Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1907 (Heft 20))

EMOTIONAL ART.
(after reading the “craftsman,” april, 1907.)
IT was a long time ago, in the early days of the “movement," that
I knew Mr. Theodosius Binny. He was an “artist” in gum and
upon occasions fairly slobbered in it. Those were the supreme
moments in his life when he was engaged in the creation of “ emo-
tional art,” and they occurred on an average twice a day. For Theodosius
Binny worked best upon an empty stomach; it was during the intervals
between meal and meal, when there was a gap under his waistcoat, that what
he had in his head was most crowded with emotions.
Like so many other gifted artists, he might have been a painter, but
he wasn't. “I’m an anarch,” he would explain with a faint smile, “ and
rebel against the conventions by which painting is shackled. I must work
in the freer atmosphere of irresponsibility that photography permits.” So he
bought him a camera, and proceeded to convert the bathroom into a dark
and unclean place. This, of course, was before he had discovered his own
greatness and his mission in the cause of “emotional art.” Afterward, a
studio could scarce contain him. I haven’t mentioned that he was married;
but he was, and what Mrs. Binny suffered for the “cause” is another story.
It is no light matter, I take it, to be the sleeping partner of an emotional
artist.
Genius, in the words of the hymn, “works in a mysterious way its
wonders to perform;” and it would be idle for me to attempt to penetrate
the mystery of Mr. Binny's genius, but I may describe some of the outward
and visible signs of his inward and spiritual grace. For I myself have had
the honor of being photographed by Mr. Binny. Or perhaps it would be
truer to say that he once did me the favor of using me, as the doctors use a
“case” on which to operate and experiment. He condescended, in fact, to
try and make this poor body of mine a medium for his emotional art.
The interview was opened with mutual how-do-you-do’s ? I replied
that I was feeling very well; and inwardly prayed that for the sake of art
the lie might go unrecorded. For how can an ordinary man feel very well,
when left alone for the first time with an emotional artist ? However, the
discrepancy between my brave words and halting spirit escaped the notice of
Theodosius Binny, whose point of view was essentially and exclusively sub-
jective. “Oh! don't ask me,” he gasped, in answer to my formal inquiry.
“ My colon is excoriated throughout its entire length; my pericardium one
huge maculation, and I cherish the torment of a partially removed appendix.”
I was aimlessly wondering which part, as he burst out in a kind of prolonged
sob: " But it is out of the suffering of the body that the artist reaches up to
the emotionalism of his soul. It is only, when the whole fabric of his flesh
collapses into a palpitating confusion of pain, that his spirit is disengaged
and rises to sublimity. That is why we artists glory in our missions, cherish
our weaknesses, and are in love with pain. Ah! Mr. Caffin, what can you
know of an artist’s sufferings?” “Little, indeed,” I admitted sympathetically.
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