THE CULT OF THE NEW.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 19454, 9 October 1926, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE CULT OF THE NEW.

BY ORIEL. " Let us have all things new," says the modern materialist, and in his heart adds " and away to the destructor with all that is old." It- is a deplorable state of affairs. The materialist has, unfortunately, the upper hand. Ho is sweeping away ' old landmarks and using the dust, of old stones for road metal. He is for ever cutting down old trees and planting new ones for his sons to cut down; lie is polishing from old bronzes the venerablo green of antiquity; lie knows nothing of old china, cares little for old books, and as to old pictures—Bah! Give, him a print of the latest model o? the latest motor-car —it is all he Understands. The people that really care for the old things are becoming scarce. Year by year their numbers diminish; they- get swamped by the great tidal wave which forever roars now things in the ear of the world. " Let us have all things new "; and onward comes the great wave tearing and dashing at the ancient beach in which arc strewn the fragile shells of a vanished generation. "All things now!"—and the wave comes bearing down upon them with much glitter and foam—but it is only foam—and much mud and silt and rubbish in its depths; and theso dregs men set up in the new house of art. There is much mud about, both to fling at things and also to create from, if ono lias a mind to. The strangest and most obnoxious forms of painting are recognised to day as works of art. " Look at the realism in that masterpiece of genius," say the critics. And if you like realism there is no objection to wallowing in realism up to tlio eyes—but you may find that realism is not such a fine thing after all. For instance, the mud upon the muddy roads of winter is no doubt a very real thing, but it is neither pleasant nor advisable to roll in it, and it contains certainly nothing to admire. However, so much for the realists. I wonder where all this love of novelty, cf that which is new, is going to lead us ? Are we going to leave anything lasting behind, when the moths have devoured our satins and silks, and the rust has corroded our imitation silver; when the ■worms have regaled themselves on our unseasoned wood, and when all our cheap Japanese platters are cracked ? What is the artist going to do when all the sailing ships are coal hulks? (That time, alas, is even now upon us). The battleship that cost the nation million;, is scrapped before she is seasoned—buiit to wage war on England's enemies she lies, a useless mass of wreckage at the bottom of the 'sea, ere fever a war cloud looms above tlio face of tho world. How is the archaeologist of the future going to restore this 20th century ? What relics will he find preserved—what marvels of pottery, what masterpieces of art,/what time-defying materials in ddmask or silk, what stately old ships, what cunningly wrought jewellery ? None, none. He will find instead mouldering heaps of rubbish that moth and rust and much besides have corrupted; scrap iron and many tangled rvires, wrecks of aeroplanes. . . I know] not- what else he will find of this 20th century—the age when people worshipped novelty as 'a god, and never stopped to make well, much less to preserve, the things they had. " I hate* old castles and ruins," said a newly-rich woman whose husband would drag her about to see them, even all over England. " I hate them! Give me something brand now, up-to-date." The ideas and opinions of the nouvelles riches who must have everything stark, staring new are eating into the heart of the times like a cancerous growth. In all ages men have said " What's the world coming to?" and withal, they have left something precious behind them, something of worth. But tho cult of the new and the world that follows such a cult—what can it leave behind but " earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust?"