Adventures in the Arts | Page 3

submerged in blackness by the hot struggle of the creative will. He may weep, but he can smile next moment at a pretty song. He may be hurt, but he gets up to dance.
In this book--the autobiography of a creator--Marsden Hartley peers variously into the modern world: but it is in search of Fairies.
WALDO FRANK.
Lisbon, June, 1921.

CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION BY WALDO FRANK
Foreword
CONCERNING FAIRY TALES AND ME
Part One
1. THE RED MAN
2. WHITMAN AND CéZANNE
3. RYDER
4. WINSLOW HOMER
5. AMERICAN VALUES IN PAINTING
6. MODERN ART IN AMERICA
7. OUR IMAGINATIVES
8. OUR IMPRESSIONISTS
9. ARTHUR B. DAVIES
10. REX SLINKARD
11. SOME AMERICAN WATER-COLORISTS
12. THE APPEAL OF PHOTOGRAPHY
13. SOME WOMEN ARTISTS
14. REVALUATIONS IN IMPRESSIONISM
15. ODILON REDON
16. THE VIRTUES OF AMATEUR PAINTING
17. HENRI ROUSSEAU
Part Two
18. THE TWILIGHT OF THE ACROBAT
19. VAUDEVILLE
20. A CHARMING EQUESTRIENNE
21. JOHN BARRYMORE IN PETER IBBETSON
Part Three
22. LA CLOSERIE DE LILAS
23. EMILY DICKINSON
24. ADELAIDE CRAPSEY
25. FRANCIS THOMPSON
26. ERNEST DOWSON
27. HENRY JAMES ON RUPERT BROOKE
28. THE DEARTH OF CRITICS
Afterword
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING "DADA"
* * * * *

FOREWORD
CONCERNING FAIRY TALES AND ME
Sometimes I think myself one of the unique children among children. I never read a fairy story in my childhood. I always had the feeling as a child, that fairy stories were for grown-ups and were best understood by them, and for that reason I think it must have been that I postponed them. I found them, even at sixteen, too involved and mystifying to take them in with quite the simple gullibility that is necessary. But that was because I was left alone with the incredibly magical reality from morning until nightfall, and the nights meant nothing more remarkable to me than the days did, no more than they do now. I find moonlight merely another species of illumination by which one registers continuity of sensation. My nursery was always on the edge of the strangers' knee, wondering who they were, what they might even mean to those who were as is called "nearest" them.
I had a childhood vast with terror and surprise. If it is true that one forgets what one wishes to forget, then I have reason for not remembering the major part of those days and hours that are supposed to introduce one graciously into the world and offer one a clue to the experience that is sure to follow. Not that my childhood was so bitter, unless for childhood loneliness is bitterness, and without doubt it is the worst thing that can happen to one's childhood. Mine was merely a different childhood, and in this sense an original one. I was left with myself to discover myself amid the multitudinous other and far greater mysteries. I was never the victim of fear of goblins and ghosts because I was never taught them. I was merely taught by nature to follow, as if led by a rare and tender hand, the then almost unendurable beauty that lay on every side of me. It was pain then, to follow beauty, because I didn't understand beauty; it must always, I think, be distressing to follow anything one does not understand.
I used to go, in my earliest school days, into a little strip of woodland not far from the great ominous red brick building in a small manufacturing town, on the edge of a wonderful great river in Maine, from which cool and quiet spot I could always hear the dominant clang of the bell, and there I could listen with all my very boyish simplicity to the running of the water over the stones, and watch--for it was spring, of course--the new leaves pushing up out of the mould, and see the light-hued blossoms swinging on the new breeze. I cared more for these in themselves than I did for any legendary presences sitting under them, shaking imperceptible fingers and waving invisible wands with regality in a world made only for them and for children who were taught mechanically to see them there.
I was constantly confronted with the magic of reality itself, wondering why one thing was built of exquisite curves and another of harmonic angles. It was not a scientific passion in me, it was merely my sensing of the world of visible beauty around me, pressing in on me with the vehemence of splendor, on every side.
I feel about the world now precisely as I did then, despite all the reasons that exist to encourage the change of attitude. I care for the magic of experience still, the magic that exists even in facts, though little or nothing for the objective material value.
Life as an idea engrosses me with the same ardor as in the earlier boyish days, with the difference that there is much to admire and so much less to reverence and be afraid of. I harp always on the "idea" of life as I dwell perpetually on the existence of the moment.
I