The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1915-03-04
.L|FE'S AN ART FOR
ONE TO MASTER
THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE LITTLE
THINGS OF LIFE into AN ARTISTIC WHOLE
Life's CommOnpIaces Limned Into One
Beautiful Whole When the Brush Strokes
On Life's Canvas are Guided by a
Master Hand.
By Sherlock.

One of the most extraordinary
things in the world is that two and
.wo do not always make four. An
ordinary-looking man can sit down
before a canvas upon an easel aud
make two strokes here and likewise
two more there with his brush. but
the result Is not merely four strokes.
1t may be field with it's growing
grain gently swayed by the evening
breezes just before the sun hides
itself behind the horizon. Or 1t
may be ship sailing on a broad
sea in the sunlight But whatever
1t Is the result of these two strokes:
and two strokes is not merely four
strokes. it is the spirit of evening or
a sea sunshine. Again it is not four
strokes; it is new world
The same holds true in music.
where two notes and two notes are
mingled together by the musician,
the result is not four notes, but a
great Amen, or star in the evening
sky, or may be an angel chorus
Now that is exactly what all art is
in the world; it is the taking of two
common ordinary things here and
two common ordinary things there
and creating about ourselves new
and beautiful world. ALI true art
is, then, the gathering together the
everyday sounds or notes about us
and rearranging on the staff until
the new creation is replica of a
Handel's Messiah" or it Is the
taking of the common and ordinary
experiences of our daily existence
those Of our fellow.men creating
therefrom beautiful poem or song.
Art is the gathering together the
common things and making of them
something beautiful.
Cennyson has gathered some of
these common things, and listen to
the result:
20 we'll for the hshermans' boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play
0 well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bayl''
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O! for the touch of vanished hand,
And the sound of voice that is stilll''
Why" you say. Were not all
of us created artists?" 1t would be
glorious indeed to be able to write
such an inspiring poem, or even to
compose piece of music in which
thousands would find consolation
and peace. oh why" you lament,
are we all such ordinary people
without the power of artistic crea-
tion?" But console yourselves with
the thought OF the unsatisfactoriness
of all art. The artist is always
aiming at something which he can
not attain. Only second class art
can be called perfect. All true art
is noble failure. For the true
artist Is aiming at something far
above his capacity to express.
What is it at which all true artists
are aiming? 1t ls life, it is reality.
AS the painter tries to catch the
magic of the lights and shadows to
blend the many shades, and to give
expression to the passing graces of
the human face he paints, but never
wholly succeeds in overtaking the
reality. Just so the writer tries to
express the feelings of Romeo and
JULIET in the moonlight on balcony,
but name one who has ever succeed
ed in expressing the thousandth part
of the real rapture of such true love.
All great art is an imperfect, halt
ing attempt to catch up upon life.
For life is the greatest art of all,
and master artist is the fellow who
is living a noble sacrificing life.
Absurd as it may seem. we are.
nevertheless, all artists in the art of
arts and are producing either sordid
or beautiful lives out of the materials
at our command.
Here we are; then, in our separate
environs, endeavoring to produce
out of the experiences of repulsive
past, work of art, a beautiful life.
Whether we are successful or not
remains by our own election entirely