![]() She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. She would not sacrifice herself for others. In fact, she is like most artists she is all style, without any sincerity. “ She has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove, “that cannot be denied her but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. When she had finished her song the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. Likewise, if the Nightingale were to attempt to use singing as merely a means to instruct in a utilitarian way, she would be in vain, as the average man does not understand the artist’s message: She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.” But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. … If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. But the Student is buried in his utilitarian fantasy: In the past, the Nightingale tried to realise the form of a “true lover” through singing. The artist understands that with vision comes also responsibility. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.Īnd this is the turning point in the artist’s life. “For a red rose!” they cried “how very ridiculous!” and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.īut the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. “He is weeping for a red rose,” said the Nightingale. ![]() “Why, indeed?” whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. “Why, indeed?” said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. “Why is he weeping?” asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. Not only does the artist see the imperfection of reality, she also becomes aware that what she sees - her vision - is not shared by the average man: “ What I sing of, he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. “Here indeed is the true lover,” said the Nightingale. The artist is struck by the gap between the form and its shadow: “ Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. “Here at last is a true lover,” said the Nightingale. Her life purpose is to create, to realise an ideal - a form-of a “true lover”. Of course man may sell the flower, and so make it useful to him, but this has nothing to do with the flower. That is all that is to be said about our relations to flowers. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. If the contemplation of a work of art is followed by activity of any kind, the work is either of a very second-rate order, or the spectator has failed to realise the complete artistic impression.Ī work of art is useless as a flower is useless. It is superbly sterile, and the note of its pleasure is sterility. It is not meant to instruct, or to influence action in any way. Photo by Carlos Quintero on Unsplash The Purpose of ArtĪrt is useless because its aim is simply to create a mood.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |