In Art, We Are The

The Truth About A Man Lies First And Foremost In What He Hides.

The Great Christian Art Did Not Die Because All Possible Forms Had Been Used Up; It Died Because Faith Was Being Transformed Into Piety. Now, The Same Conquest Of The Outside World That Brought In Our Modern Individualism, So Different From That Of The Renaissance, Is By Way Of Relativizing The Individual. It Is Plain To See That Man's Faculty Of Transformation, Which Began By A Remaking Of The Natural World, Has Ended By Calling Man Himself Into Question.

Our Art Culture Makes No Attempt To Search The Past For Precedents, But Transforms The Entire Past Into A Sequence Of Provisional Responses To A Problem That Remains Intact.

Here, Reality Is Not Subordinated To Painting, Indeed Painting Seems The Handmaid Of Reality, Though We Feel It Tending Towards A Procedure Which, While Not At The Mercy Of Appearances, Is Not Yet In Conflict With Them.

Every Young Man's Heart Is A Graveyard In Which Are Inscribed The Names Of A Thousand Dead Artists But Whose Only Actual Denizens Are A Few Mighty, Often Antagonistic, Ghosts.