THE VOCATION OF THE ARTIST: OUTLINE OF A THEORY OF THE RELATION OF ART TO ETHICS  
The three great directions of effort are: to work in the finite; to create in the finite the semblance of the infinite; to realize through effort the reality of the infinite. The vocation of the artist is to create the semblance of the spiritual relation between the parts of an empirical object. The object may be a vase or a lamp; it may be a human figure, it may be a group of dramatis personae. By introducing into the discussion of art the idea that a semblance of the spiritual relation is to be produced by the artist, we get rid at the outset of the barren formula of unity in variety.
 
Let me endeavor to elucidate the main ideas that flow from this definition of the spiritual aim of art.
 
1. The two points to be discussed are: What is meant by semblance? and What is meant by the quasi-spiritual relation as subsisting between the parts of a work of Art?
 
First, then, there is the semblance of totality. The spiritual relation is characterized by the totality of the parts related. That totality is realized only in the universal manifold. But a semblance of totality is furnished in the case of colors by the circumstance that the chromatic scale is cut off at the bottom and top in consequence of our inability to perceive the colors below and278 above; the musical scale likewise presents a quasi-totality, and the human figure in its contours presents a thing cut off from its surroundings, and in so far relatively complete in itself.
 
Because the spiritual relation involves the idea of the perfect totality, a relative totality, due to the accidental limitations of our sensory organs and power of attention, may become a semblance of the spiritual totality. I say, may become. A certain relation must be established between the parts of the relative totality in order that the semblance shall result.
 
One thing is clear; the subject of the work of art must possess relative completeness, and be capable of being contemplated as circumscribed and separated off. It must stand out like a tree, or like an oasis encircled by the desert, or like an island. The subject of art cannot be a mere length of cloth cut off from the fabric of things as they reel unceasingly from the loom of time—the mistake of Realism.
 
The point, emphasized in our third Book, namely, that an empirical substratum is to be spiritualized, and that ethics consists in spiritualizing this physical and psychical substratum, applies to art, but with the difference, that in the case of art the physical or psychical substratum cannot be spiritualized, but is to be made to take on the semblance of spirituality.
 
Now what is meant by this kind of transformation? I can perhaps explain by using as an illustration the color scheme of a picture. The transformation appears in the difference between the colors on the palette and279 the colors on the canvas. The colors on the palette represent the empirical substratum, the natural colors; the colors seen on the canvas show the same natural tints after they have taken on a new or second nature.
 
The second nature,—in what does it consist? In the circumstance that each color on the canvas, by its juxtaposition and its relation to the rest, is altered in tone and value, and that all the rest are altered by it. The spiritual relation is a give and take relation actually carried out. The semblance produced in art is the illusive appearance of such a relation as seen by the beholder.
 
We have thus set down two points—the apparent totality, and the apparent give and take relation between the parts (the second nature assumed by the parts, the illusory transformation of the substratum).
 
A third point involved in the second is that each part of a work of art shall remain invincibly individualized, despite the closeness of the relation which connects it with the rest. The individual member of a work of art may never be submerged in the whole, may never merely convey the abstract idea of unity amid variation. The “unity in variety” formula is not only empty but misleading, based on the same misconception which we have noted in dealing with Kant and with the Pantheists. The unity of a work of art consists in the reciprocal effect produced by the members on each other. Hence the more accentuated, the more distinctive the members are, always provided that the reciprocal relation is maintained, the more artistically satisfying will be the re280sult. In this manner the work of art will be true to its essential character as a semblance of the spiritual relation.
 
I have thus far spoken of the form. In regard to content I have only remarked that it must be capable of relative detachment. It must also be capable of interior articulation. The idea that an empirical substratum is to be transformed will here be found helpful in determining what is and what is not a fit subject for art. A vase or a pitcher is a utensil. As such it is a detached thing. Is it capable of articulation without destroying its utility? If it is, as the beautiful vases show, it is a fit subject for art to treat. The embellishment of utensils, of tables, chairs, etc., that is to say, the giving of artistic form to objects with which we bodily come into contact, is a means of casting the appearance of the spiritual relation over these objects, and thus in a fine sense making them congenial to ourselves as spiritual personalities. This justifies the time spent by artist artisans on their handiwork, and also justifies our availing ourselves of their products (provided that the store set by these symbolic reminders of the spiritual relation do not divert us from the main business of life, which is to attempt to realize that relation in human intercourse). The war song sung by a primitive tribe is a detachable, empirical thing, and possesses natural articulation. It has its slow beginning, its gradual rise, its paroxysmic culminations, its wild ecstasy, its final dying down.
 
The love passion expressed in lyric form has for its281 basis the natural ups and downs, dejections and transports characteristic of that passion.
 
The theme of a tragedy, as Aristotle says, must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Repetition (always with a difference), contrast, apparent triumph, defeat, and somehow a triumph in defeat—whatever may be the elements with which the tragic poet deals, the crude substance of them is furnished by the theme itself. And the result becomes artistic when the articulation is such that each part becomes a member of an organized whole, that is, when each part exchanges its first nature for the second nature mentioned above in connection with painting.80
 
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The next point of interest to consider is whether beauty is to be regarded as the invariable object of art. Relative detachment and susceptibility to articulation in the manner described are indispensable. But if tragedy is to be included, beauty cannot be the exclusive object. Lear, on the heath, the harpy daughters, Lear and Cordelia perishing together, are not beautiful objects. The task of the artist is to produce the semblance of the spiritual relation in any material which is capable of bearing that imprint. In the great tragedies we are lifted into an exalted mood by the form of the work even though the subject treated evokes horror—perhaps because of the very contrast between the form and the subject-matter. Beauty, on the other hand, is produced when both subject-matter and form are satisfying to our needs or aspirations. A vase is beautiful when perfectly adapted to its use and at the same time perfect in form. For this reason any kind of embellishment, for instance, in architecture not structurally in place is offensive, while on the other hand mere structural utility without the formal touch is mechanical. It is not true that utility itself inevitably flowers into beauty.
 
It should be added, however, that the artistic expression even of unsatisfied desires may come within the scope of beauty. The “Lycidas” is beautiful, Wordsworth’s “Laodamia” is beautiful, the Gothic form of architecture is beautiful, and so is Keats’ “Ode to the Nightingale,” and Shelley’s “Ode to the West Wind.” In such productions the adequate expression of the need itself affords relief and induces tranquillity. The mind ceases to strive toward a beyond longed for, and rests tranquillized in the longing itself. That it should thus aspire and long, in consequence of its higher nature, and the assurance of the existence of this higher nature, as evidenced by the longing, is peace-giving.
 
But it is hardly possible to discuss even in the most283 cursory manner the subject matter or content of a work of art without drawing attention to the ideals which at various times have been expressed in art, and to the fu............