DOI article:
John Galsworthy, Vague Thoughts on Art [reprint from Fortnightly Review (London), February 1912; Atlantic Monthly, April 1912; The Inn of Tranquility by John Galsworthy, 1912]
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.31217#0040
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can but suspend the artist over Life, with his feet in the air and his head in the
clouds—Prig masquerading as Demi-god. “Nature is no great Mother who
has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life.”
Such is the highest hyperbole of the aesthetic creed. But what is creative
instinct if not an incessant living sympathy with Nature, a constant craving
like that of Nature’s own, to fashion something new out of all that comes
within the grasp of those faculties with which Nature has endowed us ? The
qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative power, are no more divorced
from Nature than are the qualities of common sense and courage. They are
rarer, that is all. But, in truth, no one holds such views. Not even those who
utter them. They are the rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such
as wish to condemn what they call “Realism,” without being temperamentally
capable of appreciating what “Realism” really is.
And what—I thought—is Realism? What is the meaning of that word
so wildly used ? Is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the spirit of
the artist, or both, or neither? Was Turgenev a realist? No greater poet
ever wrote in prose, nor anyone who more closely brought the actual shapes of
men and things before us. Was he a realist? No more fervent idealists than
Ibsen and Tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their people real.
Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic writer can I conceive than
Dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations more vividly. Was
he a realist? The late Stephen Crane was called a realist. Than whom no
more impressionistic writer ever painted with words. What then is the heart
of this term still often used as an expression almost of abuse? To me, at all
events—I thought—the words realism, realistic, have no longer reference to
technique, for which the words naturalism, naturalistic serve far better. Nor
do they imply a lack of imaginative power—which is as much demanded by
realism as by romanticism. A realist, as I understand the word, may be
naturalistic, poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic, anything, indeed,
except romantic; that, in so far as he is realistic, he cannot be. The word, to
me, characterizes that artist who invents tale or design revealing the actual
inter-relating spirit of life, character, and thought, with a primary view to
enlighten; as distinguished from that artist—whom I call romantic—who
invents tale or design with a primary view to delight. It is a question of
temperamental antecedent motive in the artist, and nothing more.
Realist—Romanticist! Enlightenment—Amusement! That is the true
apposition. To make a revelation—to tell a fairy-tale! And either of these
artists may use what form he likes—naturalistic, fantastic, poetic, impres-
sionistic. For it is not by the form, but by the purpose and mood of his art
that he shall be known, as one or as the other. Realists, we know, including
the half of Shakespeare that was realist, not being primarily concerned to
amuse their audience, are still comparatively unpopular in a world made up
for the greater part of men of action, who instinctively reject all art that does
not distract them without causing them to think. For thought makes demands
on an energy already in full use; thought causes introspection; and intro-
clouds—Prig masquerading as Demi-god. “Nature is no great Mother who
has borne us. She is our creation. It is in our brain that she quickens to life.”
Such is the highest hyperbole of the aesthetic creed. But what is creative
instinct if not an incessant living sympathy with Nature, a constant craving
like that of Nature’s own, to fashion something new out of all that comes
within the grasp of those faculties with which Nature has endowed us ? The
qualities of vision, of fancy, and of imaginative power, are no more divorced
from Nature than are the qualities of common sense and courage. They are
rarer, that is all. But, in truth, no one holds such views. Not even those who
utter them. They are the rhetoric, the over-statement of half-truths, by such
as wish to condemn what they call “Realism,” without being temperamentally
capable of appreciating what “Realism” really is.
And what—I thought—is Realism? What is the meaning of that word
so wildly used ? Is it descriptive of technique, or descriptive of the spirit of
the artist, or both, or neither? Was Turgenev a realist? No greater poet
ever wrote in prose, nor anyone who more closely brought the actual shapes of
men and things before us. Was he a realist? No more fervent idealists than
Ibsen and Tolstoy ever lived; and none more careful to make their people real.
Were they realists? No more deeply fantastic writer can I conceive than
Dostoievsky, nor any who has described actual situations more vividly. Was
he a realist? The late Stephen Crane was called a realist. Than whom no
more impressionistic writer ever painted with words. What then is the heart
of this term still often used as an expression almost of abuse? To me, at all
events—I thought—the words realism, realistic, have no longer reference to
technique, for which the words naturalism, naturalistic serve far better. Nor
do they imply a lack of imaginative power—which is as much demanded by
realism as by romanticism. A realist, as I understand the word, may be
naturalistic, poetic, idealistic, fantastic, impressionistic, anything, indeed,
except romantic; that, in so far as he is realistic, he cannot be. The word, to
me, characterizes that artist who invents tale or design revealing the actual
inter-relating spirit of life, character, and thought, with a primary view to
enlighten; as distinguished from that artist—whom I call romantic—who
invents tale or design with a primary view to delight. It is a question of
temperamental antecedent motive in the artist, and nothing more.
Realist—Romanticist! Enlightenment—Amusement! That is the true
apposition. To make a revelation—to tell a fairy-tale! And either of these
artists may use what form he likes—naturalistic, fantastic, poetic, impres-
sionistic. For it is not by the form, but by the purpose and mood of his art
that he shall be known, as one or as the other. Realists, we know, including
the half of Shakespeare that was realist, not being primarily concerned to
amuse their audience, are still comparatively unpopular in a world made up
for the greater part of men of action, who instinctively reject all art that does
not distract them without causing them to think. For thought makes demands
on an energy already in full use; thought causes introspection; and intro-
