objects. It accomplishes this by employing an assemblage of parts, bound together, of which it systematically modifies the relations. In the three imitative arts: sculpture, painting and poetry, these ensembles correspond to real objects.

While this is no "definition" of art at all, it is a masterly definition of the process, by which great art is arrived at or produced.

To make this still more clear, and to show how an artist, by a systematic modification of the relation of parts, as Taine says, creates a great and expressive work of art, let us refer to the matter of expression of Motion and Emotion.

In his "Meaning of Pictures" John C. Van Dyke says:

A modern athlete in the gymnasium is a very different athlete from those that writhe upon the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Did not Michael Angelo's imagination see the model abnormally and thus persuade his hand to emphasize all the powerful attributes? The running horse, as seen by the instantaneous camera, is no doubt accurate enough in all respects, save the sense of motion. But he does not run. The camera arrests his flight, holds him poised in air momentarily. But Fromentin's imagination, as shown in his pictures, saw the horse running, saw him distorted, drawn out in body from head to tail. You know, from the report of the camera, again, how human beings fall through the air, in jumping, diving, plunging; but what a different report you get from Tintoretto's fall of the damned in his "Last Judgment"! There is a tremendous rain of elongated bodies falling from heaven to hell. The exaggeration of the imagination is here most apparent. But the result is wonderfully effective. We are made to feel that the bodies are really falling.

This is what we call Expression, not camera copying, which is impotent to represent for us the sense of motion, this is the adequate expression of motion, the imagination having called up elongated bodies and so placed them and drawn them, in a slightly exaggerated form, that they convey to us, because of this slight exaggeration, a feeling of motion in the bodies. This is what Taine means by "systematic modification of the relations of parts." To get the motion, it may be needful to elongate the bodies while leaving the rest of the frame exactly as in nature, or it may require a slight lengthening of the legs, while leaving the rest of the body as in nature. When the modification is done to such a degree merely: that we are aware only of

the motion, and not of the modifications, we call it adequate emphasis. When, however, the modification is made to such a degree, that we notice it, the effect of true motion is not reached and we then call it Exaggeration.

This is what we call Expression in art: to press out, to bring to a clearer view, the things in nature, or in our conceptions and ideas. What is true of life and bodily motion is true of thought and soul emotion. The facial movements, by which we express our spiritual emotions, can not be adequately caught and represented by the camera, as photographs of simulations of the emotions such as rage, hate, joy and laughter, prove. Only a great artist, can so wisely emphasize in a work of art the movements of our facial muscles as to make the human face adequately express the emotions of the soul. That is why a great work of art will always be superior to the most skilful photograph.

So far we have dealt only with Primary Expression, with that phase, namely, by which it is easy to see what ideas or emotions the artist aimed to express: by direct methods of drawing and modeling, in the bodies and faces of his figures.

Let us now speak of Secondary Expression, of the expression of a work as a whole, through its General Tone and character and the spirit that radiates from it. This is, usually, not perceived in a work upon a first inspection of it, whether the work be in poetry, music, painting or sculpture.

When we carefully look at the "Sistine Madonna," by Raphael, we notice: not only do the faces of the Madonna and of the Christ child look spiritual and supra-human, but all the figures have a something spiritual and supra-human about them; in addition thereto: the whole atmosphere of the picture has something super-mundane about it. Independent of its parts, the picture as a whole seems to radiate spirituality. This cumulative and general expression of the entire work, as distinguished from the partial and particular expression of the parts of the work, we call Secondary Expression, Fig. 103.

In his really interesting book just mentioned "The Meaning of Pictures," Mr. Van Dyke has a chapter on "Pictorial Poetry," in which he admirably suggests this element of secondary expression: of spirit, character and feeling, by the suggestion an artist may make of things that can not be expressed in the

parts of a work, either in words, sound or paint. He shows that, in reading Shakespeare's "Lear," for example, we feel a whole world of sadness that seems to fill the spaces between the lines, and to ooze out of the very type and pervade the whole play. And so, from Fra Angelico's conventionally drawn and often primitively colored angels, there radiates a sense, an aroma of religious feeling which we feel more than we see in them, when compared with more ambitious pictures. And about Wagner's music he says:

Consider once again Wagner's "Götterdämmerung"! How would it be possible to tell with musical notes all the tragic power that lies in that opera? What he did was: to summon up a romantic mood of mind by contemplating the theme in his imagination, and then to suggest by the choice of motives and orchestration the immense passion of the story. By following the orchestration rather than the individual singers-that is the whole rather than the parts-you can feel in the different motifs the poetry of that heroic age, the glorious achievements, the sad passing, the mournful sunset, the fading into oblivion of those who ruled the beautiful world. If you cannot feel the mystery of the sadness, the splendor of it all, I am afraid it argues some want of music and romance in your soul, rather than a want of poetry in the opera.

The feeling is there; it is the last thing perhaps to be recognized by the student of music, and yet it is the one thing above all others that has made Wagner a great poet. He could suggest more than he could describe, and because he suggests and does not describe, is one reason why he is, at first, so difficult to understand.

We have quoted this entire page because it is one of the best things in a good book. And it puts into clear language what we mean by Secondary in contradistinction to Primary Expression.

Now as to Tertiary Expression. After the Conscions expression by the artist: of the essential characteristics of parts of a picture and of the picture as a whole, comes the unconscious expression of the Personality or Character of the artist himself, as an essential part of a great work of art. And here we come again to the great question of "individualism."

Let us say, first of all, that we are not opposed to "Individuality" in art, since it is an integral part of all truly great art. But we shall try to show its rational limits. We have a lot of photographers today, who combine science and taste

to such a degree, as to almost justify that contradiction in terms: art-photographers. Suppose one of these photographers were to find a suitable hall, and place in it a table, and seat round it thirteen of the greatest actors in the world, and have them act out that explosion of feeling in the "Last Supper," which, logically, must have followed the declaration of Jesus: "Verily, I say unto you, one of you will this night betray me!" and then photograph them. The effect, perhaps, would be, a very interesting photograph. But it would be utterly mechanical, utterly inadequate as an expression and, in addition, it would lack that human quality which tells us, it was made by the hand of man. And it would not be a record of the activity of the intellectual faculties of some one great man.

Not only do we flee monotony-because it kills-but we seek novelty and surprises, as often as possible. Even a disagreeable surprise is relished, retrospectively, when we return to an agreeable condition. But, nothing gives us so much joy as a truly agreeable surprise. That is the secret of our love of beautiful art. In the first place: we are surprised by the beauty and power of a work of art, then by its originality. Finally, when we have drunk sufficiently of this surprising beauty, we get an additional joy in marveling, over the extraordinary combination of artistic faculties which enabled the artist to produce it. But we do not concern ourselves about this until after we have been surprised and emotioned by the work itself!

Véron made a great mistake when he said:

If we give ourselves the trouble to analyze the exclamations and criticisms of the crowd which visits the museums on Sunday, we will recognize that, at bottom, and in spite of the forms of their judgment, that which they admire or censure is truly not the more of less exactitude of the imitation, but the greater or less talent they attribute to the authors of these representations. The picture or statue is nothing but the point of departure, and the opportunity for their being emotioned, and this admiration can always be resumed in this: "What talent it must have taken to produce such a work of art!" and the following: "We can dig and analyze all we like, at the bottom of this admiration we will find nothing else. Whether we wish it or not, that which we praise is not the work, but the workman."

A little reflection will convince that this is an excitation to