Art and the Machine 
Is Art no more than the science of pret¬ 
tiness, of combinations of line and color, 
—the special dainty goddess of a separate 
and exclusive class of votaries, who shall de¬ 
sign for us poor button-pushers an extrane¬ 
ous surrounding of machine-made beauty, 
with even our music made for our orderly 
minds without the jarring accidents ot genius? 
And art thou “ shrunk to this little meas¬ 
ure ? ” Thou mighty mother of all that 
makes us man,—thou who rocked us in thy 
enfolding arms when first our ugly and bru¬ 
tish souls stirred with hopes beyond our 
daily needs; thou spirit of light in the dark 
places that bade us seek in creative work the 
realization of our secret dreams ; thou won¬ 
derworker with the hands of men who teach- 
est us to express in the work of our hands 
our little measure of growth that we may 
feel the joy of work and that fiercer joy that 
men call agony that makes us lay down our 
failure to pick up the next task with a new 
power and a new hope ! 
Art has been called “ the visible evidence 
of man’s joy in his work,” and it is almost 
that. If it were quite true then art would 
be the things made, the visible evidence; then 
might the rich be as they think themselves, 
the possessors of the art of the world, 
whereas these things are but the crumbs 
that fall from the artist’s table; for the 
art is not in the thing made, but in the 
very work of creation, and to the artist is 
the joy that in small measure is visible in 
the fruit of his work. No artist hoards 
the work of his hands, nor would we hoard 
it but for some subtler thing than mere 
perfection of color or line. It is not what 
The Angelus has to tell us of the potato 
patch, but of Millet; it is not the afterglow 
of a day, but the afterglow of a life, that lies 
hidden in the canvases of Corot. For we 
see many afterglows, but have few glimpses 
into the lives of men. In these precious 
things we may see master men busy with 
their souls, and, scarce knowing why, we 
uncover, because the ground on which we 
tread is holy ground. And this is as true 
of a great discovery, a strain of music, a 
marvellous machine, or the crude idol of 
the savage. But must we therefore de¬ 
mand that our brother shall be offered up 
eternally upon the altar of the one or 
the other? Man the maker, not man 
the possessor, will in the end triumph; 
and if the machine is to pass away, it will 
be because it fails to meet the demand of 
the creative spirit in man that will not 
down, though systems and civilizations pass 
away. 
“ In this broad earth of ours. 
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag. 
Enclosed and safe within its central heart. 
Nestles the seed perfection. . . . 
Is it a dream ? 
Nay, but the lack ol it the dream, 
And failing it life’s lore and wealth a dream, 
And all the world a dream.” — Whitman. 
I 64 
