has also a value in assisting us to coordinate forms, and, until Picasso and Kandinsky tried to do without it, this function at least was always regarded as a necessity. That is why of the three pictures by Kandinsky, the landscape strikes one most at first. Even if one does not recognize it as a landscape, it is easier to find one’s way about in it, because the forms have the same sort of relations as the forms of nature, whereas in the two others there is no reminiscence of the general structure of the visible world. The landscape is easier, but that is all. As one contemplates the three, one finds that after a time the improvisations become more definite, more logical and more closely knit in structure, more surprisingly beautiful in their color oppositions, more exact in their equilibrium. They are pure visual music.
People who do not find a picture turn away disappointed and irritated, but many turn back to look again, attracted by the strength and charm of the compositions, and in the end not a few reluctantly concede, “Yes, they have fine color, but—” and then follows the old demand for some familiar object as anchorage.
Of Kandinsky’s qualifications from the academic point of view let it be said he is a superb draftsman, though he no longer attaches any importance to drawing per se; and he is a master of color combinations.
One would say that the two, mastery of drawing and mastery of color, would make a great painter, and so they did and do.
I have at hand some of his earlier work along conventional lines, and I have seen tempera drawings of Moroccan scenes that would delight a Whistler, they are so delicate and so filled with subtle charm. Then I have a series of sketches, extending over a number of years, which show the development of his later works.
He has explained his theories at length in his book, “Ueber das Geistege in der Kunst,”[49] and in numerous articles, notably in “Der Blaue Reiter.”
The keynote of the entire modern movement is found in the first sentence of his book,