestheti-
cally evaluated. The possibility of evaluating an aesthetic
233
234
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
object in non-aesthetic terms, on the other hand, is due to
the fact that in such evaluation the aesthetic contempla-
tion of the object, and therefore its status as aesthetic
object, are prerequisite; but the values immediately re-
sulting from such contemplation are disregarded, and oth-
ers resulting from it mediately are considered instead.
cos
2
Beauty and Ugliness as inclusive and as special cate-
gories of aesthetic valuation. Aesthetic evaluation of an
object is evaluation of it in terms of beauty and ugliness;
and beauty, or ugliness, was defined as the character of an
object which is such that, in aesthetic contemplation, it
yields to the contemplator feelings that are pleasant, or,
respectively, unpleasant. Beauty and ugliness, respec-
tively, as so defined, are simply positive and negative aes-
thetic value in general. They are the names of the two
inclusive categories of aesthetic value, and all others (e.g.
sublime, pretty, graceful, etc.), would therefore be sub-
sumed under them.
There is, however, a narrower and more popular mean-
ing of the terms beauty and ugliness, according to which
beauty, for instance, is not an inclusive but a special cate-
gory of aesthetic value, to be distinguished from and con-
trasted with sublimity, prettiness, gracefulness, etc. That
the terms beauty and ugliness have these two different
senses has been noticed by A. C. Bradley, and very clearly
pointed out by him in the excellent essay on the Sublime
in his Oxford lectures on Poetry.¹ In a note on pp. 38/9
he adds that popular usage can hardly be said to recognize
the wider sense at all: "Beauty" and "beautiful" in the
wider sense, "are technical terms of Aesthetics. It is a
1 2nd Edition, pp. 37/63.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
235
misfortune that the language of aesthetics should thus dif-
fer from the ordinary language of speech and literature;
but the misfortune seems to be unavoidable, for there is
no word in the ordinary language which means 'whatever
gives aesthetic satisfaction,' and yet that idea must have a
name in Aesthetics."
It is that idea which aestheticians have for the most part
had in mind when discussing "Beauty" and "Ugliness"; in
very many cases, however, they have not clearly realized
that the terms also had another legitimate and more com-
mon sense; and not a little of the confusion concerning
the meaning of "beautiful" must be ascribed to this. In
these pages, the two senses are explicitly acknowledged,
and the obligation admitted to give an analysis of each.
It is of the terms Beauty and Ugliness in the wider of the
two senses, that the definition given above purports to
constitute an analysis.
83
Aesthetic pleasure and "the pleasures of the senses."
Before Beauty and Ugliness in the narrower sense, and
the other special categories of aesthetic value, are consid-
ered, there is an important point concerning which some-
thing should be said, namely, the difference between aes-
thetic pleasure and the so-called pleasures of the senses.
The attempt has been made without success, to define aes-
thetic pleasure in terms of particular sense organs which,
supposedly, alone yield it. The eye and the ear have
been said to be the only aesthetic senses; although sensa-
tions of smell, at least, have seemed sometimes very nearly
worthy of admission to the company of the "nobler" ones
of sight and hearing. With Santayana, I hold that there
is no human function that is not at least theoretically capa-
A
236
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ble of contributing something to aesthetic pleasure. His
account of the difference between aesthetic pleasure and
sense pleasure seems to me fundamentally sound. Al-
though aesthetic pleasures like any others depend on physi-
ological conditions and have a bodily seat, we do not, he
says, connect them with their seats except in physiological
studies; "the ideas with which aesthetic pleasures are asso-
ciated are not the ideas of their bodily causes. The pleas-
ures we call physical, and regard as low, on the contrary,
are those which call our attention to some part of our own
body, and which make no object so conspicuous to us as
the organ in which they arise." 2
cos
4
"Disinterestedness" of aesthetic pleasure. The disin-
terestedness which sometimes is alleged to differentiate
aesthetic pleasure from sensual, is a fact in the sense that
the aesthetic attitude, through which alone aesthetic feel-
ing and aesthetic pleasure are possible, is a desireless one;
that is, it does not involve as does the practical, ectotelic
attitude, any antecedently conceived end lying beyond
and to which means are devised. But aesthetic pleasure
can be desired and aimed at in the same sense as any other,
although, in the case of aesthetic pleasure, fulfillment of
the desire for it requires that we shall assume for the time
being the aesthetic attitude, which itself is desireless.
If on the other hand by disinterestedness is meant un-
selfishness, then aesthetic pleasure is no more essentially
disinterested than sense pleasure. Pleasure is unselfish
when it is knowingly obtained in a way which promotes
the pleasure or welfare of others also, or which at least does
not interfere with it. Pleasure is selfish if on the con-
2 The Sense of Beauty, p. 36.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
237
trary it is knowingly obtained in a way which deprives
others of pleasure; or which does not promote the pleasure
of others while some other way would; or which causes
others pain. The pleasure of drinking when thirsty is a
pleasure of sense, which is unselfish or selfish according
as the available supply of water is known to be sufficient
for everybody, or not sufficient. The pleasure of music,
which is aesthetic pleasure, is likewise selfish or unselfish
according to circumstances. If the number of places.
available in a concert hall is less than the number of those
who wish for the pleasure of the music on a given occasion,
then those who, knowing this, occupy the places, deprive
others of that pleasure, and are in so far enjoying them-
selves selfishly; 3 in the opposite case their enjoyment is
in so far unselfish. Thus, no pleasure, whether aesthetic
or sensual, is either selfish or unselfish considered in itself.
§ 5
Sense pleasure is a special category of aesthetic pleasure.
It is to be noted that when "sense pleasure" is referred
to, either one of two different attitudes may be that of the
person who enjoys it. He may be a person of a generally
restless nature, and in whom various so-called animal im-
pulses are strong. Such persons are often thought of as
lovers of sense pleasures, but they are more truly lovers
of excitement and violent sensation. The person who is
fond of overindulgence in strong drink is a typical ex-
ample. The drinker who drinks to get drunk and insists
on a chaser after Chartreuse if he is served any, is despised
by the lover of fine wines and liqueurs, who on the con-
trary is an example of the true sensualist.
C
3 This does not necessarily mean that it is "wrong" for them to do so;
other considerations which need not be gone into here, enter, and room is
left for them by the qualification, "in so far," of the assertions made
above.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
It is in the experience of a person of the latter type that
sense-pleasure properly so called is to be found, and com-
pared with aesthetic pleasure. Now it seems to me that
the attitude of the sensualist towards the objects of his
pleasures is in all essentials identical with the aesthetic
attitude as already described. He centers his attention
on the sensations he receives from the wine he is sipping,
as does the art-lover upon, say, a Tanagra statuette; and,
like the latter, he "listens" with his capacity for (pleasur-
able) feeling to the object of his attention. But aesthetic
feeling was defined above as any feeling which is obtained
from a content of attention through the taking towards it
the aesthetic attitude; and aesthetic pleasure is such pleas-
ure as may attach to an aesthetic feeling. From this the
necessary conclusion is that "sense-pleasure" (viz., the sen-
sualist's sort of pleasure) is truly a species of aesthetic
pleasure.
That species, however, is distinguished from what is
commonly referred to when aesthetic pleasure is con-
trasted with sense-pleasure, by the following fact. In
the case of aesthetic pleasure other than sense-pleasure,
the content of attention contemplated aesthetically does
not consist of our own sensations considered as such;
whereas in the case of sense-pleasure the content of at-
tention is on the contrary just that, namely, some sensa-
tion or sensations which we have, regarded by us not as
qualities or aspects of a thing but as a state in ourselves.
Accordingly, the sensualist could correctly and sometimes
does call the sensations which he gets as he sips a good
wine, beautiful. Usually, however, we do not speak of
our sensations as such, but rather of the objects from which
they proceed, and the wine, as source of beautiful sensa-
tions, would be called good. That the wine is beautiful
would be a proper judgment only if the content of our at-
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
239
tention were not the sensations as such, which the wine
causes in us, but the wine itself as present to us through
something regarded as a quality of it, e.g., its color. We
naturally apprehend colors as located at some place in
external space, and it is not easy or perhaps possible, to
apprehend them as sensations in us, located at a place
in the body; but if we should succeed in doing it then the
pleasure attaching to the color would become sense-
pleasure. Tastes, on the other hand, we most naturally
apprehend as sensations in the tongue. With regard to
odors, it seems possible to locate them more or less at will
either in the body or in external space. Sounds are much
more easily referred to a location outside the body than
to one inside; and so on. Except in the cases where the
aesthetic object is a sensation in us, then, we can say
that it is "object" not only in the sense that it is something
towards which our (aesthetic) attitude is directed, but
also in the sense that it is something not located within
our bodies.
cas
6
Beauty in the narrower sense. Slang paraphrases the
assertion that an object is beautiful by saying that it is
"easy to look at." This four-word phrase might be said
roughly to epitomize one aspect of Kant's view of the
nature of Beauty, and to constitute an endorsement of it
by popular common sense. To be "easy to look at,” is to
be as if made for the purpose; and the central part of
Kant's view of the nature of Beauty, if divested of its
elaborate terminology and theoretical scaffolding, and re-
duced to its simplest expression in ordinary language,
might be held to amount essentially to that. This, how-
ever, is a point which has only historical interest, and I
shall not insist upon it since our concern here is merely
-
240
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
with the truth of the matter itself. I freely admit, more-
over, that the account of Beauty to be given here sharply
diverges from that of Kant at a number of points which
many would regard as belonging to the essence of his
doctrine.
It seems to me that the conception of Beauty which is
more or less roughly defined by the words "as if made for
the purpose of being looked at," may be regarded as an
essentially correct analysis of the meaning of the term
Beautiful, when that term is used not as the inclusive but
as a special category of aesthetic value, contrasted, for
instance, with Sublime, Pretty, etc. To avoid misunder-
standings, I shall in the remainder of this chapter indicate
that this narrower sense is the one intended, by adding to
the term Beauty the initial letters (n.s.); and affixing on
the contrary the letters (w.s.) when the wider sense is
meant.
The meaning of the term Beautiful (n.s.), if more care-
fully and explicitly stated than in the phrase mentioned
above, is, I submit, as follows. The adjective Beautiful
(n.s.) is applied by us to an object which in contempla-
tion imparts to us pleasant feelings, when that object is
one which approaches (or reaches) perfection. Being
perfect, in general, means coming fully up to some given
standard; and the particular standard in terms of which
the perfection which determines Beauty (n.s.) is to be
defined, consists of the object (of the relevant kind) most
agreeable in contemplation, that our past experience en-
ables us to imagine. This (aesthetically)-best-imaginable-
by-us at any given time, is what we may call our aesthetic
ideal at the time for the sort of object that happens to be
concerned. Beautiful (n.s.), in short, means aestheti-
cally perfect (or nearly perfect); and being aesthetically
perfect means being the most beautiful (w.s.) thing (of a
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
241
given sort) that we are able to imagine, (i.e., the most
agreeable in aesthetic contemplation).
Aesthetic objects, as we have seen, are of two great
sorts, dramatic entities, and design-entities, the two as-
pects of form and content, or relations and terms, being
discernible in each of the two sorts. If the object we hap-
pen to consider belongs, or is apperceived by us as belong-
ing, to the realm of dramatic entities, the standard or
ideal by reference to which we shall judge of the beauty
(n.s.) of the object will be describable, in Santayana's
words, as "the average modified in the direction of
pleasure." 4
That is to say, our ideal will contain all the
characteristics, positive and negative, which the objects
of the particular sort considered have habitually pos-
sessed in our experience, for the absence of any character to
which we have become accustomed would give us an un-
pleasant shock of disappointment, which our ideal of
course does not. But among the characters which be-
cause habitual have come to be regarded by us as typical,
those in the contemplation of which we found pleasure,
emphasized themselves, and, in the ideal if not in the con-
cept of kind, they are exaggerated, — or, where a choice
has to be made, selected, according to their superior
agreeableness and irrespective of their mere frequency.
The ideal at any given time is therefore not the same thing
as the concept of kind. It includes the concept of kind,
but it also includes a more or less definite particular con-
tent for it, namely, the content most pleasing in contem-
plation which one can at the time imagine the concept to
have. The cognitional form, i.e., the concept of kind,
could not by itself constitute a standard of evaluation, but
only a standard of description; and conformity to it is
more a necessary condition than a sufficient cause of aes-
4 Sense of Beauty, § 30.
G
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
thetic pleasure. The ideal, on the contrary, i.e., what at
a given time we regard as defining what (aesthetic) "per-
fection" means for some given sort of object, is a standard
of evaluation; and an object which pleases us in aesthetic
contemplation is declared by us beautiful (n.s.) when it
reaches, or in proportion as it approaches that standard.
When the object of which the beauty (n.s.) is in ques-
tion is not a dramatic entity, but is or is considered solely
as, an entity of pure design (not empathized), the standard
of perfection consists as before of what at the time consti-
tutes our ideal, i.e., of what in this case we may describe
as the pleasantest comparable aesthetic experience that
we can remember or imagine. The only difference be-
tween the nature of the ideal in the case of dramatic en-
tities and in the case of pure design-entities is that in the
latter the concept involved is essentially extra-causal, or
rather extra-telic, and usually plays only a minor part;
so that objects which are beautiful (n.s.) as judged by a
design-ideal might easily pass as being so independently of
any concept.
In judging of the beauty of an entity belonging to the
realm of pure design, for instance, of a given red, the
ideal red which we use as standard of beauty is the red
most pleasing in contemplation, that our past experience
at the time enables us to imagine. A concept does enter
into that ideal, but only in the sense that the ideal has a
kind, the same to which belongs the entity to be evalu-
ated, - namely, the kind "being red." That is to say,
the given red is evaluated by comparison with our ideal
red, and not, for instance, by comparison with our ideal
blue. Obviously, the question "Do you think that this
(viz., a given color which actually is a red) is a beautiful
blue?" would be incongruous. But that very fact shows
that congruity or comparability of the ideal and the given
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
243
G
to be judged by it, is assumed, i.e., that a concept of kind
is involved here as before. Only here, the concept of kind
is unambiguously given with the case; and moreover it
is not and where pure design entities are concerned
never is a concept in any way instrumental, or func-
tional. In dramatic entities, on the contrary, the concept
involved is, ex hypothesi always of this sort; that is, it is
always the concept of an action, or experience, or instru-
ment, or medium, or relation of these as such. A concept
is thus always involved in the judgment of beauty (n.s.);
but in the case of the beauty of pure design entities, the
concept is essentially extra-causal, whereas in that of dra-
matic entities, it always somehow involves the notion of
causation.
Kant, it will be recalled, defines "free beauty" as beauty
which "presupposes no concept of what the object ought
to be," 5 but all the examples of free beauty that he gives,
viz., flowers, parrots, sea-shells, etc., are of things which
in fact are judged beautiful (n.s.) under concepts of what
they ought to be (just as was the red), namely, here, the
very concepts of flower, parrot, sea-shell, etc. The object is
referred to a kind, and judged beautiful (n.s.) as of that
kind. Only, the concept is not here a functional one, as it
is for instance in the case of a building. Or at least it is
not so unless the biological concepts of flower, sea-shell,
etc., which are functional, are used instead of the common
concepts, which for these things are mainly appearance-
concepts, i.e., design-concepts. And if the biological con-
cepts are used, the things are of course no longer being
judged as design-entities or "free beauties."
Kant is right when he tells us that the judgment of per-
fection presupposes a concept of what the object ought
to be; but he is wrong, I think, when he defines perfection
5 Critique of Judgt. transl. Bernard. 2nd Ed., p. 81.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
as objective internal purposiveness (pp. 77/8), thus tacitly
assuming that what an object ought to be always is some-
thing having an internal purpose. "Objective internal
purposiveness" is not a definition of perfection in gen-
eral, but only of the perfection of dramatic entities; or
rather, of dramatic entities of certain sorts, particularly
the self-regulatory, such as organisms. Perfection in gen-
eral, on the other hand, is what has been stated above, viz.,
the coming fully up to the requirements, both qualitative
and quantitative, of some specified standard. Inasmuch as
the standard, in the case of beauty (n.s.), is specified by
us on the basis of our own pleasure in contemplation, which
itself is in part conditioned by the habits which our own
past experience has established in us, we might well call
that standard subjective, and therefore call any object
which is perfect as judged by it, subjectively purposive,
meaning thereby that the object is as if it had been made
to give us in contemplation the highest pleasure. Only
when purposiveness is taken in this sense can it truly be
said to be necessarily involved in beauty.
The various statements of Kant on purposiveness and
its relation to beauty have been acutely, and as it seems
to me decisively, criticized by Victor Basch in his Essai
Critique sur l'Esthétique de Kant (2nd. Ed. pp. 183/192).
With Basch's objections to the very widely held view
that beauty consists in perfection, I am also in agreement,
but only so long as perfection is conceived as he and the
thinkers he mentions (p. 186) conceive it, which is, as I
should insist, incorrectly because too narrowly. When,
on the other hand, perfection in general, and aesthetic
perfection, are (I think, correctly) defined as I have done,
then I claim that perfection is the standard of beauty
(n.s.). And yet I remain in complete agreement with
Basch's central contention that beauty is a matter of
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
245
feeling, because I hold that a definition of perfection in
terms of feeling is possible, and for the purposes of aes-
thetics, alone directly relevant, such a definition con-
stituting the basis of the very necessary distinction be-
tween beauty in the narrower sense, and in the wider.
In conclusion, it may be noted that when the pleasant-
ness in contemplation of a given object exceeds that of the
ideal which we have for objects of that sort, then judg-
ment is for the moment paralyzed. We come with our
little measuring-rod prepared to give judgment, and un-
expectedly find ourselves instead receiving a bigger rod
wherewith to measure and judge the one we brought. The
new object is then made beautiful (n.s.) by definition,
i.e., by being made the standard of perfection, rather than
owing to its being found to fulfill the requirements of a
pre-existing standard.
cas
7
сол
The Pretty. If the beautiful (n.s.) is that which
comes up to or approaches our ideal of positive aesthetic
value for the sort of object concerned; the pretty, on the
other hand, is that which falls measurably short of our
aesthetic ideal for its kind, but nevertheless remains pre-
dominantly pleasant in contemplation. Prettiness, then,
might be said to be sometimes a degree of beauty (w.s.)
markedly inferior to that which we regard as constituting
perfection; and sometimes to be beauty (n.s.) in some
parts, or in some aspects, only, of the object, the balance
of aesthetic value remaining positive.
-
8
The Graceful. Grace is the positive aesthetic value
that action or posture has in so far as it is evidently easy,
246
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
economical of effort, adequate. This means that inani-
mate things, e.g., lines, can be said to have grace (or awk-
wardness) only when empathized. The excellent account
of the graceful given by Schopenhauer may well be quoted
here, since his metaphysical views do not intrude in it
detrimentally as they do in some other parts of his aes-
thetics. Grace, he writes, "is the adequate representa-
tion of will through its temporal manifestation, that is to
say, the perfectly accurate and fitting expression of each
act of will, through the movement and position which ob-
jectify it. . . . Grace consists
Grace consists . . . in every movement
being performed, and every position assumed in the easi-
est, most appropriate and convenient way, and therefore
being the pure, adequate expression of its intention, or of
the act of will, without any superfluity, which [super-
fluity] exhibits itself as aimless, meaningless bustle, or
as wooden stiffness." This account of the nature of the
graceful, Schopenhauer points out, explains why, for ef
fects of grace in the human body, nakedness, in which the
action is most fully evident, is virtually a necessity (p. 296).
"
cos
9
Ugliness in the narrower sense. It is perhaps a question
whether the term Ugly is, to the same extent as the term
Beautiful, used as a special category of aesthetic value,
in addition to its being employed as inclusive category.
At all events, an object called ugly in the narrower sense
certainly could not be said (analogously to what was said
of one called beautiful n.s.) to be one approaching or at-
taining the utmost of negative aesthetic value which we
can imagine for its kind. The special name for such an
6 World as Will and Idea, Eng. Transl. Vol. I., pp. 289/90.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
247
object would, I think, be "horrible." But we can well
say that an object is called Ugly (n.s.) in so far as its un-
pleasantness in contemplation is due to its pronounced
failure to meet our aesthetic ideal for its kind. The ob-
ject is then ugly (n.s.) when its disappointing character
in the light of our ideal is considerable and insufficiently
compensated, instead of (as in the pretty) minor and made
up for sufficiently to leave the balance of value positive.
The judgment of ugliness (n.s.) is thus not any more
than that of beauty (n.s.) an aesthetically innocent and
unprejudiced judgment; but both are judgments passed
from the standpoint of an aesthetic ideal.
§ 10
The Sublime. Sublimity is the character of an object
which pleases in aesthetic contemplation through its im-
mense greatness. As A. C. Bradley points out in the short
but excellent essay on the Sublime already referred to, the
sublime object need not be infinite, i.e., beyond the possi-
bility of measure, but only in fact unmeasured and so
great that, compared with it, ordinary objects are as noth-
ing. The object then appears to us as if infinite, whether
it be so in fact or not. Bradley moreover maintains that
the sublime is not merely the beautiful (w.s.) which is
exceedingly great, but that it also always involves in some
way the idea of power. I should prefer to say, however,
that it always in one way or another generates in us a
consciousness of immense power, whether active or pas-
sive.
As we have seen, there are two typical ways of approach-
ing dramatic entities, namely, the empathic and the peri-
pathic. If the object aesthetically contemplated has
overwhelming power, - as would be the case with a vol-
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
cano, a great waterfall, a hurricane, etc., and we appre-
hend it empathically, then by so doing we are lifted out.
of our ordinary puny self, and into a self of immensely
great power. The feeling of exaltation obtained in this
way is the source of the pleasure we find in the contem-
plation of such an object, which we then call sublime.
C
If instead of apprehending an object of this sort em-
pathically, we were to apprehend it peripathically, its im-
mense power would then be experienced not as power in
us, but as power over us. The feeling obtained by us
would then be one not of exaltation, but of depression,
that is, unpleasant. The object contemplated would ac-
cordingly be judged not sublime, but awful, or, if the im-
mense power peripathically apprehended is not only over
us but against us, terrible.
If the immense greatness of the object is not greatness
of power, but greatness in some static respect, such as size
or number, then contemplation of the object as empathi-
cally apprehended (assuming empathic apprehension of
an object of this sort to be possible at all), would, I think,
yield little if any pleasure, and the object would not be
called sublime. Bradley is I believe right in holding that
immense greatness, if it does not involve power somehow,
is not sublime. But if an object immensely great in some
static way is apprehended peripathically and is such that
the contemplation of it as so interpreted is pleasurable,
this means that the object's immensity has called out in
us, in the peripathic apprehension of it, powers correspond-
ingly immense. In the case first considered, the exalta-
tion which goes with the possession of immense power re-
sulted from empathy of an immensely powerful object.
In the case now under discussion, the exaltation results
from the exercise of immense powers, in the peripathic
apprehension of a statically immense object. Our atti-
-
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
249
tude, however, being in each case that of aesthetic con-
templation of what is apprehended (whether empathi-
cally or peripathically), the exaltation is not at the moment
experienced as a feeling in ourselves, but as a character
of the object contemplated, and it is this character which
we call sublimity.
The difference between what may be termed the dynamic
and the static sublime is connected in the manner just
discussed with the distinction between the empathic and
the peripathic modes of apprehension. There is, how-
ever, another distinction to be made within each of these,
namely, that between the active and the passive rôles.
Thus, in the case of a tremendous storm beating upon
a rocky coast, we may empathize the mountainous waves
that hurl themselves at the shore, or, on the other hand,
the immensely massive cliffs withstanding impassive and
unshaken the ocean's mighty fury. If we do the latter,
the exaltation experienced is not that of the power to do,
but of the power to withstand and pass unscathed and de-
tached through commonly overwhelming events.
The same distinction between the active and passive
rôles can be made when the manner of apprehension is
peripathic instead of empathic. The exaltation will arise
from the experience of passive power when, instead of
putting forth immense powers in peripathic apprehension
(as, e.g., in the peripathic apprehension of the universe
of stars), we find ourselves capable of remaining divinely
serene and unmoved in the presence of an immense op-
portunity. Thus, the immensity of the stellar spaces, in-
stead of calling into imagined being in us a self capable of
bridging them, may on the contrary be met in us by a self
to whom even that glorious vast universe, "with all its
suns and milky ways," is nothing. The experience of re-
maining untempted by immense kingdoms proffered to
R
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
us, is no less exalting than that of taking possession of
them."
§ 11
The Tragic. The predicate "tragic" is not, any more
than the predicate "comic," one of aesthetic valuation.
Both the tragic and the comic situations, however, are,
like anything else, capable of being aesthetically contem-
plated, and so much of their characteristic value as clings
to them during the process of aesthetic contemplation will
then become transmuted into aesthetic value. Yet the
actual result of such contemplation of them is paradoxical,
for the tragic, perception of which is painful, may in con-
templation be found beautiful, i.e., pleasant; and the
comic, perception of which is on the contrary a pleasant
experience is more likely in contemplation to be found
ugly. The question as to the source of the pleasure to
be found in tragedy, especially, is an ancient and famous
one, to which we must here give some attention.
8
A tragedy, as represented on the stage or in literature,
sometimes derives a part of such beauty as it may have,
from the various "ornaments" with which the presentation
is embellished; and from the fact that the characters, sur-
roundings, and general atmosphere are noble rather than
sordid. The Greek tragedies are obvious examples; but
many modern tragedies show that these sources of pleas-
ure are not indispensable to the beauty of the tragedy.
Indeed, even an actual, stark tragedy, where they are
quite absent, may, when aesthetically contemplated
(which usually it is only in retrospect), be found to have
a certain somber beauty, and it is not easy to see where
the pleasure which is the stuff of that beauty may come
7 Cf. Santayana's distinction between a "Stoic" and an "Epicurean"
sublime Sense of Beauty, § 60.
8 Santayana The Sense of Beauty, § 57.
▬▬▬▬▬
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
251
from, since a tragic situation is one in which the dearest
hopes and possessions of human beings are crushed and
destroyed; and that is something painful to witness or
to imagine.
Aristotle's famous statement that in the spectator of
a tragedy, a catharsis of the emotions of pity and fear is
effected, has led to much speculation concerning the nature
of this catharsis, of which he gives no account. The most
obvious construction is that which the analogy of anger
suggests. When violently angry, a person may kick the
furniture, or smash the china, instead of striking the
person who has provoked him; and through the substitute
expression, the anger is more or less dissipated, and in a
relatively harmless way. In a similar way, we might sup-
pose, the representation of a tragedy furnishes a channel
of vicarious expression for the emotions of pity and fear.
But the facts will not bear this interpretation. We do not
come into the theater bursting with pity and fear. And
the witnessing of the performance, far from relieving us
of these emotions, which we were not experiencing, -
arouses them instead. And to claim that it arouses them
in order to give us pleasure by relieving us from them,
would be to compare the theater-goer to a man who de-
liberately puts on a shoe that pinches in order to have
the delightful pleasure of taking it off. Interpretation
of the tragic catharsis after the analogy of the vicarious
expression of anger would, moreover, require that we ex-
press in some active way the pity and the fear; but this
is not the case. Only the playwright could truly be said
to have done this, through the very creation of the play."
9 Thus, speaking of the writing of his Bouvard et Pécuchet, Flaubert
writes: "Moreover, inasmuch as I hope to spit into it the gall that chokes
me, that is, to utter a few truths, I hope by this means to purge myself,
and to be thereafter more olympian, a quality which I lack absolutely."
Quoted from Flaubert's correspondence, by Delacroix, Psychologie de
l'Art, p. 160.
A
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Other sources of pleasure that might possibly be in-
voked would be sadistic joy in the inflicting of mis-
fortune, or the masochistic enjoyment of undergoing it,
experienced empathically. But although these may occa-
sionally contribute something, the fact remains that for
most people the witnessing and the empathic experienc-
ing of misfortune are painful, not pleasant, and that the
emotional state in which the beauty of a tragedy is felt
is vastly different in quality from the unholy lusts just
mentioned.
Again, it has been said that the slight excitement of
emotions which would be painful if present at their nor-
mal intensity, may be pleasant. Such pleasure, however,
is the pleasure of excitement, of play, which relieves bore-
dom; and if this were the source of the tragic pleasure,
tragedy would not mean to us anything different from
what does any other sort of entertaining performance.
There are, no doubt, many persons for whom that is the
case; but they are the very persons who remain ignorant
of the "true tragic pleasure" of which Aristotle speaks.
Clues to the nature of the catharsis to which that pleas-
ure is due are I think to be found in some of the require-
ments that Aristotle lays down for the tragedy. The
hero, for instance, must be a man not preëminently good
or evil, but more or less like any one of us; that is, he
must be a man whose actions and experiences might easily
be ours. Again, the events represented must be not ex-
ceptional or freakish, but such as would be involved with
probability or necessity in the course of human life in the
supposed circumstances. In other words, we might say
that the play must be such as to place before us a typical
sample of human life, in such of its aspects as alone con-
stitute problems, namely, the aspects which are painful
and inevitable. When the tragedy (or indeed the novel)
-
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
253
is such as thus to give us truly sound and valuable vicari-
ous experience, it makes a not inconsiderable contribu-
tion to the wisdom which is our most useful equipment in
dealing with, or warding off, tragic events. This gain
in wisdom is felt in a quite direct and immediate way, and
is pleasant. This pleasure is I believe the essential con-
stituent of the tragic pleasure. Enlightenment, even
when it does nothing but reveal the inevitability of at
least some tragic events, is valued. It prepares us for
them and lessens the shock. When evils fall upon us
suddenly, of which we know nothing, the imagination has
unlimited scope and our terror reaches the utmost. Fore-
knowledge of what is probable or necessary enables us in
some degree to view the tragic events when they come,
"under the form of eternity" and to win a measure of the
serenity that goes with this. As Spinoza observes, an
emotion towards a thing which we conceive to be free (i.e.,
unnecessary) is greater than one towards what we con-
ceive to be necessary; and the mind is therefore less sub-
ject to the emotions in so far as it understands all things
as necessary. Thus, no one pities an infant for being
unable to speak, walk, or reason; but one would do so if
most people were born full-grown, and infancy were acci-
dental instead of natural and necessary.10
The "true tragic pleasure" certainly cannot come di-
rectly from the pity and fear excited since these emotions
are not pleasant. It must arise from the "catharsis" of
them; and this "catharsis" I should interpret in the way
indicated above. It means the obtaining of a conscious-
ness of superiority to and relative freedom from pity and
fear, as a result of the realization of the inevitableness of
the tragic events in human life. This realization itself
results from the Tragedy's exhibition of them as effects
10 Ethics, Part V. Props. V, VI.
G
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
of causes present in all of us. To the more rational per-
son made of us by the witnessing of the Tragedy, life is
then less fearful and pitiful than it was. Pity and fear, as
Spinoza observes, are in themselves bad and useless in a
man who lives under the guidance of reason.11 Butcher's
statement,12 in line with the view of Bernays, that
"Tragedy is a form of homoeopathic treatment, curing
emotion by means of an emotion like in kind, but not
identical," may possibly be a true interpretation of what
Aristotle had in mind at least in the passage of the Politics
in which he discusses Catharsis. But it does not seem
to me that it can be accepted as describing the facts them-
selves with complete accuracy. As already pointed out,
there is not usually in the theater-goer any antecedently
present pity and fear to be "cured." The correct medical
metaphor to describe what occurs is not purgation, but
vaccination. The process is truly homoeopathic, but it
is a process of immunization, not of cure of something pre-
existing. Purgation, on the contrary, is that. But pur-
gation is not a homoeopathic process.
§ 12
The Comic. Schopenhauer was I think fundamentally
right when he declared the comic effect to arise from "the
sudden perception of the incongruity between a concept
and the real objects which have been thought through it
in some relation.' Taken as it stands, however, his
statement is open to various objections, particularly
that of over-intellectualizing, which might easily cause
"13
14
J
Ag
11 Ethics, Part IV. Props. XLVII, L.
12 Aristotle's Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, 4th Ed., p. 248.
13 World as Will and Idea. Engl. Transl., p. 77.
14 For a criticism of it, see Max Eastman, The Scene of Humor, pp.
154 ff.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
255
one to overlook the essentially correct, if not entirely novel
insight from which it proceeds. From the clue which it
furnishes, it seems to me that a formulation of the neces-
sary and sufficient conditions of the comic may be ar-
rived at, which would be as follows.
The essential conditions of the comic would be three,
the comic effect requiring, (a) that there exist a marked
disparity between some given fact and an adjustment
in us wherewith we are prepared or induced to meet it;
(b) that the perception of the disparity be unexpected;
and (c) that our attitude at the time be the play attitude.
Should we wish to compress this into a definition of the
comic, we might (reserving an explanation of the mean-
ing of some of the terms), say that the comic is that in
which we unexpectedly perceive a marked disparity be-
tween a fact given in play and an adjustment in us where-
with we attempt to meet that fact. The entity judged
comic would be either the fact or the adjustment, accord-
ing as the one or the other is presented as departing from
what it should be. The three conditions stated above
will now be considered in greater detail.
(a) The comic effect requires that some fact be given
us, whether actually or by supposition; that an adjust-
ment wherewith to meet it be existent in us; and that
there be a pronounced disparity between the fact and the
adjustment, that is, either that the adjustment be re-
garded as fundamentally right and sound but the fact
different from what it ought to be, or vice versa, that the
fact be regarded as true and right, but the adjustment as
inappropriate to it. We call comic or laughable which-
ever one of the two is considered as not being what it
should be. It may be noted incidentally that the dis-
tinction sometimes made between "laughing at" and
"laughing with" is not fundamental. When the laughter
K
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
is truly an expression of comic feeling, cases of "laughing
with" are always cases of laughing with somebody at
something or somebody. However, laughter is probably
not always a response to the comic. For instance, we
laugh from exuberant joy; also, sometimes, mechanically
by sheer imitation; also, from being tickled or pinched;
and it might not be possible to show that in such instances
there is any perception of the comic. At all events, it is
the comic and not laughter, that we are essentially con-
cerned with here.
In perhaps the majority of cases, the adjustment exists
or is induced in us first, and the fact between which and
it there is disparity, then given. But the converse also
often occurs. That is, some fact is first considered, and
the comic effect obtained by suggesting some way of meet-
ing it which is plausible enough to make us try it at least
in imagination, but is suddenly perceived to be grossly
inappropriate. For instance, a mouse is seen running
about the room, and the inevitable lady yells: Quick, John,
get your gun. The idea of using a gun on a mouse is
comic. But if a man hunting in the woods suddenly fires,
or almost fires, at a mouse, we have then a case where the
adjustment, viz., readiness to use a gun, is present first,
and a plausible but really inappropriate object then pre-
sented.15 It may be noted that if, instead of a mouse, the
object to be dealt with had been, say, a yellow-fever mos-
quito, definiteknown to be such, then no comic effect
would have ensued in either case in spite of the even
greater disparity between the adjustment and the fact,
because the third of the requirements mentioned above
would not have been satisfied; namely, the situation would
have been not a play situation but a serious, dangerous
15 The adjustment, in these and similar cases, becomes our own by em-
pathy. Otherwise no comic effect would occur.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
257
one; and our attitude would have remained unshakably
practical.
It must next be emphasized that that which has been
referred to above as an adjustment present in us, may be
of any sort. It may indeed, as Schopenhauer's statement
has it, consist of a thought or concept of kind. But it
may be less abstract than that, consisting, for instance,
of an ordinary act of perceptual interpretation of a given
appearance. Thus, if an animal having exactly the visual
appearance of the house cat should suddenly bark at us,
the disparity between the fact thus concretely given and
the house-cat perceptual adjustment in us, would be great,
obvious, and unexpected; and the comic effect would be
very great unless our attitude should at once be the sci-
entific and not the play attitude. In a similar way, the
fact that when a cat has played hard for some time in a
hot room he will pant like a dog, with his mouth open
and his tongue hanging out, is found most comical by
persons who observe it for the first time. In the act
of perception, e.g., of the perception of something as being
a cat, we do refer the immediately given appearance to a
kind; but the kind is not present to our minds discursively
but rather in terms of images of certain motor and sen-
sory experiences.
The adjustment, however, may be still more concrete
than that which the act of perception constitutes. It may
consist of some mode of action, whether in tinctive, habit-
ual, or teleological, actually going on, for instance, climb-
ing stairs. If we climb one more step than there is, the
comic effect may arise; or if we sit on a chair that col-
lapses under us. But in such cases, which are natural
instead of artificial practical jokes, the comic effect arises
only if the attitude, which to begin with is the practical
(or, it might be, the scientific), shifts to the play attitude.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
This does not occur if the mishap is somewhat painful or
important to us, whether directly or through sympathy.
The mishap then remains only an unpleasant or unfortu-
nate incident.
The instances given show that the comic effect cannot
be said always to involve disparity between a fact and a
concept, for the adjustment is a conceptual one only in
some cases. The disparity must be described more gen-
erally, as above, viz., as disparity between an adjustment
in us, preëxisting or induced; and a given fact with which
the adjustment might plausibly deal.
The disparity itself may next be considered. It may
be of several types, to be distinguished on the basis of the
relation happening to exist between the element (viz., the
fact or the adjustment) which is considered anomalous,
and the element which in its stead would have been regu-
lar (and therefore not comic). What varieties that rela-
tion may have is easiest to state in terms which usually
describe relations between judgments explicitly involv-
ing concepts. These terms would be Inconsistency, Irrel-
evancy, and possibly certain others of the same general
nature. To describe by means of such terms the rela-
tions with which we are here concerned, however, is per-
missible because these relations have precise analogues
at all levels of abstraction. The relation of contradiction,
for instance, which is primarily conceptual, finds an exact
physical analogue in the relation which exists between the
two pans of a balance in respect of motion up or down.
Both cannot go up at once (relatively to the fulcrum) nor
both down at once. The only difference is that the im-
possibility is here physical, i.e., causal, instead of logical.
Speaking, then, in conceptual terms, the nature of irrel-
Whenever we use a predi-
negatively, or interroga-
evancy is essentially as follows.
cate (whether affirmatively,
-
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
259
tively,) we insinuate something, that is to say, we assert by
implication, i.e., through the mere use of that predicate,
that the subject to which we apply it belongs to a certain
class (which may vary more or less on different occasions).
Thus if, referring to you, dear reader, I should ask: "When
did he escape?" I should obviously be asserting by impli-
cation (i.e., insinuating) that you have been locked up;
and likewise if, instead of asking, I had asserted, or denied,
that you escaped. Similarly, if I use in connection with
you the predicate "failed," I insinuate that you tried; if,
"absent," that you were due; if "sober to-day" that you
are a habitual drunkard, etc. The class into which some-
thing is placed when a given predicate is used in connec-
tion with the thing, may be called the universe of that
predicate, or its realm of relevant application. That is
to say, the use of that predicate in connection with a thing
which in fact does not belong to that realm, constitutes
an irrelevancy or incongruity. Thus, if I say "This is
not Webster's Dictionary," I refer the thing talked about
to the class of books. If it is a book, my assertion that it
is not Webster's Dictionary may be false, but it is not in-
congruous. But if this, which I assert not to be Webster's
Dictionary, in fact happens to be my grandfather, then
my assertion was not simply untrue in fact, but irrelevant,
incongruous to its subject, viz., not even possibly true of it.
Likewise, if I ask what the square-root of minus-one eats
for breakfast. In any such case, we have not a contradic-
tion in adjecto, but an irrelevancy in adjecto.
Now, by using any given predicate, we induce an adjust-
ment to its universe; and if we then suddenly bring in
as subject for that predicate something which does not be-
long to that universe, we have a disparity of the sort called
irrelevancy or incongruity; so, vice versa, if we introduce
the subject first (with its natural universe), and then shift
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
suddenly but temptingly to a different universe. This is
what occurs if, for instance, a man who had spilled a lady's
coffee on her gown meets her expostulations by offering to
make amends, and does so by ordering: "Waiter, another
cup of coffee for the lady." Another instance would be
that of the sexton who had never seen an ear trumpet, and
who, noticing a dear old grandmother walking into the
church with one under her arm, warned her: "Just one
toot, and ye're out!" The irrelevance of the reaction,
to the fact, is here qualitative, but it is in some cases quanti-
tative. If a marksman, under ordinary conditions, misses
the bull's eye, that is not funny; but if he is obviously
aiming at something lying in so different a direction that
it seems he could not possibly hit the target, and yet does
so, that is funny.
The disparity is of the nature of an inconsistency, on
the other hand, when the plausible adjustment induced is
self-defeating, e.g., when it is such as to create or perpetu-
ate the very thing it would remedy. A case would be that
of a man who picks another's pocket for money wherewith
to repay a sum he had borrowed from him. Another typi-
cal case would be the familiar story of the man who at a
dance, having discovered a rip in his garments, is taken by
his friend into another room to effect a repair. But, while
he is in his underwear, ladies are heard coming, and his
friend hurriedly pushes him through another door, sup-
posedly into a closet, but in fact into the ball room.
Ambiguity is not a relation between the appropriate
and an inappropriate adjustment, but rather something
that can be used to make plausible and induce the inap-
propriate adjustment. Words or phrases (or other clues
to adjustments) that are ambiguous, make possible the
inducing to some extent of the inappropriate adjustment,
through the very words in which the fact to be met
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
261
is given. Thus, in the headline "Chicago man lies dying,'
the ambiguous word "lies" both gives (a part of) the fact,
and contributes to induce the inappropriate conceptual ad-
justment "liar." A better instance, also turning upon
ambiguity, occurred in a conversation in the course of
which one man remarked that Mr. Soandso was one of
the community's greatest assets. "Assets?" another sar-
castically asked, "why use the diminutive?"
(b) The second of the requirements for the comic effect
is that the perception of the disparity be unexpected. This
implies that either a conscious expectation, or some ten-
dency (whether instinctive, habit-begotten, or other),
must be present, not in the sense only of having been sug-
gested, but in the sense that the adjustment which it con-
stitutes must really exist in us at the moment; and the more
definite and tense it is, the greater will be the comic effect,
other things being equal. When the adjustment is closely
connected with some strong human emotion, such as lust,
envy, hatred, fear, vanity, etc., such definiteness and
tenseness are likely to be present, and the comic effect
marked. These emotions, however, are not intrinsic parts
of the mechanism of the comic, but only sources of energy
which, when piped into that mechanism, may make it
function more vigorously. It is thus not true, I think,
that the comic pleasure is essentially malicious, in the
sense that it arises from perception of the discomfiture
or inferiority of some other person. That such discom-
fiture in many cases constitutes the sudden fact which,
from the standpoint of our adjustment at the time, is
disparate or anomalous, is true. But what is essential is
the disparity, and not that the fact be of just that sort.
In many cases, the element of discomfiture is absent, or
counts for little or nothing in the comic effect. Consider
for instance the following:
>>
262
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
Speaker: I hope I have not been speaking too long. There
is no clock in this room.
Voice from the audience: No, but there is a calendar!
The comic object in this case is not primarily the speaker
so apostrophized, but the idea of measuring the length of
a speech not by a clock but by a calendar. Likewise, the
suggestion of using a hammer and chisel on a beefsteak
at the dinner table, is comic apart from the representation
of someone doing it. We laugh at the foolishness, rather
than at the particular fool that might perform it. But if
the performer happens to be a person that we envy, or
fear, or dislike, we will doubtless laugh the harder on
that account.
The requirement of unexpectedness implies not only
an expectation of some sort, but also suddenness of the
insight into the disparity between it and the fact. This,
obviously, is not something which a given comic situation
can permit permanently, or many times. The comic ef-
fect can be reëxperienced from the same situation only if
we have more or less forgotten our previous experience with
it, so that the necessary expectation is again present. This
necessary condition may to some extent be met by a de-
liberate act of abstraction of our attention from what we
otherwise know is coming. But the more familiar the
situation becomes, the more the comic effect evaporates
from it for us.
(c) The third requirement for the comic effect is that
our attitude be, or have become, the play-attitude. When
one tells or is told a joke, or attends the performance of a
comedy, the play-attitude is adopted to begin with. In
the case of practical jokes, whether deliberate or accidental,
the attitude of the victim is on the contrary earnest until
the moment when the disparity is perceived by him; and
if his attitude does not then shift to the play attitude,
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
263
then, as already pointed out, the comic effect does not arise
for him and the situation remains merely unpleasant. The
shift to the play attitude, if impossible at the time, may,
however, become possible later, when the situation is
viewed in retrospect and the fear to which it perhaps gave
rise is no longer present. We then laugh at that which
at the time we regarded as tragic.
With the requirements of the comic effect now before
us, the source of the pleasure attaching to it may be dis-
cerned. That pleasure is essentially intellectual, for it
is essentially that of detecting an error or mistake, either
in a fact, or in an adjustment. "Seeing the point" of the
comic situation gives us intellectual elation, and the pleas-
ure of it is the true comic pleasure. We laugh either at
an anomalous fact (which sometimes consists of some-
one else's empathized inappropriate adjustment to some
fact); or at an (abandoned) inappropriate adjustment
directly in ourselves. In this sense it is true that the
comic pleasure always involves a feeling of the superiority
of our present self; and of the inferiority either of a thing
or of an abandoned previous self. But, as already noted,
this does not mean that malice is of the essense of comic
pleasure. Malicious pleasure is that which we take in
the misfortune or defect of another when by comparison
it makes our own lot appear better than it did. The comic
pleasure, on the other hand, arises not from the fact of our
superiority to something inferior, but from the elation
caused by our intellectual success in seeing a point, i.e., in
detecting the disparity between an adjustment and a given
fact. Therefore, laughter at the pompous dignitary who
suddenly trips and falls may be malicious; but it need
not be so any more than is laughter at the antics of our
pet cat. What is funny in either case is the unexpectedly
anomalous behavior; and that the anomalous behavior in
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
the former case is such as to make unhappy an official we
dislike, is a fact quite accidental to the comic quality (if
not quantity) of the situation. It may be noted that
whereas in the case of the comic what we detect is unex-
pected disparity, in the case of wit it is unexpected appro-
priateness either of an adjustment to a fact, or of a fact to
an adjustment.16 Wit, moreover, is playful of manner,
but may well be earnest of intent.
The comic thing (whether adjustment or fact) always
departs in some way from what we consider it ought to be.
That is, it is always perceived as possessing a defect. But
it would not I think be correct to say as did Aristotle that
the comic is a species of the ugly, because ugliness presup-
poses the attitude of aesthetic contemplation, whereas the
attitude in which the defective entity is perceived as comic
is neither contemplative nor aesthetic, but playful and
cognitive. What can be said is that if the entity which,
under the proper conditions, would be found comic, is
instead made an object of aesthetic contemplation, it is
found ugly. But it is not ugly qua comic, nor comic qua
ugly.
It is, however, possible to contemplate aesthetically an
entity which in a previous experience has been found
comic. Through this previous experience, that entity
may have acquired a connotation of pleasurable (comic)
feeling, which then colors the aesthetic feeling and value
obtained when the entity is aesthetically contemplated.
In such contemplation we do not laugh, but at the most
smile, for we are now experiencing the aesthetic value of
something already classed by us as comic, not experiencing
the comic value of something not hitherto known to be so.
The aesthetic value of the already comic entity would
16 "Unexpected justness makes wit, as sudden incongruity makes
pleasant foolishness." Santayana, The Sense of Beauty, § 62.
THE AESTHETIC VALUES
265
then be positive, i.e., its comic flavor, being pleasant,
would so far as it goes bring the entity when aesthetically
contemplated into the class of the beautiful rather than
of the ugly.
But in fact, the matter rather tends to turn out other-
wise, because the comic pleasure is too transitory to become
a solid part of the connotation of the comic entity. For
the comic entity, as we have seen, is not such in itself, but
becomes such (and therefore pleasant, instead of unpleas-
ant because defective) only owing to its becoming related
to a mind in the way defined by the three requirements
discussed above. This, we saw, cannot usually recur more
than a few times; and unless some factor other than re-
currence of the particular situation in which the entity
was comic, is present to fasten upon it the (pleasant) comic
connotation, the entity does not acquire that connotation,
and in contemplation has only the ugliness corresponding
to the (unpleasant) defectiveness or anomaly which, in a
different relation, satisfied one of the requirements of the
comic effect. If therefore the entity which was comic is
found to have some beauty when aesthetically contem-
plated, that is not likely to be owing to its comic past but
rather in spite of it, and owing to the fact that the entity
contains aspects of positive value sufficient to compensate
for the defects which, in a different relation, made it comic;
but which in aesthetic contemplation would (if uncom-
pensated) make it ugly. An entity which is comic, but
which when contemplated is found to have some degree of
beauty, rather than ugliness, would be humorous, rather
than ridiculous or ludicrous.17
It may moreover be noted that the gain in our knowl-
edge through acquaintance with the anomalous fact; or
the gain in scope of our capacity for adjustment, which
17 Cf. Santayana, The Sense of Beauty, § 63.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
occurs in the comic, is almost always of little or no ob-
jective importance, since the comic situation is always of
the nature of an exception to the normal. It gives us the
feeling of intellectual gain, by means of a gain which as a
rule is, for any direct purpose, nearly useless, although in
the case of the witty, of course, as distinguished from the
merely comic, direct intellectual utility may often justly
be claimed. Yet the comic has at all times played much
too large a part in human affairs to allow of its being
deemed valueless. In the light of the discussion of play-
activities in earlier chapters, the reasons for the great im-
portance of the comic in the life of man become evident if
only we notice that perception of the comic constitutes the
typical spontaneous play-activity of the human intellect.
CHAPTER XV
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
cos
1
Criticism is (a) judgment, (b) of worth, (c) mediate or
immediate, and (d), respectively fallible or infallible.
Criticism is judgment concerning questions of worth,
value. All criticism involves reference to some character,
the possession of which by the object criticized is re-
garded by the critic as being in some way good, or the
lack of it, bad. The object is then examined with respect
to that character, and pronounced good or bad in the de-
gree in which it possesses it or lacks it. Such a character
so used constitutes a standard of criticism. The char-
acter used may be one the possession of which makes an
object mediately good; or on the other hand it may be one
that makes the object immediately good. The object is
said to be mediately or instrumentally good, when the
character used as standard of goodness, and possessed by
the object, is that of being an adequate instrument to or a
necessary condition of the production or preservation in
certain other objects, of characters which confer upon
those objects immediate goodness of some sort. An ob-
ject, on the other hand, is said to be immediately good
when the character used as standard of goodness, and
possessed by the object, is that of being directly and im-
mediately a source of active or passive pleasure to some
conscious being. That is to say, the object is called im-
267
268
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
mediately good when it is, to the sentient being in terms
of whose point of view it is asserted to be good, a source
of pleasure directly through its relation to him, and apart
from any pleasure which it may also procure him indirectly
through its actual or potential effects upon other objects.
The conscious being in terms of whose point of view the
assertion of immediate goodness is made may be one per-
son or a class of persons; it may be oneself or someone
else; it may be a self considered in someone only of its
aspects, which may be an active or a passive one; or it may
be a self, such only as it is at a given time or in given
circumstances. But any doubt as to which such sort of
self is referred to when goodness is predicated of anything,
will leave the import of the predication hopelessly am-
biguous.
The instrumental goodness of an object can be proved
or disproved, if there is agreement as to the end, being a
means to or condition of which constitutes the object's
goodness; for it is then only a matter of showing whether
or not the object does under the sort of conditions in view,
cause or make possible in other objects effects of the sort
desired. Thus it is possible to prove to someone who
doubts or disbelieves it, that a given chisel is a good, or as
the case may be, a bad chisel. As to instrumental good-
ness, mistakes can be made.
But the immediate goodness of an object cannot be
proved or disproved to the self in terms of whose point of
view immediate goodness is asserted to be possessed by
the object. Such immediate goodness being a matter of
the pleasure which that self experiences through his direct
relation to the object, he himself is the final and infallible
judge of it; for, as to pleasure, appearance and reality are
identical. His actual pleasure or displeasure when in
direct relation to the object, constitutes the proof or dis-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
269
proof to others, of any assertions or predictions that they
may have made as to what, in terms of his point of view, is,
or will turn out to be, immediately good. Such an other, to
whom the prediction may have been made, may of course
be, or have been, living under the same skin as the self
who verifies the prediction; but it cannot be strictly the
same self.
cas
2
Possible standards of criticism of aesthetic objects. The
foregoing remarks embody the essential propositions of a
general theory of criticism, which cannot itself be argued
here in greater detail, but of which an outline was neces-
sary since it constitutes the foundation of the opinions on
the criticism of works of art and aesthetic objects, to be
set forth in this chapter.
The principal standards of criticism that may be used
in connection with works of art and aesthetic objects are
as follows:
(a) A work of art may be considered as such, i.e., as the
product of an endeavor on the artist's part to express ob-
jectively something he felt, and the question be raised
whether or not it is good, in the sense of expressing that
feeling adequately.
(b) The question may on the other hand be asked
whether the work adequately expresses not so much the
feeling that the artist originally attempted to express
through it, but rather a feeling which on consideration
he is willing to acknowledge as truly an aspect or part
of himself.
(c) A work of art may, however, be considered also in
the light of its capacity to communicate to others the
feeling that the artist objectified in it, and be judged good
or bad according to the measure of that capacity.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
(d) Again, any aesthetic object, whether it be a work
of art or a natural thing, may be criticized simply in respect
to its beauty or ugliness.
(e) Any aesthetic object, whether natural or a product
of art, may also be criticized in the light of the worth of
the sort of action through which the particular feeling
obtained in the contemplation of the object will tend to dis-
charge itself, if, when that feeling has been obtained, the
practical attitude is then allowed to replace the contem-
plative.
These various standards of criticism will now be exam-
ined in turn.
coo
3
Success of the attempt at self-expression, as standard.
The most common form of criticism of works of art is
criticism in terms of beauty and ugliness. The terms
beautiful and ugly, however, have no meaning whatever
in terms of the creating artist's point of view, but only in
terms of the spectator or "consumer," whether he be the
artist himself later contemplating and evaluating his cre-
ation, or someone else. That which is evaluated in terms
of beauty and ugliness is therefore not at all the work of
art as such, viz., as product of the artist's endeavor to give
his feeling embodiment in an object, but only the object it-
self that the spectator contemplates, and wholly without
reference to the question whether that object is a product
of art or of nature.
On the other hand, criticism of a work of art considered
as such, would be concerned solely with the measure of
success or failure of the art, i.e., of the artist's attempt
consciously to objectify his feeling. It is obvious, how-
ever, that no one but the artist himself is in a position to
say whether, or how far, he has succeeded in creating an
-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
271
object adequately embodying his feeling. The test of
the success of his attempt at objectification, as we have
seen, is whether the object created does, in contemplation,
mirror back the feeling which he attempted to express.
What that feeling was, however, is something which is
known to no one but himself; and therefore he alone is in
a position to perform the test. If the artist is able to
say: "Yes, this exactly reflects back to me the feeling I
had," then the last word has been said as to that, i.e., as to
the success of his attempt at objective expression of his
feeling. It may quite properly be insisted, however, that
success of that sort is something which is of interest to no
one but himself, or, possibly, his mother or his wife. Con-
scious objectification of feeling, as defined by that test, may
therefore be termed private or individual objectification,
as distinguished from social objectification, the test of
which would be the object's capacity to impart in con-
templation the artist's feeling not merely back to himself,
but on to others also. Criticism in terms of this test will
be considered presently.
cas
4
Signability of the work of art by its creator. As already
noted, however, the artist's final criticism at least, of his
own work, is likely to be based not so much on the question
whether the feeling which he finds he has objectified is
exactly that which he attempted to objectify, as on the
question whether, after thoroughly "tasting" (through
contemplation of his work) the feeling he has actually
objectified, he finds it to be one that he is willing to own,
i.e., to acknowledge as being really a part or aspect of his
emotional self at the time. In other words, the question
is whether the work he has created is one which he hon-
estly feels he can sign.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
It is obvious that, again, no one but the artist himself
is in a position to criticize his own work on that basis.
Criticism of this sort would normally accompany criticism
of the kind first mentioned, which passes on the question
of the sameness of the feeling actually objectified, and of
the feeling which was to be objectified.
As pointed out earlier, this sameness obviously cannot be
sameness in every respect, but only qualitative sameness.
Such qualitative identity of the two feelings, however,
leaves room for gain in clearness and vividness of the
given quality of feeling, as a result of the process of ob-
jectification. Such a gain in clearness and vividness be-
yond question occurs, but it is the only respect in which the
feeling need become different through the process of ob-
jectification. Indeed, the qualitative identity of the feel-
ing before and after objectification is an absolute prereq-
uisite, if one is to be able to say that it is that feeling
which has been clarified. That the feeling should be clear,
however (in the sense in which it is possible for a feeling
to become so), is in turn a prerequisite of criticism of one's
work in terms of the second question mentioned above,
namely, the question whether it constitutes objectifica-
tion of an emotional self truly one's own.
It is perhaps unnecessary to point out in this connection
that approving on this basis the object that one has cre-
ated is quite a different thing from finding it beautiful.
The pleasure which such approval does express is pleas-
ure found, not in the feeling objectified by the work (which
would be what would constitute the work of art beautiful),
but in the success of one's attempt to objectify an aspect
of one's emotional self; and this latter pleasure remains,
whether the feeling objectified be a pleasurable or a pain-
ful one, i.e., whether the object created be beautiful or
ugly. The difference is analogous to that between the
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
273
pleasure of having succeeded in stating accurately some
thought that one had, and the pleasure (or displeasure) of
finding true (or false), on reflection, the statement that
one has made.
cos
5
Signability of the work of art by the beholder. Criti-
cism of a work of art (and equally of a natural object) on
the basis of the question whether one is willing to own the
feeling which it objectifies, is possible to others than the
artist himself. The only difference is this. When the
artist answers that question in the negative, he then pro-
ceeds to alter the object he has created until he finds him-
self able to say: "Yes, the feeling which this now objecti-
fies is truly a part of myself." But when the critic on this
basis, is someone else than the artist, that critic is then
not trying to objectify his feeling himself, nor therefore is
he called upon to make alterations in the object before
him. His problem is simply to decide whether or not the
thing before him objectifies a feeling that was his, or one
that perhaps he had not yet experienced but that he is
able and willing to call his. And once more, this decision
is one quite distinct from the question whether or not the
feeling objectified is pleasant and the object therefore
beautiful. Most of us are quite able to obtain pleasure
from various sources of which we are ashamed; so that the
self that experiences pleasure from such sources is not
one which we acknowledge as truly our own, but only a
self with which we find ourselves saddled, and of which
we cannot get rid.
§ 6
Capacity to transmit the artist's feeling to others. To
say that a given aesthetic object (whether natural or a
274
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
work of art), objectifies a certain feeling means, we have
agreed, simply that that feeling is obtainable from it in
contemplation, and we have just seen that, with regard to
such a feeling, the question can be raised, by others as
well as by the maker of the object (if it be man-made),
whether the feeling objectified in it is a feeling that they
are willing to own.
We saw too that another question distinct from this
can be asked, namely, the question whether the feeling ac-
tually objectified, i.e., obtained from the object in con-
templation, is qualitatively the same as that which the
artist originally endeavored to objectify. We may now
go on and point out that this question, like the preceding
one, can be asked (if not, perhaps, answered) by others
than the artist himself. When others than the artist ask
it, what they do is to consider the work of art as a possible
means for the conveying to them of the feeling which the
artist endeavored to express.
Expression of a feeling in a manner adequate to impart
it in contemplation not merely back to the artist himself,
but also on to others, may be called socially objective, as
distinguished from expression which is only privately or
individually objective.
Whether an artist's expression of a feeling which he had,
achieves private objectivity, is something which, as we
have noted, cannot be decided by others; but can be de-
cided by the artist, since both of the feelings the qualita-
tive sameness of which is in question are facts of his own
experience. Social objectivity of the expression of a feel-
ing, on the contrary, is not something the achieving of
which can ever be strictly proved or disproved either by
the artist or by others, since God alone would be in a posi-
tion to compare directly the two feelings experienced by
two persons in contemplation of the same object. All
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
275
that can be said is that the two feelings will be qualita-
tively the same (i.e., social objectification of the feeling
will be a fact), if the two (or more) persons concerned
are alike in their psycho-physical constitutions. Of this,
however, we can make no direct observation either, or at
least none that will be adequate. Any conclusion that we
reach as to the sameness of the feeling that the two per-
sons each have on the given occasion, has therefore no
other status than that of an inference from their observ-
able behavior, which here would be mainly verbal be-
havior, viz., their words. And any such conclusion, there-
fore, is reliable only so far as the two persons use their
words in the same sense. But whether two people use
their words in the same sense is something which, in ulti-
mate analysis, can be checked up only through the act of
pointing. This means that it can be checked up only in
case a word signifies something that can be pointed to,
and even in such cases, the sameness that is insured is
sameness only so far as purposes of coöperation are con-
cerned. For intance, if I say that by "green" I mean
something which I actually point to, and another person
accepts my use of the word, all that we then know is that
we call by the same name whatever color we each perceive
in the place pointed to. We do not in the least know that
the quality of sensation which the one experiences when
he looks there, is the same quality as that experienced by
the other. It is quite conceivable, for instance, that all
my sound sensations in response to given stimuli should
be pitched one octave above those which another man has
in response to the same stimuli. If this were so, all rela-
tions between sounds would be left unaltered by this dif-
ference, and the answers of each of us concerning questions
of intervals, pitches, tone-color, etc., would agree per-
fectly although we never in fact would be hearing liter-
276
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
ally the same thing. The literal qualitative sameness of
the subjective experiences of two persons, such as their
sensations and feelings, could be ascertained only if we,
or some third party, were in a position to compare the
experience of the two in the same direct manner in which
anyone of us can compare, for instance, two of his own
sound sensations, or two of his own emotions.
Such literal qualitative sameness, of course, has no
practical importance whatever. For all practical pur-
poses the only thing important is the sameness of the rela-
tions, which can be checked up by pointing. But where
the transmission of feeling for purely aesthetic purposes
is concerned, the literal qualitative sameness of the feel-
ing is on the contrary the only sort of sameness then rele-
vant. Oratory, in probably the majority of cases, is pri-
marily skilled work. That is, the orator is usually not
primarily intent upon transmitting integrally his own feel-
ings to his auditors, but rather upon inspiring them with
any feeling that will express itself practically in the sort
of behavior he desires of them, — voting, fighting, sub-
scribing to a fund, or what not. But with the artist it is
otherwise. The poet, for instance, if he reads his verses
to others at all, is not concerned to make them do anything,
but only to have them reproduce in themselves the very
feeling which he sought to objectify. Only literal same-
ness of the feeling will do here. The most enthusiastic
praise of an artist's work by someone else is disappointing
to the artist and makes him feel more alone than adverse
but discriminating criticism would, if he believes the
praise to be based upon a misperception of what he sought
to express. Pragmatic sameness of feeling, i.e., sameness.
of behavior after contemplation of the object, has no
relevance here except in so far as it may constitute evi-
dence of literal qualitative sameness of feeling. And
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
277
that it constitutes any evidence of it at all is ultimately
nothing but a postulate, a fond hope of the gregarious
heart, the fulfilment of which is never actually to be veri-
fied. But it is nevertheless a hope that the gregarious
heart does entertain, and does stake upon.
Just this, viz., staking upon a hope, is what constitutes
making a postulate, as distinguished from merely stating
one. But when once is made the general postulate that
sameness of behavior constitutes evidence of sameness of
feeling, then under that postulate the strength of the evi-
dence becomes a matter of the degree of sameness of the
behavior, and of the variety of respects in which that
sameness obtains. This theoretically precarious criterion
of literal sameness of feeling being the only one available,
it is the one we actually use to decide whether another
person gets or (with more confidence) does not get from
the contemplation of a given object the same feeling that
we do. The same thing may be put in other words by
saying that that criterion is the one we use to decide
whether or not a given work of art is good, considered as a
means of conveying some certain feeling from one person
(who may or may not be the artist) to another.
cos
7
Judgments passed on aesthetic objects constitute in-
formation concerning the judge. It is interesting to note,
however, that that criterion may, under the same postu-
late, equally be used to judge, not the worth of the work of
art as instrument of transmission of feeling, but the range
and nature of the feeling-capacity of the person to whom
we exhibit it. For what a person's reaction to a given aes-
thetic object is or is not signifies fully as much concerning
him as concerning the object. He may thereby be re-
278
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
vealed, for instance, as learned, or intelligent, but aes-
thetically insensitive; or as aesthetically sensitive, but
without knowledge about works of art, or without much
aesthetic past experience and aesthetic perspective; or as
possessed of a highly specialized sort of aesthetic sensi-
tivity; or of an aesthetic sensitivity which we ourselves.
should call perverted, or exaggerated; and so forth.
88
Connoisseurship. This directly leads to the question
what exactly constitutes a person a "connoisseur," and
what do a connoisseur's pronouncements signify.
ence.
A clue to the answer may be found in what we find our-
selves spontaneously saying on the concrete occasions
where we discover that a given person is not a connoisseur
of something or other. The discovery is likely to be ex-
pressed by us in the remark that he cannot tell the differ-
This clue, however, must not be followed blindly.
We cannot define a connoisseur as a person who can "tell
the difference," for the important matter here is not ca-
pacity to tell it, but capacity to know it. Moreover,
among those who "know the difference," we must distin-
guish between those who know it as it were by proxy, i.e.,
by inferring from memorized signs a difference which they
have learned that others would perceive; and those who
"know the difference" in the sense of concretely experienc-
ing it themselves. It is to these, I should say, that the
name of connoisseurs most properly belongs, although
when confronted by the distinctions to which I have just
called attention, linguistic usage in regard to the term
"connoisseur" must I think acknowledge itself hazy. Let
us suppose that we have before us two men, one of whom
can experience the difference concretely himself but can-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
279
not tell it to others, (i.e., cannot conceptualize it); and the
other, a man who cannot himself experience it concretely
but is able to infer it from signs learned and to formulate
it conceptually to others. We should I think say that it
is the former rather than the latter who is truly a connois-
seur. The second we should rather describe as an intelli-
gent echo; or compare him, perhaps, to the trained re-
porter who, himself barren of deeds and blank of adven-
tures, writes up those of automobile magnates and African
pioneers. Such a person is not a connoisseur, but only the
mouthpiece of a tongue-tied connoisseur. Or, the most
that could be said of him is that he is a connoisseur at
second-hand. However, although one may be tongue or
pen-tied and yet truly a connoisseur, one may also be truly
a connoisseur, and yet not be tongue or pen-tied. That
is, one who knows the difference through his own direct
experience may well also be able to state it in concepts.
Although neither capacity involves the other, the two are
quite compatible; and to the man who has both, the name
of connoisseur would be disputed by no one.
We must next inquire, however, just what being able
to experience the difference, means. Most people are
amply aware of a difference between, for instance, "Home,
Sweet Home," and "The last Rose of Summer"; that is, if
one is played after the other, they are aware that the
second melody is not the same as the first. Or again, if
one of these melodies is played first in one key, and then
in another, most people, I suppose, are aware that the sec-
ond time their experience is somewhat different from the
first. But a much smaller number of persons would be
aware of any difference if the same melody were played
first in perfect tune, and then with a note here and there
slightly off pitch; and probably a still smaller number, if
the difference were between the melody as played, let us
280
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
say, first by Elman and then by Kreisler, each behind a
screen. But, the number of those aware of any difference
would dwindle down to relative insignificance if, instead
of a simple melody played by two different violinists, the
test were, let us say, a Beethoven symphony as interpreted
by two different conductors. In each of these supposed
cases, the sort of difference referred to is, let it be empha-
sized, difference in feeling import of what is heard, whether
or not accompanied by awareness of a conceptually ana-
lyzed difference between the objects, such as awareness
of difference in pitch, recognized as such, would consti-
tute.
A person, we may then say in general, is a connoisseur
in proportion as he is capable of experiencing directly
differences of which others remain unaware. And in par-
ticular he is connoisseur in aesthetic matters, when the dif-
ferences he intuits are differences in the aesthetic feelings
and the aesthetic pleasure obtained in the contemplation
of closely similar aesthetic objects; but not when the differ-
ences of which he is aware are merely differences between
the objects themselves. In that case he is merely fitted
to be an expert detective of such historical facts as author-
ships, periods, influences, fine points connected with the
technique of the medium, etc.; or an augur, expert in
reading the signs on the basis of which can be predicted
the aesthetic experiences of certain persons or classes of
persons. Connoisseurship in such things, however, is
quite compatible with nearly complete emotional and alge-
donic anaesthesia. The art-critic's essential business is
not to "consume" works of art, i.e., to contemplate them
aesthetically, but to write or talk about them, i.e., around
them; and the best art-critics are not infrequently per-
sons of the type just described, who are connoisseurs of
everything about works of art, except of the work's aes-
-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
281
thetic import. Indeed, it has been said, I believe by
Müller-Freienfels, that the best critic must be a man
who has no taste. His essential interest being in matters
which do not require the aesthetic experience, capacity
for the latter and inclination to it, could only distract his
attention.
M
S
But even in connection with the definition of the true
aesthetic connoisseur given above, certain reservations
must be made. The aesthetic connoisseurship of a given
person may be confined not merely, as usual, to some
particular aesthetic field such as that of music, poetry,
painting, etc., but to some very limited aspect of one of
those fields. For instance, in the field of painting, a per-
son may possess high aesthetic sensitivity to color differ-
ences, and yet be aesthetically very insensitive to line or
shape differences; or he may be sensitive to line differ-
ences but not to differences of "values," i.e., of lights and
darks; or again he may be sensitive to the feeling-import
of the design aspect as a whole, but virtually anaesthetic
as regards the feeling-import of the dramatic aspect, or
vice versa; and so on. Aesthetic connoisseurs of such
specialized sensitivity may be good guides but are bad
leaders. They are useful if one allows them to lead one's
attention for a time, but dangerous if one lets them capture
it and permanently mold it to the warp of their own.
Again, it should be clearly realized that the nature of
aesthetic connoisseurship is one thing, and the value of
it another. The capacity to intuit differences to which
others are insensitive constitutes connoisseurship, what-
ever it is worth. It has a worth, but it also has a cost,
the nature of which is suggested by the saying that where
ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise. The usual reason
why a "fool's paradise" is not as good as any other is that
it soon leads one into some sort of purgatory owing to its
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practical connections. Aesthetic "fool's paradises," how-
ever, are relatively free from such connections, and so far
as this is the case, they are as good as any others. Indeed,
if one should elect to measure worth purely in terms of
aesthetic value (as one may well do where aesthetic ob-
jects are concerned), one would have to say that there
are then no such things as aesthetic fool's paradises, but
that all aesthetic paradises are genuine, and equally capa-
ble of filling with bliss the individual cup of such persons
as find themselves at home there. Connoisseurship makes
possible aesthetic pleasures, and also pains, which persons.
who are not connoisseurs cannot experience. But it also
makes impossible the aesthetic pleasures which none but
aesthetically less sensitive souls can taste, and the cor-
responding pains, such as that of the aesthetic bafflement
and bewilderment experienced by such a tune-hungry
soul, in listening to a symphony.
Increase in aesthetic sensitivity may then with equally
good reasons be described as progress or as perversion.
Which of the two one calls it depends usually on whether
one's own aesthetic sensitivity is changing (and in what
direction), or on the contrary "standing pat" at a place
where it finds itself happy.
The upshot of these remarks is then that to call upon
the aesthetic connoisseur for an answer to one's own ques-
tions of aesthetic worth, is, when considered in broad day-
light, as ludicrous a procedure as would be the letting some
person whose taste in matters of cookery differs from ours,
but who is a connoisseur of foods, while we are not, choose
our dainties for us. What he may do for us is to introduce
us to delicate dishes of which we knew nothing and which
perhaps will disclose to us pleasures hitherto unknown.
But if after tasting these connoisseur's dishes we do not
like them, or do not find them more enjoyable than our
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283
own familiar foods, we should be fools indeed to pick our
menu according to our gourmet's taste rather than our own.
Coarse the latter may be called by him; but we too have
a stock of poisoned, question-begging adjectives, out of
which we may without fear of refutation call his taste per-
verse.
cos
9
Beauty as standard. The account of standards of criti-
cism of works of art and other aesthetic objects given up
to this point has remained throughout essentially inde-
pendent of the notion of beauty. But the endeavor per-
sistently through the present work to leave that notion
out wherever possible is not due to an underestimation
of the importance of beauty. It is due only to a desire that
the notion of beauty shall not, as usual in works on aes-
thetics, spread itself like a spot of fragrant conceptual oil,
haphazard over the whole subject. In these pages, on
the contrary, the endeavor has been to define in the sharp-
est possible manner both what is, and what is not, the true
place of beauty in the philosophy of art.
But now, after all the eloquence with which I have so
far not brought in beauty on every occasion, I may without
fear of misunderstanding freely acknowledge, or rather vig-
orously assert, that beauty is a perfectly legitimate stand-
ard (among others) in terms of which to evaluate works
of art; that it is the standard most commonly and spon-
taneously used; and that of all standards of evaluation,
it is the one here most obviously and directly relevant.
Indeed, if beauty should have anything like the commend-
able affinities and hidden relations that Plato, perhaps
rightly, ascribed to it, one might well then claim that
beauty is not only the most naturally and generally em-
ployed standard of criticism of works of art, but also
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the most significant from the point of view of human life
considered as a whole. While such far-reaching worthy
affinities and hidden relations are not implied by the
definition of beauty which I have proposed, they could
not, on the other hand, be regarded as precluded by that
definition, except on the puritanical assumption that
whatever is pleasant is somehow bad. I have myself more
sympathy with the opposite assumption, that whatever
is pleasant is somehow good, not only directly but also
in the fundamental tendencies of its affinities. However,
I shall not attempt to argue this matter here; nor do I
claim it to be much more than an article of faith, to be
held cautiously and practiced with discrimination.
§ 10
Beauty is relative to the individual observer. Beauty, it
will be recalled, was defined as the capacity of an object aes-
thetically contemplated to yield feelings that are pleas-
ant. This definition cannot be characterized simply
either as objective, or as subjective. According to it,
"beautiful" is an adjective properly predicable only of
objects, but what that adjective does predicate of an ob-
ject is that the feelings of which it constitutes the aesthetic
symbol for a contemplating observer, are pleasurable.
Beauty being in this definite sense dependent upon the
constitution of the individual observer, it will be as vari-
able as that constitution. That is to say, an object which
one person properly calls beautiful will, with equal pro-
priety be not so judged by another, or indeed by the same
person at a different time.
There is, then, no such thing as authoritative opinion
concerning the beauty of a given object. There is only
the opinion of this person or that; or the opinion of per-
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285
sons of some specified sort. When one has stated the
opinion and mentioned the person or class of persons who
hold it, one has gone as far as it is possible to go in the
direction of a scientifically objective statement relating to
the beauty of the object. When some matter (as that of
beauty) is not of the sort which "is so," or "not so," in an
absolute sense, the nearest approach that one can make
to the wished-for absoluteness lies in furnishing, as fully
as possible, the data to which the matter in question is
relative; and this is what one does in the case of beauty
when one indicates just who it happens to be, that judges
the given object beautiful or the reverse.
All that was said above concerning aesthetic connois-
seurship, i.e., concerning superior capacity for experienc-
ing difference in aesthetic feeling in the presence of slight
differences in the aesthetic object, applies equally here,
where differences in the pleasantness of the feelings are
particularly in question. There are connoisseurs of
beauty, or, more often, of particular sorts of beauty;
but their judgments of beauty are "binding" on no
one. Indeed it is hard to see what could possibly be
meant by "binding" in such a connection, unless it were
an obligation on others to lie or dissemble concerning the
aesthetic feelings which in fact they have or do not have
on a given occasion. There is, of course, such a thing as
good taste, and bad taste. But good taste, I submit, means
either my taste, or the taste of people who are to my taste,
or the taste of people to whose taste I want to be. There
is no objective test of the goodness or badness of taste, in
the sense in which there is an objective test of the good-
ness or badness of a person's judgment concerning, let us
say, the fitness of a given tool to a given task.
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
§ 11
Why we have a natural inclination to think otherwise.
What makes it so difficult for us to acknowledge that judg-
ments of aesthetic value, i.e., of beauty and ugliness, which
are truly judgments about objects, are not universally and
necessarily valid, but on the contrary valid, except by
chance, only for the individuals who make them, is that
we are so constantly occupied otherwise with judgments
concerning instrumental values. These have to do with
relations of the object judged, to other objects, and such
relations are socially observable, and the judgments con-
cerning them socially valid. That a given railroad bridge
is a good bridge can be proved or disproved by running
over it such trains as we wished it to carry, and observing
whether or not it does carry them. But there is no simi-
lar test by which the beauty of a landscape could be proved
or disproved. Judgments of beauty (which is an immedi-
ate value) have to do with the relation of the object
judged to the individual's own pleasure experience, of
which he himself is the sole possible observer and judge.
Judgments of beauty are therefore in this respect exactly
on a par with judgments of the pleasantness of foods, wines,
climates, amusements, companions, etc. Like these they
are ultimately matters of the individual's own taste. It is
of course quite possible that two persons, or two million,
should have similar tastes, i.e., should happen alike to
find pleasure in a given food or wine, or to obtain pleasur-
able feelings in contemplating aesthetically a given picture,
melody, etc. But such community in the experience of
pleasure, even then remains a bare matter of fact con-
cerning just the persons who have it in common, and leaves
wholly untouched the equally bare fact that other per-
sons - whether many, few, or only one- find not pleas-
ure but displeasure in the very same objects.
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The fact that judgments of immediate value (such as
judgments of aesthetic value) differ from judgments of
mediate value in being incapable of proof, or disproof,
and are therefore binding (except by accident) only on
the individual who makes them, seems to be entirely over-
looked by Professor Thomas Munro, in his recent inter-
esting short book, Scientific Method in Aesthetics. Start-
ing from the fact that the essence of science is verification,
-"a constant checking up of results by various workers
in the same subject," he goes on to say that, "carried
over into aesthetics, this would suggest a systematic com-
parison of notes on the results of individual experiences
in art. Its aim would be to discover more specifically
how people agree and how they vary in aesthetic responses
and critical appraisals" (p. 56). But supposing we should
thus discover some widespread agreements and thereby
be enabled to formulate some probable predictions, I then
ask, what of it? What exactly will this prove concern-
ing the aesthetic merits of the objects judged, and to
whom will it prove it? And what is anybody going to
do with information of that sort? Truly it is scientific,
but it is information not about laws of the objects studied
(as in chemistry, or mathematics), but about the public
who looks at the objects. And art-creation is no manu-
facturing of spiritual candy, that the artist should need
to inquire, and cater to, what the market happens to like.
And supposing half-a-dozen people, or a hundred, agree
that a certain melody is "gay and sprightly" (p. 58), what
of it? If this is mere description, it is indeed either true or
false, but is then no more criticism, no more involves
any "oughts" or "ought-nots," than, say, the asser-
tion that a given animal is a dog. If on the other hand
the assertion that the melody is "gay and sprightly" con-
stitutes criticism, - implies praise or blame, then the
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fact that a hundred people evaluate the melody alike has
neither more nor less significance than the fact of a hun-
dred people being similar in liking (or disliking), say,
caviar, or tobacco. What Professor Munro regards as
constituting scientific method in aesthetic criticism, seems
to me, for these reasons, to be on the contrary the using
of scientific method in the study of facts wholly irrelevant
to aesthetic criticism, for the ultimate and sole founda-
tion of aesthetic criticism is indidivual taste such as it hap-
pens to be, and whether shared or not.
Beside the fact that we are so constantly occupied with
instrumental values, however, and tend unconsciously to
carry the habits of thought acquired there into the realm
of immediate values, there are other human traits which
explain, or manifest themselves in, our persistent reach-
ing for rules also in the domain of aesthetic values. Most
of us, for instance, instinctively abhor anything that savors
even remotely of anarchy, and refuse to consider the pos-
sibility that a realm of anomic values may exist where
anarchy would be legitimate. We fear that if we should
grant it the right to live even there, anarchy (or shall we
say freedom?) would come forth a monster elsewhere and
bite us. Again, whatever is individual is unpredictable
and therefore likely to be upsetting; and we ourselves,
hating and dreading the responsibility of being ourselves,
cling for dear life, or it may here be dear death — to
any seeming ready rules that would promise to save us
from the need. Were one to lean on modern slang for a
contribution to the ancient game of differentiating the
species homo, one could well say that man is the animal
that loves to "pass the buck" to a rule! But, like the
fact or dislike it, there is a realm where each individual is
absolute monarch, though of himself alone, and that is
the realm of aesthetic values.
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STANDARDS OF CRITICISM 289
§ 12
Beauty cannot be proved by appeal to consensus, or to
the "test of time," or to the type of person who experiences
it in a given case. In the light of what precedes, it is ob-
vious that the familiar attempts to prove the beauty of
certain works of art by appeal to the consensus of opinion,
or to the test of continued approval through long periods
of time in the life either of society or of the individual, are,
like the appeal to the connoisseur's verdict, entirely fu-
tile. Such tests cannot possibly prove the object's beauty
to those who do not perceive any in it; and to those who
do, they are needless. They prove nothing whatever,
except that beauty is found in the object . . . by such as
do find it there.
We might attempt to rank beauties on the basis of the
particular aspect of human nature, or type of human being,
that experiences aesthetic pleasure in given cases. This
would lead to a classifying of beauties as, for instance,
sentimental, intellectual, sexual, spiritual, utilitarian, sen-
suous, social, etc. We might well believe in some certain
order of worth or dignity in the human faculties respec-
tively concerned, but this would not lead to any aestheti-
cally objective ranking of beauties. To suggest it would
be as ludicrous as a proposal to rank the worth of various
religions according to the average cost of the vestments of
their priests. For a ranking of beauties, there are avail-
able only such principles as the relative intensity of the
pleasure felt, its relative duration, relative volume, and
relative freedom from admixture of pain. These princi-
ples, however, do not in the least release us from the need
of relying upon the individual's judgment; on the contrary
their application rests wholly upon it.
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§ 13
Beauty cannot be proved by appeal to technical prin-
ciples or canons. It may yet be thought, however, that
there are certain narrower and more technical requirements
in the various fields of art, without the fulfilling of which no
work can be beautiful. Among such alleged canons of
beauty may be mentioned the rules of so-called "harmony"
in music; various precepts concerning literary composi-
tion; unity; truth to nature; such requirements as consis-
tency, relevance, and unambiguity; and so on. There are
indeed "rules" or "principles" of that sort, some of which
are, I will freely declare, valid for me; so that when I find
myself confronted by flagrant violations of them, I am apt
to feel rather strongly, and to be impatient or sarcastic
about "that sort of stuff." And indeed, on occasions when
I have found myself inadvertently guilty of having drawn
some line or written some sentence in violation of my own
aesthetic canons, I have at times felt as ashamed of the line
or the sentence as I should of having picked somebody's
pocket. I admit having pronounced opinions about the
beauty or ugliness of various things, and what is more, in
many cases I am able to give reasons for my opinions.
But of what nature are those reasons? They are, ulti-
mately, of the same nature as would be that offered by
a man arguing that my pen had to fall when I let go of it
a moment ago, because of gravitation. Gravitation is
but the name we give to the general fact that unsupported
objects do fall, and at a certain rate; but it is not a reason,
or cause, or proof of that fact. To say that something
always happens, is not to give any reason why it ever does.
Therefore when I say that a certain design is ugly because
it is against the "law of symmetry," I am not giving a
reason why it had to give me aesthetic displeasure, but
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291
only mentioning the fact that it resembles in a stated re-
spect certain others which as a bare matter of fact also
do displease me. This character which displeases me
and many persons, may, however, please others. And,
what is more directly to the point, it not only may but it
does, jazzy or uncouth though I may call the taste
of such persons. But what most obstinately drives me
to the acquisition of a certain, at least abstract, sense of
humor concerning the ravening intolerance and would-be-
authoritativeness of my own pet canons of beauty, is the
fact that they have changed in the past, and that I see no
reason why they should not change again in the future.
For all I can see to prevent it, I may well to-morrow,
next year, or in some future incarnation, burn what I aes-
thetically adore to-day, and adore what I now would burn.
If this happens, I have no doubt at all that I shall then
smugly label the change a progress and a development of
my taste; whereas to-day I should no less smugly describe
the possibility of a change of that sort in me, as a possibility
that my taste may go to the devil. And, let it be noted,
the sole foundation upon which either of the two descrip-
tions would rest, would be the fact that the describer actu-
ally possesses at the time the sort of taste which he does.
Tastes can be neither proved nor refuted, but only "called
names," i.e., praised or reviled.
Certain limited and empirical generalizations have been
found possible concerning factors upon which the aes-
thetic pleasure of most people, or of some kinds of people,
appears to depend. Precarious generalizations of this
sort may be found for instance in manuals of design and
of pictorial composition, where they are often dignified
by the name of "principles." People familiar with them
may then be heard to say that a given picture, perhaps,
is well composed and why; or that the tones, the masses,
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
or the values are, as the case may be, well or ill balanced,
and so on.
Other statements that we may hear and which
also imply "principles," would be that the color is clean,
or else muddy; that the drawing is, perhaps, distorted;
that the surfaces are well modelled; that the lines are
rhythmical; that the color combinations are impossible;
that the masses lack volume or solidity, etc. The words
beauty and ugliness may not occur once, but it is never-
theless obvious that all such statements are not merely
descriptive, but critical. They are not direct assertions of
aesthetic value or disvalue, viz., of beauty or ugliness, but,
taking it as an obvious fact, they attempt to trace it to
certain definite sorts of features in the work. The more
intelligent and better informed kind of art-criticism is of
this analytical and diagnostic sort, and there is nothing
beyond this that the art-critic could do.
All such comments, worded in the technical jargon of
the particular craft, have the imposing sound of expert
judgments based upon authoritative principles, and are
likely to make the lay consumer of art feel very small and
uninitiated. Therefore it cannot be too much emphasized
here that a given picture is not ugly because the composi-
tion of it, or the color combinations in it, are against the
rules; but that the rule against a given type of composi-
tion or of color combination is authoritative only because,
or if, or for whom, or when, compositions or combinations
of that type are actually found displeasing. All rules and
canons and theories concerning what a painting or other
work of art should or should not be, derive such authority
as they have over you or me or anyone else, solely from
the capacity of such canons to predict to us that we shall
feel aesthetic pleasure here, and aesthetic pain there. If
a given rule predicts this accurately for a given person, that
person's actual feeling of aesthetic pleasure or displeasure
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293
then, proves that that rule was a valid one so far as he is
concerned. That is, the feeling judges the rule, not the
rule the feeling. The rule may not be valid for someone
else, and it may at any time cease to be valid for the given
person, since few things are so variable as pleasure. The
actual experience of beauty or ugliness by somebody is
the final test of the validity of all rules and theories of
painting, music, etc., and that test absolutely determines
how far, and when, and for whom any given rule or theory
holds or does not hold.
The difference between the criticisms of the profes-
sionals, and those of the people who, having humbly prem-
ised that they "know nothing about art," find little more
to say than that a given work is in their judgment beau-
tiful, or as the case may be, ugly or indifferent; the dif-
ference, I say, between the criticisms of professionals and
of laymen is essentially that the former are able to trace
the aesthetic pleasure or displeasure which they feel, to
certain features of the object, while the latter are not
able to do it. From this, however, it does not in the least
follow that the evaluations of the professionals ultimately
rest on any basis less subjective and less a matter of in-
dividual taste than do those of the layman. Indeed, so far
as the non-professionals really judge at all, i.e., do not
merely echo an opinion which they have somehow been
bluffed into accepting as authoritative, their judgment
is based on the fact that they actually feel something.
The artists and professional critics, on the other hand,
are exposed to a danger which does not threaten people
who know nothing of the factors on which aesthetic pleas-
ure or displeasure has in the past been found to depend for
most people, or for some particular class of people, the
danger, namely, of erecting such empirical findings into
fixed and rigid rules, and of judging the work of art no
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longer by the aesthetic pleasure it actually gives them,
but by that which they think it "ought" to give them ac-
cording to such rules. This danger is really very great,
especially for the artist, who, in the nature of the case, is
constantly forced to give attention to the technical means
by which the objective expression of his feeling is alone
to be achieved. Having thus all the time to solve tech-
nical problems, it is fatally easy for him to become inter-
ested in them for their own sake, and, without knowing it,
to be henceforth no longer an artist expressing what he
feels, but a restless virtuoso searching for new stunts to
perform. This may be the reason why so many of the
pictures displayed in our exhibits, although well-enough
painted, make one feel as though one were receiving a spe-
cial-delivery, registered, extra-postage letter, just to
say, perhaps, that after Thursday comes Friday!
Listening to the comments of artists and of some critics
on a picture will quickly convince one that, strange as it
sounds, they are as often as not almost incapable of seeing
the picture about which they speak. What they see in-
stead is brush work, values, edges, dark against light,
colored shadows, etc. They are thus often not more but
less capable than the untrained public of giving the picture
aesthetic attention, and of getting from it genuinely aes-
thetic enjoyment. The theory that aesthetic appreciation
of the products of a given art is increased by cultivating
an amateur's measure of proficiency in that art, is there-
fore true only so far as such cultivation results in more
intimate and thoroughgoing aesthetic acquaintance with
the products of that art. This is likely to be the case in
an interpretative art like music (not music-composing).
But in an art which, like painting, is not so largely inter-
pretative, and is at the same time dependent on rather
elaborate technical processes, the amateur practitioner's
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attention is from the very first emphatically directed to
these processes; and, when it is directed to extant works
of art it is directed to them as examples of a technique
to be studied, not as aesthetic objects to be contemplated.
The danger is then that such technical matters will come
to monopolize his attention habitually, and that even
in the face of nature he will forget to look at her, wonder-
ing instead whether the water or the sky be the brighter,
or what color would have to be used to reproduce the ap-
pearance of a given shadow. Attention to technique is
of course indispensable to the acquisition of it; and mas-
tery of technique is in turn necessary to the production
of art on any but the most humble scale. The risk is
that the outcome of technical training will be not mastery
of technique, but slavery to it. This risk disappears only
when the technical apparatus has become as intimately a
part of the artist as the hand is of the body for ordinary
purposes, and is used without requiring attention. The
attention can then turn from the means to the ends of art,
viz., to the objective expression of feeling. But the stage at
which technique has so become second-nature as to be for-
gotten, is not often fully reached. With most artists,
what we may call their technical savoir-faire creaks more
or less, as does the social savoir-faire of people who have
become emilyposted but lately. Like the nouveaux gen-
tlemen, such artists are too conscious of their technical
manners, and forget what they are for.
§ 14
Beauty and accuracy of representation. Among the
special criteria by which the merit of works of art - espe-
cially paintings is judged by many, there is one about
which something should be said here, namely, accuracy of
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representation. Accuracy of representation is important
from the standpoint of aesthetic criticism only so far as
beauty happens to be conditioned by it. Representation,
in painting, is a relation between the perceptual varicol-
ored canvas and the aesthetic object, when that aesthetic
object is not simply a flat design as such, but contains
imaginal and conceptual elements. Accuracy of repre-
sentation of the intended aesthetic object, by the percep-
tual canvas is thus not in itself an aesthetic but a noematic
merit. Nevertheless it is a merit which is indispensable
since without it the intended aesthetic object (in the sort
of cases considered), would be set up before the attention
either not at all, or only in altered form.
Accuracy of representation of the aesthetic object is of
course not at all the same thing as accuracy of representa-
tion of the model. An accurate representation of a model
is, merely as such, not a work of art at all, but only a docu-
ment, a piece of reliable information about the appear-
ance of an existing object. If it is accurate, the copy will
indeed have more or less the same aesthetic import and
value as the model itself, but that copy as such will none
the less be only a work of imitative skill. It will not be
a work of art unless it also constitutes the conscious ob-
jective expression of a feeling experienced by the painter.
Accuracy of representation of the aesthetic object, on the
other hand, means only that the perceptual canvas sets.
up clearly before the ideational attention just the aesthetic
object that embodies the feeling which it is intended should
be obtained in contemplation.
Photographic accuracy of drawing, and faithfulness of
representation of persons or things, provokes the pleasure
of recognition, and admiration of the painter's capacity
to act as a color camera. But this does not mean that
his work is a work of art; nor even that he has created
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297
something beautiful, if the object which he has "photo-
graphed" happens not to be so. On the other hand, the
fact that various elements are out of drawing in some pic-
tures in which the artist is expressing himself in terms of
represented objects, does not mean that they are neces-
sarily ugly. What is important for beauty is not truth but
plausibility. A dramatic entity represented may in fact
be distorted, but it is not on this account ugly if it does
not look distorted. Contrariwise, if something which in
fact is photographically accurate looks distorted or un-
plausible, it will be disagreeable in aesthetic effect. The
works of El Greco, who is famous for his distortions of
drawing, illustrate this. Some people have thought that
something was wrong with his eyes; but the true explana-
tion of his distortions is much more probably his preoccu-
pation with the design-aspect of his paintings. When
his design needed a line or thing of a particular shape and
size at a certain place, and the object represented at that
place happened to be, say, a human leg incapable of the
needed shape and size, then it was so much the worse for
the leg. Either design or accuracy of representation had
to be sacrificed, and in such cases El Greco did not hesitate
to sacrifice the latter. Whether ugliness is produced
thereby, however, depends on whether the sacrifice is ob-
vious, the inaccuracy flagrant. In many places it is
not; and it does not there constitute an aesthetic fault.
Where the distortion is not plausible, on the other hand,
but thrusts itself upon our notice as distortion, it gives rise
to ugliness and is therefore to that extent aesthetically bad,
whatever aesthetic gains it may otherwise involve. Only
the addicts of design, who are satisfied with but a half of
what an aesthetically complete beholder demands, fail to
see this. On the other hand, to the painter who justifies
this or that bad part of his picture by insisting that
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"nature looked just like that," the answer is that even if
she did, she ought not to have, so far as beauty was con-
cerned. As often has been said, when truth is stranger
than fiction, it does not make good fiction, but only news
for the papers.
§ 15
Criticism of aesthetic objects in ethical terms. Instead
of asking whether a work of art or other aesthetic object
is beautiful or ugly, i.e., whether the feeling obtained in
aesthetic contemplation of it is pleasant or unpleasant,
we may on the contrary disregard this and ask whether
the feeling so obtained by a person is or may become con-
nected with the rest of his life, and in what manner it may
affect it for good or ill. The ethical or the religious worth
of the feelings obtained in aesthetic contemplation of
works of art, it will be recalled, would have been made by
Plato and by Tolstoi the ruling standard in terms of which
to judge art as good or bad. It is worth noting, however,
that standards of evaluation cannot themselves be evalu-
ated, except in terms of some standard not itself in any
way vindicated, but only dogmatically laid down. And
any standard evaluated in this manner may itself equally
well be laid down in turn as absolute, and be used to eval-
uate the standard which before was evaluating it. Argu-
ments about the relative worth of various standards of
worth are therefore wholly futile, inasmuch as, in the very
nature of the logical situation, every such argument must
to begin with beg as its premise the point essentially at
issue. Ultimately, then, a given standard can only be
sympathized with and adopted, or the reverse; and logic
can come in only after this has occurred. Plato's and Tol-
stoi's choice of the ethical or religious nature of the aes-
thetic feelings imparted, as ruling standard for the evalua-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
299
tion of art, is legitimate, but it constitutes only a mani-
festation of their own ruling interest, and a different choice
of ruling standard is equally legitimate by anyone else
whose ruling interest happens to be different. With these
remarks concerning the permissibility, but the arbitrari-
ness, of describing any one standard of worth as "supreme"
or "ruling," we may leave the matter, and now simply con-
sider the question raised, namely, whether the feelings ob-
tained in aesthetic contemplation may affect the rest of
one's life, and how.
The value other than aesthetic that aesthetic feelings
may have depends upon the fact that if, when a feeling
has been obtained through aesthetic contemplation, the
aesthetic attitude is then given up and replaced by the
practical, that which had up to that moment the status of
aesthetic feeling now assumes that of impulse.
So long as our state is properly describable as aesthetic
feeling, its value is immediate and intrinsic, and consists
in the pleasantness or unpleasantness of the state. But
when our state comes to be properly describable as im-
pulse, then its value is as usual to be measured in terms
of the eventual significance of the impulse. An impulse is
a seed of conduct, and an aesthetic feeling is at least a
potential seed of impulse; the terms in which we com-
monly appraise conduct are therefore potentially ap-
plicable to it.
G
The impulse or embryonic conduct resulting from the
transmutation of an aesthetic feeling through a shift to
the practical attitude, may be either a novel impulse in
the life of the individual, or not. If it is an impulse of a
sort already experienced and more or less established,
with characteristic modes of manifestation in the life of
the person concerned, then the reëxperiencing of it as
aftermath of aesthetic contemplation will not affect the
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
individual's life qualitatively, but only quantitatively.
It will be simply fuel to an engine already existing and
functioning; it will add to the intensity of some aspect
of life but will not alter it in kind, except perhaps indi-
rectly if the changes of intensity involved are such as to
upset an equilibrium previously existing, and thus force
the recasting of life in a different qualitative pattern.
If however the impulse is a novel one in the life of the
individual, then it constitutes directly the seed of a change
in the kind of life that has been his. The evolution
(whether towards good or evil) of the will-aspect of man's
nature does not take place merely through increases in
his knowledge of the facts and relations that constitute
the field of action of his will, but also through the advent
in him of qualitatively novel impulses. Indeed, it might
well be argued that mere increase in the quantity as dis-
tinguished from the nature of one's knowledge and ex-
perience, only furnishes one with new means for the
service of old ends, or makes one better aware of the ends.
to which one's hitherto blind impulses tended; but that,
however such increase of knowledge may transform the
manifestations of existing longings or impulses, it does.
not of itself alter their intrinsic nature. Transformation
in the nature of the impulses themselves (apart from mat-
uration) seems traceable to experiences of two sorts.
One of them is awareness by the individual of the pres-
ence of a practically real situation novel in kind in his life.
This may call forth in him an impulse hitherto foreign to
him. The other is what we might call the surreptitious
implantation of the impulse itself in him, through the
transmutation which we are now considering of an aes-
thetic feeling into an impulse, by a shift to the practical
attitude.
The aesthetic contemplation of nature and of various
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
301
aspects of life is, through such a shift of attitude, a source
of germs of new impulses, and of food for old ones. Some
persons are known to the writer, in whom the contempla-
tion for the first time of the ocean, or of great mountains,
seems to have produced feelings comparable in point of
novelty and depth to those reported by the mystics, and
the aftermath of impulse due to which gave to life a differ-
ent pattern, somewhat as does a religious conversion. But
art is capable of being as much more effective in the sow-
ing of such seeds of novel impulse, as, for instance, the
study of existing records is more effective than personal
investigation in acquiring a knowledge of geography. For
one thing, art is usually easier than nature to contemplate,
being, we might almost say, made for that. Again, when
nature was its model, art may be described as at least a
drastic editing of nature, supplying what she forgot, omit-
ting what was irrelevant, accenting her here or there into
unambiguity. The work of art, being created specifically
to give objective expression to a given feeling, is likely to
have a pointedness of feeling-import which nature matches
only by accident. The work of art, moreover, can be con-
templated at length, and returned to again and again,
whereas natural facts and the aspects they show us are
mostly beyond our control. They come and go heedless
of the conditions which alone would make it possible for
us to contemplate them adequately. But lastly, art, al-
though in some ways it falls short of nature, has in an-
other way a range of resources far greater than nature's,
for it has at its command the boundless resources of the
imagination. What it cannot present it often can repre-
sent, and thus set up before our attention objects of con-
templation never to be found in nature. It can lead us
into new worlds, in the contemplation of which our feeling-
selves spontaneously burgeon and bloom in all sorts of
302
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
new ways. Some poems, some music, some statues and
pictures, have had in an extraordinary degree this power
to bring to birth in people qualities of feeling that had
remained latent in them. One such work of art is Leon-
ardo's Mona Lisa. Art theorists whose fundamental
dogma is that the end of painting is the representation of
plastic form, and who find that picture but indifferently
successful in this respect, cannot understand why the theft
of it a few years ago should have been deemed a world-
calamity. Their only explanation is the aesthetic inepti-
tude of mankind at large. They cannot see that design
and the representation of plastic form is not the whole
of the art of painting, but is rather a means which may be
used to the ends of art, when it is important to those ends.
Not the aesthetic ineptitude of mankind, therefore, but
the sophomoric character of the measuring-rod by which
such theorists would judge Leonardo's picture, is the lesson
of the effect produced by that famous theft. There are
doubtless people who, in a similar way, would insist on
characterizing Socrates essentially as a Greek who was
not a "good provider."
ang
§ 16
Liberalism in Aesthetics. The principal standards in
terms of which works of art and aesthetic objects may be
criticized have been considered above, and the general
nature of the conclusions reached concerning the signifi-
cance and validity of such criticisms may now be summa-
rily characterized.
Judgments of mediate or instrumental value are capa-
ble of being proved or disproved. Their truth or falsity
is objective, in the sense that it is not conferred upon them
by the individual's taste, but is a matter of connections
in nature independent of the critic's taste. But the
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
303
relevance or importance, if not the truth, of any judgment
of mediate value, is a matter of the individual critic's taste
or constitution, since for any such critic that relevance de-
pends on a judgment of immediate value by him.
As regards judgments of immediate value, and in par-
ticular of beauty and ugliness, it seems to me that here
as in other fields, ultimate analysis leads unavoidably to
the particular constitution of the individual critic (no mat-
ter how he may have come by it), as the necessary and suffi-
cient ground for all such judgments. The constitutions
of numbers of individual critics may, of course, happen to
be alike in some respects; or they can be made more or less
alike by subjecting them to the sort of psychological pres-
sure appropriate to the causation of such a result. If a
number of critics are constituted alike in some respects,
then any one of them will be able to formulate value judg-
ments with which will agree as many of the other critics
as are constituted like him in the respects needed for such
agreement! I cannot see that "objective validity" in the
case of a judgment of immediate value, means anything
whatever but this; namely, several people judge alike be-
cause they are constituted alike. But whether a given
taste be possessed by one person only, or by a thousand
alike, the maxim that de gustibus non est disputandum,
holds with regard to it.
Is there then no such thing as the refining and educating
of taste? Certainly there is, and there is also such a
thing as perversion and depravation of taste. But the
question in any given case is, which is which? No one
so far as I know has yet pointed out any way of answering
this question otherwise than arbitrarily and dogmatically,
i.e., otherwise than in terms of the taste actually possessed
by some person or other, usually oneself, arbitrarily taken
as standard. That question, indeed, is hardly ever frankly
304
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
faced. Those who have approached it at all seem always
to have labored under the strange delusion that if only
they succeeded in showing that the tastes of a large number
or a majority of people were alike, the question was an-
swered; whereas the truth is on the contrary, as just
pointed out, that mere numbers have no bearing whatever
on the question. Taking a vote is only a device for ascer-
taining in advance what would be the outcome of a fight
between two groups of people, if every person were as
strong as every other and strength alone counted. "Proof"
by appeal to a vote is obviously but a civilized form of the
argumentum ad baculum.
It may be asked, however, whether in the absence of any
standard of immediate value objectively valid in any sense
other than that described above, it is not possible at least
to point to some respects in which the (immediate) value
judgments of all people whatever, would agree. Nobody
whatever, it may be urged, likes great hunger or thirst or
cold, or cuts and burns, etc. Now it may be granted that
certainly not many do. But after all there are masochists
and ascetics and martyrs. It may be true because tautolo-
gous that nobody likes pain; but we must keep in mind
that pain and pleasure are the predicates, not the subjects,
of immediate-value-judgments. Their subjects are things,
situations, experiences. The question is thus not whether
painfulness is ever pleasurable, but whether there are any
situations or experiences which everybody without excep-
tion finds, for instance, painful. And this is very doubt-
ful. We can probably say only that with regard to some
situations or experiences, the dissentients are very few.
And as we have just seen, numbers mean nothing at all
in such a matter.
This brings us to what may be called a dogmatico-
liberalistic position. Neither I nor anyone can refute any-
STANDARDS OF CRITICISM
305
one else's judgments of immediate value, here, of beauty
and ugliness; nor can anyone refute mine. This is the
liberalistic aspect of the situation. The fullest insight
into it, however, constitutes no reason whatever why any
one should hold to his own immediate valuations any the
less strongly. That our own opinion must in the nature of
such matters be dogmatic is no reason why it should not
be honest, vigorous, and unashamed.
APPENDIX
"Significant Form"
In recent years, the term "Significant Form" has gained a cer-
tain vogue among persons whose interest in aesthetics does not
take them beyond the outskirts of the subject. The term was
coined by Mr. Clive Bell in his book, Art. It supposedly de-
notes a species of aesthetic value other than those commonly
recognized, but analysis of Mr. Bell's would-be account of it
quickly reveals that in fact he gives it no meaning. It is a
wholly empty, but sonorous and catchy phrase. An account,
in lighter vein, of the merits of it, which was published by the
writer some years ago in The Nation is here reproduced in
slightly expanded form, that the antidote for the catchword
may be rendered permanently available.
Perhaps not everyone in this generation is acquainted with
Mark Twain's story of the Petrified Man. While he was editor
of a certain Western paper, Mark Twain printed a news item
describing with the utmost seriousness and much scientific de-
tail, the discovery of a petrified man. In the description, he
mentioned the fact that the thumb of the man's right hand
was against his nose, the fingers spread out, the thumb of the
left hand hooked into the little finger of the right, and the
fingers spread out likewise. Only, instead of saying it all at once
like this, he sandwiched the bits of the description in among
other items. Unbelievable as it may seem, nobody saw the
joke. The story was reprinted all over the world as a serious
307
308
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
item of scientific news, and actually appeared in the London
"Lancet."
Now a very similar, highly elaborate, and wonderfully baited
trap seems to have been laid, some years ago, by the talented
art critic, Mr. Clive Bell, for the innocent readers of his book
on Art. But the trap has worked so well and caught so many
that it soon became quite impossible for Mr. Bell, who is not
like Mark Twain a professional humorist, to let out the secret.
And by now he certainly must have developed a half-dozen com-
plexes, for an ingrowing joke is a terrible thing. Some attempt
must therefore in sheer kindness be made to relieve this awful
situation.
The joke concerns his famous term "Significant Form," which
makes its first appearance on page eight of his book. It is in-
troduced as an answer to the question: "What quality is shared
by all objects that provoke our aesthetic emotions?" We are
then told that in each such object "lines and colors combined
in a particular way, certain forms and relations of forms" are
what stir our aesthetic emotions; and that it is to these aestheti-
cally moving forms that the name Significant Form is to be ap-
plied. But if now we go on to ask just what particular way of
combination of lines and colors it is, that the name designates,
the only answer is, the particular way which moves us aestheti-
cally! Thus, Significant Form, like the X in a mathematician's
equation, turns out to be but the name which Mr. Bell proposes
to give to what he is looking for. Naming the baby before it
is born is indeed a legitimate and amusing pastime, but unfor-
tunately it does not tell us whether it is a boy or a girl, blue-
eyed or black, or anything else about it.
However, it might be thought that the simile is not fair,
for while a baby's name is a proper name and does not describe,
Significant Form appears to be a descriptive name; and thus
it perhaps does of itself constitute an answer after all. But
this possibility is left open by Mr. Bell, I fear, only to entice
us along to the second instalment of the joke. The cunning of
the man is truly devilish: he, so to say, trips us into the river;
then holds out to us a pole; and when we seize it in our agony he
APPENDIX
309
pushes us under with it. Thus we may think that Form at least,
has a pretty definite meaning, namely, whatever is other than
content. In visual art, we should suppose, whatever is other
than color. But if so we have reckoned without our author,
who tells us on page twelve that "the distinction between form
and color is an unreal one," because, forsooth, "you cannot con-
ceive a colorless line, or a colorless space . . . a boundary line
without any content, or a content without a boundary line."
That is as much as to tell us that because one cannot conceive
of an uncle without a niece or nephew, the distinction between
uncle and nephew is an unreal one! Thus Mr. Bell proposes
to use the word Form to mean both form and content which
is like saying that a Negro is a black man, and adding that black
is to be taken to mean white also. By this clever device of
making the word Form mean also its own opposite, Mr. Bell
has thus, as his little joke demanded, very neatly and quietly
robbed the term of all intelligible meaning.
He is no less adroit in the case of the word Significant, for he
writes: "For a discussion of aesthetics, it need be agreed only
that forms arranged and combined according to certain unknown
and mysterious laws do move us in a particular way, and that
it is the business of an artist so to combine and arrange them
that they shall move us. These moving combinations and ar-
rangements, I have called, for the sake of convenience and for
a reason that will appear later 'Significant Form'." This pas-
sage in effect informs us that so long as we confine ourselves
to aesthetics, and leave out what our author calls metaphysics,
the word Significant in the expression Significant Form is to
be taken not as a descriptive name as we thought, but as a
proper name only, a mere tag, which can be pinned on to things,
but which tells us about them only the fact that we did pin it on.
To avoid being misled by the so-called metaphysical mean-
ing of the expression, it would then be well for us, so long as we
confine ourselves to aesthetics, to replace it by an honest proper
name, for instance, Abracadabra. This done, we can better
observe what the "aesthetic hypothesis," as Mr. Bell deliciously
calls it, turns out to be when the veils wherewith his wit had
310
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
clouded its glory are torn asunder. It is this: The quality com-
mon to such lines, colors, and combinations of lines and colors.
as move us aesthetically is, that we shall henceforth call them
all Abracadabra! Mr. Bell, I submit, is much too clever to
have done a thing like that unawares. Morevoer, other evi-
dences of the plot confront us on every side.
For instance, the little joke about Significant Form would
have missed fire if Beauty had not been cleared out of the way
first, and it is interesting to note what our author has to say on
the subject, for he appears to have had a "metaphysical" axe to
grind at that point, in addition to that of the farceur. His ob-
jection to the use of the word Beauty is that everyone calls a
butterfly or a flower beautiful, but that no one feels for them,
or in general for natural beauty, the same kind of emotion that
he feels for a cathedral or a picture, namely, aesthetic emotion.
Therefore, to avoid misunderstanding, he says that what calls
forth the aesthetic emotion should not be designated beautiful.
However, in addition to the beauty of the butterflies, the
flowers, and the birds, he mentions also the beauty of woman
as something that is not aesthetically moving. All that is com-
monly meant, Mr. Bell believes, when a woman is called beauti-
ful, is that she has sex appeal. He does not say whether this
definition of beauty is intended also to cover the case of the
birds and the butterflies; but so far as concerns men who like
most of us venture to call not only women but at times also
other men, beautiful, it is obvious that on such a definition of
beauty, they belong in Reading Gaol.
Salvation from the slough of impurity in which we thus find
ourselves wallowing unawares would seem, however, to lie in
the possibility of making artists of ourselves, for Mr. Bell ad-
mits that artists at least are moved aesthetically by nature: that
is, what in it arrests their gaze is not the foulness which Beauty
is, but the pure sublimity of Abracadabra.
But this brings us from aesthetics where the word "Sig-
nificant" in the expression "Significant Form" had, according
to our author, no meaning into metaphysics, so-called. And
there, with the many hesitations and question-marks which are
Dogg
APPENDIX
311
the expected local color when metaphysics has been announced,
he proceeds to give the term a meaning as follows: Form that
moves us aesthetically is called Significant "because it expresses
the emotion of its creator."
With Tolstoi or might it perhaps be Croce? - thus brought
to the rescue, our hopes of solid nourishment suddenly rise.
But alas! we have here but the fragrant bit of intellectual cheese
which is to entice the guileless bohemian mouse into the cruel
trap of Mr. Bell's malicious contriving. For if the art which
moves us does so because it conveys to us something that the
artist felt, how is it that the same aesthetic emotion can be
provoked, at least in artists, by nature, which does not consti-
tute the expression of anybody's feeling, but just is? With this
question, which he so cleverly compels us to ask, the wicked.
author has almost drawn us to the place of execution. But now
Schopenhauer, in strict incognito it is true, is brought in to help
us over the last step. Natural objects, we are told, give rise
to aesthetic emotion only when one ceases to attend to their
associations, uses, origins, etc. And when a natural object.
is being thus viewed as what Mr. Bell pleases to call an end-in-
itself, then what there is left to provoke our emotion is, he tells
us, something which philosophers used to call "the thing-in-
itself," and now call "ultimate reality." A devilishly subtle
transition, that: End-in-itself, Thing-in-itself, Ultimate Real-
ity! One almost regrets that it should be but verbal. How-
ever, what comes next is the coup de grace; or shall we say,
, after
the analogy of Mark Twain's story, the grand pied de nez? It
is this: "Shall I be altogether fantastic in suggesting, what some
of the profoundest thinkers have believed, that the significance
of the thing-in-itself is the significance of Reality?"
I submit that in thus embodying the most arrant nonsense
in such marvellously impressive language, and with never even
a sly wink, Mr. Bell has crowned himself king of the wags. It
does seem like a scurvy trick, though, to have conjured up poor
Schopenhauer's ghost and made it squeak while the "dirty
work" was being done, just as though it really had something
to do with the business. One can almost hear the testy old
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PHILOSOPHY OF ART
philosopher turning in his grave, and asking how it is possible
to speak of a thing as in-itself, and at the same time make it
function as significant of something! But then, what's a little
contradiction in terms, among "metaphysicians"? Schopen-
hauer, however, instead of arguing the logic of that outrageous
statement, would more likely have roared at seeing the words
"significant forms," which he uses to proper purpose, wan-
tonly made a joke of under the shroud of a dim spook which,
on some intellectually dark night, might be mistaken for his own.
1
The people who have bought stock in a wildcat oil well usually
are those who most vehemently vouch for the soundness of the
enterprise; and it may therefore be expected that some innocent
who has taken stock in Significant Form will rush to its rescue.
The question, he will urge, is not what Schopenhauer said, but
what Mr. Bell maintains; and very likely what he has done is
to improve on Schopenhauer. Let us then see just where Sig-
nificant Form has been left by Mr. Bell.
+
When his glorious final suggestion, with the neat little internal
contradiction which so unobtrusively makes nonsense of it, is
left out of account, the only meaning which he has really as-
signed to Significant Form is this: Significant Form is that
which a work of art has when it expresses the emotion of the ar-
1 The passage is this: "As long as that which raises us . . . to aesthetic
contemplation . . . is this fittingness of nature, this significance and dis-
tinctness of its forms ; so long it is merely beauty that affects us.
. . . But if these very objects whose significant forms invite us to pure
contemplation, have a hostile relation to the human will in general
in that case he [the beholder] is filled with the sense of the sublime”
(World as Will and Idea, Eng. Tr. Vol. I, pp. 260/1). Any student of
Schopenhauer of course knows that in thus speaking of objects having sig-
nificant forms, what he means is objects the appearances of which to
perception are such as not to obscure, but on the contrary to display, the
forces of nature at work in them; e.g., a building in which the essential
structual elements are not covered up and hidden, but rather, empha-
sized, reveals the interplay between gravity and the rigidity of the ma-
terials of which it is made. In such cases, he holds, one directly intuits
the Platonic Ideas, i.e., as he conceives them, the forces of nature. But
this, he says explicitly, is not an apprehension of the thing-in-itself: "The
Ideas reveal not the thing in itself but only the objective character of
things, thus still only the phenomenon" (op. cit. Vol. III, p. 123).
• •
APPENDIX
313
tist who made it. But now, since gifted people do get aesthetic
emotions from nature as well as from works of art, "significant
form" cannot be essential to the object of aesthetic emotion.
That is, of course, unless we wish to divert ourselves by describ-
ing nature as a work of art perpetrated by an artist called,
perhaps, Mr. Reality, whose emotions it expresses. Those
emotions of his, of course, would then have themselves to be
originally quite objectless, like the impersonal, disinterested, ob-
jectless grouch with which one sometimes awakens in the morn-
ing. For to give an object to them we should have to suppose
two such cosmic artists, chasing each other, perhaps, around
some pristine vortex, and admiring the Significant Form of each
other's galloping callipygia. But such myth-making would be
on a level with that of a city-born child who knows stone only
as the stuff of houses, and who, finding an outcropping of rock
on his first excursion into the country, should insist that it must
be the house of some cosmic ground-hog called Mr. Reality.
Obviously the truth is not "without a house, no stone," but
on the contrary "without stone, no house." And likewise in the
case of art and nature, the truth is that unless objects naturally
gave us emotions in contemplation, works of art could not pos-
sibly be used as a medium of emotional intercourse. But the
mere fact that something imparts meaning (or feeling) to us,
does not warrant the inference that there is a mind behind the
thing, addressing us through it. When my cat is hungry, he
makes a sound like "gold fish," and this particular combination
of sounds means something to human hearers, but . . . well, the
obvious need not be labored.
Just how the arrrangements of lines, colors, sounds, etc., which
"move us aesthetically" differ from those which do it less well
or not at all, no one has yet indicated very exactly, Mr. Bell
less than anyone. But there is nothing to be gained by giving
a resounding name to that problem, and calling that the answer.
This would be like sucking one's own thumb for nourishment.
"Significant Form" is but a clever catchword for putting a real
aesthetic problem out of the way in a painless and humane
fashion. It puts one in mind of the advice of Goethe's Mephis-
314
PHILOSOPHY OF ART
topheles to the student: Why think when a pompous word will
serve so well? One is almost led to the conclusion that after all
Mr. Bell is a humanitarian rather than a wit, and proceeds on
the principle that where ignorance is bliss, why, chloroform
inquiry!


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