at some unpicked idea. Worry! worry! worry! Here is a crowd of old
laggards still lingering and snuffling over "the blue period." A vaster
concourse is scattered about the spot where the nigger's head fell, and
of these the strongest have carried off scraps for themselves, which
they assimilate at leisure, lying apart; while round the trunk of Cubism
is a veritable sea of swaying, struggling, ravenous creatures. The
howling is terrific. But Picasso himself is already far away elaborating
an idea that came to him one day as he contemplated a drawing by Ingres.

And, besides being extraordinarily inventive, Picasso is what they call
"an intellectual artist." Those who suppose that an intellectual artist
is one who spends his time on his head mistake. Milton and Mantegna were
intellectual artists: it may be doubted whether Caravaggio and Rostand
were artists at all. An intellectual artist is one who feels first--a
peculiar state of emotion being the point of departure for all works of
art--and goes on to think. Obviously Picasso has a passionate sense of
the significance of form; also, he can stand away from his passion and
consider it; apparently in this detached mood it is that he works. In
art the motive power is heat always; some drive their engines by means
of boiling emotion, others by the incandescence of intellectual passion.
These go forward by intense concentration on the problem; those swing
with breathless precision from feeling to feeling. Sophocles, Masaccio,
and Bach are intellectuals in this sense, while Shakespeare, Correggio,
and Mozart trust their sensibility almost as a bird trusts its instinct.
It never entered the head of a swallow to criticize its own methods;
and if Mozart could not write a tune wrong, that was not because he had
first tested his idea at every point, but because he was Mozart. Yet
no one ever thought of going to a swallow for lessons in aviation; or,
rather, Dædalus did, and we all know what came of it.