20 July 2020

A Process of Discovery and Disentanglement

T. E. Hulme, "Bergson's Theory of Art," Speculations (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co., 1936), pp. 149-150:
The process of artistic creation would be better described as a process of discovery and disentanglement. To use the metaphor which one is by now so familiar with — the stream of the inner life, and the definite crystallised shapes on the surface — the big artist, the creative artist, the innovator, leaves the level where things are crystallised out into these definite shapes, and, diving down into the inner flux, comes back with a new shape which he endeavours to fix. He cannot be said to have created it, but to have discovered it, because when he has definitely expressed it we recognise it as true. Great painters are men in whom has originated a certain vision of things which has become or will become the vision of everybody. Once the painter has seen it, it becomes easy for all of us to see it. A mould has been made. But the creative activity came in the effort which was necessary to disentangle this particular type of vision from the general haze the effort, that is, which is necessary to break moulds and to make new ones. For instance, the effect produced by Constable on the English and French Schools of landscape painting. Nobody before Constable saw things, or at any rate painted them, in that particular way. This makes it easier to see clearly what one means by an individual way of looking at things. It does not mean something which is peculiar to an individual, for in that case it would be quite valueless. It means that a certain individual artist was able to break through the conventional ways of looking at things which veil reality from us at a certain point, was able to pick out one element which is really in all of us, but which before he had disentangled it, we were unable to perceive. It is as if the surface of our mind was a sea in a continual state of motion, that there were so many waves on it, their existence was so transient, and they interfered so much with each other, that one was unable to perceive them. The artist by making a fixed model of one of these transient waves enables you to isolate it out and to perceive it in yourself. In that sense art merely reveals, it never creates.
John Constable, The Wheat Field (1816)

18 July 2020

Tennyson Weather

 J. L. Carr, A Month in the Country (London: Penguin Classics, 2000), p. 54:
Deep red hollyhocks pressed against the limestone wall and velvet butterflies flopped lazily from flower to flower. It was Tennyson weather, drowsy, warm, unnaturally still.

A related post: A Disinclination to Sleep Away From Home


Frederick Carl Frieseke, Hollyhocks (1913)

17 July 2020

Would You Turn Your Muses into Maidservants?

Lionel de Fonseka, On the Truth of Decorative Art (New York: Henry Holt, 1913), p. 41:
“Do you think then that it detracts from the dignity of an art to be used as an instrument of social reform?”

“Come, come, I appeal to your sense of decorum. Would not a proper Greek have been shocked if Zeus deserted the majesty of his throne on Olympus, usurped the function of the lame god Hephaestus, and set about tinkering? Would you turn your Muses into maidservants?”

Hat tip: Charles E. Burchfield, via Anecdotal Evidence


Henri Martin, La Muse du pientre (c. 1900)

14 July 2020

Spiritual Swamp Fever

J. K. Huysmans, Les Foules de Lourdes (Paris: P. V. Stock, 1906), pp. 213-214 (my translation):
In the past there were scandals every day, but of course we were unaware of them. Now the press spreads them everywhere, even into the most remote corners of the country — and for quite some time they have made us less considerate and less deferential.

No one believes in the honesty of politicians any more, or in the value of generals, or in the independence of judges; no one thinks that the clergy are saints. Without allowing for the exceptions that still exist, we have thrown the peaked cap, the white wig, and the galero into the same bag and sent them all off to the dump. At the moment we are suffering from a kind of malaria of disrespect. No one is safe from this spiritual swamp fever; everyone is affected by it to some extent because no one can escape the atmosphere of his age, and people have even less hope of eluding the demonic influences that are more intense today than they have ever been... The devil is in everything we think, in everything we say, and he is the very air that we breathe.

Félicien Rops, Satan Sewing Weeds (1906)

9 July 2020

6 July 2020

Menace, Madness, Written and Spoken Lies

Alfred Tennyson, “Locksley Hall Sixty Years After,” lines 104-114,  The Complete Poetical Works of Tennyson (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1898), p. 520:
Chaos, Cosmos! Cosmos, Chaos! who can tell how all will end?
Read the wide world's annals, you, and take their wisdom for your friend.

Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past,
Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.

Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise —
When was age so cramm'd with menace? madness? written, spoken lies?

Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn,
Cries to weakest as to strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.'

Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
Charm us, orator, till the lion look no larger than the cat,

Till the cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom
Larger than the lion, — Demos end in working its own doom.

G. F. Watts, Alfred, Lord Tennyson (c. 1863)

30 June 2020

A Vision Lost and Buried in a Very Different Past

George Grant, Lament for a Nation (Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1994), p. 25:
Growing up in Ontario, the generation of the 1920s took it for granted that they belonged to a nation. The character of the country was self-evident. To say it was British was not to deny it was North American. To be a Canadian was to be a unique species of North American. Such alternatives as F. H. Underhill’s - “Stop being British if you want to be a nationalist” - seemed obviously ridiculous. We were grounded in the wisdom of Sir John A. Macdonald, who saw plainly more than a hundred years ago that the only threat to nationalism was from the South, not from across the sea. To be a Canadian was to build, along with the French, a more ordered and stable society than the liberal experiment in the United States. Now that this hope has been extinguished, we are too old to be retrained by a new master. We find ourselves like fish left on the shores of a drying lake.

Id., pp. 55-56:
The crucial years were those of the early [nineteen] forties. The decisions of those years were made once and for all, and were not compatible with the continuance of a sovereign Canadian nation. Once it was decided that Canada was to be a branch-plant society of American capitalism, the issue of Canadian nationalism had been settled. The decision may or may not have been necessary; it may have been good or bad for Canada to be integrated into the international capitalism that has dominated the West since 1945. But certainly Canada could not exist as a nation when the chief end of the government’s policy was the quickest integration into that complex. The Liberal policy under [C. D.] Howe was integration as fast as possible and at all costs. No other consideration was allowed to stand in the way. The society produced by such policies may reap enormous benefits, but it will not be a nation. Its culture will become the empire’s to which it belongs. Branch-plant economies have branch-plant cultures.

Id., pp. 82-83:
[Early Canadian settlers felt] an inchoate desire to build, in these cold and forbidding regions, a society with a greater sense of order and restraint than freedom-loving republicanism would allow. It was no better defined than a kind of suspicion that we in Canada could be less lawless and have a greater sense of propriety than the United States. The inherited determination not to be Americans allowed these British people to come to a modus vivendi with the more defined desires of the French. English-speaking Canadians have been called a dull, stodgy, and indeed costive lot. In these dynamic days, such qualities are particularly unattractive to the chic. Yet our stodginess has made us a society of greater simplicity, formality, and perhaps even innocence than the people to the south. Whatever differences there were between the Anglicans and the Presbyterians, and however differently their theologians might interpret the doctrine of original sin, both communities believed that the good life made strict demands on self-restraint. Nothing was more alien to them than the “emancipation of the passions” desired in American liberalism. An ethic of self-restraint naturally looks with suspicion on utopian movements, which proceed from an ethic of freedom. The early leaders of British North America identified lack of public and personal restraint with the democratic Republic. Their conservatism was essentially the social doctrine that public order and tradition, in contrast to freedom and experiment, were central to the good life.

Id., p. 106:
Those who loved the older traditions of Canada may be allowed to lament what has been lost, even though they do not know whether or not that loss will lead to some greater political good. But lamentation falls easily into the vice of self-pity. To live with courage is a virtue, whatever one may think of the dominant assumptions of one’s age. Multitudes of human beings through the course of history have had to live when their only political allegiance was irretrievably lost. What was lost was often something far nobler than what Canadians have lost. Beyond courage, it is also possible to live in the ancient faith, which asserts that changes in the world, even if they be recognized more as a loss than a gain, take place within an eternal order that is not affected by their taking place. Whatever the difficulty of philosophy, the religious man has been told that process is not all. “Tendebantque manus ripae ulterioris amore.”

J. E. H. MacDonald, Algoma Waterfall (1920)

Post title from The Cowboy Junkies, The Last Spike

26 June 2020

The Aesthetic Virtues

Jules Breton, The Life of an Artist: An Autobiography, tr. Mary J. Serrano (New York: D. Appleton, 1890), pp. 290-291:
A painter may be interesting provided he has studied Nature sufficiently to avoid copying her expressionless aspects, but he will touch the feelings only in so far as he can interpret her intensities.

How is the artist to learn to recognize the essential features of Nature which he is to depict, and the commonplaces which he is to avoid?

He can only do this by elevating his soul by the contemplation of the beautiful spectacles which strike his imagination, and by lovingly interpreting them.

For it is not enough to discern and portray the superficial character of things; it is necessary also — and this is the most important point — to interpret their meaning, their expression learned by putting our souls in communication with what I shall call the souls of inanimate objects.

For everything in nature has a hidden, and, so to say, a moral life.

This life is mysterious, but in nowise chimerical, and only those, whether poets or artists, who are penetrated deeply with it, have the power to touch the feelings.

What is the sky to me if it does not give me the idea of infinity?

Looking at a twilight scene, it matters little that my eye should receive the impression of the view, if my spirit does not at once experience a feeling of repose, of tranquillity, and of peace. A bunch of flowers should, above all things, rejoice the eye by its freshness.

The spirit of a subject should take precedence of the letter.

Force, Elegance, Majesty, Sweetness, Splendor, Grace, Naiveté, Abundance, Simplicity, Richness, Humility — some one of these qualities, according to the genius of the painter and the nature of the subject, should strike the beholder, in every work, before he has had the time to take in the details of the scene represented.

These are the aesthetic virtues.

They are common to all the arts, which live only through them. The most skillful execution, the most accurate knowledge, can not supply their place.

They are eternal, and pass through the caprices of fashion, without losing any of their sovereign power.

Jules Breton, Le pré fleuri à Courrières (1888)

 For the original see La vie d'un artiste (Paris: Alphonse Lemerre, 1890), pp. 280-281

Related posts:

23 June 2020

Unable to Fight

Theodore Roosevelt, “The Dawn and Sunrise of History,” The Outlook (February 14, 1917), a review of James Henry Breasted's Ancient Times:
The curse of every ancient civilization was that its men in the end became unable to fight. Materialism, luxury, safety, even sometimes an almost modern sentimentality, weakened the fiber of each civilized race in turn; each became in the end a nation of pacifists, and then each was trodden under foot by some ruder people that had kept that virile fighting power the lack of which makes all other virtues useless and sometimes even harmful.
This review is in Vol. 12 of The Works of Theodore Roosevelt (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1926).

John Singer Sargent, Theodore Roosevelt (1903)

A related post: Courage

18 June 2020

Hiraeth

C. S. Lewis, "The Weight of Glory," The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses (London: HarperCollins, 2000), p. 30:
In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you — the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things — the beauty, the memory of our own past — are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.

Henri Le Sidaner, Matinée, Montreuil-Bellay (1896)

13 June 2020

Keep Apart

George Gissing, letter to his brother Algernon (22 September, 1885), The Collected letters of George Gissing: 1881-1885, Vol. 2 (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1990), p. 349:
Keep apart, keep apart, and preserve one's soul alive — that is the teaching for the day. It is ill to have been born in these times, but one can make a world within the world. A glimpse of the morning or evening sky will give the right note, and then we must make what music we can.

Théodore Rousseau, Crépuscule en Sologne (1867)

This is one of the first things I posted when I began this blog in 2011.
I still think of it often — just about every day this week.

10 June 2020

A Reminder of the Scale of our Compromise

Alain de Botton (presumed author), "Why Very Beautiful Scenes Can Make Us So Melancholy," The Book of Life :
Beauty has served to highlight, by contrast, everything that has come before. We notice – in a way we couldn’t yesterday – how much disappointment, violence, meanness and humiliation has been written into the structure of our ordinary surroundings and routines and has from there seeped into our souls. Thanks to the little limestone church (that we’ll visit after breakfast) assembled by craftsmen around 1430 and ringing its bells for morning service, we’re finally in a position to feel how much agony is latent in our hearts. We haven’t been pain-free all this time, we’ve just been numb, holding in our sorrow because there was nowhere to discharge it, because there were no alternatives to it and nothing to remind us of the scale of our compromise.

The beauty of the landscape is like the very kind friend who, after a period of turmoil, puts a hand gently on ours and asks how we have been – and does so with such tenderness and intelligent concern, we surprise ourselves by bursting into tears that don’t stop for a very long time.

Hans Thoma, Blick auf ein Taunustal (1890)

9 June 2020

Morning Meditation

I bought a licence for The Doves Type (recovered from the Thames in 2014) a while ago and I have been experimenting with it a little recently, setting a quote from Marcus Aurelius's Meditations to fit onto a standard 8.5 x 11 page:


I suppose I should have picked a different quote, something to show off the "ct" ligature, but I am fond of this one.

If you have a Dropbox account, feel free to download the PDF from here. Otherwise just send me a message (andrewjrickard@gmail.com) and I'd be happy to email it to you.

4 June 2020

Hurried Down the Stream of Dissipation

Sallust, “Catiline's Conspiracy,” The Works of Sallust, tr. Arthur Murphy (London: James Carpenter, 1807), pp. 17-18:
A series of prosperity is often too much even for the wisest and best disposed: that men corrupted should make a temperate use of their victory could not be expected. Riches became the epidemic passion; and where honours, imperial sway, and power, followed in their train, virtue lost her influence, poverty was deemed the meanest disgrace, and innocence was thought to be no better than a mark for malignity of heart. In this manner riches engendered luxury, avarice, and pride; and by those vices the Roman youth were enslaved. Rapacity and profusion went on increasing; regardless of their own property, and eager to seize that of their neighbours, all rushed forward without shame or remorse, confounding every thing sacred and profane, and scorning the restraint of moderation and justice. . . .

To these vices, that conspired against the commonwealth, many others may be added, such as prostitution, convivial debauchery, and all kinds of licentious pleasure. The men unsexed themselves, and the women made their persons venal. For the pleasures of the table, sea and land were ransacked; the regular returns of thirst and hunger were anticipated; the hour of sleep was left to caprice and accident; cold was a sensation not to be endured by delicate habits; luxury was the business of life, and by that every thing was governed. In this scene of general depravity, the extravagance of youth exhausted whatever was left of their patrimonial stock, and their necessities urged them on to the perpetration of the most flagitious deeds. The mind, habituated to every vice, could not divest itself of passions that had taken root, and, by consequence, all were hurried down the stream of dissipation, eager to grasp whatever could administer to inordinate and wild desires.

Thomas Couture, Romains de la décadence (1847)

A related post: Hapless Ages

1 June 2020

A Controlling Power Upon Will and Appetite

Edmund Burke, A Letter From Mr. Burke to a Member of the National Assembly (London: J. Dodsley, 1791), pp. 68-69:
Men are qualified for civil liberty, in exact proportion to their disposition to put moral chains upon their own appetites; in proportion as their love to justice is above their rapacity; in proportion as their soundness and sobriety of understanding is above their vanity and presumption; in proportion as they are more disposed to listen to the counsels of the wise and good, in preference to the flattery of knaves. Society cannot exist, unless a controlling power upon will and appetite be placed somewhere; and the less of it there is within, the more there must be without. It is ordained in the eternal constitution of things, that men of intemperate minds cannot be free. Their passions forge their fetters.

Honoré Daumier, L'Émeute (1848-1852)

Not unrelated: Revolutionary Talent

27 May 2020

Thoughts Are Free

On their way home after being released from Waldheim prison in May 1945, Henriette Roosenburg and her Dutch friends stayed in a castle outside of Ragewitz. It was occupied by a number of German aristocrats who had relatives connected to the 20 July plot. One of them, a woman with four young daughters, heard the Dutch singing and they gathered for an impromptu concert.



Henriette Roosenburg, The Walls Came Tumbling Down (Pleasantville: The Akadine Press, 2000), p. 91:
Finally, the mother asked us the question we had dreaded from the start: Didn’t we know any German songs? 

This put us in a quandary. Practically the only German songs we knew were those that had been dinned into our ears by German soldiers marching through the streets of our home towns. Often we had been awakened at dawn, when a squad of singing soldiers returned from the dirty business of executing a member of the resistance. We knew the songs all right, but we would have been quartered alive rather than sing them. Nell rescued us. From her long experience with boy scouts she remembered several Wandervögel (hiking-club) songs and kept proposing them till she hit on one we all knew and had no objection to. The title was “Die Gedanken sind frei ”, meaning “Thoughts are free”, and we sang it with feeling. In the dim light I even imagined I saw a responsive wink from the mother, but I couldn’t be sure. They left after this, each of the four daughters solemnly shaking our hands and making a little curtsey for each of us. 
Die Gedanken sind frei  is one of my favourites. I am especially fond of this version by the Rundfunk-Jugendchor Wernigerode (includes English subtitles). The 11th Panzergrenadier Division also recorded it as a marching song in the early 1960s.

Henriette Roosenburg (1916-1972)

21 May 2020

Death of a Bookman

Death of a Book-Lover, an engraving by Johann Rudolf Schellenberg, in Johann Karl August Musäus, Freund Heins Erscheinungen in Holbeins Manier (Winterthur: Heinrich Steiner und Comp., 1785), p. 134:



Hat tip: The German Museum of Books and Writing

20 May 2020

Die Bücherstube

Heidelberg University library has digitized the 1922/1923 edition of Die Bücherstube, a journal for bibliophiles. It contains a number of interesting things, including a piece about the bibliomaniac Johann Georg Tinius and an essay by Willy Wiegand on typography and the Bremer Presse. If I had the time I would translate both of them...



Aside: I see that the Bremer Presse typeface has been revived.

12 May 2020

A Withering of the Spirit

Harris Athanasiadis, George Grant and the Theology of the Cross (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001), p. 56:
It is true that there is a good side to the mass society. There is unprecedented surplus wealth, which has led to an ease in earning a living for more people than ever before. This is in contrast to the back-breaking labour that has marked previous centuries. With this ease comes greater leisure time. But have human beings cultivated the knowledge of what is worth doing with their leisure time? Not really. The growth in cheap and vulgar sensuality is also a sign of the times.

Moreover, there is a price to be paid for a mass society in terms of community. The old rural, agricultural, and commercial communities have been swept away by the growth of cities. With large cities come alienation, loneliness, and frustration for the masses. With migration to cities also comes uprootedness and the formation of new communities with no past. This leads to a withering of spirit. Furthermore, new forms of industrial labour require little skill or thought by workers, who are like cogs in a large mechanism. With uncreative and meaningless work also comes a withering of the spirit.

Grant Wood, Vegetable Farm (1924)

5 May 2020

They Cram His Unwilling Maw

Herbert Read, "George Saintsbury," A Coat of Many Colours (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1945), pp. 199-200:
There can scarcely be a critic or student of literature today, in this country or in America, who has not benefited liberally from such books as the History of Criticism, the History of English Prosody and the History of English Prose Rhythm. But these works are not in any real sense criticism; nominally they are historical, and even as history they should be further qualified as surveys rather than as investigations. The latter type of history implies a very limited field, and very deep burrowing; Saintsbury skimmed over the surface of received facts, marshalled them and ordered them, in some sense masticated them for less voracious readers. His books will probably be used as manual by several generations of undergraduates; for official education such as it is, they are perfect instruments. They guide the student down tidy paths, they cram his unwilling maw with the fruit of knowledge, they lead him inevitably into the wilderness of satiety. They communicate a sense of the author's enormous gusto.
I am sorry to say that I was not assigned, nor did I read, any of Saintsbury's criticism while I was an undergraduate. I have a vague recollection of taking his Notes on a Cellar-Book out of the library.

William Nicholson, Portrait of George Saintsbury (1923)