The Play of Man

by Karl Groos

Recognition and illusion are two of the threads from which the complex web of æsthetic enjoyment is woven. When the child begins to take pleasure in form it is difficult to say, and more difficult still to determine, when the æsthetic personification, which is so important to adults, arises. Experiment may, however, throw some light on both questions. Marie G—— was five years old when I first attempted something of the sort with her. I showed her a straight line, and near it an irregular one, and, in order to excite her interest, told her that I wanted to keep one of them and was in doubt as to which it should be. She pointed at once to the straight one—“I should keep that.” Well-drawn equilateral triangles were preferred to irregular ones, but she gave a characteristic reason for choosing the uneven quadrilateral

instead of a perfect rectangle—because, she said, it looked like a hat. Here the less pleasing form was preferred for the sake of its meaning; she was still quite clear in her idea of regularity. She asked me, for instance, to draw “some straight figures and some of the other kind.” By straight she meant regular—she called a perfect circle straight. We thus find in a child the æsthetic rule operative—namely, that formal regularity is agreeable. Personification of the figure by children is also a subject for experimentation. German students of æsthetics found out long ago that the object of our enjoyment is endowed by our imagination with personal attributes analogous to our own. “We conceive of all natural objects,” says Wölfflin, “as analogous to our physical organism.”[135] One of the first requirements of our organism is that it shall maintain its equilibrium, and accordingly an elementary fact in our personification of natural objects is that a distorted figure causes us an unpleasant feeling of disturbed equilibrium. I showed the five-year-old Marie G—— these two figures, and asked which she would rather have. Unhesitatingly she pointed to A. “Why?” I asked. “Because it stands on the point.” “But the other one stands on its point too.” “Yes, but this” (pointing to the angle S) “is so low.” She played with the squares, and turned them so that they rested on the horizon line. “Now they hang down,” she said; “but this one” (pointing to B) “is just willing to come down.” That the child at play personifies all possible objects is a familiar fact, and we here find that they can conceive of even abstract figures according to physical analogies.

Savages manifest pleasure in form, more particularly in their ornamentation. It was formerly believed that creative imagination was responsible for some of their geometric patterns, but lately this idea has more and more given place to the opinion that all their patterns, without exception, are the product of imitation. The reports of Ehrenreich and von den Steinen of the tribes of central Brazil go far to confirm this view. With them animals almost invariably furnished the models, their forms being reproduced in a conventionalized manner. Thus a zigzag was derived from the markings of a snake, the cross from those of a lizard, etc.[136] It is possible that this theory attempts to prove too much, for basket work may well account for some patterns which it would be difficult to find in Nature.[137] This possibility being once granted there is no convincing proof that natural models were used in the construction of conventional figures at all. Often the resemblance may have been an afterthought, as a child calls a square a window, though it may have been drawn with no such intention, or the Eskimo explains the peculiar outlines of his characters by likening them to animal forms. However this may be, it is at least certain that these savage people offer a convincing proof that the pleasure which is derived from form is primordial and universal. If geometric figures did originate in imitation of natural models, still the persistence and abstract conventionalizing of them points to a high valuation, which is in one case at least independent of such accidental association—namely, when ornamentation is applied to tools and utensils, and especially if we consider their fine polish and symmetrical form as belonging to the order of embellishments. “Smoothness and good proportion,” says Grosse rightly, “are usually not so much æsthetic as practical qualities. An awkwardly shaped weapon does not reach the mark as surely as does a symmetrical one, and a well-polished arrow or spear head penetrates farther than a roughly finished weapon. Yet we find among primitive people articles which have just as much care bestowed upon them, without any such evident utility. The blubber lamp of the Eskimo need not be either so regular in form or so highly polished in order to shed its light and heat; the Fire Islander’s basket would no doubt be quite as useful were it a little less evenly woven. Australians always carve their talismans symmetrically, though, for all we know to the contrary, they might be just as effective otherwise. In all such cases we may be sure that the workman is satisfying an æsthetic as well as a practical demand.”[138]

Since we can devote but a passing glance to the significance of form in the art of cultured man, I confine myself to some remarks on the æsthetic effect of the simplest of all forms—the straight line. Fr. Carstanjen, in his interesting paper on the developmental factors of the early renaissance in the Netherlands,[139] advances the opinion that progress and development in art are the direct result, psychologically speaking, of dissatisfaction with contemporary art and its productions with which the people have become satiated. As concerns the evolution of form, the common process seems to be that, by a naturalism more or less fortunate, something like style is first acquired by means of the mastery of straight lines. From this point development is in the direction of overcoming their stiffness and angularity. The representation of form is constantly more free, reaching thus a high degree of beauty, but passing on through a period of extravagant exaltation of circles, spirals, swells, and curves to final and inevitable decadence. In following out this succession of styles it becomes apparent that separation from the direct is, æsthetically speaking, separation from repose (as well as from stiffness). So Wölfflin says, in pointing out emotional analogies as they bear on form: “A line composed of short, delicate curves is commonly called tremulous, while one with wider and shallower vibrations indicates dull humming or buzzing. A zigzag rustles and splashes like falling water, and when very pointed sounds shrill like whistling. The straight line is quite still; in architecture it suggests the quiet simplicity of the antique.”[140] It is a most interesting study to note the almost illimitable force of this effect of the straight line in an art which, having reached the pinnacle of its development, allows full swing to the tendency toward rounded forms as well. During the most flourishing period of the Italian renaissance there was scarcely a single master who gloried more in the pride of sensuous loveliness than did Titian, yet even in the midst of his intoxicating triumphs he attained something of that quiet grandeur which, according to Winckelmann, formed the basis of Greek art. How can we account for this? In my opinion it was accomplished, in part at least, though not entirely, by the use of the short straight line which characterizes Titian’s style, and is repeated in the work of many of his imitators—I mean the line that is formed by the peculiar inclination of the head. It is found in the wonderful Madonna of the house of Pesaro, in the Flora of the Uffizi, the Laura de Dianti in the Louvre, in the so-called “Loves” and other works of the master. Their chief common characteristic is a certain commanding dignity impossible to describe. Among those artists influenced by Titian, Moretto has followed him most successfully.

This same line may become almost unpleasing when the figure is too much in profile and the head bends forward, as does Mary Magdalene’s in Titian’s Dresden Madonna. I mention this because it is repeated in the Medea by Feuerbach, who is very faithful to Titian’s ideal. He is, moreover, one of the vanguard of German artists who are leading the way to the new idealism—a thing as yet more hoped for than realized. And just here I have a word to say. An essential of ideal art is that, as opposed to naturalistic reproduction, it plays with conventionalized form and subordinates reality to it. While at the height of the renaissance marvellous effects were achieved by mingled and contrasted curves, such as astonish us in the work of Raphael and sometimes of Rubens, of our modern idealism we may say: if we are justified at all in calling its developments new, it is because, from the standpoint of form, it does possess one unique and original characteristic—namely, that in it for the first time straight lines, and especially the perpendicular, are dominant in a well-mastered technique, which is no longer primitive. There are many traces of this principle in Feuerbach’s work, and it is still more strikingly shown in that of Böcklin, who has close kinship with the Venetians. The tensely upstretched necks of the swans in the Island of the Blest is a perfect example of the new style. It comes out again in the stiff little trees of his spring landscape, in the abrupt lines of the drapery of a Muse at the Arethusan spring, in the perpendicular line extending from the shoulder of the musical shepherd boy quite to his foot, and in many other pictures. Max Klinger is partial to the horizontal, and much of the characteristic power of his Pieta is due to his employment of these lines; three stone steps, the outstretched body of the Redeemer, the stretch of a wall in the background, the straight lines of a thick wood, in contrast to these the upright half figures of John and Mary. Many of our modern idealistic painters have unfortunately abandoned the use of this “line of Praxiteles,” which imparts so finely poised a position to the head and body and that peculiar mysterious dignity and air of detachment to the whole figure—“schöne, stille Menschen.” In the industrial arts this preference for straight lines is most conspicuous in what we wish to appear as new and original, and even in the newest styles for men it gives us the creased trousers, the waistless coat, and the stiff, high hat. These phenomena, however, we will not presume to attribute to the influence of ideal art.

(d) Perception of Movement

When sight is the medium of perception movement plays are at the same time visual plays, otherwise consciousness is reached through the sense of touch. We will here give special attention to experimental exercise of the motor apparatus, as actual movement play is treated of in detail in another section. After some general remarks, a few cases will be cited whose most important feature is the pleasure derived from the contemplation of the movement, as is especially the case when it is not self-produced. The powerful attraction which movement has for us is well grounded biologically, for evidently it is of the utmost importance in the struggle for existence that attention should be at once and instinctively aroused by any stir or change in the environment.[141] But perception of movement by means of the eye alone, and consequently the instinct of keeping absolutely motionless, is of great importance to the pursued animal. Thus Edinger says: “I have repeatedly seen a hungry snake pause in the midst of his pursuit of a fleeing mouse, when it crouched down and was quiet. I have seen it recoil from the frog, which it was trying to catch, as soon as the creature kept still.”[142] Even our own involuntary attention to motion has some analogy to instinct, and recalls the violent and sudden reaction with which we respond to an unexpected touch on the bare back.[143] As a matter of psychological fact, there is associated with movement, as with sensations of hearing, a strong emotional effect.