He is a creator only as he conveys to others the life which has been
created in himself. As the electric wire creates light in the home; as
the band creates the movement in the machinery; thus and only thus does
the artist create life in those that wait upon him. He is in truth an
interpreter and transmitter, not a creator. Nor can he interpret what he
has not first received, nor transmit what he has not first experienced.
The music, the painting, the poem are merely the instruments which he
uses for that purpose. The life must first be in him or the so-called
music, painting, poem are but dead simulacra; imitations of art, not
real art. This is the reason why no mechanical device, be it never so
skillfully contrived, can ever take the place of the living artist. The
pianola can never rival the living performer; nor the orchestrion the
orchestra; nor the chromo the painting. No mechanical device has yet
been invented to produce poetry; even if some shrewd Yankee should
invent a printing machine which would pick out rhymes as some printing
machines seem to pick out letters, the result would not be a poem. This
is the reason too why mere perfection of execution never really
satisfies. "She sings like a bird." Yes! and that is exactly the
difficulty with her. We want one who sings like a woman. The popular
criticism of the mere musical expert that he has no soul, is profound
and true. It is soul we want; for the piano, the organ, the violin, the
orchestra, are only instruments for the transmission of soul.
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