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tation, a man might attain expression through a poem, a ceremonial courtesy, or in a drawing, and whether the latter was plain or coloured, as we say, did not affect its aesthetic value. Courtesy was emphatically a form of expression. The other man was always considered, the self always disciplined. Knowledge without action was despised, im- pression must become expression intelligible even to the meanest of one's brethren. For the Samurai, the men of action, there was a knightly code of honour which fell drastically upon any- one of those whose acts had lowered the high standard of their chivalry. Japanese art could grow and be noble in such an atmosphere right into the nineteenth century, when it declined of a sickness called commercial progress. Up to that time the old traditions were carried forward from master to pupil with the disciplining use of gum colours, the deft direct work that comes of great knowledge and long practice. Man was regarded as but a part of creation, an item just as a mountain mist, a stream swept rock, the heron, or the swaying bamboo. How different in the West. The humanising process had gone on through the Greek and Roman seeking more and more life-like repre- sentation, the centre idol being man, "the para- gon of animals." Oil colour had been introduced, the difficult tempera egg or gum colour could be discarded, all was going in the direction of what looked like freedom for the individual, and most certainly theirs would be no "servile art." And thus the tradition of centuries, the refine- ment of hard workmanship was gone. "Hard is the beautiful," said the Masters of the Ages. But they were wrong, it seems, for we are told it is easy as a Bacchic madness, a "kick" at our senses by way of a message or greeting to our intelligence. A new voice, a fresh, ever-fresh primitive is needed. M. Bergson has been one. Truth, Goodness and Beauty through the feelings, not the intelligence feeling creates life, become im- mersed in sensations, he tells the artist, be drip- ping with emotional intensity: the instinctive sub-rational is the vitally dynamic. We recognise these very modern words. True philosophy, we reflect with Pascal, laughs at philosophising, and we picture M. Bergson leav- ing this piece of office work in his desk at the College de France but taking Reason home with him for eminently good reasons each evening. But the artist, not knowing the laughter of philosophy, naively went to Montmartre "feeling for feeling" with a heart-breaking sincerity doing Bergson's work for him. For two hundred years our laymen and artists have been Academically schooled to regard draw- ing as a facsimile of the real, whereas reality, as we know, lies deeper than the super'iicial aspect. Artists knew that art meant more than this, and the modern attitude is a revolt, firstly, against academical art, and secondly, upon urgings from outside sources, a turning away from any kind of natural representation. Such an outside urge was the spectacle of the revolting philosophers against the dogmatic scientists of the nineteenth century. These sophists had explained all crea- tion to us with one vital exception, fallible man, the scientist himself. Since the scientists had been dogmatic about their reasoning, the philosophers blamed Reason and turning to Feeling for consolation became biologists. And, as when "father says turn" to the family in one bed, there was a general turn- over, biologists turned prophets, mathematicians burst into lyricism, and the artist, not content to be out of this babel in which he missed the deep, ponderous note of science, joined the romantic chorus and became a scientist. Anatomical dissection was his chosen line, and he proceeded upon the masterpieces he so much admired to find the pieces, pattern, spacing in rhythm, colour, and the rest. His job now is to reconstruct the whole, put the pieces together again, and breathe life into the whole. That is the problem before Modern Art. The Modernist has the authority of the College de France that the intelligence is a deadening, hampering mechanism, whereas feeling syn- thesises and makes alive. And did not Rousseau say, "Feeling is all" ? It is a fact that art must, of its very nature, undergo change, but must words, such as intelligence, so change in meaning to suit the immediate needs of men? It seems a dangerous procedure. Look at the following phrase by a Modernist when speaking of art and present tendencies. Turning to the future he is hopeful that art will help us to acquire what is lacking in daily life, "those elements of superfluity and luxury which our sensibility craves." We shall not be of Lot's family on that day of gain and loss we could not live to see it. But there are stout young hearts, future artists and patrons, going forward, and it is up to any man, with the soul of a man, to see that they are taught to read the tracks with the old pioneer's wisdom, that they may avoid the snares of this, the original serpent, talking art. We know enough of their state of mind. Art is not theory but "doing," so we will examine what they do. This takes us far beyond the work of the Impressionists so acceptable now, though it gave Ruskin an aesthetic dyspepsia. After nil