PART II: ABOUT PAINTING

VII. THEORY

VIII. ART AND ARTISTS

IX.  CONCLUSION

Note: Footnotes marked M.T.H.S. were inserted by 
Sadler, the translator.

 

VII. THEORY

From the nature of modern harmony, it results that never has
there been a time when it was more difficult than it is today to
formulate a complete theory, [Footnote: Attempts have been made.
Once more emphasis must be laid on the parallel with music. For
example, cf. "Tendances Nouvelles," No. 35, Henri Ravel: "The
laws of harmony are the same for painting and music."] or to lay
down a firm artistic basis. All attempts to do so would have one
result, namely, that already cited in the case of Leonardo and
his system of little spoons. It would, however, be precipitate to
say that there are no basic principles nor firm rules in painting, or 
that a search for them leads inevitably to academism. Even music 
has a grammar, which, although modified from time to time, is of 
continual help and value as a kind of dictionary.

Painting is, however, in a different position. The revolt from
dependence on nature is only just beginning. Any realization of
the inner working of colour and form is so far unconscious. The
subjection of composition to some geometrical form is no new idea
(cf. the art of the Persians). Construction on a purely abstract
basis is a slow business, and at first seemingly blind and
aimless. The artist must train not only his eye but also his soul, 
so that he can test colours for themselves and not only by external 
impressions.

If we begin at once to break the bonds which bind us to nature,
and devote ourselves purely to combination of pure colour and
abstract form, we shall produce works which are mere decoration,
which are suited to neckties or carpets. Beauty of Form and
Colour is no sufficient aim by itself, despite the assertions of
pure aesthetes or even of naturalists, who are obsessed with the
idea of "beauty." It is because of the elementary stage reached
by our painting that we are so little able to grasp the inner
harmony of true colour and form composition. The nerve vibrations
are there, certainly, but they get no further than the nerves,
because the corresponding vibrations of the spirit which they
call forth are too weak. When we remember, however, that
spiritual experience is quickening, that positive science, the
firmest basis of human thought, is tottering, that dissolution of
matter is imminent, we have reason to hope that the hour of pure
composition is not far away.

It must not be thought that pure decoration is lifeless. It has
its inner being, but one which is either incomprehensible to us,
as in the case of old decorative art, or which seems mere
illogical confusion, as a world in which full-grown men and
embryos play equal roles, in which beings deprived of limbs are
on a level with noses and toes which live isolated and of their
own vitality. The confusion is like that of a kaleidoscope, which
though possessing a life of its own, belongs to another sphere.
Nevertheless, decoration has its effect on us; oriental
decoration quite differently to Swedish, savage, or ancient
Greek. It is not for nothing that there is a general custom of
describing samples of decoration as gay, serious, sad, etc., as
music is described as Allegro, Serioso, etc., according to the
nature of the piece.

Probably conventional decoration had its beginnings in nature.
But when we would assert that external nature is the sole source
of all art, we must remember that, in patterning, natural objects
are used as symbols, almost as though they were mere hieroglyphics.
 For this reason we cannot gauge their inner harmony. For instance, |
we can bear a design of Chinese dragons in our dining or bed rooms, 
and are no more disturbed by it than by a design of daisies.

It is possible that towards the close of our already dying epoch
a new decorative art will develop, but it is not likely to be
founded on geometrical form. At the present time any attempt to
define this new art would be as useless as pulling a small bud
open so as to make a fully blown flower. Nowadays we are still
bound to external nature and must find our means of expression in
her. But how are we to do it? In other words, how far may we go
in altering the forms and colours of this nature?


We may go as far as the artist is able to carry his emotion, and
once more we see how immense is the need for true emotion. A 
few examples will make the meaning of this clearer.

A warm red tone will materially alter in inner value when it is
no longer considered as an isolated colour, as something
abstract, but is applied as an element of some other object, and
combined with natural form. The variety of natural forms will
create a variety of spiritual values, all of which will harmonize
with that of the original isolated red. Suppose we combine red
with sky, flowers, a garment, a face, a horse, a tree.

A red sky suggests to us sunset, or fire, and has a consequent
effect upon us--either of splendour or menace. Much depends now
on the way in which other objects are treated in connection with
this red sky. If the treatment is faithful to nature, but all the
same harmonious, the "naturalistic" appeal of the sky is
strengthened. If, however, the other objects are treated in a way
which is more abstract, they tend to lessen, if not to destroy,
the naturalistic appeal of the sky. Much the same applies to the
use of red in a human face. In this case red can be employed to
emphasize the passionate or other characteristics of the model,
with a force that only an extremely abstract treatment of the
rest of the picture can subdue.

A red garment is quite a different matter; for it can in reality
be of any colour. Red will, however, be found best to supply the
needs of pure artistry, for here alone can it be used without any
association with material aims. The artist has to consider not
only the value of the red cloak by itself, but also its value in
connection with the figure wearing it, and further the relation
of the figure to the whole picture. Suppose the picture to be a
sad one, and the red-cloaked figure to be the central point on
which the sadness is concentrated--either from its central
position, or features, attitude, colour, or what not. The red
will provide an acute discord of feeling, which will emphasize
the gloom of the picture. The use of a colour, in itself sad,
would weaken the effect of the dramatic whole. [Footnote: Once
more it is wise to emphasize the necessary inadequacy of these
examples. Rules cannot be laid down, the variations are so
endless. A single line can alter the whole composition of a
picture.] This is the principle of antithesis already defined.
Red by itself cannot have a sad effect on the spectator, and its
inclusion in a sad picture will, if properly handled, provide the
dramatic element. [Footnote: The use of terms like "sad" and
"joyful" are only clumsy equivalents for the delicate spiritual
vibrations of the new harmony. They must be read as necessarily
inadequate.]

Yet again is the case of a red tree different. The fundamental
value of red remains, as in every case. But the association of
"autumn" creeps in.

The colour combines easily with this association, and there is no
dramatic clash as in the case of the red cloak.

Finally, the red horse provides a further variation. The very
words put us in another atmosphere. The impossibility of a red
horse demands an unreal world. It is possible that this
combination of colour and form will appeal as a freak--a purely
superficial and non-artistic appeal--or as a hint of a fairy
story [Footnote: An incomplete fairy story works on the mind as
does a cinematograph film.]--once more a non-artistic appeal. To
set this red horse in a careful naturalistic landscape would
create such a discord as to produce no appeal and no coherence.
The need for coherence is the essential of harmony--whether
founded on conventional discord or concord. The new harmony
demands that the inner value of a picture should remain unified
whatever the variations or contrasts of outward form or colour.
The elements of the new art are to be found, therefore, in the
inner and not the outer qualities of nature.

The spectator is too ready to look for a meaning in a picture--
i.e., some outward connection between its various parts. Our
materialistic age has produced a type of spectator or
"connoisseur," who is not content to put himself opposite a
picture and let it say its own message. Instead of allowing the
inner value of the picture to work, he worries himself in looking
for "closeness to nature," or "temperament," or "handling," or
"tonality," or "perspective," or what not. His eye does not probe
the outer expression to arrive at the inner meaning. In a
conversation with an interesting person, we endeavour to get at
his fundamental ideas and feelings. We do not bother about the
words he uses, nor the spelling of those words, nor the breath
necessary for speaking them, nor the movements of his tongue 
and lips, nor the psychological working on our brain, nor the
physical sound in our ear, nor the physiological effect on our
nerves. We realize that these things, though interesting and
important, are not the main things of the moment, but that the
meaning and idea is what concerns us. We should have the same
feeling when confronted with a work of art. When this becomes
general the artist will be able to dispense with natural form and
colour and speak in purely artistic language.

To return to the combination of colour and form, there is another
possibility which should be noted. Non-naturalistic objects in a
picture may have a "literary" appeal, and the whole picture may
have the working of a fable. The spectator is put in an
atmosphere which does not disturb him because he accepts it as
fabulous, and in which he tries to trace the story and undergoes
more or less the various appeals of colour. But the pure inner
working of colour is impossible; the outward idea has the mastery
still. For the spectator has only exchanged a blind reality for a
blind dreamland, where the truth of inner feeling cannot be felt.

We must find, therefore, a form of expression which excludes the
fable and yet does not restrict the free working of colour in any
way. The forms, movement, and colours which we borrow from 
nature must produce no outward effect nor be associated with 
external objects. The more obvious is the separation from nature, 
the more likely is the inner meaning to be pure and unhampered.

The tendency of a work of art may be very simple, but provided it
is not dictated by any external motive and provided it is not
working to any material end, the harmony will be pure. The most
ordinary action--for example, preparation for lifting a heavy
weight--becomes mysterious and dramatic, when its actual purpose
is not revealed. We stand and gaze fascinated, till of a sudden
the explanation bursts suddenly upon us. It is the conviction
that nothing mysterious can ever happen in our everyday life that
has destroyed the joy of abstract thought. Practical
considerations have ousted all else. It is with this fact in view
that the new dancing is being evolved--as, that is to say, the
only means of giving in terms of time and space the real inner
meaning of motion. The origin of dancing is probably purely
sexual. In folk-dances we still see this element plainly. The
later development of dancing as a religious ceremony joins itself
to the preceding element and the two together take artistic form
and emerge as the ballet.

The ballet at the present time is in a state of chaos owing to
this double origin. Its external motives--the expression of love
and fear, etc.--are too material and naive for the abstract ideas
of the future. In the search for more subtle expression, our
modern reformers have looked to the past for help. Isadora 
Duncan has forged a link between the Greek dancing and that of 
the future. In this she is working on parallel lines to the painters
who are looking for inspiration from the primitives.

[Footnote: Kandinsky's example of Isadora Duncan is not perhaps
perfectly chosen. This famous dancer founds her art mainly upon a
study of Greek vases and not necessarily of the primitive period.
Her aims are distinctly towards what Kandinsky calls
"conventional beauty," and what is perhaps more important, her
movements are not dictated solely by the "inner harmony," but
largely by conscious outward imitation of Greek attitudes. Either
Nijinsky's later ballets: Le Sacre du Printemps, L'Apres-midi
d'un Faune, Jeux, or the idea actuating the Jacques Dalcroze
system of Eurhythmics seem to fall more into line with
Kandinsky's artistic forecast. In the first case "conventional
beauty" has been abandoned, to the dismay of numbers of writers
and spectators, and a definite return has been made to primitive
angles and abruptness. In the second case motion and dance are
brought out of the souls of the pupils, truly spontaneous, at.
the call of the "inner harmony." Indeed a comparison between
Isadora Duncan and M. Dalcroze is a comparison between the
"naturalist" and "symbolist" ideals in art which were outlined in
the introduction to this book.--M.T.H.S.]


In dance as in painting this is only a stage of transition. In
dancing as in painting we are on the threshold of the art of the
future. The same rules must be applied in both cases.
Conventional beauty must go by the board and the literary element
of "story-telling" or "anecdote" must be abandoned as useless.
Both arts must learn from music that every harmony and every

discord which springs from the inner spirit is beautiful, but
that it is essential that they should spring from the inner
spirit and from that alone.


The achievement of the dance-art of the future will make possible
the first ebullition of the art of spiritual harmony--the true
stage-composition.


The composition for the new theatre will consist of these three
elements:


(1) Musical movement
(2) Pictorial movement
(3) Physical movement


and these three, properly combined, make up the spiritual
movement, which is the working of the inner harmony. They will 
be interwoven in harmony and discord as are the two chief 
elements of painting, form and colour.


Scriabin's attempt to intensify musical tone by corresponding use
of colour is necessarily tentative. In the perfected stage-
composition the two elements are increased by the third, and
endless possibilities of combination and individual use are
opened up. Further, the external can be combined with the
internal harmony, as Schonberg has attempted in his quartettes.
It is impossible here to go further into the developments of this
idea. The reader must apply the principles of painting already
stated to the problem of stage-composition, and outline for
himself the possibilities of the theatre of the future, founded
on the immovable principle of the inner need.


From what has been said of the combination of colour and form,
the way to the new art can be traced. This way lies today between
two dangers. On the one hand is the totally arbitrary application
of colour to geometrical form--pure patterning. On the other hand
is the more naturalistic use of colour in bodily form--pure
phantasy. Either of these alternatives may in their turn be
exaggerated. Everything is at the artist's disposal, and the
freedom of today has at once its dangers and its possibilities.
We may be present at the conception of a new great epoch, or
we may see the opportunity squandered in aimless extravagance.


[Footnote: On this question see my article "Uber die Formfrage"--
in "Der Blaue Reiter" (Piper-Verlag, 1912). Taking the work of
Henri Rousseau as a starting point, I go on to prove that the new
naturalism will not only be equivalent to but even identical with
abstraction.]


That art is above nature is no new discovery. [Footnote: Cf.
"Goethe", by Karl Heinemann, 1899, p. 684; also Oscar Wilde,
"De Profundis"; also Delacroix, "My Diary".] New principles do 
not fall from heaven, but are logically if indirectly connected with
past and future. What is important to us is the momentary
position of the principle and how best it can be used. It must
not be employed forcibly. But if the artist tunes his soul to
this note, the sound will ring in his work of itself. The
"emancipation" of today must advance on the lines of the inner
need. It is hampered at present by external form, and as that is
thrown aside, there arises as the aim of composition-
construction. The search for constructive form has produced
Cubism, in which natural form is often forcibly subjected to
geometrical construction, a process which tends to hamper the
abstract by the concrete and spoil the concrete by the abstract.


The harmony of the new art demands a more subtle construction
than this, something that appeals less to the eye and more to the
soul. This "concealed construction" may arise from an apparently
fortuitous selection of forms on the canvas. Their external lack
of cohesion is their internal harmony. This haphazard arrangement
of forms may be the future of artistic harmony. Their fundamental
relationship will finally be able to be expressed in mathematical
form, but in terms irregular rather than regular.




VIII. ART AND ARTISTS

The work of art is born of the artist in a mysterious and secret
way. From him it gains life and being. Nor is its existence
casual and inconsequent, but it has a definite and purposeful
strength, alike in its material and spiritual life. It exists and
has power to create spiritual atmosphere; and from this inner
standpoint one judges whether it is a good work of art or a bad
one. If its "form" is bad it means that the form is too feeble in
meaning to call forth corresponding vibrations of the soul.

[Footnote: So-called indecent pictures are either incapable of
causing vibrations of the soul (in which case they are not art)
or they are so capable. In the latter case they are not to be
spurned absolutely, even though at the same time they gratify
what nowadays we are pleased to call the "lower bodily tastes."]
Therefore a picture is not necessarily "well painted" if it
possesses the "values" of which the French so constantly speak.
It is only well painted if its spiritual value is complete and
satisfying. "Good drawing" is drawing that cannot be altered
without destruction of this inner value, quite irrespective of
its correctness as anatomy, botany, or any other science. There
is no question of a violation of natural form, but only of the
need of the artist for such form. Similarly colours are used not
because they are true to nature, but because they are necessary
to the particular picture. In fact, the artist is not only justified in 
using, but it is his duty to use only those forms which fulfill his own 
need. Absolute freedom, whether from anatomy or anything of the 
kind, must be given the artist in his choice of material. Such 
spiritual freedom is as necessary in art as it is in life. 
[Footnote: This freedom is man's weapon against the
Philistines. It is based on the inner need.]

Note, however, that blind following of scientific precept is less
blameworthy than its blind and purposeless rejection. The former
produces at least an imitation of material objects which may be
of some use.

[Footnote: Plainly, an imitation of nature, if made by the hand
of an artist, is not a pure reproduction. The voice of the soul
will in some degree at least make itself heard. As contrasts one
may quote a landscape of Canaletto and those sadly famous 
heads by Denner.--(Alte Pinakothek, Munich.)]

The latter is an artistic betrayal and brings confusion in its train. 
The former leaves the spiritual atmosphere empty; the latter 
poisons it.

Painting is an art, and art is not vague production, transitory
and isolated, but a power which must be directed to the
improvement and refinement of the human soul--to, in fact, the
raising of the spiritual triangle.

If art refrains from doing this work, a chasm remains unbridged,
for no other power can take the place of art in this activity.
And at times when the human soul is gaining greater strength, art
will also grow in power, for the two are inextricably connected
and complementary one to the other. Conversely, at those times
when the soul tends to be choked by material disbelief, art
becomes purposeless and talk is heard that art exists for art's
sake alone.

[Footnote: This cry "art for art's sake," is really the best
ideal such an age can attain to. It is an unconscious protest
against materialism, against the demand that everything should
have a use and practical value. It is further proof of the
indestructibility of art and of the human soul, which can never
be killed but only temporarily smothered.]

Then is the bond between art and the soul, as it were, drugged
into unconsciousness. The artist and the spectator drift apart,
till finally the latter turns his back on the former or regards
him as a juggler whose skill and dexterity are worthy of
applause. It is very important for the artist to gauge his
position aright, to realize that he has a duty to his art and to
himself, that he is not king of the castle but rather a servant
of a nobler purpose. He must search deeply into his own soul,
develop and tend it, so that his art has something to clothe, 
and does not remain a glove without a hand.

THE ARTIST MUST HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, 
FOR MASTERY OVER FORM IS NOT HIS GOAL 
BUT RATHER THE ADAPTING OF FORM TO ITS 
INNER MEANING.

[Footnote: Naturally this does not mean that the artist is to
instill forcibly into his work some deliberate meaning. As has
been said the generation of a work of art is a mystery. So long
as artistry exists there is no need of theory or logic to direct
the painter's action. The inner voice of the soul tells him what
form he needs, whether inside or outside nature. Every artist
knows, who works with feeling, how suddenly the right form
flashes upon him. Bocklin said that a true work of art must be
like an inspiration; that actual painting, composition, etc., are
not the steps by which the artist reaches self-expression.]


The artist is not born to a life of pleasure. He must not live
idle; he has a hard work to perform, and one which often proves 
a cross to be borne. He must realize that his every deed, feeling,
and thought are raw but sure material from which his work is to
arise, that he is free in art but not in life.


The artist has a triple responsibility to the non-artists: (1) He
must repay the talent which he has; (2) his deeds, feelings, and
thoughts, as those of every man, create a spiritual atmosphere
which is either pure or poisonous. (3) These deeds and thoughts
are materials for his creations, which themselves exercise
influence on the spiritual atmosphere. The artist is not only a
king, as Peladan says, because he has great power, but also
because he has great duties.


If the artist be priest of beauty, nevertheless this beauty is to
be sought only according to the principle of the inner need, and
can be measured only according to the size and intensity of 
that need.

THAT IS BEAUTIFUL WHICH IS PRODUCED BY THE 
INNER NEED, WHICH SPRINGS FROM THE SOUL.

Maeterlinck, one of the first warriors, one of the first modern
artists of the soul, says: "There is nothing on earth so curious
for beauty or so absorbent of it, as a soul. For that reason few
mortal souls withstand the leadership of a soul which gives to
them beauty." [Footnote: De la beaute interieure.]

And this property of the soul is the oil, which facilitates the
slow, scarcely visible but irresistible movement of the triangle,
onwards and upwards.



IX. CONCLUSION

The first five illustrations in this book show the course of
constructive effort in painting. This effort falls into two
divisions:

(1) Simple composition, which is regulated according to an
obvious and simple form. This kind of composition I call the
MELODIC.

(2) Complex composition, consisting of various forms, subjected
more or less completely to a principal form. Probably the
principal form may be hard to grasp outwardly, and for that
reason possessed of a strong inner value. This kind of
composition I call the SYMPHONIC.

Between the two lie various transitional forms, in which the
melodic principle predominates. The history of the development 
is closely parallel to that of music.

If, in considering an example of melodic composition, one forgets
the material aspect and probes down into the artistic reason of
the whole, one finds primitive geometrical forms or an
arrangement of simple lines which help toward a common motion.
This common motion is echoed by various sections and may be
varied by a single line or form. Such isolated variations serve
different purposes. For instance, they may act as a sudden 
check, or to use a musical term, a "fermata." [Footnote: E.g., the
Ravenna mosaic which, in the main, forms a triangle. The upright
figures lean proportionately to the triangle. The outstretched
arm and door-curtain are the "fermate."] Each form which goes to
make up the composition has a simple inner value, which has in
its turn a melody. For this reason I call the composition
melodic. By the agency of Cezanne and later of Hodler [Footnote:
English readers may roughly parallel Hodler with Augustus John
for purposes of the argument.--M.T.H.S.] this kind of composition
won new life, and earned the name of "rhythmic." The limitations
of the term "rhythmic" are obvious. In music and nature each
manifestation has a rhythm of its own, so also in painting. In
nature this rhythm is often not clear to us, because its purpose
is not clear to us. We then speak of it as unrhythmic. So the
terms rhythmic and unrhythmic are purely conventional, as also
are harmony and discord, which have no actual existence.
[Footnote: As an example of plain melodic construction with a
plain rhythm, Cezanne's "Bathing Women" is given in this book.]

Complex rhythmic composition, with a strong flavour of the
symphonic, is seen in numerous pictures and woodcuts of the 
past. One might mention the work of old German masters, of the
Persians, of the Japanese, the Russian icons, broadsides, etc.
[Footnote: This applies to many of Hodler's pictures.]

In nearly all these works the symphonic composition is not very
closely allied to the melodic. This means that fundamentally
there is a composition founded on rest and balance. The mind
thinks at once of choral compositions, of Mozart and Beethoven.
All these works have the solemn and regular architecture of a
Gothic cathedral; they belong to the transition period.

As examples of the new symphonic composition, in which the
melodic element plays a subordinate part, and that only rarely, 
I have added reproductions of four of my own pictures.

They represent three different sources of inspiration:

(1) A direct impression of outward nature, expressed in purely
artistic form. This I call an "Impression."

(2) A largely unconscious, spontaneous expression of inner
character, the non-material nature. This I call an
"Improvisation."

(3) An expression of a slowly formed inner feeling, which
comes to utterance only after long maturing. This I call a
"Composition." In this, reason, consciousness, purpose, play
an overwhelming part. But of the calculation nothing appears,
only the feeling. Which kind of construction, whether
conscious or unconscious, really underlies my work, the
patient reader will readily understand.

Finally, I would remark that, in my opinion, we are fast
approaching the time of reasoned and conscious composition, 
when the painter will be proud to declare his work constructive. 
This will be in contrast to the claim of the Impressionists that 
they could explain nothing, that their art came upon them by
inspiration. We have before us the age of conscious creation, 
and this new spirit in painting is going hand in hand with the 
spirit of thought towards an epoch of great spiritual leaders.

END OF "CONCERNING THE SPIRITUAL IN ART"

Continue to Kandinsky's essay "On the question of form"