ABSTRACT
England, at least, need have little fear of PostImpressionism or any other form of imported art. England only imports what can be dealt with by her national temperament, that she speedily transforms into a home product on which the original exporter cannot find his trade marks. How different is the wayward, dainty impressionism of Steer, Clausen, McTaggart (who got Impressionism by wireless, for he never saw a Monet till he was over sixty), of the Glasgow School, of Brabazon, Holmes and Houston, from the impressionism that seized and possessed Monet, Renoir and Pissarro, to whom their art was a new religion! The prevailing instinct of English art is the desire for beauty, and we pay the penalty in the national cult of prettiness, which is as far into her territory as most of us can enter. Our boast might be that we make two pretty things grow where one idea grew before. However the mandarins may rage against them, even our pioneers are never ahead of beauty. But the French can forget her in their search for truths, and it is they who must take their consolation from Whitman’s lines:
… The Great Masters Do not seek beauty, they are sought; For ever touching them, or close upon them,
follows beauty,
Longing, fain, lovesick
No characteristic of the Englishman is more clearly expressed in his art than his love of an harmonious life within the walls of that much-vaunted castle of his, which is inviolate, because the authorities know perfectly well that nothing dangerous is concealed within. (Who ever heard of a really dangerous English anarchist?) We have an incurable gift (called ‘Spirit of Compromise’) for taking an ideal, domesticating it, and making it something with which we can live harmoniously. Life must be pleasant and seemly.
