The Artist. Suppose you tell me what Beauty is.
The Questioner. It seems to me quite simple. Beauty is—well—a thing is either beautiful, or it isn’t. And—
The Artist. Just so; the only trouble is that so few of us are able to agree whether it is or isn’t. You yourself have doubtless changed your opinions about what is beautiful many times in the course of your career as an art-lover; and the time may come when you will cherish some horrid nude of Matisse’s as your dearest possession. Let us admit, like the wise old poet, that Beauty is not a thing which can be argued about. It can only be produced.
The Questioner. But if we don’t know what Beauty is, how can we produce it?
The Artist. I have already told you—as the incidental result of creative effort.
The Questioner. Effort to create what?
The Artist. Oh, anything.
The Questioner. Are you joking?
The Artist. I never was more serious in my life. And I should really inform you that I am merely repeating the familiar commonplaces of modern esthetics. Beauty is the incidental result of the effort to create a house, a sword,—