{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_68241/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_68241","id":"gutenberg_68241","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68241","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Art","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Painting"],"text":"THE PROFANITY OF PAINT\n\n\n\n\n  THE PROFANITY\n  OF PAINT. BY\n  WILLIAM KIDDIER\n\n  LONDON: A. C. FIFIELD,\n  13, CLIFFORD\u2019S INN, E.C.,\n  1916\n\n\n\n\n  PRINTED BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.,\n  PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND\n\n\n\n\nTO LOVERS OF COLOUR\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n                                            PAGE\n\n   1. My Book is True                         11\n\n   2. My Friends the Trees                    13\n\n   3. The Profanity of Paint                  17\n\n   4. The Miserable Pursuit of Knowledge      21\n\n   5. The Gift of Silence                     23\n\n   6. The Magic of Words                      27\n\n   7. The Personal Note                       29\n\n   8. Colour                                  31\n\n   9. Extravagance                            33\n\n  10. Relation                                35\n\n  11. Tragedy                                 39\n\n  12. The Tonic of Genius                     41\n\n  13. Critics                                 43\n\n  14. The Closed Ear                          45\n\n  15. The Painter\u2019s Cigarette                 47\n\n  16. The People\u2019s Caf\u00e9                       51\n\n  17. The Middle-class                        53\n\n  18. The Masterpiece                         57\n\n  19. Mission                                 61\n\n\n\n\n1. My Book is True\n\n\nMy view-point is the painter\u2019s, the poet\u2019s; ah, I am a romanticist! But\nmy book is true. The romanticist finds truth without seeking it; it\nis before him, around him, and he gathers it all with the joy of the\nchild that plucks the flowers in the fields. _Truth_ is not knowledge:\nit belongs to temperament; it is vision! The child and the romanticist\nlove the beautiful, that is all: _truth_ is there!\n\n\n\n\n2. My Friends the Trees\n\n\nI have loved trees all my life; they were the friends of my baby years.\nThough the land of the trees seemed far away from the close-built\nhouses, I wandered thither with great joy and never knew that my little\nfeet were tired. The tall aspens were the most wonderful things in\nthe world: they are still. I shed tears on being told that the Cross\nwas made from one of them. I have wept since at the sight of their\ntrembling leaves. They trembled for the tragedy of Golgotha. I know\nthey will tremble to the end of the world. Melancholy trees! O but they\nare beautiful--beautiful and gentle like a nun with a prayer quivering\nupon her lips, with her white fingers and her rosary sparkling from\nunder her robe: and, lo, the aspens are all alike, as she and her holy\nsisters must needs be for the sake of their holiness.\n\nSensitive to all the changes of the sky, the aspen reflects wondrous\ncolour; the leaves, like a million little mirrors, draw the blue and\nthe purple from above and drink the orange from departing suns. And all\nthe colour and the light blend in subtle harmonies like the precious\npearls on the neck of a goddess. Ah! do they not pulsate like the\nstrings of beads on a maiden\u2019s breast? The vision is fleeting as it is\nbeautiful; the colour upon the leaves, like that in the dews around, is\nsurely spiritual.\n\n\n\n\n3. The Profanity of Paint\n\n\nAs a painter, out-of-doors, the aspens are my despair, for they are\nsurely beyond the limitations of paint. I once set my palette with\nbright colours with a grove of aspens in front of me: O, but when I\nlooked up into all the mass of shimmering leaves, spread out like a\ngarment inwoven with gems, flowing upon the breezes and toying with the\nrich dyes of heaven, I shut down my box, threw myself upon the grass\nand sat there in idle adoration, like a heathen before his god. If all\nI beheld was meant for a revelation it was surely as beautiful as the\nburning bush. To Moses I am more than grateful: it is through him that\nGod\u2019s voice rings out against the bad artist: _Thou shalt not make ...\nany likeness of any thing._ When God said the same thing to the Chinese\nthree thousand years ago they understood and have painted _colour_ ever\nsince. Why is the western world in the dark?\n\nO let my eyes be baptized with the sun that I may behold _colour_ like\nthe heathen!\n\nHow long I stayed in the temple of the trees I do not know; time did\nnot count because I was not at work: all was like a dream. If I had\nbeen a Florentine of the olden days I would have seen here the robes\nof a saint, perhaps the shining garment of the Blessed Virgin.\n\nI did well to close my box and keep my eyes unspoiled by the profanity\nof paint, leaving the pure impression to some happy occasion when the\nmemory of it all will be sufficient for my picture.\n\n\n\n\n4. The Miserable Pursuit of Knowledge\n\n\nThe trend of this book shows clearly that I am no realist. Although,\nin my solitude, years ago, I made many careful drawings of various\nthings and gained some knowledge of their mechanism, my labours\nbrought me no pleasure save the small satisfaction of having done a\nself-inflicted task after reading miserable books on art. In those days\nI pitied myself; but now I pity the miserable authors. The education\nof the painter is a mistake: educate the _man_! The painter will find\nhimself, sooner or later. If there is no painter in him his case is\nhopeless.\n\nArt education, so called, which is the training of the eye and the\nhand, gives one a facility for recording facts: _truth_ never. Truth\nis _felt_. To the painter, the poet, the romanticist facts are cold\nthings belonging to the past--dead things that have nothing to do with\nintuition, _vision_, _truth_. He must dream new dreams, employ new\nmethods, create new things! He is not a common creature and, therefore,\nshould not be entrusted with any public responsibility: but God grant\nthat in all the economic medley, called civilization, he may have the\nright to live.\n\n\n\n\n5. The Gift of Silence\n\n\nAlthough I write just the things I feel, my book is an effort: but I am\nglad of this. That I have no liking for any literary task and hate all\ncorrespondence I regard as a gift. My mother has a rarer gift: she does\nnot talk. She speaks when she has something to say and never utters\nempty words. O but she is eloquent! She clothes her thoughts with\nsimple language and stops at the right moment; it is a well-timed pause\nin which her face counts. Her intermittent silence is a master stroke;\nit gives the same sense of space that I would have in my picture.\nPerhaps it is beyond art, but it is all hers without an effort; arising\nout of her good soul it belongs to her nature.\n\nI see her too little; her home is in a village on the coast and mine in\nan inland city. That I shall miss her one day is the miserable thought\nI cannot get rid of without seeing her. O but when I arrive my fears\nvanish in a moment, for she lives for me. She is dear to look upon:\nbut when she looks at me my sense of spiritual security is greater\nthan can ever be described. I feel the influence of her peace which\nbrings mine back to me. Her eyes are aglow from silent thoughts of me,\nand I stay with no other desire than to be with her and believe in\nimmortality--believe all her belief!\n\n\n\n\n6. The Magic of Words\n\n\nThere is something in the art of the master that I can never find a\nword for. I believe it is a sin to seek for one. Art in the finer sense\nis beyond the limitations of all words assigned by the philologists.\nThe master is a magician, therefore it is only the poets that can speak\nwith authority about his work: and it requires all the magic of poetry\nto deal with the creation of things. Words must be arranged so as to\nlose all their etymological stiffness before they can ever express the\nthings born of inspiration. Only inasmuch as the poet\u2019s song transcends\nthe meaning of his words does he approach the spiritual sense of art.\n\n\n\n\n7. The Personal Note\n\n\nIn talking with brother painters I often find myself giving prominence\nto some particular word like _rhythm_, _vibration_, or _colour_:\nbut I must always forget the root-meaning, or I would discard it\nat once. I must employ my adopted word in a new way. Its special\nmeaning, though never explained, is communicated by repeating the\nword freely in various relations, pronouncing it with emphasis in an\nunexpected moment, or, again, pausing before its utterance so that\nthe appreciative ear may anticipate it and catch the spiritual sense\nintuitively and feel all I had attached to it from myself. It is\nnonsense to talk upon art without a personal note of this kind!\n\n\n\n\n8. Colour\n\n\nVery few understand how much _colour_ means to the colourist, or why,\nin the higher sense, like _music_ it has no plural. Colours are the\npigments, the materials: but _colour_ is the soul of things!\n\nI believe _colour_ belongs to the fairies; it never comes quite within\nour grasp. It is borne upon the air, its chariot is the morning\ndews, and its paths the sunbeams. I have come to regard _colour_ as\na spiritual thing changing for ever, as all spiritual things do. Of\na truth it is the beautiful emblem of _change_. The idea of eternal\nchange is fascinating beyond measure. God never created a _fixture_\nintentionally. We are immortal only inasmuch as we are eternally moving\nwith the thought of God!\n\n\n\n\n9. Extravagance\n\n\nI love the word extravagance in its application to _colour_; for is not\nthe sense of _colour_ an innocent _extravagance_ of the mind, which\nsaves the possessor from discontent and death? I know I shall not die\nwhile _colour_ floods in upon my eyes: it is the silent music of an\neternal vision!\n\n\n\n\n10. Relation\n\n\nThe other day at coffee with a group of young painters I talked upon\nthe importance of _relation_. I went so far as to say that no picture\ncould have any sense of dignity without the quality I have named.\nEverything in the work should, in some special degree, contribute to\nthe first idea. Nothing should be introduced for the sake of variety.\nNo; it is better to let _sameness_ be the principle.\n\nI have seen sheep grazing in a meadow with all their heads turned\none way, all quietly pursuing the same course, as though led by a\nsympathetic spirit, and I have felt that the peace of all the pastures\nwas undisturbed by their presence. I once saw a group of rustics with\nall their faces so nearly alike as to represent a distinct type; all\nbent upon the same work, pursuing the task with natural ease and\nunconscious order, and I felt the nobility of their occupation, the\nblessedness of labour. And when I have seen such people kneel before\nthe crucifix with their heads bowed towards the east and have noted\nfrom behind the simplicity in their manners, the _sameness_ in all\ntheir clothes, I have felt the fervour of their religion, the divinity\nof poverty that makes them all unconsciously _relative_!\n\nBut if I want humour I get into a motor-bus and watch the mixed types,\nthe short and the long, the fat and the thin, the hook nose and the\nsnub; and I get it. But does not the motor-bus show the painter the\nconfusion of ideas he must always avoid in his work?\n\nI sometimes think there is humour in trees when cultivated by people\nwho, from an insatiate love of variety, plant one of every kind\naround their lawns. No artist, unless he was mad, would record such a\nconfusion of things as this.\n\nOf a truth trees can only be painted by the sympathetic hand, one\nthat can make a simple group out of all around him, selecting only\nthose that, by their forms, shall contribute to the artistic sense\n_relation_! In a word, the painter must never aim for likeness; the\nmaterial sense should never be transferred to canvas: more than\nanything else trees have superb rhythmic tendencies: inspired by these,\nhe should paint a rhythmic picture.\n\n\n\n\n11. Tragedy\n\n\nThe sky was impressive by its change from sunlight to sudden darkness;\nand the ethereal fabric hung like black velvet over all the woods. All\nthe colour that a moment ago clothed the trees was gone in an instant,\nas a candle is blown out; and the world was without form.\n\nI stood under a tree. The sense of my own presence was the only note of\nreality that disturbed the dream of pre-world void.\n\nIn a few minutes the heavens opened high above my head and a stream of\nlight slanted down upon an old oak. Perhaps it was the searchlight of\na war god, for in a moment the oak was struck, and the earth shook as\nit fell. I was captivated as much by the greatness of the tree as by\nits fall; it was torn up with its roots with a mountain of clay in its\ngrip. But more wondrous than all were the forewarned sheep that nestled\nunder it to the last moment. Why did they all rise and leap forth into\nthe open field? What made them flee before the blast?... There are\nsanctuaries which should never be unveiled: there are questions you\nshould not attempt to answer--this is one.\n\n\n\n\n12. The Tonic of Genius\n\n\nThere never was a colourist without a keen sense of humour and never\nwithout a generous soul. When I say humour I do not mean satire or\nanything that leaves a bitter taste. Satire is permissible with the\ncommunity, but should never be directed against a person.\n\nHumour must always be buoyant, pleasant in every way, and have no other\nmeaning than that which makes the person who happens to be the sport\nof it laugh with the rest. The one so honoured must, of course, be a\ngenuine humorist, or he would be unworthy of special attention.\n\nHumour is the tonic of genius. It is the healthy reaction of prolonged\nserious thought, the pleasant negative of stern reality, the divine\nintoxicant for the over-productive brain.\n\nI have always felt that the past should be either forgotten or turned\nto humour. The only serious part of life is the present, but this\nshould have its lighter side. When we have ceased to laugh we have done\nwith all generous feeling, and, when this is dead, it is the end of all\ncreative thought.\n\n\n\n\n13. Critics\n\n\nA book is not worth its paper if it cannot suffer by the process of\ncritical mutilation; writing, and also painting, must be viewed as a\nwhole, but never pigment by pigment or line by line. Every paragraph\nread separately must call forth some opposite view or else the book is\npoor stuff. Every inch of the picture closely viewed by itself must\nbewilder the observer; otherwise, it is a weak, insipid, belaboured\ncanvas, good for nothing. I tell you for your own sake: _do not hold a\nmicroscope in front of genius_!\n\n\n\n\n14. The Closed Ear\n\n\nIf I listened attentively to the things that others say my work would\nlose character. To pay attention to criticism is to pursue the process\nof laboured refinement which reduces all to the commonplace. Critics\nwith much knowledge are people with retrospective minds; they cannot be\nof use to the born painter whose work is creative. Knowledge is related\nto things already accomplished; but the vast unexplored fields open\nto creative genius are beyond the range of all critical analysis. The\npainter, more than any other, lives a life of spiritual change.\n\nLook at the sky! The luminaries return, return, return! To the\nscientist they move with regularity and precision; but to the\nromanticist they shed new light every moment. The astronomer knows the\nfacts: the poet _feels the truth_!\n\n\n\n\n15. The Painter\u2019s Cigarette\n\n\nThere is a certain something in a cigarette that gives character to the\npainter\u2019s conversation. The cigarette itself plays an important part\nin timing the frequent pauses to suit the wit of genius. The curls of\nsmoke punctuate a series of brilliant aphorisms which otherwise would\nbe impossible. The painter has the gift of making parables. The fact is\nhe talks from feeling rather than reason. He never makes a speech: he\ntells you something. But is he not charming withal?\n\nHe has no self-restraint. The cold, placid surface, the cultivated\nevenness that is counted a valuable asset in the man of business, in\nthe politician and the millionaire, is not his, thank God!\n\nIn his heart he is a child. He will talk about himself and his own work\nso frankly that you will always be interested if not wholly charmed.\nUnselfish in every vein, his grievance is never a personal one; it has\nno bearings save for his art. From this point the matter is soon beaten\nflat under his hammer of words. If he had not the courage to say all\nhe felt he would be no painter! But do not be deceived: his fearless\ntongue has a fine counterpart deep in his heart. As a man in the right\ncapable of strong denunciation, he is the man you may safely approach\nand trust!\n\n\n\n\n16. The People\u2019s Caf\u00e9\n\n\nI prefer the caf\u00e9 of the people, and never visit any that has an\nexclusive atmosphere unless I am obliged. I do not care to see many\nrich people at one time. It was ordained that the percentage of rich\nshould always be small, therefore a crowd of them in one spot is bad\nform, often bad colour, and mostly confusion. A group of artisans never\ngives me any unpleasant thoughts: it is the natural order of things;\nthe poor were regarded by Our Lord as the multitude.\n\n\n\n\n17. The Middle-class\n\n\nThat I belong to the middle-class is my chief misfortune; it is\nbetter to be born an aristocrat, but better still an artisan. To the\nmiddle-class belong all the money makers: builders of monopolies,\npolitical wire-pullers, and all that spells greed. These people buy\neverything and sell everybody. With them lying is an art, whereas\nfor the poor it is only a pastime. The aristocrat--the product of\nluxury and idleness--is as much above any mean action as he is at\nloss in managing his own affairs. He must employ agents: _enter the\nmiddle-class_! To them he entrusts all his worldly belongings, with an\nintuitive knowledge that he is robbed always and will be as long as he\nlives. He knows they pursue his money with all the zest that he pursues\nsport. But he always carries the same bright face, the same kind heart;\nand he would pay to the last penny. O but how strange, his agents\nsave him from ruin! and the people on the land contribute more to the\nmiserable business than is known to my lord, more than they themselves\never realise: and so the middle-class remains the back-bone of the\nEmpire. But what does this mean? The truth is that God made the lord\nand the labourer: the rest is mainly the work of the devil!\n\n\n\n\n18. The Masterpiece\n\n\nI once told a young artist to attempt no masterpiece. The thing cannot\nbe done. The moment you think of doing a masterpiece you are befooled.\nProvidence does not allow you to arrange anything of that kind. All\nyou must do is paint with a generous heart--paint _colour_--and leave\nto the next generation the selection of your masterpiece. The painter,\nabove all men, must be himself, without any regard for the world\u2019s\njudgment. Do not be deceived: Time will decide the masterpiece--_Time\nwill destroy it!_\n\n  From out the ageless oceans in the west,\n      Where lazily the gods of new worlds rise\n      And stretch their mighty limbs across the skies--\n  Insatiate giants roused from out long rest--\n  Uprose a Titan whose dark arms and breast\n      Blackened the sea and drew the gull\u2019s shrill cries;\n      In his dark head he rolled his gloating eyes\n  And kept his cruel lips together pressed.\n\n  The sea that bore him was the eternal pit;\n      Into its depths he threw the dreams of men--\n      Threw with one stroke ten thousand tomes of rhyme,\n  As many works of art, each once deemed fit\n      To live. One was a masterpiece! Ah, then\n      These words came forth: _I am the Tomb of Time!_\n\n\n\n\n19. Mission\n\n\nWhat is the painter\u2019s mission? My dear sir, he has no mission. He may\ntalk about anything and everything, but this is his pastime. His art\nshould not be connected with any movement. Painting is a personal\nmatter and, therefore, cannot be regulated by communities. When\nthe painter talks he throws light upon himself, which is necessary\nsometimes; it may help others to understand him. The painter must be\njudged, in the end, from his own point of view: it is the only moral\njudgment for an honest man!\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTE:\n\n\n  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.","title":"The profanity of paint","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":3482}