Reasoning about art
“The poet belongs to the form, and the content to the history and reality of his people” (Belinsky; compare Glinka: “The people compose music, we only arrange it”). Consequently, the artist’s task is to discover (rather than invention) the content and invention for him the form corresponding to him (expressing the form in a broad, philosophical sense).
Chernyshevsky argued that art is a weak semblance of life and that, for example, paintings depicting the sea are needed only by those who have not seen the real sea. But it seems that the old woman, who served as the original for the Rembrandt picture, did not attract such attention as this picture, and that the living Yeremka or even Boris Godunov would have made a much less aesthetic impression than Chaliapin in these roles.
Art is not an image of life (reality) as we know it, and not an image of it as it should be (ideally). This is an image (revealing) of what is in real life, but what we do not see in it, do not notice, do not know.
The artist’s vision is deeper (and not “strange”) than the vision of the average man (the London fog seen by Turner). The layman says to the artist: you are an inventor, you depict not that and not as it really is (that is, not that and not as I, the ordinary man, see and believe), and extol those “artists” who see superficially as ordinary people . Only after a while, the average man “sees” and learns to see and hear as Turner or Vrubel, Mahler or Scriabin ridiculed by him saw and heard, in order to sometimes ridicule someone who sees and hears even more deeply. talking about themselves, talking about us, talking about their era, talking about ours.
However, to express is to limit: every form is a restriction. It is completely impossible to catch, realize the plan: in essence, you kill; a word, a sound is a corpse of a plan (“a thought uttered is a lie”). The greatest artists are those in whom the body, at least, still trembles.
“I’m afraid that if not me, then no one will come here again and find you,” says Guy to the Girl in Saroyan’s one-act play “Hey, somebody!” It is this feeling for the most part that torments, pushes the artist, the creator. Oh my God! You didn’t “invent”, but found the intonation, melody, image, thought — an enchanted, sleeping beauty that is invisible to no one, and if not you, then maybe no one will find her, will not see, will not bewitch, and she will never wake up for people!
They talk too much about the cognitive and too little about the “experiencing” (emotional) meaning of art. They endlessly quote the words of the founders of Marxism about how much they learned from Balzac’s novels about French society of that time. But after all, he did not read Marx Balzac (and Shakespeare, and Charlotte Bronte, and listened to Beethoven, etc.) not primarily for this, and these words express surprise and admiration for the fact that he – unexpectedly – took out from reading yet besides the main thing for granted.
Art is self-expression in order to unite. The purpose of the artist is to awaken the perceiving creator. The strength of the first lies in the mysterious ability to transfer one’s state to another in such a way that the artist wakes up in him, who feels the author or actor, how he feels other people; who will become you – an author, an actor, how you become different, your heroes. A writer (artist) who “expresses” everything, clarifies, thinks and speaks for the reader, as well as the one who “pauses” so that a pause remains a pause, during which nothing happens to the perceiver – both not writers , not artists, because both do not know the main thing – to make the soul of the reader, viewer, listener speak.
“The owl of Minerva flies out only at night.” So is the style. Every genius is a unique phenomenon, “this”, a unique artistic individuality; style arises later, “at night,” when geniuses are replaced by epigones that exaggerate and propagate a certain standard “set” of certain traits of genius. Genius eagle; style – the claws and beak of an eagle without its wings and – for the most part – in combination with the voice, temper, plumage of a magpie or owl.
Beyond self-expression, there is no artist. But great writers, thinkers, composers are so great that, Fashion is the religion of the provincials. True culture – in following one’s own tastes, in the ability to be oneself, Previously, art and love turned to imagination, now to sensation; lack of imagination is the main flaw of modern pianism, modern literature, the main difference between modern sexual films and such, say, as “Great Maneuvers” by Rep Claire.
In the nineteenth century, man, the artist was subdued by charm, in the twentieth century – sometimes by something else, completely opposite to charm; Is it not what Yavorsky in the published letter to me of January 1938 so perspicuously called “embittered maniacality”?
“No one’s death”, the first signs of which in chess felt by Chichorin, with the threat of which Lasker was closely confronted (matches with Schlechter and Capablanca).