Russian Visual Arts Project

TITLE: Complicated Questions. Our supposed decline

AUTHOR: S. Diaghilev

'He who follows others will never surpass them.' Michelangelo (1)

'Ideas fly around in the air, but they invariably follow laws; ideas live and spread according to laws that are too difficult for us to discern; ideas are infectious, and do you know that in the general flow of life some idea or other that is accessible only to a highly educated and developed mind may suddenly be communicated to some rough creature who has never cared about anything, and its influence may suddenly infect his soul.' (2) These words were written by Dostoevskii, and I decided to begin my essay with them because I think there could be no better expression of the inexplicable but undeniable sense of unity that I feel with my epoch, with my as yet voiceless generation, in a word with the thing that gives me the right to express all that has gradually become clear and has - sometimes painfully, sometimes joyfully - revealed itself to my consciousness.

Yes, the air is laden with ideas like a priceless fragrance that fills the hearts of all who wish to accept it and to unite through it with the hearts of others in the most elevated communion of the spirit.

My task is not easy. I have to express the essence of my artistic convictions, i.e. to touch on that area that has for many years consisted of a series of unresolved dilemmas and confused issues. It is not a difficult thing to deny, and in this we have reached a particularly subtle perfection with our usual beloved scepticism. But what should we proclaim, how should we pick our way through the unfiltered, chaotic inheritance left to us by our forefathers when the evaluation (or, rather, the re-evaluation) of the innumerable treasures that have passed down to us would suffice to fill the whole lifetime of our generation? Can we really take on trust the debates of our ancestors and the convictions of our fathers - we who seek only the personal and believe only in what is our own? This is one of our major characteristics, and whoever wishes to get to know us must stop thinking that we love ourselves like Narcissus. We love everything more widely and more profoundly than anyone has ever done, but we see everything through ourselves, and it is in this sense - and only in this sense - that we love ourselves. If any of us has let slip the careless phrase that we love ourselves as god, then this expresses only our eternal love of turning everything into ourselves and seeing only within ourselves the divine authority to resolve terrible mysteries. The apparent artistic anarchy of the new generation that has supposedly flouted cherished authorities and raised its ephemeral buildings on sand, this whole mistaken attitude to an as yet uncomprehended epoch, arises precisely from the constantly repeated, legitimate, yet always shocking re-evaluation of established generations. The entire process of thought throughout the period accessible to human memory has constantly reiterated the same thing, casting aside gods and elevating new ones, then casting them aside and repeating this process with comical regularity right up to our own day. Despite all of this, each step is conditioned by a biased struggle, full of wild and senseless accusations.

And then we came along, with our new demands, merely confirming the general regularity of the course of historical development. True, we differed in some respects from the well-known, well-studied forms - we took a few timid, innocent sidesteps away from the main highway and - goodness me! - how we were misunderstood, and what terrible names we were called! Classicism, the Romantics, and the loud Realism that they gave rise to - these sub-divisions of the past hundred or so years, constantly replacing each other - called to us too, in our new flowering, to join one of the forms already adorned with a label. And the major surprise and the symptom of our decay was that we did not daub ourselves in any of the ready-made colours that were set out for us, and that we showed no desire to do so. We remained sceptical observers, accepting and rejecting in equal measure all earlier attempts.

But how could it possibly be that this colourless and inactive generation, vulgarised by the name 'fin de siécle', could be elevated to a point from which it was able to synthesize all those 'little events', each of which saw within itself the sole interpreter of truth and the fate of world art? Our judges found this beyond them. They could not admit that this distorted generation of decline, of decadents, should have learned to see everything in sharp focus, should have been able, in a spirit of inquiry, to read right through the long book of earlier mistakes, and should have determined to re-evaluate everything, to laugh openly at the categorical peremptoriness of earlier fancies; but, equally, to respect its chosen ones and to pay homage without limit, without preconceived, pre-arranged frameworks and set demands.

We have been called the children of decadence, and with bowed heads we coolly accept the senseless and insulting name of 'decadents'. Decline after flowering, impotence after strength, lack of belief after belief - this is the essence of our pitiful, miserable condition. We make up yet another sad epoch when art, having reached the high point of its maturity, casts the 'farewell, slanting rays of the setting sun on ageing civilizations'. This is the eternal law of evolution that dooms every flower to bloom and die, shedding its tender, helpless petals. Thus it was with Greek tragedy in the age of Euripides, (3) thus it was with the Bolognese School, (4) which understood only the external side of flowering, thus it was with French drama in the age of Voltaire, (5) thus it is now with us, involuntary witnesses and executors of the new decline.

But I would like to ask: where is that flowering, that 'high point' of our art from which we are rushing towards the chasm of decay? Let us turn back a few pages and see what was left to us by those who have so boldly asserted our fall... They left us a century that consisted of nothing but a mosaic of contradictory and equivalent tendencies, when school fought with school and generations with generations, when the power and significance of whole tendencies were defined not over the course of eras, but in years. They created 'fathers and children', they thought them up, the notion is their creation: the ceaseless feuding of two contiguous generations. (6) They feebly disintegrated into separate fragments and fought bitterly in a real war, each asserting its own significance and personality. When, then, was the flowering of this whole era, the time when they calmly created great works, conscious of their common rightness and united by communality of ideas and tasks? Where is that renaissance from which we are all the 'decline'? Would you like to bring to mind, perhaps, some little aspect of their old, forgotten ways? Let us recall, say, Romanticism, one of the major epochs, and the appearance of Delacroix, (7) who is now their glory with his The Barque of Dante, (8) a work of which not only they but also we are justifiably proud, considering it to be a wonderful manifestation of the human spirit. Yet how was that work first greeted? From 1824 onwards the Classicists could see who it was they were dealing with, and not only did old Gros (9) call the picture 'le massacre de la peinture', but all the critics spoke of barbarity and predicted that if it went along this road French painting would be going to its perdition. 'All modern schools', said Delécluze, (10) 'exist and flourish only because the Greeks worked out the principles of art, and even if one grants that Delacroix's work achieves some success in the use of colour, nevertheless the picture belongs to the lowest category of painting, and no advantage that it might have in colour can overcome the ugliness of its form.' And this was said at a time when Balzac, (11) still of course unknown, was quietly creating his human comedy, a work of genius in terms of powerful truth and realism. It is funny to think that only in 1865, after the posthumous exhibition of his works, did Delacroix become what he remains for us today; in 1865, i.e. when Zola (12) was writing these bitter words: 'I hate those feeble lunatics who haughtily cry that our art and our literature have begun the inevitable process of their death. These are empty heads, people buried in the past, who leaf with disgust through the living, vibrant works of our era and declare them to be narrow and worthless.' Later, in a letter to a friend, he went on to say, 'Will history always remain thus? Will it really always be necessary to say the same as other people or to remain silent? We said that the tiniest new truth could not be uncovered without arousing anger and catcalls. And now it's my turn to be whistled at and judged.' Finally, let us recall that at precisely this time Baudelaire (13) was saying with a malicious laugh, '...the literature of decadence [décadence, as early as this!]. Empty words that are often disgorged with a demonstrative yawn from the mouths of those far from mysterious sphinxes who guard the sacred portals of Classical aesthetics.'

What chaos, what a hotchpotch of concepts, directions, ideas in the one era, on the one day! Classicism's struggle and the victory of Romanticism, the defeat of the realist and the irony of the 'decadent'. What a suitable time for calm creativity! All these ideas were floating around, replacing but not destroying each other. Trends did not flow one from the other in any logical order as in the correct evolutionary process. Rather, they existed independently and had their own deep and ancient roots.

This heterogeneous history of the century's artistic life had its major source in the dreadful instability of the aesthetic principle and demands of the age. They were never, not even for a moment, firmly established. They did not develop freely and logically. artistic questions were mixed up in a general mishmash of social revolutions, and it turned out that an independent talent such as Pushkin had to undergo three completely different evaluations in the course of some thirty years: the materialist accusations of Pisarev, (14) the Slavophile exaltations of Dostoevskii, and the subjectively ecstatic judgement of Merezhkovskii (15). Some interesting light may be shed on the nature of this whole confusing situation by examining certain episodes from the artistic life of England over the past half century.

In 1850, virtually with the appearance of the first paintings by the English Pre-Raphaelites, there occurred what always occurs with any outstanding event, what happened with the emergence of Glinka, or Wagner, or Berlioz, namely, there was a scandal. Everyone was embarrassed by the boldness of young artists who dared to have their own aesthetic views and who wished to promulgate them. And the famous Dickens dashed off an angry article in which he wrote: 'In coming to Millais's Holy Family, (16) one must clear one's head of any religious concept, any elevated thoughts, any connection with ideas of the tender, the dramatic, the sad, the noble, the holy, the beautiful. Instead, one must prepare oneself to sink to the bottom of all that is terrible, shameful, repellent and disturbing.' This thunderous missive drew a sharp protest from one of the major aestheticians of our era, John Ruskin, (17) who responded to the famous novelist's routine accusations with two bold letters in which, with all the charm of his youthful convictions, he comes to the defence of the weak in this uneven battle. And how funny it is, now that just a few years have gone by, to find that that same romantic youth has become a famous and venerable old man and that he is again doing battle over the same irresolvable artistic questions. But the caprices of fate know no bounds, and this leading warrior, having been careless enough to have gained a place in the ranks of recognised celebrities, has give up his former risky role to someone who dares to challenge his accepted teachings. Here once again we have confirmation of the terrible law that decrees that the period of true creativity is when one is not recognised, when one must struggle. When triumph comes, all that remains is a respected place in history.

And so the roles changed, and in 1878 Ruskin, now unintentionally taking the place of Dickens, declared war on Whistler, (18) one of the greatest artists of our time. Ruskin was aware of the presence of a dangerous opponent, and he sought to use his authority to stigmatise him as quickly as possible. When Whistler's Fireworks was exhibited, Ruskin launched an attack on the artist 'For the sake of Mr Whistler's honour, and also for the financial protection of purchasers, the gallery director ought not to have accepted this painting, in which the artist's formless ideas approach the point of sheer deception. I have seen and heard much of cockney impudence before now; but never expected to hear some coxcomb ask two hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public's face.' This striking ending had entirely unexpected consequences in the form of one of the most interesting court cases of our era, in which the public saw the apostolic figure of Ruskin in the role of the accused, the nervous, twitching, irritable little figure of Whistler as the plaintiff, and among the expert witnesses was one in the puritanical shape of Burne-Jones. (19) This whole tragicomedy lasted two days, with the point at issue being whether Whistler's painting could be considered an empty piece of mockery. The painting was brought into the courtroom to be examined by experts and, among other opinions, Burne-Jones declared its price to be too high, especially when one considered the massive amount of conscientious labour that was expended for much smaller sums. The trial ended with Ruskin being made to pay damages of a farthing, at which point a grateful England set up a public appeal to cover this sum, along with his four hundred pounds costs. The grateful country did not realise that this struggle marked the end, the very mundane end, of Ruskin's career, an end perhaps too petty for such a powerful figure. But this matter was, at the very least, a conflict of principles, and it is difficult to blame someone for unwittingly making the same error that he had once opposed so vigorously. Such is the fate even of great men, but unfortunately, quite apart from reasons of principle, constant mutual incomprehension is also frequently due to the fact that the two adversaries see in each other only the extremes without which any new event is unthinkable. This fatal error of wounded pride is a constant impediment to the development of any social phenomenon. Of course, in most cases children have a special, truly child-like wish to do everything except what their parents did, and they feel satisfied with themselves as they exceed permitted limits. But how can one explain the short-sightedness of the parents, caught on the rod of their children's fervour? How can they fail to understand that each age carries all sorts of unnecessary ballast, all kinds of extremes that are of passing interest to contemporaries and that are then discarded forever, like the unwanted husk from which the real kernel has been extracted? Who now remembers the innumerable artistic extremes from the era of Louis XV ? Or again, is our enjoyment of the works of Shakespeare really affected by the pleiad of writers surrounding him, such as Marlowe, (20) Ford, (21) Massinger, (22) and others whose names we do not even know? Finally, is it not equally absurd and illogical to draw conclusions about our era on the basis of Van Gogh's (23) paintings or those of La Rochefoucauld, (24) or on the literary works of Mallarmé (25) or Louÿs? (26) These examples are comical and unconvincing. Epochs are judged by the elements that give serious expression to them, not by bringing out of the pack some random collection of celebrities.

And so, artistic beliefs, weakened by this whole conflict, gave way to each other as separate, independent phenomena, and no one is able to distinguish the gradual differentiation in the one single element that was born at the beginning of the century, that grew to greatness, and is now dying in our generation.

Permit me to repeat my question: what do we consider was our flowering? And what sort of decline from these various epochs do we represent? Where are our Sophocleses, (27) our Leonardos, (28) our Racines, (29) who can contemptuously see in us merely a feeble distortion of the art that they created, and who can give a farewell smile to a poor, dying generation? Are we the decadents of the bombastic academicism of the 1820s, headed by David's Coronation? That's just a joke. We are admirers of Baudelaire (30) and Böcklin. (31) We hate what should be called the decadence of Classicism and what is, of course, called no such thing. All those Poynters, (32) Tademas, (33) Bouguereaus, (34) Cabanels, (35) Lefebvres, (36) and Semiradskiis. (37) No, we are unworthy of the honour of either smashing or restoring the 'magnificent colonnades of the marble giants'. Perhaps, then, we are the decadents of Romanticism, we who carried Zola shoulder high, who crowned Tolstoi with laurels, and who fell in love with Bastien? (38) We who bowed down before the enormous sincerity of Balzac and who reacted negatively to the theatrical showiness of Hugo? Well perhaps, finally, then, we are the pitiful remnants of Realism? But do not forget that you upbraided us for the cult of the Pre-Raphaelites and for our ardent worship of Puvis de Chavannes. (39)

Surely it is possible to solve a simple puzzle that is clear even to a small child? All the above-mentioned groups and tendencies developed independently and they all completed their full evolutionary path. They all reached their high point, gave us David, Victor Hugo, Flaubert (40) and many others, and the ripples of their existence ceased for all time. Then we appeared with our new inquiries, and - believe me - if we had been in the slightest degree like any of our predecessors, even if we had been decadent versions, they would have gladly forgiven us and would have clasped us to their bosom as a father clasps a child. But what they cannot forgive is the fact that we are not continuing along their path, and that the decadents of their renaissance turned out to be themselves, weeping over their fall and longing to rebuild their levelled edifices on dead and rotting ideas. After all, who are they in essence, our enemies, our teachers? Corresponding to the three earlier ages, they fall into three distinct categories. The first group, blissfully cut off from reality, like Chinese dolls, continues to worship the now worn-out magnificence of pseudo-Classical monuments and, staring through lorgnettes, to admire the parquet-glossy craft of Tademas and Bakaloviches. (41) They are the decadents of Classicism, the most ancient and, therefore, the most intractable of enemies. The second group are sentimental admirers, swooning over the sounds of Mendelssohn's (42) Lieder, believing Dumas (43) and Eugene Sue (44) to be serious authors, and in painting going no further than the innumerable madonnas produced by prolific German factories. These are the Romantic decadents, terrifying enemies because there are legions of them. And finally, the third group - a recent group that believed it had astounded the world with its bold discovery when it dragged ragged clothes and peasants' bast shoes onto canvas at a time when this had been done incomparably better and more freshly fifty years earlier by the great Balzac and Millet. (45) This group is too garrulous and it simply repeats the rear-end of what was well said long ago. These are the decadents of Realism, boring adversaries, always going on about the healthiness of their flabby muscles and the timeliness of their mouldy truths. These are the people who threaten us! And so, how unbelievably ill-informed it is to speak of our decline. There is no decline and there can be none, because there is nothing for us to decline from. In order to be bold enough to proclaim a fall, one must first construct a great building from which one might throw oneself and be smashed on its stones. Which temple of human genius are we smashing? Show us it. Give us this temple. After all, we ourselves are wearisomely seeking it, so that we might climb up it and then, in our turn, throw ourselves headlong from it without fear and in the knowledge of our past greatness.