Now, I said, art,
6. Must give the impression of truth.
I did not linger on this point, and was glad the children accepted it without question, for I wanted more time to explain it.
I went on to the last law, which was the only one I had some trouble in making clear. I asked why was the photograph inartistic? They said because of inharmonious details. I asked, why is the statue more beautiful than wax works? Henry spoke again of the “distance” of material, which just thereby appealed to the sympathies. I wanted to speak of the artist’s aloofness, how he was creator of his work, within it, and yet around it and above it. They did not understand. They said, if he were above it, he would be unsympathetic. They did not understand the creator’s attitude toward himself, the created; the dramatic attitude in life, in which we are both actor and spectator. Marian said she thought she understood it. “Haven’t you ever laughed at yourself?” she asked the others.
“I have sworn at myself,” said Leo.
I meant to pass by the subject, and leave out the last law, rather than arouse a self-consciousness, which was the opposite of what I hoped to awaken. But unintentionally the conversation led to a better understanding.
I spoke again of reverence, as I had done to Alfred, of the small self awed in supreme moments, before the immensity of its whole self.
“Do you mean,” asked Leo, “that it makes us feel how small we are?”
I tried to make it clear. I spoke of the feeling of nothingness that overcomes us, when we stand under the stars at night, and realize them as worlds and suns, and our planet as a dot of light in immensity.
They had all felt so, except Henry.