looking at those pictures. His interest in art was in the holding
of opinions about it, and in hearing other opinions, which he could
again talk about. I hope I have made some of you feel uncomfortable.
This may, perhaps, seem malicious, but it is necessary to release
artists from the dogmas of critics who are not artists.

I would not venture to speak here tonight if I thought that anything
I said could be laid hold of and be turned into a formula, and used
afterwards to torment some unfortunate artist. An artist will take
with readiness advice or criticism from a fellow-artist, so far as
his natural vanity permits; but he writhes under opinions derived
from Ruskin or Tolstoi, the great theorists. You may ask indignantly,
Can no one, then, speak about paintings or statues except painters
or modelers? No; no one would condemn you to such painful silence
and self-suppression. Artists would wish you to talk unceasingly
about the emotions their pain of making pictures arouse in you;
but, under lifelong enemies, do not suggest to artists the theories
under which they should paint. That is hitting below the belt. The
poor artist is as God made him; and no one, not even a Tolstoi,
is competent to undertake his re-creation. His fellow-artists
will pass on to him the tradition of using the brush. He may use
it well or ill; but when you ask him to use his art to illustrate
literary ideas, or ethical ideas, you are asking him to become a
literary man or a preacher. The other arts have their obvious
limitations. The literary man does not dare to demand of the
musician that he shall be scientific or moral. The latter is safe
in uttering every kind of profanity in sound so long as it is music.
Musicians have their art to themselves. But the artist is tormented,
and asked to reflect the thought of his time. Beauty is primarily
what he is concerned with; and the only moral ideas which he can