“From stereotype and standards. Standards are for yard measures, and bushel measures, and other such commercial or scientific essentials. They are not for art.”
“Why not?”
“O, Cousin! See to what they have led us—the lifeless petrifactions of the schools and academies.”
“Well, they are art, if they are bad art. And there will always be bad art and bad artists. But you want to lead us away from art altogether—into psychologic exercises—impressions that only you can understand. Do you paint for yourself alone, then? In that case why do you complain of your lack of appreciation?”
“I don’t.”
“O, you do! I know it from Mademoiselle your sister. You are very humorous and philosophical, but you are hurt in your heart that the world will not comprehend you better. I have seen pictures by those who think like you—Gauguin, Van Gogh, Matisse—and I suppose, if they did not feel like you, that they would hardly exhibit in public galleries impressions which were just peculiar to themselves, and impossible of understanding by others differently constituted.”
Why should she not have seen them, these mutinous ones? Why, on the other hand, had I admitted this viper to my hearth?
“I, too, have exhibited in public galleries,” I said, “and found sympathy and understanding among the elect.”
“Well, who elected them?” she said—“themselves? There are always to be found inconsiderable people to applaud what they don’t understand. A little man blowing a big trumpet gets some of the credit for the noise, you see.”
“But they did understand.”