There is plenty of clear expression and fine enthusiasm in those three paragraphs.

* * *

There is, however, another side to Cubism and one not so easy to understand.

Painting color harmonies for the sake of their emotional effect is easy of comprehension. But when the Cubist sets out to convey the impression, not of the surfaces, but of the very substance of things, he is attempting something very different from what has heretofore been considered within the sphere of painting. Possibly he is attempting something painting cannot do.

The theory is so abstract and so scientific it comes near paralyzing the art. It is too coldly logical and unemotional to produce great art, for great art is and must be fundamentally emotional.

Of Picasso, the founder and leading exponent of Cubism, a sympathetic writer says:

Not many years ago Picasso was painting under the influence of the pointillists. Almost every year he changed his style, until he developed the pure, the geometrical Cubism of the drawing shown herein. He had a period of painting very uninteresting blue portraits, one of which was shown at the exhibition.

His “Woman with the Mustard Pot” belongs with his sculpture, which is interesting but, to most people, ugly.

He has such phenomenal powers of absorption and his technical facility is such that he does anything he pleases

with ease, and what he does today is no sure indication of what he will attempt tomorrow.

For the moment he seems absorbed in the music of planes, so to speak. Take, for instance, a still life wherein there seem to be a pipe, a wall, a musical instrument, a glass, something like a stairway, street signs, etc. These may or may not have been the objects the painter had before him, but whether they are or not it is quite clear that he was not content with dealing with superficial planes, that is, with the visible lines and surfaces of the objects, but he lets the planes project and intersect very much as if the objects were semi-transparent.

To state the matter in other words—by using only the essential lines of an object and treating the object as otherwise more or less transparent, one readily understands why the essential lines of all objects in the rear show through, and the result is a confused mass of planes with here and there more conspicuous surface indications such as the pipe, the signs, the glass, etc.

In much of Picasso’s later work he suppresses all such surface indications, until only a few absolutely elemental lines remain.

The result is a picture so scientific, so abstract, it appeals to but few and excites no emotion in anyone because it was not the result of emotion in the artist.

In short, Picasso and a few followers have reached a degree of abstraction in the suppression of the real and the particular that their pictures represent about the same degree of emotion as the demonstration of a difficult geometrical proposition.

Beyond the few lines they use there is the bare canvas; they have reached the limit and they must turn in their tracks. The reaction is bound to come, and come quickly.

Meanwhile the Cubists, who have been painting along emotional, as distinguished from the coldly scientific lines, are still turning out pictures that possess a charm in line and color irrespective of their theoretical significance and much may still be done in this direction.

* * *

The Cubists are fond of quoting the following from Plato:

* * *

Every really great painter must have moments when, as he thinks of the days and years spent painting things—just things for people to look at and see—he asks himself, “Is it worth while to spend all one’s life painting things one sees? Is it not possible to paint the things one feels?”

* * *

Sargent is tired of portrait painting—why? Because he longs to do something else. But what he is doing is simply another form of portrait painting—and not so big. He has simply turned from men and women to chairs and tables—so to speak; that is, from portraits of people to pictures of things—all the same art. So far as any one knows he has not tried to make compositions of line and color that would be beautiful in themselves. In short, great painter as he is, he seems to lack the ambition or the inspiration to try to do what Whistler for more than forty years was trying to do—lift painting from the rut of reality to a plane more nearly on a level with that occupied by the greatest masters of China and Japan.

* * *

The following paragraphs from a little book on Cubism by two well known Cubist painters throw some light on the subject:

By way of comment on this paragraph:

Why should we deny to painting one of the greatest charms of poetry—elusiveness?

Great poetry is rarely superficially plain to the casual reader.

Great music is never superficially plain to the casual hearer.

But the attitude of the public is that great painting shall always be superficially plain to the casual observer.

A painter may paint things every one understands at a glance, but is it not his right, if he wishes, to paint things no one understands but himself?

In other words, what right have we to say to the poet, “If you don’t write things we understand you are no poet,” or to the painter, “If you don’t paint things we understand you are no painter?”

The only difference between poet and painter is that one uses a pen, the other a brush to express himself.

* * *

Here is a most significant statement of a truth and an assertion of freedom.

We all know how the poet in a dozen lines may give us glimpses of the universe; he may leap from flower to star, from city to city, nation to nation, age to age; nothing confines him, he knows no restraint.

In one short poem he may give us glimpses of the four quarters of the globe—of Athens, London, Chicago, Pekin. His imagination knows no bounds, his art is unlimited.

For the first time in the history of painting painters are systematically claiming the same independence, the same right to express themselves freely in each canvas, to paint in the one picture if they see fit glimpses of different countries, cities, scenes, different times as well as places; to use them and suggest them as freely as the poet does to express a mood—and why not?

But the painter must be sure of his mood, and be doubly sure that what he is trying to say requires a wealth of illustration, otherwise his painting will be but a fantastic jumble,

just as many poems lose themselves in not a wealth but a confused mass of irrelevant illustrations.

* * *

The assertion of freedom is one thing, the exercise of it is quite another.

The point is that, fundamentally, there is no reason why a painter should not show in one canvas things and events unrelated in either space or time, leaving the observer to work out the more or less hidden meaning of it all.

There is no reason why he should be tied down to the realistic painting of an apple or an apple tree if he prefers to paint some flight of the imagination into which apple and apple tree enter together with strange glimpses of temples and pyramids, playing children and armed battalions, weeping women and fighting men.

Read the foregoing lines once more. Eight objects are mentioned—apple, apple tree, temples, pyramids, children, battalions, weeping women, fighting men—by no possibility could these strangely diverse objects be found grouped together in actual life, yet it is safe to say that as you read them no feeling of utter incongruity was experienced. On the contrary your imagination unconsciously created a picture, vague and indistinct because fleeting, which combined them all, possibly a strange, poetic scene with orchards and playing children, temples and pyramids in the distance, with armed battalions, weeping women and fighting men passing by in clouds or fanciful shapes.

Thousands of such pictures are painted every year and they are mostly rather poor works of the imagination.

There is, however, no reason why the same freedom, the same arbitrary indifference to actualities, should not be exercised in the painting of good pictures.

No reason why, for instance, painters should not experiment freely with all the so-called laws of art, and that is what the Cubists and others of the moderns are doing.

* * *

* * *

To explain Cubism, or any attempt in art to suppress the objective, one must fall back on music.

Grieg calls a certain composition “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” Not for a moment did he attempt realistically to suggest a hall, a mountain, a king or any object; to have done so would have been folly. And if that particular composition were played for the first time before a body of keen musicians, no title mentioned, and not a word said about its being a part of the Peer Gynt suite, no two would agree as to what the composer had in mind, though many might have very interesting impressions regarding the mood of the composer in writing it.

But once understand it is part of the Peer Gynt suite and once told it is “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” the weird and fascinating music explains itself, it is recognized as a wonderfully successful attempt to realize an impressive scene by a combination of sounds.

* * *

The veriest tyro in music feels the cheapness of imitative music, the imitation of the nightingale, the ripple of notes to imitate a rippling brook, the beating of a drum to imitate thunder, the tremolo of violins to represent fright, etc., etc.

From such bald attempts at realism to the abstract beauty of a symphony by Beethoven is a vast interval.

The severely logical composer will not name his symphony for fear of suggesting ideas that will interfere with the pure enjoyment of his abstract conception. There have been painters—like Whistler—who preferred to call their works “Harmonies” or “Arrangements” or “Studies” rather than subject their canvases to a clamoring horde of suggestions by choosing names that must inevitably divert the observer.

However at times a name helps, it at least puts us on the right track, it enables us to measure the piece of music or the picture by the artist’s intention. If it is utterly impossible for the best and most sympathetic minds after long study to find any suggestion of the title in the work, it means either the artist has been unsuccessful in conveying his idea in sound or in line and color, or—what often happens—he has carelessly and arbitrarily chosen a title after his work was finished, a title that imperfectly fits his original impulse.

* * *

It is most disappointing to hear a man go into raptures over what he cannot explain.

The greatest enemies of the moderns are their friends. But there have been published a number of books in German and French that are well worth reading if approached with an open mind.

If read with preconceived notions and prejudices the result will be very irritating. Several artists, notably Kandinsky, have taken the utmost pains to explain in print what they believe and what they are trying to do.

But it is often quite as difficult to understand some of the things the painters write about their work as it is to understand their pictures; but this is because some of the new men carry their theories so far it is hard for the layman to follow, however earnest and sympathetic his efforts.

But because we do not understand what a man says is no good reason for calling him an ignoramus.

The trouble may be with him, it is probably with us. At all events each re-reading, like each re-scrutiny of the pictures, yields clearer results.

To a man really and profoundly interested in art nothing has occurred in many a generation so full of significance, so worthy one’s earnest attention, as the present new movements—all the more interesting because changing so rapidly and because some of them are certain to be so fleeting.

The art institute which does not secure and preserve some examples illustrative of the extraordinary upheaval in the art world is derelict—as derelict as a natural history museum would be if it passed over indifferently the evidence of some mysterious upheaval in nature.

* * *

When a man stands before a cubist painting or an improvisation by Kandinsky and says he sees all sorts of things in it, do not take him too seriously; he is like members of those extraordinary Browning Clubs who destroy our enjoyment of the poetry by reading into each line things the poet never dreamed.

* * *

The Cubists and most of the moderns are very young men, what they think is of far less interest than what they do.

What a young man does is often of vital importance, what he thinks may be of no importance at all—save to himself.

Moved by the most naive theories and enthusiasms youth

will do wonderful things, things the sober reflection of age would fear to do.

One of the charms of the Cubists is their child-like faith in the absolute supremacy of their art; this faith is interesting in them because it leads them to produce works that cause us to stop and look and think, but when their followers indulge the same blind faith in print their utterances are mostly incoherent and boresome.

* * *

The violent partisan who sees all sorts of things in the modern painting is at one extreme, the violent opponent who sees nothing at all is at the other—let them fight it out.

The truth lies midway, that there is something worth finding in even the most extravagant attempts of the new movement no thoughtful man will deny. The very fact the paintings attract such crowds and excite so much controversy proves there is something for serious investigation; the something may not turn out to be of overwhelming importance, but it will have its influence upon the future of art.

No one for a moment doubts that the exhibitions held in New York, Chicago, and Boston are destined to have a very great effect upon American art, especially upon the art of the men most bitterly opposed to Cubism, and everything akin to Cubism. The academic has received a severe but healthful jolt.

Whatever affects us has, at least, the merit of affecting us, and whatever moves us to do better work, whether in an old way or a new way, has the merit of affecting us for good.

VII

THE NEW ART IN MUNICH

It is, therefore, true that every modern experiment, however strange, may trace its genealogy to the Old Masters and through them to the Primitives, and through them to the Cave Painters.

So that when a Munich artist argues that the strange heads of Jawlensky and the still stranger compositions of Kandinsky are based upon the best there is in Italian art, the proposition in its broad significance may be conceded and plenty of room be still left for startling differences between the art of Venice in the sixteenth century and that of Munich in the twentieth.

* * *

There is, however, some slight but tangible foundation for the assertion that the work of the extreme men of Munich is closer to that of the Old Masters than the work of the extreme men of Paris, in that most of the former paint more solidly and substantially, while most of the latter paint more lightly and superficially—just about the difference that exists between the two cities, the two environments. The worker in Munich cannot help being influenced by the German atmosphere, the worker in Paris cannot help being influenced by the French—in fact each is where he is because he finds the particular atmosphere congenial.

* * *

“The New Artists’ Federation,” in Munich, was founded in January, 1909, by Adolf Erbslöh, Alexej von Jawlensky, Wassily Kandinsky, Alexander Kanoldt, Alfred Kubin, Gabriele Münter, Marianna von Werefkin, Heinrich Schnabel, and Oskar Wittenstein. During the first year Paul Baum, Wladimir von Bechtejeff, Erma Bossi, Karl Hofer, Moissey Koga, and Albert Sacharoff joined. Paul Baum and Karl Hofer soon resigned their membership. In 1910 the Frenchmen, Pierre Girieud and Le Fauconnier, became members, and in 1911 Franz Marc and Otto Fischer, followed in 1912 by Alexander Mogilewsky.

* * *

The key-note of the modern movement in art is expression of self; that is, the expression of one’s inner self as distinguished from the representation of the outer world.

* * *

I have before me six of Jawlensky’s heads, painted a year or so apart. They range from almost conventional portrait studies in strong impressionistic manner to heads very like Matisse’s “Madras Rouge,” thence to the head reproduced, which was the last painted.

The series shows an interesting development of the painter’s convictions, his technic remains essentially the same, facile and competent, only the latest picture places a much greater stress upon his resources.

It was apparent from things in his studio, canvases ten or twelve years old, that he could have made a commercial success as a painter of portraits.

* * *

To say that Jawlensky’s latest heads with their strange, expressive, exaggerated eyes are not wholly new one has only to turn to any work on Greek painting wherein are reproduced some of the encaustic and tempera portraits found in the Fayum some twenty-odd years ago.

* * *

When asked why he preferred his latest work to the earlier, Jawlensky said:

“I have put more of myself into them; they are more expressive of what I feel.”

And he went on to say the development seemed to him natural and logical. He could not understand why the heads should strike others as queer or laughable since they were the products of absolute sincerity.

Of his work a friendly critic says:

* * *

Marianna von Werefkin, a Russian, uses water color, gouache, and prefers the mystery of the night to daylight. Her pictures are interesting human documents. She does not seek startling or novel pictured effects.

* * *

There is another and almost unknown artist, P. Klee, who is very highly esteemed by the most advanced men. There is certainly an exquisite refinement to his line; it is so alive it scintillates.

Gabriele Münter has a vision of things quite her own, a sense of humor and of life that penetrates beneath the surface, and that manifests itself in a technic that is, one might say, almost nonchalant.

A. Bloch is a young American, living in Munich, who has allied himself with the Blue Knights and made an impression by his very personal expressions. He was given a one-man exhibition in Berlin in December last, and his pictures were highly praised in a well-written article in the Berlin Borsen-Courier. Absolute and unswerving fidelity to one’s ideals is the only sure road to success, and this sort of sincerity is manifest in the work of Bloch.

Franz Marc is in a class by himself. He is the animal painter of the Blue Knights, and his pictures have a fairly steady sale notwithstanding they are extreme in conception and execution. Animal forms and their phases of composition seem to appeal to him, but he often uses the forms as arbitrarily as Matisse uses his nudes to secure an effect of life or grace. His color is always delightful, and there is a flow, a rhythm to his pictures that is fascinating.

In an article in “Der Blaue Reiter” he says:

And speaking of the new movement in art, which he considers a spiritual offering to the public, he says:

In the orthodox sense these men may or may not be religious—I do not know—but one thing is certain, there is an immense amount of religious power in their propaganda.

* * *

The most extreme man not only of Munich but of the entire modern art movement is Wassily Kandinsky, also a Russian.

There was one of his Improvisations in the International Exhibition.[47]

It did not hang with the Cubists, not even in the large room with Matisse and other radical men. Evidently those in charge of the hanging did not know what to make of it or what to do with it, so they side-tracked it on a wall that was partly in shadow. Visitors who paused to look at it dismissed it as meaningless splotches of paint, and passed on.

There is this to be said for the public, that with no word of explanation one of Kandinsky’s Improvisations does seem—at first glance—the last word in extravagance; on fourth or fifth glance it appears to have a charm of color that is fascinating; on study it begins to sound like color music.

* * *

There were three of his canvases in the London Exhibition in Albert Hall in July, 1913, “Landscape with Two Poplars,” “Improvisation No. 29,” and “Improvisation No. 30,” the last reproduced herein in color.

Of these three paintings a critic said:[48]

People who do not find a picture turn away disappointed and irritated, but many turn back to look again, attracted by the strength and charm of the compositions, and in the end not a few reluctantly concede, “Yes, they have fine color, but—” and then follows the old demand for some familiar object as anchorage.

* * *

Of Kandinsky’s qualifications from the academic point of view let it be said he is a superb draftsman, though he no longer attaches any importance to drawing per se; and he is a master of color combinations.

One would say that the two, mastery of drawing and mastery of color, would make a great painter, and so they did and do.

I have at hand some of his earlier work along conventional lines, and I have seen tempera drawings of Moroccan scenes that would delight a Whistler, they are so delicate and so filled with subtle charm. Then I have a series of sketches, extending over a number of years, which show the development of his later works.

* * *

He has explained his theories at length in his book, “Ueber das Geistege in der Kunst,”[49] and in numerous articles, notably in “Der Blaue Reiter.”

The keynote of the entire modern movement is found in the first sentence of his book,

“Every work of art is the child of its own times.”

A man may so steep himself in history and tradition that all he does is reminiscent of the past, but such work marks no progress and such men are negligible factors in the advancement of mankind.

It is the man who yields himself to his times, who absorbs all there is of good in the life about him, who sees everything, feels everything, who mingles with his respect for the achievements of the past a mighty admiration for the triumphs of the present—such a man is a leader among his fellows; brilliant thinker, daring adventurer, he blazes the way for the timid to follow.

If we were Greeks of the fifth century we would carve the marbles they did. If we were Romans under the Caesars we would build the buildings they built. If we were Christians of the middle ages we would rear cathedrals. If we were English, French, German, Chinese, or Japanese, we would do the things they do, like the things they like. But we are none of these peoples; we are Americans living in an age of steam and electricity, of automobiles and aeroplanes, in an age of kaleidoscopic changes, of marvelous and startling developments.

What must happen in painting, music, sculpture?

Exactly what has happened in architecture.

Painting, music, sculpture that will go with our mighty steel buildings, with our factories and railroads.

Painting, music, sculpture varied in form, as old and as new as the brain of man can conceive, but always and essentially our own. That is the secret, it must be characteristic of our age—our own.

* * *

This is not a placid age.

It is an age of feverish activities, brilliant imaginings, profound emotions.

Hence our art will not be placid, but will be an art of the imagination and the emotions.

Venturesome souls will not be content to paint things, or even people, but they will paint themselves, not their outer selves, but their inner; they will put on canvas what they feel. That is as near the final word in art as man can utter—to paint instead of speak his most subtle emotions.

* * *

In a recent article[50] Kandinsky summarises part of his theory as follows:

A work of art consists of two elements, the inner and the outer.

The inner is the emotion in the soul of the artist. This emotion has the power to arouse a similar feeling in the soul of the observer.

The soul being connected with the body it is affected through the medium of the senses—feelings; emotions are stirred and aroused by sensations. Hence our sensations are the bridge, the physical connection between the immaterial, the emotion in the soul of the artist, to the material, resulting in the production of the work of art.

And again the sensations are the bridge from the material, the artist, and his work, to the immaterial, emotion in the soul of the observer.

The sequence is, emotion (in artist)—sensations—work—sensations—emotion (in observer).

The two emotions will be like and equal to the extent the work is successful. In this respect a painting is no different from a song, each is a message; the successful singer succeeds in arousing in his hearers the emotions he feels; the successful painter should do no less.

The inner element, emotion, must exist, else the work will be a sham. The inner element determines the character of the work.

In order that the inner element which at first exists only as an emotion, may develop into work, the second element—the outer is used as the embodiment. Therefore emotion is always seeking means of expression, seeking a material form, a form that can stir the senses.[51]

The vital, the determining element is the inner, that controls the outer form, even as the idea in the mind determines the words we use, and not the words the idea.

Therefore the selection of the form of a work of art is determined by the inner irresistible force—this is the only unchangeable law of art.

A beautiful work is the product of the harmonious cooperation of the two elements, the inner and outer. A painting, for instance, is an intellectual organism which, like every material organism, consists of many parts.

These single parts, if isolated, are as lifeless as a finger severed from the hand.

The single parts live only through the whole.

The endless number of single parts in a painting is divided into two groups:

1. The designed form.

2. The picturesque form.

* * *

An examination of a work of art, especially a painting,