Ploughshare and Pruning-Hook: Ten Lectures on Social Subjects

by Laurence Housman

True education, as opposed to merely commercial education, is a training of mind and body to an appreciation of right values; values, not prices. The man who has an all-round appreciation of right values is a well-educated man; and he could not have a better basis either for the love or the practice of Art than this appreciation of what things are really worth.

But, in the present age, which prides itself on its inhuman system of specialisation as a means to economy, such a man is rather a rare phenomenon; for it is about as difficult to get out of present conditions a true appreciation of life values—a true Art-training—as it is to get a true artist. Where your national conditions shut down the critical faculties, and make their exercise difficult, there too, your creative artistic faculties are being shut down and made difficult also. They are far more interdependent than your average Art-teacher or Art-student is generally willing to admit. The idea that he has to concern himself with conditions outside his own particular department threatens him with extra trouble, and the burden of a conscience that the doctrine of “Art for Art’s sake,” will not wholly satisfy; and so he is inclined to shut his eyes, and direct his energies to the securing of favourable departmental instead of right national conditions.

But the man, or woman, who embarks whole-heartedly on Art-training must in the end find himself involved in a struggle for the recovery of those true social values which have been lost (or the acquisition of those which are as yet unrealised) and for the substitution, among other things, of true for false economics. He cannot afford to live a life of aloof specialisation, when the conditions out of which he derives and into which he is throwing his work are of a complementarily disturbing kind. If, that is to say, the give-and-take conditions between artistic supply and social demand have become vitiated, if the conditions of the market, or of society, are unfavourable to the reception of products of true worth, then the artist must to some extent be an active party in the struggle for getting things set right.

That does not mean that, if he has a gift for the designing of stage-scenery, he should necessarily be involved in a struggle to secure a good drainage system (though even that should have an interest for him) but it does mean very much that he should be tremendously interested in the education of his own and the public mind to the point of receiving good drama rather than bad, in order that his art may have worthy material to work upon; and as good drama largely arises from a lively conscience and the quickening in the community of new ideas, he will wish his public a keen and open mind on all social questions.

Similarly a man who designs for textile fabrics should be very much concerned indeed in getting cleanly conditions and pure air in the towns and dwelling-houses where his designs have to live and look beautiful, or grow ugly and rot. And there you get set before you in small, the opposition between the interests of Art and the supposed interests of trade. It is—or it is supposed to be—in the interest of trade that things should wear out or get broken, and be replaced by other things. It is in the interest of Art that they should not wear out, that they should last; that everything worthy which is given to man’s hand to do should have secured to it the greatest possible length of life. And the reason is that the artist, if he be a true artist, realises the value of things, the life value; that he is on the side of creation and not of destruction, of preservation and not of waste. He has within his nature an instinct that the greatest possible longevity is the right condition for all manual labour; that when a man sets his hand to a thing he should have it as his main aim to give good value, to make it so that it will endure. And in this connection I would like to substitute for the words “art training” the word “education.” It is in the interests of education that things should be made to last, and that only things should be made of any lasting material that deserve lasting. Nothing should be produced the value of which will become negligible before it is honestly worn out. And so it is in the interest of education, as of Art, that we should eliminate as much as possible the passing and the ephemeral, the demand of mood and fashion, the thing cheaply chosen, cheaply acquired, and cheaply let go; and substitute the thing that we shall have a long use for, and should like to keep permanently—the thing acquired with thought and care, and thoughtfully and carefully preserved because it has in itself a value.

But you won’t get any broad exercise of that kind of choice between evil and good until you get a sense of right values—going far away from what apparently touches art—in the mind, and the public and private life of the community. And so, as I started by saying, true Art is bound up with true education and social conditions. Good citizenship is one of the conditions for setting national Art upon a proper basis. A lively sense of your duty to your neighbour cannot fail to have an effect upon your taste in art.

Now I want to bring this view of things home to you. So I will ask everyone here to think for a moment of their own homes, their own living-rooms, and especially of their parlours or drawing-rooms, which are by their nature intended to express not so much our domestic necessities as our domestic sense of the value of beauty, recreation, and rest. And to begin with, how do you show your sense of duty to the architect, who has (if you are fortunate) designed for you rooms of pleasant and restful proportions? How many of the objects in those rooms help at all to give a unifying and a harmonious effect, or are in themselves in any way beautiful—things, that is to say, which (if not of actual use) we love to set our eyes on, and feel what fineness of skill in handling, what clean human thought in design went to their production? Have those things been put there quite irrespective of their price and the display they make of their owner’s “comfortable circumstances”? Are they subordinated to a really intelligent sense of what a living-room should be? Or are they merely a crowd, a litter, things flung into the room pell-mell by a house-mistress bent on securing for her parlour-maid a silly hour’s dusting every day of objects—not of virtue—and for herself the recognition by her neighbours that she has money enough to throw away in making her living-room a silly imitation of a shop for bric-a-brac. Can you, even those of you who do not live in streets where you have to safeguard your privacy—can you look out of the window without being tickled in the face by lace curtains, blind-tassels, or potted palm-leaves? Can you sit down to the writing-table without entangling the legs of your chair in a woolly mat and your feet in the waste-paper basket, or get at the drawer of the cabinet without moving two or three arm-chairs, or play the piano without causing the crocks which stand upon it to jangle? Is the rest and recreation you get in that room anything else but a sense of self-complacency based upon pride of possession? I ask you to think what your furnishing of your rooms means, and remember that to every person who comes into those rooms—and more especially perhaps to the maids whom you set to dust them—you are helping to give either an Art-training or an anti-Art-training, a training in true uses and values, or in misuses and mere waste and wantonness.

Of course I know that to some extent you are victims. You have dear friends who will give you presents, and you can’t hurt their feelings by not putting up another shelf, or erecting another glass-shade, where neither are wanted, or driving another peg into the wall to hang a picture where no picture can be properly seen. And probably the reason you cannot is because you have shown yourself so thoughtless and haphazard in all your ideas about decoration and house-furnishing that even in that house, which you falsely assert to be your castle, you stand defenceless before this invasion of ornamental microbes! Obviously the house is not yours if others can break in and spoil its borders with their own false taste. But I can assure you that those inroads do not happen to people whose rooms show a scrupulous sense of selection. You inspire then (even in the thoughtless) a certain dread and respect. Though they regard you as uncanny and call you a crank, you are beginning their Art-training for them.

I remember, in this connection, a Quaker acquaintance whose friends descended upon him at the time of his marriage with certain household monstrosities which he was expected thereafter to live down to. It was a cataclysm which he could not avert; but he found a remedy. He became a passive resister to the Education rate, and year by year he placed at the disposal of the distraining authorities a selection of his wedding-presents till his house was purged of them. I have said that you cannot separate Art-training from general education; and here, at all events, you find the two happily combined—a war on bad art and on a bad educational system joined economically in one.

So much, then, for thoughtless superfluity as an impediment to a recognition of true values. I want now to come to the importance of permanence as a condition underlying the aim of all production if it is to be wholesome in its social results. I have said that an instinct for permanence is what differentiates artistic from supposed trade interests. Take architecture. Do you imagine that architects or builders are likely to design or build in the same style for a system of short leaseholds as they might for freeholds? And is the building which is calculated just to “save its face” until the lease expires likely to be so good either in design or workmanship?