BEAUTY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIV, Issue 19702, 30 July 1927, Page 1 (Supplement)

BEAUTY.

ITS MANY FORMS.

BY GRAHAM HAY.

Nature holds cheapness in fastidious distaste. All her supreme effects depend in some measure on their rarity and difficulty of accomplishment. The master strokes, the supreme moments, dwell on all but unattainable heights. Suspended high above us like the sitars, they point the way to the Godhead in us, things to strive for, to live for, for one fleeting moment to attain, a moment of illuminating rapture, ere we sink back to our normal courso onco more. The pinnacle so difficult to attain is impossible ta hold. The ground beyond it falls away even more sheer than the upward slope. Between climax and bathos, ripeness and decay, ecstasy and stalemate, is but a tiny span, a hair's breadth, delicately adjusted; a careless breath is sufficient to bring it toppling back to earth. All true beauty is elusive, cannot but be. If it stands fully revealed at first glance it cannot have the depth or subtlety to hold us long. Beauty depends not wholly on the eye, not wholly 011 the ear. It does not merely tickle the palate in passing. To be of worth it must touch something deep within us. Beauty is of that other elusive thing called soul. Beauty Found by Digging. While it is true that beauty always causes our emotions to leap toward pinnacles, it itself is not always found by climbing. Physical, or, rather, sensuous beauty is found by strong, fierce, upward striving. Beauty which depends on the mind is more often found by digging. Long, patient study, which slowly reveals unsuspected beauties where once was darkness, the. joy of knowledge as understanding comes, bringing with it a sense of power and mastery, this is beauty which reaches the soul through the mind. It takes years of preparation to know the exultant joy of the mathematician when he solves an intricate problem, or the sense of fulfilment of the naturalist as he finds and classifies the Inst link of his collection, or the inward glow of the mechanic when his machine purrs on with scarce a tremor or a sound. Beauty of a sort everyone knows. The beauty of colour must be shared in some measure by all who have sight. Nature is so lavish, so broad and startling in her effects. But the artist who has studied the subtleties of shade in colour may be driven to ecstasy by a thrush's egg or a blackbird's wing Beauty may come in the form of a sunset —it may come in the form of a turnip. A prosaic enough thing in the eyes of the world, to one who has toiled and delved for it for years, the production of a turnip more perfect than its fellows may bring that tingle of ecstasy which is the sure companion of true beauty. _ But to most people beauty which brings in the mind reveals itself most readily in one of the three major arts. There it exists abundantly,. yet shyly and elusively. There is an ambiguous old proverb, stupid as most proverbs, which says, "He Who runs may read." It would have been just as correct to say, "He who runs may not read." Concerning painting, music and literature, you may look, listen or read for a lifetime and find no beauty. A certain tinkling appreciation, perhaps, a panacea from boredom, but beauty goes deeper. It deals in positives ; it floods with radiance, does not merely dispel the dark. This elusiveness, while it makes beauty so rare and desirable a thing, allows whole pageants to pass by unappreciated, unknown. One is sometimes staggered by the lovely things which one has passed over previously with scarce a glance. Painting and Music.

Of the arts, I find that most elusive which seems to carry its beauty nearest to the surface, the art of painting. I seem to need a guiding hand when looking at pictures if I am to see with inner eye. Under this direction, what has been a blank wall stands out sharp and clear. This appreciation at second hand may breed distrust, may suggest that there is some self-deception or hypocrisy. But, indeed, Ido not think that this is so. Some imagination I plead guilty to, nay, it seems to me that this is at the root of the matter —pictures do not stir my imagination to a sufficiently lively pitch to make me fully sensitive to their beauty. I need some outside spur. It will easily be divined that I am left high and dry by ultra-modern art. Yet even here, if it is pointed out to ine, I can see a kind of blind idea struggling for existence. If T can pass over without recognition the beauty of a picture of the orthodox school, may there not be some message struggling for expression in the new school, difficult to grasp in these crude, early stages? It is impossible to imagine anyone devoting his life to a quest, unless he is following some gleam, however crazy, however fantastic. My own views on ultra-modern art obviously can bo of little value. It would be hypocrisv to it would be folly to scoff. Tf the crleam is but dimly there we cannot afford to neglect it Beauty in Music. I think I am never wholly deaf to the beauty in music, but thero is much that escapes me. Mine is rather a vague appreciation than the exact definite enjoyment of the skilled musician. I do not listen carefully enough, and listening is an art in itself, capable of cultivation and improvement, like any other art. No one can be a good listener to music who has not studied and practised music. Nevertheless, -the beauty of music is revealed in greater or less degree to almost everyone. Rare is he who remains indifferent to it, even if he be but roused to a frenzy of hatred. At a concert my attention may wander from the numbers presented, but the music, like ether to sound, acts as a vehicle to my thoughts, which are ever aroused and quickened by the beauty which gains entrance through my ears.

The Beauty of Words. More disturbing is the thought that I am capable of being completely deaf to the beauty of words. If the mood be wrong, or the attention a little distraught, I am capable of hurrying over passages of great beauty with scarce a thought. On a second reading their beauty stands out so pure and arresting that it is hard to believe that I have ever seen them before. Like all the haunts of beauty, there are hiding-places against the rude approach of the careless or the scoffer. Reading, like listening, needs study and devotion to yield full measure of repayment. The casual eye receives a casual reward, for the mistress is jealous and demands undivided attention Moreover, there are ramparts and antechambers before the audience chamber is reached. If somo day I fall in loveand write a poem, I should like mv beloved to read for half-an-hour the efforts of others before she came to mine. I realise that mine would inevitably suffer, by comparison, but I should risk this to gain the quickened imagination which would be brought to bear on whatever small message I had concealed behind the words. Beauty knows no laws of time or place. Suddenly, unexpectedly, from the dead level of existence, our consciousness is Hooded by a radiant light. Great events leave results but no memories. It's the little things that return: the voice of a cricket that threaded its insistent song through the murmur of an autumn night; the sunshine that streamed down from an open sky one spring morning, making diamonds dance in the dew; tho close of a day when we saC on a rough-hewn seat and watched the night come out of the western sea.