symbols; all communication is by symbols. But if a symbol is to serve
any purpose of communication between one mind and another it must be a
symbol accepted and understood by both minds. If an artist is to choose
his symbols to suit himself, and to make them mean anything he chooses,
who is to say what he means or whether he means anything? If a man were
to rise and recite, with a solemn voice, words like "Ajakan maradak
tecor sosthendi," would you know what he meant? If he wished you to
believe that these symbols express the feeling of awe caused by the
contemplation of the starry heavens, he would have to tell you so _in
your own language_; and even then you would have only his word for it.
He may have meant them to express that, but do they? The apologists of
the new schools are continually telling us that we must give the
necessary time and thought to learn the language of these men before we
condemn them. Why should we? Why should not they learn the universal
language of art? It is they who are trying to say something. When they
have learned to speak that language and have convinced us that they have
something to say in it which is worth listening to, then, and not till
then, we may consent to such slight modification of it as may fit it
more closely to their thought.

If these gentlemen really believe that their capriciously chosen symbols
are fit vehicles for communication with others, why do they fall back on
that old, old symbol, the written word? Why do they introduce, in the
very midst of a design in which everything else is dislocated, a name or
a word in clear Roman letters? Or why do they give their pictures titles
and, lest you should neglect to look in the catalogue, print the title
quite carefully and legibly in the corner of the picture itself? They
know that they must set you to hunting for their announced subject or
you would not look twice at their puzzles.