DOI article:
Horace Traubel, Horace Traubel on Photography
DOI article:S. S. S., [And They Met—, untitled poem]
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.31335#0080
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genius. But I want to make it clear that all canvas and paint and clay and all
pianos are not inspired. And I want to make it clear that, if a photograph is
inspired, calling its maker a camera will not qualify its omnipotence. I agree
with you that art is a word which should not be made light of. That is why
I want to expand it for general use. I, too, want it to mean something. But
I want it to mean something inclusive not exclusive. At the same time I’d
rather give up any word than compromise any truth. So, if you come to me in
my office, and turn the pages of CameraWork, and while profoundly moved by
Stieglitz’s illustrations, still swear to it that you won’t, by God, admit them to be
art,Fll say to you again that you can put your word back in your safe and keep
it there if you’ll only leave me Stieglitz’s snapshots. That’s what it all comes to
to me. Having the thing. I’m indifferent about the word. If you don’t, by
God, admit my religion to be religion, though you admit, by God, that it serves
all the larger and consoling purposes of religion, I’ll still say you can have your
darling word if you’ll only leave me my dearer faith.
Horace Traubel.
And they met—
And they said good-bye—
He went away to his work—and his work was play.
And she stayed where she was, to play,—
And her play was work, for she was waiting.
And they waited for the Spring to come.
And Spring came—and they met.
The Spring was beautiful, and they gloried in it.
And she was happy.
And he was satisfied.
And Winter came—
And they said good-bye.
And he went back to work—and his work was play.
And she stayed where she was, to play—
And her play was work—for she was waiting.
And Spring came again. And it was beautiful.
But she did not know it—and he did not know it.
For his work kept him, and his work was play.
And she played—and her play was work—
For she had waited.
And Winter came again, and still he worked—
And his work was play—
And Winter came again—and she—was dead.
S. S. S.
pianos are not inspired. And I want to make it clear that, if a photograph is
inspired, calling its maker a camera will not qualify its omnipotence. I agree
with you that art is a word which should not be made light of. That is why
I want to expand it for general use. I, too, want it to mean something. But
I want it to mean something inclusive not exclusive. At the same time I’d
rather give up any word than compromise any truth. So, if you come to me in
my office, and turn the pages of CameraWork, and while profoundly moved by
Stieglitz’s illustrations, still swear to it that you won’t, by God, admit them to be
art,Fll say to you again that you can put your word back in your safe and keep
it there if you’ll only leave me Stieglitz’s snapshots. That’s what it all comes to
to me. Having the thing. I’m indifferent about the word. If you don’t, by
God, admit my religion to be religion, though you admit, by God, that it serves
all the larger and consoling purposes of religion, I’ll still say you can have your
darling word if you’ll only leave me my dearer faith.
Horace Traubel.
And they met—
And they said good-bye—
He went away to his work—and his work was play.
And she stayed where she was, to play,—
And her play was work, for she was waiting.
And they waited for the Spring to come.
And Spring came—and they met.
The Spring was beautiful, and they gloried in it.
And she was happy.
And he was satisfied.
And Winter came—
And they said good-bye.
And he went back to work—and his work was play.
And she stayed where she was, to play—
And her play was work—for she was waiting.
And Spring came again. And it was beautiful.
But she did not know it—and he did not know it.
For his work kept him, and his work was play.
And she played—and her play was work—
For she had waited.
And Winter came again, and still he worked—
And his work was play—
And Winter came again—and she—was dead.
S. S. S.
