Creative Unity | Page 8

THE CREATIVE IDEAL
In an old Sanskrit book there is a verse which describes the essential
elements of a picture. The first in order is Vrúpa-bhédáh--"separateness
of forms." Forms are many, forms are different, each of them having its
limits. But if this were absolute, if all forms remained obstinately

separate, then there would be a fearful loneliness of multitude. But the
varied forms, in their very separateness, must carry something which
indicates the paradox of their ultimate unity, otherwise there would be
no creation.
So in the same verse, after the enumeration of separateness comes that
of Pram[=a]n[=a]ni--proportions. Proportions indicate relationship,
the principle of mutual accommodation. A leg dismembered from the
body has the fullest licence to make a caricature of itself. But, as a
member of the body, it has its responsibility to the living unity which
rules the body; it must behave properly, it must keep its proportion. If,
by some monstrous chance of physiological profiteering, it could
outgrow by yards its fellow-stalker, then we know what a picture it
would offer to the spectator and what embarrassment to the body itself.
Any attempt to overcome the law of proportion altogether and to assert
absolute separateness is rebellion; it means either running the gauntlet
of the rest, or remaining segregated.
The same Sanskrit word Pram[=a]n[=a]ni, which in a book of
æsthetics means proportions, in a book of logic means the proofs by
which the truth of a proposition is ascertained. All proofs of truth are
credentials of relationship. Individual facts have to produce such
passports to show that they are not expatriated, that they are not a break
in the unity of the whole. The logical relationship present in an
intellectual proposition, and the æsthetic relationship indicated in the
proportions of a work of art, both agree in one thing. They affirm that
truth consists, not in facts, but in harmony of facts. Of this fundamental
note of reality it is that the poet has said, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty."
Proportions, which prove relativity, form the outward language of
creative ideals. A crowd of men is desultory, but in a march of soldiers
every man keeps his proportion of time and space and relative
movement, which makes him one with the whole vast army. But this is
not all. The creation of an army has, for its inner principle, one single
idea of the General. According to the nature of that ruling idea, a
production is either a work of art or a mere construction. All the
materials and regulations of a joint-stock company have the unity of an

inner motive. But the expression of this unity itself is not the end; it
ever indicates an ulterior purpose. On the other hand, the revelation of a
work of art is a fulfilment in itself.
The consciousness of personality, which is the consciousness of unity
in ourselves, becomes prominently distinct when coloured by joy or
sorrow, or some other emotion. It is like the sky, which is visible
because it is blue, and which takes different aspect with the change of
colours. In the creation of art, therefore, the energy of an emotional
ideal is necessary; as its unity is not like that of a crystal, passive and
inert, but actively expressive. Take, for example, the following verse:
Oh, fly not Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure, Fold me thy wings, I
prithee, yet and stay. For my heart no measure Knows, nor other
treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.
And thou too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou grey-eyed mourner,
fly not yet away. For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow,
To make a mourning for love's yesterday.
The words in this quotation, merely showing the metre, would have no
appeal to us; with all its perfection and its proportion, rhyme and
cadence, it would only be a construction. But when it is the outer body
of an inner idea it assumes a personality. The idea flows through the
rhythm, permeates the words and throbs in their rise and fall. On the
other hand, the mere idea of the above-quoted poem, stated in
unrhythmic prose, would represent only a fact, inertly static, which
would not bear repetition. But the emotional idea, incarnated in a
rhythmic form, acquires the dynamic quality needed for those things
which take part in the world's eternal pageantry.
Take the following doggerel:
Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.
The metre is there, and it simulates the movement of life. But it finds
no synchronous response in the metre of our heart-beats; it has not in
its centre the living idea which creates for itself an indivisible unity. It

is like a bag which is convenient, and not like a body which is
inevitable.
This truth, implicit in our own works of art, gives