Previous: XIX. The Gathering Storm
It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable to every form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether he produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood, the artist is moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world about him; an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another man, and intensified, prolonged, by the power -- which comes to him we know not how -- of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of rare vitality....
For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our country. It began, I suspect, when the veritable artistic impulse of the Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time was all but exhausted. Principles always become a matter of vehement discussion when practice is at ebb... Goethe (the example so often urged by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity) took thought enough about his Faust; but what of those youthtime lyrics, not the least precious of his achievements, which were scribbled as fast as pen could go, thwartwise on the paper, because he could not stop to set it straight. Dare I pen, even for my own eyes, the venerable truth that an artist is born and not made?....
...Now I am... much disposed to take pleasure in the natural sprouts of my own wit -- without troubling whether the same idea has occurred to others... These natural sprouts are, after all, the best products of our life; it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world market. One of my conscious efforts, in these days of freedom, is to live intellectually for myself... [Amen, brother!] To what end, then, do I read and remember?... You read for your own pleasure, for your solace and strengthening. Pleasure, then, purely selfish?....
I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic understanding? -- nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my appreciation. Such harmony of intelligence is the rarest thing. All through life we long for it; the desire drives us, like a demon, into waste places; too often ends by plunging us into mud and morass. And after all, we learn that the vision was illusory. To every man is decreed: thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it. Those to whom no such happiness has ever been granted at least avoid the bitterest of disillusions. And is it not always good to face truth, however discomfortable? The mind which renounces, once and for ever, a futile hope, has its compensation in ever-growing calm. [see Spring VIII. special moments]
Alpha.
I’m not sure quite all artists are “inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world.” I suspect many, if not most, are inspired by suffering.
And so Goethe and Faust finally raise their inevitable heads... Since becoming immured in the study of Faust, I find references to Faust and Mephistopheles and Goethe everywhere.
That the artist is born and not made is, I think, best expressed in the film Amadeus. There is a frustrating twist to this reality of “the natural.” It is not just in art that people have a natural ability that far exceeds the average person -- this phenomenon is most obvious in sports... or possibly modeling. The twisted bit is that the satisfaction of accomplishment for the person with the ability to do something better, and with little effort, is also reduced. I might strive and labor to write a paragraph that ends up pleasing me greatly, but a true writer could dash off an improvement without a second thought and with even less pleasure.
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