B. PAINTING v. EFFECTS OF CaLOR Letting one's eyes wander over a palette laid out with colors has two main results: (1) There occurs a purely physical effect, i.e., the eye itself is charmed by the beauty and other qualities of the color. The spectator experienoes a feeling of satisfaction, of pleasure, like a gourmet who has a tasty morsel in his mouth. Or the eye is titillated, as is one's palate by a highly spiced dish. It can also be calmed or cooled again, as one's finger can when it touches ice. These are all physical sensations and as such can only be of short duration. They are also superficial, leaving behind no lasting impression if the soul remains closed. Just as one can only experience a physical feeling of cold on touching ice (which one forgets after having warmed one's fingers again), so too the physical effect of color is forgotten when one's eyes are turned away. And as the physical sensation of the coldness of the ice, penetrating deeper, can give rise to other, deeper sensations and set off a whole chain of psychic experi- 156 ences, so the superficial effect of color can also develop into a [deeper] form of experience. Only familiar objects will have a wholly superficial effect upon a moderately sensitive person. Those, however, that we encounter for the first time immediately have a spiritual effect upon us. A child, for whom every object is new, experiences the world in this way: it sees light, is attracted by it, wants to grasp it, burns its finger in the process, and thus learns fear and respect for the flame. And then it learns that light has not only an unfriendly, but also a friendly side: banishing darkness and prolonging the day, warming and cooking, delighting the eye. One becomes familiar with light by collecting these experiences and storing away this knowledge in the brain. The powerful, in tense interest iD! light vanishes, and its attribute of delighting the eye is met with indifJ ference. Gradually, in this way, the world loses its magic. One knows that trees provide shade, that horses gallop quickly, and that cars go eveni faster, that dogs bite, that the moon is far away, and that the man one sees in the mirror is not real. The constantly growing awareness of the qualities of different objects and beings is only possible given a high level of development in the individual. With further development, these objects and beings take on an inner value, eventually an inne r sound. So it is with color, which if one's spiritual sensitivity is at a low stage of development, can only create a superficial effect, an effect that soon disappears once thc stimulus has ceased. Yet, even at this stage, this extremely simple effect can vary. The eye is more strongly attracted by the brighter colors, and still more by the brighter and warmer: vermilion attracts and pleases the eye as does flame, which men always regard covetously. Bright lemon yellow hurts the eye after a short time, as a high note on the trumpet hurts the ear. The eye becomes disturbed, cannot bear it any longer, and seeks depth and repose in blue or green. At a higher level of development, however, there arises from this elementary impression a more profound effect, which occasions a deep emotional response. In this case we have: (2) The second main consequence of the contemplation of color, i.e., the psychological effect of color. The psychological power of color becomes apparent, calling forth a vibration from the soul. Its primary, elementary physical power becomes simply the path by which color t{:aches the soul. Whether this second consequence is in fact a direct one, as might be IS? supposed from these last few lines, or whether it is achieved by means of association, remains perhaps questionable. Since in general the soul is closely connected to the body, it is possible that one emotional response may conjure up another, corresponding form of emotion by means of as~ocia tion. For example, the color red may cause a spiritualvibration like flame, sin~e red is ~he color of flame. A warm red has a stimulating effect and can mcrease m intensity until it induces a painful sensation perhaps also because of its resemblance to flowing blood. This color ca~ ~hus conjure up the memory of another physical agent, which necessarIly exerts a painful effect upon the soul. . If this were the case, it would be easy to find an associative explanatIOn f.or the other physical effects of color,36 i.e., its effects not only upon o~r SIght, but also upon our other senses. One might assume that, e.g., bnght yellow produces a sour effect by analogy with lemons. It is, howpver, h'1rdly possible to maintain this kind of explanation. As far as tasting colors is concerned, many examples are known where this explanation does not apply. A Dresden doctor tells how one of his patients, whom he describes as "spiritually, unusually highly developed," invariably found that a certain sauce had a "blue" taste, i.e., it affected him like the color blue.* One might perhaps assume another similar, and yet different, explanation; that in the case of such highly developed people the paths leading to the soul are so direct, and the imp~essions it receives are so quickly produced, that an effect im~edia.tely communicated to the soul via the medium of taste sets up vIbratIOns along the corresponding paths leading away from the soul to the other sensory organs (in this case, the eye). This effect would seem to be a sort of echo or resonance, as in the case of musical instruments which without themselves being touched, vibrate in sympathy with another instrument being played. Such highly sensitive people are like good, much-played violins, which vibrate in all their parts and fibers at every touch of the bow. If one accepts this explanation, then admittedly, sight must be related not only to taste, but also to all the other senses. Which is indeed the ·Or. med. Freudenberg, "Spaltung der Personlichkeit," Uebersinnliche Welt, no. 2 (1908): 64-65. Here, too, hearing colors is discussed (p. 65), in which connection the author notes that tables of comparison do not constitute laws of general application. Cf. L. Sa baneev in the weekly Music (Moscow), no. 9 (1911); here, the author points to the definite possibility of soon formulating such laws. case. Many colors have an uneven, prickly appearance, while others feel smooth, like velvet, so that one wants to stroke them (dark ultramarine, chrome-oxide green, madder). Even the distinction between cold and warm tones depends upon this sensation. There are also colors that appear soft (madder), others that always strike one as hard (cobalt green, green-blue oxide), so that one might mistake them for already dry when freshly squeezed from the tube. The expression "the scent of colors" is common usage. Finally, our hearing of colors is so precise that it would perhaps be impossible to find anyone who would try to represent his impression of bright yellow by means of the bottom register of the piano, or describe dark madder as being like a soprano voice.*37 This explanation (that is, in terms of association) is, however, insufficient in many instances that are for us of particular importance. Anyone who has heard of color therapy knows that colored light can have a particular effect upon the entire body. Various attempts to exploit this power of color and apply it to different nervous disorders have again noted that red light has an enlivening and stimulating effect upon the heart, while blue, on the other hand, can lead to temporary paralysis. If this sort of effect can also be observed in the case of animals, and even plants, then any explanation in terms of association completely falls down. These facts in any case prove that color contains within itself a little-studied but enormous power, which can influence the entire human body as a physical organism. If association does not seem a sufficient explanation in this case, then it cannot satisfy us as regards the effect of color upon the psyche. In 'Much theoretical and also practical work has already been done on this subject. People are concerned with the possibility of constructing a system of counterpoint for painting also, in terms of these many-sided similarities (e.g., the physical vibrations of air and lightl. On the other hand, there have been in practice successful attempts to impress a tune upon unmusical children with the help of color (e.g., by means of flowers). Mrs. A. Zakharin-Unkovsky has been working on this subject for many years, and has constructed a special, precise method of "translating the colors of nature into music, of painting the sounds of nature, of seeing sounds in col or andheari ng col 0 r s mu sic ally. "38 This method has been used for many years in the school run by its inventor, and has been recognized as useful by the St. Petersburg Conservatory. On the other hand Skriabin has constructed empirically a parallel table of eqUIvalent tones in color ;nd music, which very closely resembles the more physical table of Mrs. Unkovsky. Skriabin has made convincing use of his method in his Prometheus. (See the table reproduced in the weekly Music [Moscow], no. 9 [1911). ·P. Signac, op. cit. See also the interesting article by K. Scheffler, "Notizcn iiber die Farbe," Dekorative Kunst (Feb. 1901). Musical sound has direct access to the soul. It finds there an echo, for man "hath music in himself." "Everybody knows that yellow, orange, and red induce and represent ideas of joy and of riches" (Delacroix).* general, therefore, calor is a means of exerting a direct influence upon the soul. Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano, with its many strings. The artist is the hand that purposefull y sets the soul vibrating by means of this or that key. Thus it is clear that the harmony of colors can only be based upon the principle of purposefully touching the human soul. This basic tenet we shall call the pr in c i p le 0 fin t ern a 1 necessity. 160 VI. THE LANGUAGE OF FORMS AND COLORS The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of his spirit arc dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. - Mark the music. -Shakespeare These two 4.uotations demonstrate the profound relationship betw~en the arts m general, and between music and painting in particu- lar: 11I It was surely this striking relationship that inspired Goethe's th(~ught to tl~c effect that there must be a thorough-bass of painting.40 Tlus prophetic utterance of Goethe anticipates the situation in which pai?ting ~n~s itse~f today. This situation is the point of departure from whl.ch pamtmg, wIth the help of the means at its disposal, will become art m th~ a.bstract sense, and will eventually achieve purely pictorial composl tlOn. The means at its disposal to achieve this form of composition are as follows: 1. Calor. 2. Form. Form alone, as the representation of an object (whether real or unreal) or as the purely abstract dividing up of a space, of a surface, can exist pe;se. . No.t so c~lor..Color cannot extend without limits. One can only Imagme an mfimte red, can only see it in one's mind's eye. When one hears the word red, this red in our imagination has no boundaries. One must, if necessary, force oneself to envisage them. This red, which one does not see materially, but imagines in the abstract, awakens on the other hand a certain precise, and yet imprecise, representation [VoIstel~ung] having a purely internat psychological sound.*41 This red, echomg from the word [lfred"l has of itself no particularly pronounced tende~cy toward warm or cold. This must also be imagined, as fine grada:lOns of the shade of red. For this reason, I have described this way o! seemg ~s mentally imprecise. It is, however, at the same time precise, sm~e the mner sound is left bare, without particularities arising from an aCCidental tendency toward warm or cold, etc. This inner sound resembl~s the sound of a trumpet, or of the instrument one pictures in one's mmd when one hears the word trumpet, etc., where all particularities are excluded. In fact, one imagines the sound without even taking account of the changes it undergoes, depending on whether it is heard in the open air or in an enclosed space, alone or with other instruments, •A very similar result is produced in the following example by tree in which however the material element of the representation occupies more space: ' , 162 whether played by a postilion, a huntsman, a soldier, or a virtuoso. If, however, this red has to be rendered in material form (as in painting), then it must (I) have a particular shade chosen from the infinite range of different possible shades of red, being thus, so to speak, subjectively characterized; and (2) be limited in its extension upon the surface of the canvas, limited by other colors that are there of necessi ty and can in no case be avoided, and by means of which (by limitation and proximity) the subjective character is changed (given a veneer of objectivity): the objective element here raises its voice. This inevitable. relationship between color and form brings us to a consideration of the effects of form upon color. Form itself, even if completely abstract, resembling geometrical form, has its own inner sound, is a spiritual being possessing qualities that are identical with that form. A triangle (without more detailed description as to whether it is acute, or obtuse, or equilateral) is one such being, with its own particular spiritual perfume. In conjunction with other forms, this perfume becomes differentiated, receiving additional nuances, but remaining in essence unchangeable, like the scent of a rose, which can never be confused with that of a violet. Likewise the circle, the square, and all other possible forms.* And, therefore, the same situation as we found previously with red: subjective substance encased in an objective shell. Here, the interaction of form and color becomes clear. A triangle filled with yellow, a circle with blue, a square with green, then again a triangle with green, a circle with yellow, a square with blue, etc. These are all completely different entities, having completely different effects. Here, it may easily be remarked that the value of many colors is reinforced by certain forms and weakened by others. At all events, sharp colors have a stronger sound in sharp forms (e.g., yellow in a triangle). The effect of deeper colors is emphasized by rounded forms (e.g., blue in a circle). Of course, it is clear on the one hand that the incompatibility of certain forms and certain colors should be regarded not as something "disharmonious/' but conversely, as offering new possibilities-i.e., also [a form of] harmony. Since the number of forms and colors is infinite, the number of possible combinations is likewise infinite as well as their effects. This material is inexhaustible. ·The direction in which, e.g., a triangle is pointing, viz., movement, also plays a significant role. This is of great importance for painting. 163 Raphael, Holy Family. 164 Form in the narrower sense is nothing more than the delimitation of one surface from another. This is its external description. Since, however, everything external necessarily conceals within itself the internal (which appears more or less strongly upon the surface), eve r y for m has inner content.* Form is, therefore, the expression of inner con ten t. This is its internal description. Here, we must think of the example used a few moments ago-that of the piano, and for "color" substitute "form": the artist is the hand that purposefully sets the human soul vibrating by pressing this or that key (= form). Thus iV is clear that the ha,rmony of form5can only be based upon the purposefulJ,ouch~in~co.nne'humansoul. This is the principle we have ca11edthe-p'rinciple of internal necessi ty. The two aspects of form previously mentioned are at the same time its two aims. And thus its external delimitation is wholly purposeful when it most expressively reveals the inner content belonging to the form.t The external element of form, i.e., its delimitation, where in this case form serves as a means, can assume many different aspects. And yet, in spite of all the differences form may display, it will never exceed two external limits, which are as follows: 1. Either the form, as contour, serves the purpose of representing the three dimensions of a material object upon a flat surface, i.e., of delineating this material object upon the surface plane. Or else: 2. The form remains abstract, i.e., it does not describe any real object, but is rather a totally abstract entity. Such pure abstract entities, which as such have their own existence, their own influence and *If a form produces an indifferent effect and, so to speak, "says nothing," then this should not be understood literally. There is no form, any more than anything else in this world, that says nothing. Still, what it has to say often fails to reach our souls, and this is what happens when what is said is itself indifferent or-more correctly-has not been used in ~he right place. tThis description of something as "expressive" should be correctly understood: sometimes form can be expressive when muted. Form may sometimes reveal the necessary most expressively by not going to the very limit, but by a gesture, merely showing the path that leads to external expression. 165 effect, are the square, the circle, the triangle, the rhombus, the trapezoid, and all the other innumerable forms, becoming ever more complicated, having no description in mathematical terms. All these forms are citizens of equal status in the realm of abstraction. Between these two boundaries lie the infinite number of forms in which both elements are present, and where either the material or the abstract [element] predominates. These forms are at present that store from which the artist borrows all the individual elements of his creations. Today, the artist cannot manage exclusively with purely abstract forms. These forms are too imprecise for him. To limit oneself exclusively to the imprecise is to deprive oneself of possibilities, to exclude the purely human and thus impoverish one's means of expression.42 On the other hand, there are no purely material forms in art. It is not possible to represent a material form exactly. For good or evil, the artist is dependent upon his eye, his hand, which in this case are more artistic than his soul, which has nO desire to exceed purely photographic aims. The conscious artist, however, who cannot be satisfied with minutely recording the material object, necessarily strives to give expression to the object being represented. This in earlier times was known as idealization, more recently stylization, and tomorrow will be called something else again.* The impossibility and pointlessness (in art) of aimlessly copying the object; the effort to give to the object an expressive element!these are the points of departure from which the artist sets out on the long path that leads from the "literary" coloration of the object toward purely artistic (or pictorial) aims. This is the path that leads to composition. With reference to form, purely pictorial composition has two tasks "The essential element of "idealization" lay in the attempt to beautify organic form, to make it ideal, often resulting in the schematic, whereby the personal, inner sound became muted. "Stylization," arising more out of Impressionism, had as its principal aim not the "beautification" of organic form, but its powerful characterization by the omission of external details. Thus, the sound that arose in this case was of a highly personal nature, but giving undue emphasis to the externa!' The future handling and transformation of organic form has as its aim the laying bare of the inn e r sound. The organic form no longer serves in this case as the direct object, but is merely one element in that divine language which is couched in human terms, because it is addressed by man to man. 166 before it: 1. The composition of the whole picture. 2. The creation of the individual forms that are related to each other in various combinations, while remaining subordinate to the whole composition.* Thus, many objects (real, or possibly abstract)43 are subordinate..sJ within the picture to a sin g le overall form and altered to mJke them compatible with this form, which they comprise. In this case, the individual form, which mainly serves the overall form of the composition, can retain little of its own personal sound and should be regarded principally as an. element of that form. The individual form is shaped in this particular way not because its own inner sound (regarded as separate from the overall composition) necessarily requires it, but mainly because it is called upon to serve as a building block for this composition. Here, the first task-the composition of the whole picture-is pursued as a definite goal.t In this way, the abstract element in art gradually has come increas"The overall composition can of course consist of smaller, closed compositions, which externally may even stand in a hostile relationship one to another, yet still serve the purpose of the overall composition (and in this example, specifically by means of this hostile relationship). These smaller compositions also consist of individual forms with their own different inner coloration. t A cogent example of this: the bathing women by Cezanne, composition in triangular form. (The mystical triangle!) This construction by geometrical form is an old principle, which has of late been rejected because it had degenerated into a rigid academic formula no longer possessing any inner meaning, any sou!. Cezanne's application of this principle gave it a new soul, with a strong emphasis upon the purely pictorial-compositional. In this important instance, the triangle is not an auxiliary means employed to bring about the harmonization of the group, but is itself the clearly expressed artistic aim. Here, geometrical form becomes at the same time a means of composition in painting: the emphasis lies upon the purely artistic aim, with a strong concordance of the abstract element. For this reason, Cezanne quite rightly alters the proportions of the human body: not only must the whole figure strive toward the point of the triangle, but even the individual parts of the body are themselves driven more and more strongly upward from below, as if by an inner storm, they become lighter and lighter and expand visibly. ingly to the fore, [that same element] which only yesterday concealed itself shyly, hardly visible behind purely materialistic strivings. And this growth and eventual predominance of the abstract is a natural process. Natural, because the more organic form is pushed into the background, the more this abstract element comes to the fore of its own accord, with increasing stridency. The remaining organic element has, however, as already noted, its own inner sound, which may either be identical with the inner sound of the second constituent element (the abstract) within the same form (a simple combination of the two elements), or which may be of a different nature la complicated, and possibly necessarily disharmonious combination). In any case, the sound of the organic element, even when pushed right into the background, is able to make itself heard within the chosen form. For this reason, the choice of real objects is of some importance. As regards the two notes (a spiritual chord)44 sounded by the two constituent elements of the form, the organic may either reinforce the abstract (by means of consonance or dissonance) or disturb it. The object itself may constitute only a contingent sound that, when replaced by another, causes no e s s e n t i a I change in the basic sound. A composition in the form of a rhombus can, for example, be constructed so as to include a number of human figures. After examining them in the light of one's sensibility [Gefiihl], one asks oneself the question: Are the human figures essential to the composition, or could they be replaced by other organic forms that would avoid disturbing the basic inner sound of the composition? And if so, then we are faced with an example in which the sound of the object not only does not help the sound of the abstract element, but is directly inimical to it: an indifferent sound on the part of the object weakens the abstract. In fact, this is not only logically, but also artistically the case. In this instance, therefore, one should either find another object more compatible with the inner sound of the abstract element (compatible either as consonance or dissonance), or else choose to let the whole form remain purely abstract.45 Here let us once again remember the example of the piano. Instead of [the words] color and form, substitute object. Every object (regardless of whether it was created directly by "nature" or by human hand) is a being with its own life and, inevitably, with its own effect flowing from it. Man is constantly subject to this psychological effect. Many of the results will remain in the "subconscious" (where they exert 168 just as lively and creative an effect). Many rise to the level of the "conscious." One can free oneself from many of them simply by closing one's soul to them. "Nature," i.e., the ever-changing external environm~nt of man, continually sets the strings of the piano (the soul) in vibration, by means of the keys (objects). These effects, which often seem chaotic to us, consist of three elements: the effect of the color of the object, the effect of its form, and the effect-independent of color and form-of the object itself. Now, however, in the place of nature we have the artist, who has the same three elements at his disposal. And without further ado, we arrive at our conclusion: Here too it is the element of purpose that is the deciding factor. So it is cl ear t hat the ch 0 ice 0 fob j e c t (= a contributory element in the harmony of form) must be based onl y upon the principle of the purposeful touching of the human soul. Therefore, the choice of object also arises from the principle of internal necessi ty. The more freely abstract the form becomes, the purer, and also the more primitive it sounds. Therefore, in a composition in which corporeal elements are more or less superfluous, they can be more or less omitted and replaced by purely abstract forms, or by corporeal forms that have been completely abstracted. In every instance of this kind of transposition, or composition using purely abstract forms, the only judge, guide, and arbitrator should be one's feelings. Moreover, the more the artist utilizes these abstracted or abstract forms, the more at home he becomes in this sphere, and the deeper he is able to penetrate it. The spectator too, guided by the artist, likewise increases his knowledge of this abstract language and finally masters it. Here, we are confronted by the question: Must we not then renounce the object altogether, throw it to the winds and instead lay bare the purely abstract? This is a question that naturally arises, the answer to which is at once indicated by an analysis of the concordance of the two elements of form (the objective and the abstract). Just as every word spoken (tree, sky, man) awakens an inner vibration, so too does every pictorially represented object.46 To deprive oneself of the possibility of thus calling up vibrations would be to narrow oneis arseI1aJof expressive means. At least, that is how it is today. But apart from today's answer, the above question receives the eternal answer to every question in art that begins with "must." There is no "must" in art, which is forever free. Art f1ees before the word "must," as day flees from night. .. Rt'garding the second task of composition, the creation of indiyid ua1forms as building blocks for the whole composition, it should also be remarked that the same form always produces the same sound under the same conditions. Only the conditions always differ; which permits us to draw two conclusions: 1. The ideal sound changes when combined with other forms. 2. It changes, even in the same context (inasmuch as it is possible for the context to remain the same), if the direction of the form changes.· From these two conclusions arises automatically another. Nothing is absolute. And formal composition, which is based upon this relativity, is dependent upon f1) the variability of the combinations of forms, and (2) upon the variability, down to the tiniest detail, of every individual form. Every form is as fragile as a puff of smoke: the tiniest, barely perceptible alteration of any of its parts changes it essentiall y. And this goes so far that it is perhaps easier to achieve the expression of the same sound by the use of different forms than by the repetition of the same form: a really exact repetition lies beyond the bounds of possibility. As long as we remain particularly sensitive only to the overall effect of the composition, then this fact is more of theoretical importance. But as people develop greater and more refined sensitivity through the use of more and more abstract forms (which will receive no interpretation in physical terms), then this fact will have ever-increasing practical importance. Thus, on the one hand, the difficulty of art will increase, but on the other, the wealth of forms available as means of expression will qualitatively and quantitively increase with it. The question of "distortion" will, of its own accord, disappear in the process, to be replaced by another, far more artistic one: To what extent is the inner sound of the given form concealed or laid bare? This change of viewpoint will once again lead to still further enrichment of the available means of expression, since concealment wields an enormous power in art. The combination of the revealed and the hidden will constitute a further possibility of creating new motifs for formal composition. ·What onc calls motion; e.g., a triangle that is simply standing upright has a more peaceful, motionless, stable sound than if the same triangle is placed obliquely upon the surface. 170 Without such developments in this field, formal composition would remain impossible. This will, as a way of composing a picture, always seem mere unfounded willfulness to those wllo remain deaf to the inner sound of form (corporeal and especially, abstract form). The dislocation of individual forms upon the picture surface appears merely inconsequential, a meaningless formal game. Here, we find the same criterion and the same principle we have found up to now, in every case, to be the only purely artistic one, free from the accidental: the principle of internal necessi ty. If, e.g., facial features or different parts of the body have been dislocated or "distorted" for artistic reasons, one comes up against not only purely pictorial problems, but also anatomical ones, which confine the scope of the artistic intention, forcing irrelevant considerations upon it. In our case, however, everything irrelevant disappears of its own accord, and only the essential remains-the artistic aim. And it is this apparently willful, but in fact strictly determinable, possibility of distor.ting forms which is one of the sources of an infinite series of purely artistIC creations. Thus, on the one hand, the flexibility of the individual forms, the so-to-speak internal-organic changes they undergo, their direction within the picture (movement), and the emphasis upon the corporeal or the abstract element of these individual forms; on the other hand, the juxtaposition of forms that together constitute the larger formal patterns, built up out of groups of forms; the juxtaposition of individual forms with these larger groups of forms, which makes up the overall composition of the whole picture; further, the principles of consonance or disonance of all those parts mentioned, i.e., the meeting of individual forms the limitation of one form by another, likewise the jostling, the confl~enceor dismemberment [Mit- und Zerreissen] of the individual forms· similar treatment of different groups of forms, the combination of the'hidden and the revealed, of the rhythmic and the arhythmic upon the same surface of abstract forms-on the one hand purely geometrical (simple or more' complex), on the other, indescribable in geometrical terms· combinations of delimitations of forms one from one another (more/less strongly), etc., etc.-all these are the elements that constitute the possibility of a purely graphic"counterpoint" and will give rise to it. And all this is only the counterpoint of an art of black and white, as long as we exclude color. Color, which itself affords material for counterpoint, and which con- 171 ceals endless possibilities within itself, will give rise, in combination with drawing, to that great pictorial counterpoint, by means of which painting also will attain the level of composition and thus place itself in the service of the divine, as a totally pure art. And it is always the same infallible guide that leads us on toward these dizzy heights: the principle of internal necessity!47 -- Internal necessity arises from three mystical sources. It is composed of three mystical necessities: 1. Every artist, as creator, must express what is peculiar to himself (element of personality). 2. Every artist, as child of his time, must express what is peculiar to his own time (element of style, in its inner value, compounded of the language of the time and the language of the race, as long as the race exists as such). 3. Every artist, as servant of art, must express what is peculiar to art in general (element of the pure and eternally artistic, which pervades every individual, every people, every age, and which is to be seen in the works of every artist, of every nation, and of every period, and which, being the principal element of art, knows neither time nor space). One must simply penetrate these first two elements with one's spiritual eye to reveal the third element. And then one sees that a "crudely" carved column from an Indian temple is just as much animated by the same soul as any living, "modern" work. There has been, and still is today, much talk of the personal element in art; now and again, and today with increasing frequency, one hears talk of the style to come. Even if these questions are of great importance, they will gradually lose their urgency and their significance when viewed from across centuries and finally across millenia, eventually becoming indifferent and dead. Only the third element, that of the pure, the eternally artistic, remains immortal. It does not lose its strength with time; on the contrary, it gains in strength continually. Egyptian sculpture certainly moves us more today than it was able to move its contemporaries: it was muted by * * * 172 173 being far too closely bound to its contemporaries by then still-living characteristics of timc and personality. Today, we are able to hear revealed in it the sound of an eternal art. On the other hand, the more a "prcsent-day" work possesses of the first two elements, the more easily it will, of coursc, bc able to find access to the souls ofits contemporaries. And further: thc morc strongly the third element is present in this modern work, thc morc the first two elements are overshadowed, and the morc difficult becomes this access to the souls ofits contemporaries. For this rcason, centuries must sometimes elapse before the sound of the third element can reach the souls of men. Thus, the predominance of this third element in a work of art is the sign of its greatness and of the greatness of the artist.48 These three mystical necessities are the three necessary elements of the work of art, which are closely bound up with one another, i.e., they interact upon each other, a phenomenon that in every age expresses the unity of the work of art. The first two elements, however, embrace the temporal and the spatial, constituting in relation to the element of the pure and eternally artistic, which is beyond time and space, a kind of relatively opaque outer skin. The process of the development of art consists to a certain extent in the ability of the pure and eternally artistic to free itself from the elements of personality and temporal style. Therefore, these two forces act not only in conjunction, but also as brakes. Personal and temporal style give rise in every epoch to many precisely determined forms, which, despite their considerable apparent dissimilarity, are So organically related that they can be described as 0 n e si ngle form: their inner sound is ultimately one overall sound. These two elements are of a subjective nature. The whole period wants to reflect its e If, to express its own life in artistic form. Likewise, the artist wants to express his own self, and selects only those forms that are emotionally appropriate to him. Slowly but surely, the style of the period becomes formed, i.e., a certain external and subjective form. The element of the pure and eternally artistic is, as opposed to this, the objective element, which becomes comprehensible with the help of the subjective. This ineluctable will for expression of the objective is the force described here as internal necessity, which requires from the subjective today one general form, tomorrow another. It is the constant tireless impulse, the spring that drives [us] continually "forward." The 174 spirit progresses, and hence today's inner laws of harmony are tomorrow's external laws, which in their further application continue to have life only by virtue of this same necessity, which has become externalized. It is clear that the spiritual, inner power of art merely uses contemporary forms as a stepping stone to further progress. In short then the effect of inner necessity, and thus the development, , f of art is the advancing expression of the external-objective in terms 0 the t~mporal-subjective.Thus, again, the struggle of the objective I against the subjective. . For example, today's accepted form is the triumph of yesterday's ll~ner necessity, which has attained a certain external level of emanCIpatIOn, of freedom. This present-day freedom was secured by means of a struggle, and appears to many, as always, to be the "last word." One of the canons of this limited freedom is that the artist may utilize every form as a means of expression, as long as he bases his art upon forms borrowed from nature. This demand is, however, like all previous demands, merely temporal. It is the external expression of today, i.e., today's external necessity. Seen from the standpoint of inner necessity, such a limitation cannot be imposed, and the artist today is free to base his art entirely upon that inner principle from which today's externallimitation is derived, and which may thus be defined as follows: the artIst may utilize every form as a means of expression. So we see, finally (and this is of immeasurable importance for all periods, and especially "today"!), that the search for the personal~ for style (and thus, incidentally, for the national) not only cannot?e arnved at intentionally, but also is not of such importance as we thmk tod,ay. And we see that the common relationship between works of art, whIch is not weakened by the passage of millenia, but is increasingly strengthened, does not lie in the exterior, in the external, but in the root of roots-in the mystical content of art. We see that the dependence upon "schools," the search for"direction," the de~andfor "p.rinciples" in a work of art and for definite means of expreSSIOn appropnate to the age, can only lead us astray, bringing in their train misunderstanding, obscurity, and unintelligibility. The artist should be blind to "accepted" or "unaccepted" form, deaf to the precepts and demands of his time. . ' His eyes should be always directed toward his own inner hfe, and hIS ears turned to the voice of internal necessity. Then he will seize upon all permitted means, and just as easily upon 177 "The concept "external" should not here be confused with the concept "material." I employ the former concept simply as a substitute for "external necessity," which can never lead us beyond the bounds of accepted and hence mere traditional "beauty." "Internal necessity" recognizes no such boundaries, and thus often creates things we are accustomed to describe as "ugly." "Ugly" is hence merely a conventional concept, dragging out a semblance of continued existence as the external result of an inner necessity that has already produced its effect and has long since been made incarnate. In earlier times everything unrelated to internal necessity was stamped with the term ugly. The beautiful, on the other hand, was defined as that which was related to it. And rightly-everything that arises from internal necessity is beautiful in consequence. And is sooner or later recognized as such. Thus we see that the internal lies at the heart of the very tiniest problem, and also at the heart of the greatest problems in painting. The path upon which we find ourselves today, and which is the greatest good fortune of our time, leads us to rid ourselves of the external,* to replace this basis by another diametrically opposed to it: the basis of internal necessity. But just as the body is strengthened and developed through exercise, so too is the spirit. Just as the body, if neglected, becomes weak and incapable, so too does the spirit. The sense of feeling with which the artist is born resembles the talent of which the Bible speaks, which is not to be buried. The artist who does not use his gifts is a lazy servant. For this reason, it is not only not harmful, but positively necessary for the artist to be acquainted with the starting point of these exercis"es. This starting point consists in the weighing-up of the inner value of one'siriaterials, on an objective scale, i.e., the examination-in our case-of color, which by and large must affect every man. Thus we need not become involved here with the deep and subtle complexities of color, but shall content ourselves with the elementary representation of the simple colors. One concentrates first upon col or in isolation, letting oneself be affected by single colors. In this way we are confronted with the simplest possible schema. The whole question can be couched in the simplest possible terms. The two great divisions, which at once become obvious, are: 1. warmth or coldness of a color 2. lightness or darkness of a color * * * all forbidden means. This is the only way of giving expression to mystical necessity. All means are moral if they are internally necessary. All ~eans are sinful if they did not spring from the source of internal necessity. On t~e ot~er.hand,even if one can today speculate ad infinitum along thes~ lInes, It IS nonetheless premature to theorize about the further detaIls. ~heoryis.never in advance ofpractice in art, never drags practice m Its tram, ?ut .vIce ve~sa: Everything depends on feeling, especially at first: What IS nght artIstIcally can only be attained through feeling, partlcularly at the outset. Evenjf overall construction can be arrived at purely by t~~ory, nev~rtheless there remains something extra, which is the true spu~t of creatIOn (and thus/to a certain extent, its very essence as well), WhIC~C;