The greatness of a
conception depends largely upon its being near enough to our own
conceptions, and yet a little greater, just as the vault of a great
church gives one a larger sense of immensity than the sky with its
sailing clouds. Indeed it is often the very minuteness of a
conception rather than its vastness that makes it great. It must
not be outside our range. As to the form, it depends upon some
curious felicity of hand, and touch, and thought. Suppose that a
great painter gave a rough pencil-sketch of a picture to a hundred
students, and told them all to work it out in colour. Some few of
the results would be beautiful, the majority would be still
uninteresting and tame.
Thus I am somewhat of a fatalist about art, because it seems to
depend upon a lucky union of conception and technical instinct. The
saddest proof of which is that many good and even great artists
have not improved in greatness as their skill improved. The
youthful works of genius are generally the best, their very
crudities and stiffnesses adorable.
The history of art and literature alike seems to point to the fact
that each artistic soul has a flowering period, which generally
comes early, rarely comes late; and therefore the supreme artist
ought also to know when the bloom is over, when his good work is
done.
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