Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1914 (Heft 47))

Personally I have many “moments” when one feels the absolute uselessness
of art which is reasonable and seasonable, as legitimate as most any other
form of “positive” scepticism. Possibly the War has much to do with it—a
veritable Abattoir; where human flesh is maimed madly, wrecklessly: blown
to smithereens all in the name of Patriotism and “God.” It is in moments
as these great in themselves, that one feels the “pressure” of the big fuller
spiritual values or relations, not sentimentality! When Life, Love, Art, are
seemingly at a dead standstill—vanished, as it were—plus: the use we thought
we had or felt, when the “dead” thing has become more alive and, vice versa,
(a seemingly perpetual retrogression, a sort of give and take compromise,
a ceaseless vomiter of fixed values, a vomiter of fact), (as a shadow, in that
it has not gone beyond itself, symbolically “291” is the shadow).
Hell is let loose at this juncture, and here it is that “291” performs its
magnificant detective work. It is good.
“291” countenances the artistic product as nothing short of a stunt, a
feat, a trick cleverly concocted equally cleverly achieved by virtue of its
own peculiar concoction of hypocrisy cynicism and—Lies.
I have received from “291” more than I have given. To me it is a most
encouraging sign, as it guards the distinctive element, giving to it its positive
character, the kind that will stand the usual acid test; by being shown con-
structively, evolutionarily; whether it be in painting, sculpture, photography,
music or medicine. To me “291” is what the perfect beautiful spring is to
the wayfarer who drinks of its live living elements, which water refreshens,
strengthens, enhances, and, exhilarates life. It receives and welcomes with
the same innocence, confidence, trust, hope and purity, the same realism
with which the child accepts as it sits and listens with an alertness all its own,
as it receives its first “peep” into the mysteries and mysticism; the realities
of song, of fairyland, rapt, and responsive. This same child for ages long,
from primitive time, has been identified by the scientist, musician, painter,
sculpturer, agriculturist, socialist, shoemaker, critic, policeman, anarchist,
“Hobo” and detective—the child dubbed “291.”
“Art,” so called, “291” countenances as a vicious poison nurtured and
nourished by the cynical little stream that trickles and trickles, rippling
swiftly by, speeding and winding, rewinding, but more swiftly; when,
when of a sudden it is “lost”—stealthily threatening the, immaculate
spring with pollution. It is again at this juncture that the spirit of “291”
fights hardest to stay the filth from first contact.—It is a veritable oasis
on the great desert of far greater conception. “291” cannot die a
natural death, it may “starve,” but it cannot Starve no less than the higher
criticism already alluded to—.
A great character He, who has made the little place possible, made it a
Fact. This type of man is symbolical of the most perfect pilot, “with brow
elate;” fighting ceaselessly, relentlessly with the ferociousness of the beast
tasting hot blood; a stern Lover, a stern Hater—.

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