Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1911 (Heft 34-35))

deal of indisputable merit, which belongs essentially to music, without meta-
physical distinctions of any kind.
After having seen and heard so much of these three arts, I consider what
Paris is: a unique city; with a unique public, and with a unique soul.
In no other artistic centre of the world is there a greater liberality in
making concessions to the thinking genius, nor are so many projects admitted
to discussion, nor so many attempts and systems shown, without scandalizing
the public, who do not listen to the outcry of the scholastic conventionalisms.
Here any one who has an idea on art or science can express it to the public
without fear of persecution, being sure that someone will shelter, consider,
examine, and weigh it, finishing by sanctioning, and even adopting it, if it
shows true merit; if not, they prove it to be impracticable, unjust, or noxious
and exclude it.
But no one is denied a Tribune in which to speak, a Salon in which to
exhibit, or a Hall in which to produce his musical creations. The public,
supreme judge, not on account of its knowledge, but on account of the weight
of its decision, is the one which pronounces the final sentence, reserving the
right to revise it later.
This tolerance is based on a great artistic and scientific capacity, on an
unrivaled knowledge, which constitutes the greatest glory of thinking France.
All these thoughts were in my mind when, leaving the Salon d’Automne,
I was crossing the magnificent bridge of Alexander III, upon which a large
multitude was standing, peering over the parapet of the Seine.
Those men and women, who like myself came from the galleries of the
Grand Palais, with their souls shaken by the strong impressions caused by the
paintings, by the recitations, or by the music, with their spirit full of new ideas
and ideals, stopped, joining the idlers, to contemplate the waters of the river.
“How many fools there are in this, the most spiritual city in the world!55
I said to myself. And without thinking, I also stopped, increasing the number
of fools.
A gray river, a gray sky, a gray atmosphere. The last dashes of an
autumnal light, of leaden color, showing in the distance the towers of Notre
Dame. Carriages, automobiles, and all kinds of vehicles passing in all direc-
tions, on both sides of the river. Some small boats, used for carrying passen-
gers, going up and down its waters, giving more life to them.
No, those people were not fools: they were a part of the intellectual,
contemplative Parisian people, who find in everything its true value. The
river which swiftly and quietly flows on its course is an idyl; the river that
flows threatening destruction is an epic strophe.
There, there was a picture, a poem, and a symphony; and the Parisian
public knew how to see and appreciate that picture, that poem, and that
symphony. Yes, only among these people can exist the Salon d’Automne, and
the Museum of the Louvre, the Grand Opera and the Music Hall of the
Grand Palais, the Academy and the School of libre-versistes. This is not a
town, but a soul. This is not a people, but an intelligence.
Marius de Zayas.

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