If Speed has one fault, it’s that of being a male writer in 1917 who thinks he’s talking to an audience of other men. I wish one man in the world could ever understand how alienating that is to read as a woman. I’d live and die for edits of this kind of book with ‘he’ and ‘him’ replaced with ‘them’ and ‘theirs’.
Aside from those roadbumps, it’s an amazing book. He does have awkward moments where he’s wrestling with the conflict between traditional teaching of drawing and everything that’s rising up in the art world to meet him, from Impressionists to abstract expressionism and Surrealism all the way down to a hundred years later, when most artists CAN’T DRAW. I don’t think poor old Harold could even conceive of a world where that’s possible (neither can I, to be frank). So he’s stuck trying to convince the reader that technical competence is a good basis for lots of things, even just ‘playing with light like those weirdo Impressionists’ (I love the implicit assumption, which is mostly true, that Impressionists do their thing because they’re not good at realistic detail). These days we know you can be a multi-million earning ‘artist’ by refusing to make your bed or throwing paint on a canvas and twirling a stick in it, so if this was re-written now it would be easier to shrug your shoulders at what ‘fine art’ has become and just direct this to the people who want to be technically, anatomically, proportionally competent at drawing. In that sense, he has great deal of valuable advice.
For example, it’s fascinating to remember that we first learned what things were by touching them – hence the importance of looking at edges and masses. (Or by contrast, to read his paean to lithographs and think about photocopiers.)
Whereas formerly, before the advent of machinery, the commonest article you could pick up had a life and warmth which gave it individual interest, now everything is turned out to such a perfection of deadness that one is driven to pick up and collect, in sheer desperation, the commonest rubbish still surviving from earlier periods.
Oh Harold, if only you knew…
And nothing more true about modern art has been written than this: The struggling and fretting after originality that one sees in modern art is certainly an evidence of vitality, but one is inclined to doubt whether anything really original was ever done in so forced a way. The older masters, it seems, were content sincerely to try and do the best they were capable of doing. And this continual striving to do better led them almost unconsciously to new and original results.
Followed closely by this:
If the unity of his conception is allowed to exclude variety entirely, it will result in a dead abstraction, and if the variety is to be allowed none of the restraining influences of unity, it will develop into a riotous extravagance.
ROTHKO R U LISTENIN U MISSED UR CALLING AS A HOUSE PAINTER
Mere prettiness is a little difficult to place, it does not come between either of our extremes, possessing little character or type, variety or unity. It is perhaps charm without either of these strengthening associations, and in consequence is always feeble, and the favourite diet of weak artistic digestions.
HARSH BURN BRO
At such times the right strokes, the right tones come naturally and go on the right place, the artist being only conscious of a fierce joy and a feeling that things are in tune and going well for once.
Defining ‘flow’ long before Csikszentmihalyi.