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[Home]
[Up]
[Contents]
[Preface]
[Bibliographical Note]
[A Note on the Text]
[WHAT IS ART?]
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[CONCLUSION]
[Appendix I]
[Appendix II]
[Notes]
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WHAT IS ART?
¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?
TRANSLATED BY RICHARD PEVEAR AND LARISSA VOLOKHONSKY
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¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?
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I know that the majority of people who are not only regarded as intelligent but are indeed intelligent, capable of understanding the most difficult scientific, mathematical and philosophical reasonings, are very rarely capable of understanding a most simple and obvious truth, if it is such as requires that they admit that a judgement they have formed about something, sometimes with great effort, a judgement they are proud of, which they have taught to others, on the basis of which they have arranged their entire life — that this judgement may be wrong. And therefore I have little hope that the arguments I am presenting about the perversion of art and taste in our society will be, not accepted, but even seriously discussed, and yet I must speak out to the end what I have been ineluctably brought to by my study of the question of art. This study has brought me to the conviction that almost everything regarded as art, and good art, and the whole of art in our society, is not only not true and good art, nor the whole of art, it is not even art at all, but only a counterfeit of it. This statement, I know, is very strange, and seems paradoxical, and yet if we once recognize as true that art is a human activity by means of which some people convey their feelings to others, and is not the service of beauty, the manifestation of an idea, and so on, then it must needs be admitted. If it is true that art is an activity by means of which one man, having experienced a feeling, conveys it consciously to others, then we must inevitably admit that of all that among us is called the art of the upper classes — all these novels, stories, dramas, comedies, paintings, sculptures, symphonies, operas, operettas, ballets, etc., which pass for works of art — there is hardly one in a hundred thousand that originated in a feeling experienced by its author; the rest are manufactured works, artistic counterfeits, in which borrowing, imitation, effectfulness and diversion replace infection by feeling. That the proportion of true works of art to the number of these counterfeits is one to hundreds of thousands, or even less, can be proved by the following calculation. I read somewhere that there are 30,000 artist-painters in Paris alone. There must be the same number in England, the same in Germany, the same in Russia, Italy and some smaller countries combined. So that there should be altogether about 120,000 artist-painters in Europe, and as many musicians, and as many artistic writers. If these 300,000 people produce at least three works each per year (and many produce ten or more), then every year yields a million works of art. How many have there been in the last ten years, and how many in all the time since upper-class art separated from popular art? Millions, obviously. Yet who among the greatest connoisseurs of art has actually not received an impression from all these alleged works of art, but at least come to know of their existence? To say nothing of all the working people, who have no idea of these works, the people of the upper class cannot know even one-thousandth of all these works and do not remember the ones they did know. All these objects come in the guise of art, produce no impression on anyone, except at times an impression of amusement on an idle crowd of rich people, and disappear without a trace. To this it is usually replied that if it were not for this huge number of unsuccessful attempts, there would be no true works of art. But this reasoning is the same as if a baker, in reply to the reproach that his bread is no good, were to say that if it were not for a hundred ruined loaves, there would not be one that is well baked. It is true that wherever there is gold there is also a lot of sand; but this can in no way serve as a pretext for saying a lot of stupid things in order to say something intelligent. |
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¾ø¾ú´Ù¸é, Àß ±¸¿öÁø ÇÑ °³°¡ ¾øÀ» °ÍÀÌ¶ó ¸»ÇÏ´Â °Í°ú ¸¶Âù°¡Áö´Ù. ±ÝÀÌ ÀÖ´Â °÷¿¡´Â ¾îµð¿¡³ª ¶ÇÇÑ ¸¹Àº ¸ð·¡°¡ ÀÖ´Ù´Â °ÍÀº ÂüÀÌ´Ù;
±×·¯³ª ÀÌ ¸»ÀÌ °áÄÚ ¾î¶² ÁöÀûÀÎ °ÍÀ» ¸»Çϱâ À§ÇØ ¼ö ¸¹Àº ¸ÛûÇÑ °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇÔ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ±¸½ÇÀÌ µÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù. |
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We are surrounded by works that are considered artistic. Thousands of lyrics, thousands of long poems, thousands of novels, thousands of dramas, thousands of paintings, thousands of musical compositions appear one after another. All the poems describe love, or nature, or the author¡¯s state of mind, and all of them observe metre and rhyme; all the dramas and comedies are splendidly designed and performed by excellently trained actors; all the novels are divided into chapters, they all describe love, and contain affecting scenes, and describe true details of life; all the symphonies contain their allegro, andante, scherzo and finale, and they all consist of modulations and chords and are played by musicians trained to the point of refinement; all the paintings, in their gilt frames, vividly portray persons and accessories. But among these works of various kinds of art there is one in a hundred thousand which is not simply a little better than the others, but differs from all the rest in the way a diamond differs from glass. The one cannot be bought for any money, so precious it is; the rest not only have no value but are of negative worth, because they deceive and pervert taste. And yet superficially, for a man with a perverted or atrophied sense of understanding of art, they are exactly the same. |
¿ì¸®´Â ¿¹¼úÀûÀ̶ó°í ¿©°ÜÁö´Â ÀÛǰµé¿¡ µÑ·¯ ½Î¿© ÀÖ´Ù. ¼öõÀÇ
¼Á¤½Ãµé, ¼öõÀÇ Àå½Ãµé, ¼öõÀÇ ¼Ò¼³µé, ¼öõÀÇ µå¶ó¸¶µé, ¼öõÀÇ ±×¸²µé, ¼öõÀÇ À½¾Ç ÀÛ°îµéÀÌ ¿¬ÀÌ¾î µîÀåÇÑ´Ù. ¸ðµç ½ÃµéÀº »ç¶û
ȤÀº ÀÚ¿¬, ȤÀº ÀÛ°¡ÀÇ Á¤½Å »óŸ¦ ¹¦»çÇϰí, ±× ¸ðµç °ÍµéÀº ¿îÀ²°ú ¾Ð¿îÀ» ÁؼöÇÑ´Ù; ¸ðµç µå¶ó¸¶µé ¹× Äڹ̵ðµéÀº È·ÁÇÏ°Ô µðÀÚÀεǰí
¶Ù¾î³ª°Ô ÈÆ·ÃµÈ ¹è¿ìµé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ °ø¿¬µÈ´Ù; ¸ðµç ¼Ò¼³µéÀº Àåµé·Î ³ª´µ¾îÁö°í, ±×°ÍµéÀº ¸ðµÎ »ç¶ûÀ» ¹¦»çÇϰí, °¨µ¿ÀûÀÎ Àå¸éµéÀ» ´ãÀ¸¸ç,
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À¯¸®¿Í ´Ù¸¥ °Íó·³ ¸ðµç ³ª¸ÓÁö¿Í ´Ù¸¥ ¼ö½Ê¸¸ °³ ÁßÀÇ Çϳª°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ±× Çϳª´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ ³Ê¹«³ª ±ÍÁßÇÑ °ÍÀÌ¶ó¼ ¾î¶² µ·À¸·Îµµ »çµéÀÏ ¼ö
¾ø´Ù; ³ª¸ÓÁö´Â ¾Æ¹«·± °¡Ä¡°¡ ¾øÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó ºÎÁ¤ÀûÀÎ °¡Ä¡¸¦ Áö´Ñ´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×°ÍµéÀº ÃëÇâÀ» ¼ÓÀÌ°í ¿Ö°î½Ã۱⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®°í
´õ¿íÀÌ Ãµ¹ÚÇÑ Á¡¿¡¼, ¿Ö°îµÇ¾ú°Å³ª ¸¶ºñµÈ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °¨°¢À» Áö´Ñ »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô´Â, ±×°ÍµéÀº Á¤È®È÷ °°Àº °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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The difficulty of recognizing artistic works in our society is also increased by the fact that in false works the superficial worth is not only no worse but is often better than in true works; often the counterfeit strikes us more than the true work, and the content of the counterfeit is more interesting. How to discriminate? How to find this one work, not differing in any way superficially, among the hundreds of thousands of works deliberately made to resemble the true one perfectly? |
¿ì¸® »çȸ¿¡¼ ¿¹¼úÀûÀÎ ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀνÄÇÔÀÇ ¾î·Á¿òÀº ¶ÇÇÑ À§¼±ÀûÀÎ
ÀÛǰµé¿¡¼ ÀÎÀ§ÀûÀÎ °¡Ä¡´Â ´õ ¾ÇÇÒ »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó Á¾Á¾ ÂüµÈ ÀÛǰµé ¾È¿¡¼ º¸´Ù ´õ ÈǸ¢Çϱ⵵ ÇÏ´Ù´Â »ç½Ç¿¡¼ ³ô¾ÆÁø´Ù; °¡²û ¸ðÁ¶Ç°ÀÌ
ÂüµÈ ÀÛǰº¸´Ù ´õÇÑ ÀλóÀ» ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô ÁØ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ¸ðÁ¶Ç°ÀÇ ³»¿ëÀº ´õ Èï¹Ì·Ó´Ù. ¾î¶»°Ô ±¸ºÐÇÒ °ÍÀΰ¡? ¾î¶»°Ô ÀÌ ÇÑ ÀÛǰÀ», ¿Ü°ü»ó
¾Æ¹«·± Â÷À̰¡ ¾øÀ¸¸ç, ÀǵµÀûÀ¸·Î ÂüµÈ °ÍÀ» ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ´àµµ·Ï ¸¸µç ¼ö½Ê¸¸ °³ÀÇ ÀÛǰµé Áß¿¡¼ ã¾Æ³¾ °ÍÀΰ¡? |
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For a man of unperverted taste, a labouring man, not a city-dweller, this is as easy as it is for an animal with an unspoiled scent to find, among thousands of trails in forest or field, the one it needs. An animal will unerringly find what it needs; so, too, a man, if only his natural qualities are not perverted in him, will unerringly choose out of thousands of objects the true work of art that he needs, that infects him with the feeling experienced by the artist; but this is not so for people whose taste has been ruined by their upbringing and life. The sense of artistic perception is atrophied in these people, and in evaluating works of art they must be guided by reasoning and examination, and these reasonings and examinations ultimately confuse them, so that the majority of people in our society are totally unable to distinguish a work of art from the crudest counterfeit. People spend long hours sitting in concerts and theatres, listening to the works of the new composers, and they consider it their duty to read the novels of the famous new novelists, and to look at paintings that depict either something incomprehensible or the same things over and over — which they see much better in reality; and above all they consider it their duty to admire it all, fancying that these are all works of art, and they walk right past the true works of art, not only without paying attention, but even with scorn, simply because these works are not counted as works of art in their circle. |
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±×µéÀ» È¥¶õ¿¡ ºüÆ®¸°´Ù, ±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ¿ì¸® »çȸÀÇ ´ë´Ù¼ö »ç¶÷µéÀº ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀ» õ¹ÚÇÑ ¸ðÁ¶Ç°µé·ÎºÎÅÍ °¡·Á³»´Â °ÍÀÌ ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ºÒ°¡´ÉÇØÁø´Ù.
»ç¶÷µéÀº ¿À·£ ½Ã°£ µ¿¾È ¿¬ÁÖȸÀå ¹× ±ØÀåµé¿¡ ¾É¾Æ¼ º¸³»¸ç, »õ·Î¿î ÀÛ°î°¡µéÀÇ ÀÛǰµé¿¡ ±Í¸¦ ±â¿ïÀδÙ, ±×¸®°í ±×µéÀº À¯¸íÇÏ°í »õ·Î¿î
¼Ò¼³°¡µéÀÇ ¼Ò¼³µéÀ» Àд °ÍÀ», ±×¸®°í ¾Ë ¼ö ¾ø´Â ¾î¶² °Í ȤÀº ¶È°°Àº °ÍÀ» µÇÇ®ÀÌ ÇØ¼ ¹¦»çÇÏ´Â ±×¸²µéÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸´Â °Í — »ç½Ç ±×µéÀº
±×°ÍÀ» ÈξÀ Àß º¸°Ô µÈ´Ù — À» Àǹ«·Î ¿©±ä´Ù; ±×¸®°í ¹«¾ùº¸´Ùµµ ±×µéÀº ±× ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» Âù¹ÌÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ±×µéÀÇ Àǹ«·Î ¿©±â°í, À̰͵éÀÌ ¸ðµÎ
¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀ̶ó°í »ó»óÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×µéÀº ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» ¹Ù·Î Áö³ªÃÄ °ÉÀ¸¸ç, °ü½ÉÀ» ±â¿ïÀÌÁöµµ ¾ÊÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó °æ¸êÇϴµ¥, ´Ü¼øÇÑ
ÀÌÀ¯ÀÎ Áï, ±×µéÀÇ ¹üÁÖ¿¡¼ À̵é ÀÛǰµéÀº ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµé·Î °£ÁÖµÇÁö ¾Ê±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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The other day I was returning home from a stroll in a depressed state of mind. As I approached the house, I heard the loud singing of a large circle of peasant women. They were greeting and
honoring my daughter, who has married and came for a visit. This singing, with shouts and banging on scythes, expressed such a definite feeling of joy, cheerfulness, energy, that without noticing it I became infected by it, and approached the house more cheerfully, reaching it quite cheered up and merry. I found that everyone in the house who had been listening to this singing was in the same excited state. That very evening an excellent musician, famous for his performing of classical pieces, and especially of Beethoven, came to visit us and played Beethoven¡¯s sonata Opus 101. |
¾î´À ³¯ ³ª´Â ¿ì¿ïÇÑ ¸¶À½¿¡ »êÃ¥À» ³ª°¬´Ù ÁýÀ¸·Î µ¹¾Æ ¿À°í
ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ³ª´Â Áý¿¡ ´Ù°¡°¡´Ù°¡ ³óºÎ ¿©ÀÚµéÀÌ ¸¹ÀÌ ¸ð¿© Å« ¼Ò¸®·Î ³ë·¡ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» µé¾ú´Ù. ±×µéÀº ³ªÀÇ µþÀ» ȯ¿µÇÏ¸ç °æÀǸ¦ Ç¥Çߴµ¥, ±×³à´Â
°áÈ¥ÇÏ¿© ¹æ¹®ÇÏ·¯ ¿Ô¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ ³ë·¡´Â, ¼Ò¸®Ä¡°í ³´À» µÎµå¸®¸é¼ ±×Åä·Ï È®½ÇÇÑ È¯Èñ, À¯ÄèÇÔ ¹× ¿¡³ÊÁö¸¦ Ç¥ÇöÇÏ¿©¼ ±×°ÍÀ» ¾Ë¾ÆÂ÷¸®±âµµ Àü¿¡
±×°Í¿¡ °¨¿°µÇ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ´õ ÄèȰÇÏ°Ô ÁýÀ¸·Î ´Ù°¡ °¬À¸¸ç, µµÂøÇؼ´Â ¹«Ã´ ±â¿îÀÌ ³µÀ¸¸ç Áñ°Å¿ü´Ù. ³ª´Â Áý ¾È¿¡¼ ÀÌ ³ë·¡¸¦ µè°í ÀÖ¾ú´ø ¸ðµç
»ç¶÷µéÀÌ ¶È°°ÀÌ ÈïºÐµÈ »óÅ¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù. ¹Ù·Î ±× Àú³á ÇÑ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ À½¾Ç°¡°¡, ±×´Â Ŭ·¡½Ä ¼Òǰµé, ±×¸®°í ƯÈ÷ º£Å亥ÀÇ °Í¿¡
´ëÇÑ ±×ÀÇ ¿¬ÁÖ·Î À¯¸íÇÏ´ø ÅÍ¿¡, ¿ì¸®¸¦ ¹æ¹®ÇÏ¿© º£Å亥ÀÇ ¼Ò³ªÅ¸ ÀÛǰ 101¹øÀ» ¿¬ÁÖÇß´Ù. |
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I consider it necessary to observe, for those who would explain my opinion of this sonata of Beethoven by my non-understanding of it, that, being very susceptible to music, I understood all that others understand in this sonata, as well as in other works of Beethoven¡¯s late period, in the same way as they do. For a long time I had been priming myself so as to admire these formless improvisations which make up the content of the works of Beethoven¡¯s late period, but the moment I treated the matter of art seriously and compared the impression I get from the works of Beethoven¡¯s late period with the pleasant, clear and strong musical impression produced, for example, by the melodies of Bach (his arias), Haydn, Mozart, Chopin — where these melodies are not encumbered by complications and adornments — or of Beethoven himself in his early period, and above all with impressions received from Italian, Norwegian and Russian folk songs, from Hungarian czardas, [93] and other such simple, clear, strong things, then that certain vague and almost morbid excitement from the works of Beethoven¡¯s late period, which I had artificially called up in myself, was at once destroyed. |
ÀÌ º£Å亥ÀÇ ¼Ò³ªÅ¸¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ³ªÀÇ Àǰ߿¡ ´ëÇØ ³»°¡ ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö
¸øÇÑ´Ù°í ¼³¸íÇϰíÀÚ ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀ» À§ÇØ, ³ª´Â À½¾Ç¿¡ ¸Å¿ì °¨¼ö¼ºÀÌ ÀÖ¾î¼, ÀÌ ¼Ò³ªÅ¸¿¡¼ ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ÀÌÇØÇÒ »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó
º£Å亥ÀÇ ÃÖ±Ù ½Ã±âÀÇ ´Ù¸¥ ÀÛǰµé¿¡¼µµ, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µé°ú ¸¶Âù°¡Áö·Î ÀÌÇØÇϰí ÀÖ´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇØ µÎ´Â °ÍÀÌ ÇÊ¿äÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©±ä´Ù. ¿À·§µ¿¾È
³ª´Â º£Å亥ÀÇ ÃÖ±Ù ½Ã±âÀÇ ÀÛǰµéÀÇ ³»¿ëÀ» ±¸¼ºÇÏ´Â À̵é Çü½ÄÀÌ ¾ø´Â ÁïÈï°îµéÀ» Âù¹ÌÇϰíÀÚ ¿¹ºñ Áö½ÄÀ» ÁغñÇØ¿ÔÁö¸¸, ³»°¡ ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¹®Á¦¸¦
ÁøÁöÇÏ°Ô ´Ù·ç°í º£Å亥ÀÇ ÃÖ±Ù ½Ã±âÀÇ ÀÛǰµé·ÎºÎÅÍ ³»°¡ ¾ò´Â ÀλóÀ», ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ¹ÙÇÏ (±×ÀÇ ¾Æ¸®¾Æµé), ÇÏÀ̵ç, ¸ðÂ¥¸£Æ®, ¼îÆØÀÇ
— ¿©±â¼ À̵éÀÇ ¼±À²µéÀº º¹ÀâÇÔ ¹× ²Ù¹Òµé·Î ä¿öÁ® ÀÖÁö ¾Ê´Ù — ȤÀº º£Å亥
ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÃʱâÀÇ ¼±À²µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¸¸µé¾îÁø »óÄèÇϰí, ¸í·áÇÏ¸ç °·ÂÇÑ À½¾ÇÀû Àλó°ú, ±×¸®°í ¹«¾ùº¸´Ùµµ ÀÌÅ»¸®¾Æ, ³ë¸£¿þÀÌ ¹×
·¯½Ã¶ó ¹Î¿äµé·ÎºÎÅÍ, Çë°¡¸®ÀÇ Â÷¸£´Ù½Ã, ±×¸®°í ±×¿Í °°Àº ´Ù¸¥ ´Ü¼øÇϸç, ¸í·áÇϰí, °·ÂÇÑ °Íµé·ÎºÎÅÍ ¹ÞÀº Àλóµé°ú ºñ±³ÇÏÀÚ¸¶ÀÚ,
º£Å亥ÀÇ ÃÖ±Ù ½Ã±âÀÇ ÀÛǰµé·ÎºÎÅÍ ³ª¿Â ±×ó·³ È®½ÇÈ÷ ¸ðÈ£ÇÏ¸ç °ÅÀÇ º´ÀûÀÌ´ø ÈïºÐÀÌ, ±×°ÍÀº ³»°¡ ³ª ÀڽŠ¾È¿¡ ºÒ·¯ ³»¾ú´ø °ÍÀÌÁö¸¸,
´çÀå ¼Ò¸êµÇ¾î ¹ö·È´Ù. |
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When the performance was over, everyone present, though it was obvious that they were all bored, eagerly praised the profound work of Beethoven as they thought they should, not forgetting to mention that they had not understood this later period before, but now saw that it was the very best. And when I allowed myself to compare the impression produced on me by the peasant women¡¯s singing, an impression experienced by everyone who had heard it, with that of this sonata, the lovers of Beethoven only smiled scornfully, considering it unnecessary to respond to such strange talk. |
¿¬ÁÖ°¡ ³¡³µÀ» ¶§, ÀÚ¸®¿¡ ÀÖ´ø ¸ðµç »ç¶÷Àº, ºñ·Ï ±×µé ¸ðµÎ°¡
Áö·çÇß´ø °ÍÀÌ ºÐ¸íÇÏÁö¸¸, ±× ½É¿ÀÇÑ º£Å亥ÀÇ ÀÛǰÀ» ±×µéÀÌ ±×·¸°Ô ÇØ¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í »ý°¢Çß´ø ´ë·Î ¿·ÄÈ÷ μÛÇßÀ¸¸ç, Àü¿¡´Â ÀÌ ÈıâÀÇ °ÍÀ»
ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇßÁö¸¸, ÀÌÁ¦ ±×°ÍÀÌ °¡Àå ÈǸ¢ÇÏ´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾È´Ù°í ¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ÀØÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³»°¡ ³ª¼¼ ³óºÎ ¿©ÀÚµéÀÇ ³ë·¡°¡ ³»°Ô
¸¸µé¾î ÁØ ÀλóÀ», ±×°ÍÀ» µéÀº ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ °æÇèµÈ ÀλóÀ», ÀÌ ¼Ò³ªÅ¸ÀÇ Àλó°ú ºñ±³ÇÏ¿´À» ¶§, º£Å亥ÀÇ Âù¹ÌÀÚ µéÀº ´ÜÁö
°æ¸êÇÏµí ¿ô¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×·± ÀÌ»óÇÑ ´ëȸ¦ »ó´ëÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ºÒÇÊ¿äÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©°å´Ù. |
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And yet the women¡¯s song was true art, conveying a definite, strong feeling. While the 101st sonata of Beethoven [94] was only an unsuccessful attempt at art, containing no definite feeling and therefore not infecting one with anything. |
ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¿©ÀÚµéÀÇ ³ë·¡´Â ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼úÀ̾ú´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×°ÍÀº È®½ÇÇϸç
°·ÄÇÑ ´À³¦À» Àü´ÞÇÏ¿´±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ¹Ý¸é¿¡, º£Å亥ÀÇ ¼Ò³ªÅ¸ 101¹øÀÌ ´ÜÁö ¿¹¼úÀ» ÇâÇÑ ½ÇÆÐ¿¡ ³¡³ ½Ãµµ¿´À¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ¾Æ¹«·± È®½ÇÇÑ
´À³¦µµ ´ãÁö ¾Ê¾Ò°í ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ¾Æ¹«µµ ¾î¶² °ÍÀ¸·Îµµ Àü¿°½ÃŰÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. |
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For my work on art I have spent this winter reading, diligently and with great effort, the famous novels and stories of Zola, Bourget, [95] Huysmans and Kipling, which are praised all over Europe. And at the same time, in a children¡¯s magazine, I chanced upon a story by a completely unknown writer about the preparations for Easter in a poor widow¡¯s family. [96] The plot of the story is that the mother, having with difficulty obtained some white flour, poured it out on the table to be kneaded and went to get some yeast, asking the children not to leave the cottage and to watch over the flour. The mother left and the neighbours¡¯ children came running to the window, shouting for the ones in the cottage to come out and play. The children, forgetting their mother¡¯s order, run outside and start playing. The mother comes back with the yeast and finds a mother hen on the table throwing what is left of the flour to the dirt floor for her chicks to peck up from the dust. The mother, in despair, scolds the children. The children cry. The mother feels sorry for the children, but there is no more white flour, and so, to cheer them up, the mother decides to make a kulich [97] from sifted rye flour, glaze it with egg-white, and put eggs around it. ¡®Rye bread¡¯s my delight — it¡¯s the grandpa of white¡¯ — the mother recites this proverb to the children to comfort them for not having a kulich made from white flour. And the children suddenly go from despair to joyful rapture, each one repeating the proverb, and they look forward to the kulich with all the more merriment. |
¿¹¼ú¿¡ °üÇÑ ³ªÀÇ ÀÛ¾÷À» À§ÇØ ³ª´Â À̹ø °Ü¿ïÀ», ºÎÁö·±È÷ ±×¸®°í
¾öû³ ³ë·ÂÀ» µé¿©¼, Á¹¶ó, ºÎÁ¦, ÈÖ½º¸¸, ¹× ŰÇøµÀÇ À¯¸íÇÑ ¼Ò¼³µé ¹× ´ÜÆíµéÀ» ÀÐÀ¸¸ç º¸³Â´Âµ¥, ±×°ÍµéÀº Àü À¯·´À» ÅëÇØ¼ ¿¹Âù
¹Þ´Â °ÍµéÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×¸®°í µ¿½Ã¿¡, ¾î¶² ¾Æµ¿ ÀâÁö¿¡¼, ³ª´Â ¿ì¿¬È÷ ÀüÇô ¾Ë·ÁÁöÁö ¾ÊÀº ÀÛ°¡°¡ ¾´, ÇÑ °¡³ÇÑ °úºÎÀÇ °¡Á¤ÀÇ ºÎȰÀý
Áغñ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ, À̾߱⸦ º¸°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. À̾߱âÀÇ ±¸¼ºÀº ¾î¸Ó´Ï°¡, ¾î·Æ»ç¸® ¾à°£ÀÇ ¹Ð°¡·ç¸¦ ±¸ÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀ» ¹ÝÁ×Çϱâ À§ÇØ Å×ÀÌºí¿¡ ½ñ¾Æ
ºÑ°í ¾à°£ÀÇ À̽ºÆ®¸¦ ±¸ÇÏ·¯ °¡¸é¼, ¾ÆÀ̵鿡°Ô ¿ÀµÎ¸·ÁýÀ» ¶°³ªÁö ¸»°í ¹Ð°¡·ç¸¦ ÁöÄѺ¸¶ó°í ´çºÎÇß´Ù. ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â ³ª°¬°í ÀÌ¿ôÀÇ ¾ÆÀ̵éÀÌ
â¹®À¸·Î ´Þ·Á¿Í¼ ¿ÀµÎ¸·Áý¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¾ÆÀ̵鿡°Ô ³ª¿Í¼ ³îÀÚ°í ¼Ò¸®ÃÆ´Ù. ¾ÆÀ̵éÀº, ¾î¸Ó´ÏÀÇ ´çºÎ¸¦ ÀØ¾î ¹ö¸®°í, ¹Ù±ùÀ¸·Î ´Þ·Á³ª°¡ ³î±â
½ÃÀÛÇÑ´Ù. ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â À̽ºÆ®¸¦ °¡Áö°í µ¹¾Æ¿À°í ¾ö¸¶ ¾ÏżÀÌ Å×ÀÌºí¿¡ ¿Ã¶ó¼ ³õ¾Æ µÐ ¹Ð°¡·ç¸¦ ´õ·¯¿î ¹Ù´ÚÀ¸·Î ±× º´¾Æ¸®µéÀÌ ¸ÕÁö¸¦ ³»¸ç
ÂÉ¾Æ ¸Ôµµ·Ï ³»´øÁö´Â °ÍÀ» ¹ß°ßÇÑ´Ù. ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â, ½ÇÀÇ¿¡ Â÷¼, ¾ÆÀ̵éÀ» ²Ù¢´Â´Ù. ¾ÆÀ̵éÀÌ ¿î´Ù. ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â ¾ÆÀ̵鿡°Ô ¹Ì¾ÈÇÏ°Ô ´À³¢Áö¸¸,
ÇÏ¾á ¹Ð°¡·ç´Â ´õ ÀÌ»ó ¾ø°í, ±×·¡¼, ¾ÆÀ̵éÀ» ´Þ·¡±â À§ÇØ, È£¹Ð °¡·ç¸¦ üÁúÇÏ¿© Äð¸®Ä¡¸¦ ¸¸µé±â·Î Çϰí, ±×°Í¿¡ ´Þ°¿
ÈòÀÚÀ§¸¦ ¹Ù¸¥´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀÇ µÑ·¹¿¡ °è¶õÀ» ³õ´Â´Ù. 'È£¹Ð »§Àº ³ªÀÇ Áñ°Å¿ò
— ±×°ÍÀº ÇÒ¸Ó´ÏÀÇ ÇÏ¾á »§' — ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â ÀÌ ¼Ó´ãÀ» ¾ÆÀ̵鿡°Ô À̾߱â ÇÑ´Ù, Äð¸®Ä¡¸¦ ÇÏ¾á ¹Ð°¡·ç·Î ¸¸µéÁö ¸øÇѵ¥ ´ëÇØ
¾ÆÀ̵éÀ» ´Þ·¡±â À§ÇØ. ±×·¯ÀÚ ¾ÆÀ̵éÀº °©Àڱ⠽ǸÁ¿¡¼ ¹þ¾î³ª Áñ°Å¿ö ¿ÜÄ¡°í, Àú¸¶´Ù ±× ¼Ó´ãÀ» ¹Ýº¹ÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×µéÀº ´õ ÇÑÃþ
Áñ°Å¿òÀ¸·Î Äð¸®Ä¡¸¦ ±â´Ù¸°´Ù. |
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And what then? The reading of the novels and stories of Zola, Bourget, Huysmans, Kipling and others, with the most provoking subjects, did not touch me even for a moment, but I was vexed with the authors all the time, as one is vexed with a man who considers you so naive that he does not even conceal the method by which he wants to catch you. From the first lines you see the intention behind the writing, and all the details become superfluous — you feel bored. Above all, you know that the author never had any other feeling than the desire to write a story or a novel. And therefore no artistic impression results from it. Yet I could not tear myself away from the unknown author¡¯s story about the children and the chicks, because I immediately became infected by the feeling which the author had obviously lived, experienced and conveyed. |
±×¸®°í ¾î¶²°¡? Á¹¶ó, ºÎÁ¦, ÈÖ½º¸¸, ŰÇøµ ¹× ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ
¼Ò¼³µé ¹× ´ÜÆíµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ µ¶¼´Â, °¡Àå ¼º°¡½Ã°Ô ÇÏ´Â ÁÖÁ¦µéÀ» Áö´Ï°í ÀÖ¾î¼, Àá½Ãµµ ³ª¸¦ °¨µ¿½ÃŰÁö ¸øÇß´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ½ÃÁ¾Àϰü ÀÛ°¡µé¿¡°Ô Ȱ¡ ³µ´Âµ¥,
ÀÌ´Â ¸¶Ä¡ ¿ì¸®°¡ ¾î¶² »ç¶÷¿¡ ´ëÇØ ±×°¡ ¿ì¸®¸¦ ³Ê¹«
¼øÁøÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©±èÀ¸·Î½á ±×°¡ ½ÉÁö¾î ¿ì¸®¸¦ ºÙµé¾î µÎ±â¸¦ ¿øÇÏ´Â ¹æ¹ýÁ¶Â÷ ¼û±âÁö ¾Ê±â¿¡ ȸ¦ ³»´Â °Í°ú °°´Ù. ´ç½ÅÀº ù° Çàµé¿¡¼ ±Û
µÚ¿¡ ¼û¾î ÀÖ´Â Àǵµ¸¦ ¾Ë¸ç, ¸ðµç »ó¼¼ÇÔÀÌ °úÀ×ÀÌ µÈ´Ù — Áö·çÇÔÀ» ´À³¢´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù.
¹«¾ùº¸´Ùµµ, ÀÛ°¡´Â ´ÜÆíÀ̳ª ¼Ò¼³À» ¾²°íÀÚ ÇÏ´Â ¿å¸Á ¿Ü¿¡ °áÄÚ ¾Æ¹«·± ´À³¦À» °¡Áö°í ÀÖÁö ¾Ê´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾È´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ¾Æ¹«·±
¿¹¼úÀû ÀλóÀÌ ±×·ÎºÎÅÍ »ý°Ü³ªÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ÇÏÁö¸¸ ³ª´Â ¾ÆÀ̵é°ú º´¾Æ¸®µé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ´ÜÆíÀ» ¾´ ¹«¸íÀÇ ÀÛ°¡·ÎºÎÅÍ ³ª ÀÚ½ÅÀ» ¶¼¾î ³õÀ» ¼ö°¡
¾ø´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ³ª´Â Áï½Ã ¸í¹éÈ÷ ±× ÀÛ°¡°¡ »ì¾Ò°í, °æÇèÇßÀ¸¸ç Àü´ÞÇÑ ´À³¦¿¡ ÀÇÇØ Àü¿°µÇ¾ú±â ¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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In Russia we have the painter Vasnetsov. [98] He painted the icons for the Kiev cathedral; everyone praises him as the founder of some sort of new Christian art of a lofty sort. He worked for decades on these icons. He was paid tens of thousands of roubles. And all these icons are bad imitations of imitations of imitations, and do not contain one scintilla of feeling. And this same Vasnetsov drew an illustration for Turgenev¡¯s story The Quail¡¯ (which tells of how a father killed a quail in his son¡¯s presence and then felt sorry for it), portraying the sleeping boy, with a protruding upper lip, and above him, like a dream, the quail. And this illustration is a true work of art. |
·¯½Ã¾Æ¿¡ ¹Ù½º³×ÃÊÇÁ¶ó´Â Ȱ¡°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ±×´Â Ű¿¡ÇÁ ¼º´çÀÇ ¼º»óµéÀ»
±×·È´Ù; ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀº ±×°¡ ¼þ°íÇÑ Á¾·ùÀÇ ÀÏÁ¾ÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ±×¸®½ºµµ±³ ¿¹¼úÀÇ Ã¢½ÃÀڷΠμÛÇÑ´Ù. ±×´Â ¼ö½Ê ³â µ¿¾È ÀÌ ¼º»óµéÀ» ¸¸µé¾ú´Ù.
±×´Â ¼ö¸¸ ·çºíÀ» ÁöºÒ ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌ ¸ðµç ¼º»óµéÀº ¸ð¹æÀÇ ¸ð¹æÀÇ Á¶ÀâÇÑ ¸ð¹æµéÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, Ƽ²ø¸¸ÅÀÇ ´À³¦µµ ´ãÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌ
µ¿ÀÏÀÎ ¹Ù½º³×ÃÊÇÁ´Â ¶Ñ¸£°Ô³×ÇÁÀÇ ´ÜÆí '¸ÞÃß¶ó±â'(ÀÌ À̾߱â´Â ¾î¶»°Ô ¾Æ¹öÁö°¡ ¾Æµé ¾Õ¿¡¼ ¸ÞÃß¶ó±â¸¦ Á׿´´ÂÁö ±×¸®°í ±×¸®°í ±×°Í¿¡
¹Ì¾ÈÇØ Çß´ÂÁö ¸»ÇØÁÖ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù)¸¦ ±×·È°í, ±×°ÍÀº ÀáÀÚ´Â ¾ÆÀ̸¦ ¹¦»çÇϴµ¥, Æ¢¾î³ª¿Â À§ ÀÔ¼ú, ±×¸®°í ±×ÀÇ À§¿¡´Â, ¸¶Ä¡ ²Þ°ú °°ÀÌ,
¸ÞÃß¶ó±â°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌ »ðÈ´Â ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀÌ´Ù. |
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In the English Academy, two paintings come next to each other. One is by J. C. Delmas and portrays the temptation of St Anthony. The saint is on his knees, praying. Behind him stand a naked woman and some animals. One can see that the artist liked the naked woman very much, but could not have cared less about Anthony, and that the temptation not only does not frighten him (the artist) but is, on the contrary, highly agreeable to him. And therefore, if there is art in this painting, it is very bad and false.
In the same catalogue there is, next to this, a small painting by Langley, [99] depicting a wandering beggar boy who has apparently been asked in by a woman who feels sorry for him. The boy, tucking his bare feet pathetically under the bench, is eating; the woman is watching, probably wondering if he wants more; and a girl of about seven, her head propped in her hand, is watching attentively, seriously, not taking her eyes from the hungry boy, obviously realizing for the first time what poverty is, what inequal¡©ity among people is, and for the first time asking herself questions: why is it that she has everything, while this boy is barefoot and hungry? She feels both pity and joy. And she loves the boy and the good . . . And one feels that the artist loved this girl and what she loved. And this picture, by a painter who, I believe, is little known, is a beautiful and true work of art.
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¿µ±¹ ¿¹¼ú¿ø¿¡´Â, µÎ ±×¸²ÀÌ ³ª¶õÈ÷ ³õ¿© ÀÖ´Ù. Çϳª´Â J.C.
µ¨¸¶½ºÀÇ °ÍÀ¸·Î ¼º ¾ÈÅä´ÏÀÇ À¯È¤À» ¹¦»çÇÑ´Ù. ¼ºÀÚ°¡ ¹«¸À» ²Ý°í ±âµµÇϰí ÀÖ´Ù. ±×ÀÇ µÚ¿¡´Â ¿Ê ¹þÀº ¿©ÀÚ¿Í ¾î¶² µ¿¹°µéÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù.
¿ì¸®´Â ¿¹¼ú°¡°¡ ¿Ê ¹þÀº ¿©ÀÚ¸¦ ¸Å¿ì ÁÁ¾Æ ÇßÁö¸¸, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¾ÈÅä´Ï¿¡ ´ëÇØ °ü½ÉÀ» ´ú °¡Áú ¼ö ¾ø¾ú´Ù´Â °Í, ±×¸®°í À¯È¤Àº ±× (¿¹¼ú°¡)¸¦
³î¶ó°Ô ÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ¹Ý´ë·Î, ±×¿¡°Ô ¸Å¿ì ¾î¿ï¸°´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ¾Ë ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×·¯¹Ç·Î, ÀÌ ±×¸²¿¡ ¿¹¼úÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù¸é, ±×°ÍÀº
¸Å¿ì õ¹ÚÇϸç À§¼±ÀûÀÌ´Ù. µ¿ÀÏÇÑ Ä«Å»·Î±×, ÀÌ ¿·¿¡´Â ·©¸®ÀÇ Á¶±×¸¸ ±×¸²ÀÌ Àִµ¥, ¶°µ¹ÀÌ °ÅÁö ¼Ò³âÀ» ¹¦»çÇϴµ¥, ±×´Â ±×¸¦ °¡¿±°Ô
¿©±â´Â ÇÑ ºÎÀο¡ ÀÇÇØ ¸í¹éÈ÷ ¾ÈÀ¸·Î µé¾î ¿À¶ó´Â ûÀ» ¹Þ´Â´Ù. ±× ¼Ò³âÀº, ±×ÀÇ ¸Ç ¹ßÀ» º¥Ä¡ ¹Ø¿¡ º´ÀûÀ¸·Î ¹Ð¾î ³ÖÀº ä ¸Ô°í ÀÖ°í,
ºÎÀÎÀº ¹Ù¶óº¸°í Àִµ¥, ¾Æ¸¶µµ ±×°¡ ´Þ¶ó°í ÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ»±î »ý°¢Çϰí ÀÖ´Ù; ±×¸®°í ¾à Àϰö Á¤µµÀÇ ¼Ò³à´Â, ¼ÕÀ¸·Î ¸Ó¸®¸¦ ¹ÞÄ¡°í Àִµ¥,
ÁÖÀÇ ±í°í, ÁøÁöÇϰÔ, ¹è°íÇ ¼Ò³âÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ´«À» ¶¼Áö ¾Ê°í ¹Ù¶óº¸°í Àִµ¥, ºÐ¸íÈ÷ °¡³ÀÌ ¹«¾ùÀÎÁö, »ç¶÷µé »çÀÌ¿¡¼ ºÒÆòµîÀÌ ¹«¾ùÀÎÁö
óÀ½À¸·Î ±ú´Ý°í ÀÖ´Ù, ±×¸®°í óÀ½À¸·Î ½º½º·Î¿¡°Ô ¹¯´Â´Ù: ¿Ö ±×³à´Â ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» °¡Áö°í ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ÇÑÆíÀ¸·Î ÀÌ ¼Ò³âÀº ¸Ç¹ß¿¡ ¹è°¡ °íǰ¡?
±×³à´Â ¿¬¹Î°ú µ¿½Ã¿¡ ȯÈñ¸¦ ´À³¤´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×³à´Â ¼Ò³â°ú ¼±À» »ç¶ûÇÑ´Ù... ±×¸®°í ¿ì¸®´Â ¿¹¼ú°¡°¡ ÀÌ ¼Ò³à¸¦ »ç¶ûÇß°í ±×³à°¡ ¹«¾ùÀ»
»ç¶ûÇß´ÂÁö ´À³¤´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌ ±×¸²Àº, ³»°¡ ¹Ï±â·Î´Â °ÅÀÇ ¾Ë·ÁÁöÁö ¾ÊÀº Ȱ¡¿¡ ÀÇÇÑ °ÍÀÌÁö¸¸, ¾Æ¸§´ä°í ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀÌ´Ù. |
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I remember seeing Rossi¡¯s performance of Hamlet, [100] in which the tragedy itself and the actor playing the leading role are considered by our critics to be the last word in dramatic art. And yet, during the whole time of the performance, I experienced both from the content of the play and from its performance that special suffering produced by false simulacra of artistic works. Recently I also read an account of the theatre of a savage people, the Voguls. [101] One of those who were present describes the following performance: one big Vogul and another small one, both dressed in reindeer skins, represent a female reindeer and her calf. A third Vogul represents a hunter with a bow and snowshoes; a fourth imitates a bird¡¯s song, warning the reindeer of danger. The drama consists of the hunter following the tracks of the mother reindeer and her calf. The deer run off the scene and come running back. The performance takes place in a small yurt. The hunter gets closer and closer to his quarry. The calf is worn out and clings to its mother. The mother stops to rest. The hunter catches up with them and takes aim. At that moment the bird peeps, warning the deer of the danger. The deer flee. Again the pursuit, again the hunter approaches, overtakes them, and shoots his arrow. The arrow hits the calf. Unable to run, the calf clings to its mother, and the mother licks its wound. The hunter sets another arrow to his bow. The spectators, according to the narrator¡¯s account, sit stock still; one hears deep sighs and even weeping. And I felt, from the description alone, that this was a true work of art. |
³ª´Â ·Î½ÃÀÇ Çܸ´ °ø¿¬À» º» °ÍÀ» ±â¾ïÇϸç, ÀÌ ÀÛǰ¿¡¼ ºñ±Ø ÀÚü
±×¸®°í ÁÖµÈ ¿ªÇÒÀ» ¿¬±âÇÏ´Â ¹è¿ì´Â ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ºñÆò°¡µéÀÌ ¿©±â´Â ±Ø ¿¹¼úÀÇ ¸¶Áö¸· ȵδÙ. ±×¸®°í ÇÏÁö¸¸, Àüü °ø¿¬ ³»³», ³ª´Â ¿¬±ØÀÇ
³»¿ëÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ±×¸®°í ±× °ø¿¬À¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ¿¹¼úÀûÀÎ ÀÛǰµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ À§¼±Àû ¸ð¹æ¿¡ ÀÇÇØ »ý°Ü³ª´Â ƯÀÌÇÑ °íÅëÀ» °æÇèÇß´Ù. ±Ù·¡¿¡ ³ª´Â ¶ÇÇÑ
¾ß¸¸ÀÎ, º¸°ÉÀÇ »ó¿¬¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¼³¸íÀ» Àоú´Ù. Âü¼®Çß´ø »ç¶÷µé ÁßÀÇ Çϳª°¡ ´ÙÀ½ÀÇ °ø¿¬À» ¹¦»çÇÑ´Ù: µ¢Ä¡°¡ Å« º¸°É°ú ÀÛÀº º¸°É, µÑ´Ù
»ç½¿ °¡Á×À» ÀÔ¾ú°í ¾Ï »ç½¿°ú ¾Æ±â »ç½¿À» ³ªÅ¸³½´Ù. ¼Â° º¸°ÉÀº Ȱ°ú ´« ½Å¹ßÀ» °¡Áø »ç³É²ÛÀ» ³ªÅ¸³½´Ù; ³Ý°´Â »õÀÇ ³ë·¡¸¦ Èä³» ³»¸ç
»ç½¿¿¡°Ô À§ÇèÀ» ¾Ë¸°´Ù. µå¶ó¸¶´Â »ç³É²ÛÀÌ ¾î¹Ì »ç½¿°ú ¾Æ±â »ç½¿ÀÇ ¹ßÀÚ±¹À» µû¶ó°¡´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î ±¸¼ºµÈ´Ù. »ç½¿Àº ¸·À» ¶Ù¾î ³ª°¬´Ù°¡ ´Ù½Ã
´Þ·Á ¿Â´Ù. °ø¿¬Àº Á¶±×¸¸ õ¸· Áý¿¡¼ ÀÌ·ç¾î Áø´Ù. »ç³É²ÛÀº ±×ÀÇ »ç³É°¨¿¡ Á¡Á¡ °¡±î¿ö Áø´Ù. ¾Æ±â »ç½¿Àº ÁöÃļ ¾î¹Ì¿¡ ¸Å´Þ¸°´Ù.
¾î¹Ì´Â ÈÞ½ÄÇϰíÀÚ ¸ØÃá´Ù. »ç³É²ÛÀº ±×µéÀ» µû¶óÀâ°í ±×µéÀ» °Ü³ÉÇÑ´Ù. ±× ¼ø°£ »õ°¡ ÃÄ´Ù º¸°í¼, »ç½¿¿¡°Ô À§ÇèÀ» ¾Ë¸°´Ù. »ç½¿Àº
´Þ¾Æ³´Ù. ´Ù½Ã ÃßÀûÀÌ ½ÃÀ۵ǰí, ´Ù½Ã »ç³É²ÛÀº ´Ù°¡ ¿À¸ç, ±×µéÀ» µû¶ó Àâ´Â´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×ÀÇ È»ìÀ» ³¯¸°´Ù. È»ìÀÌ ¾Æ±â »ç½¿À»
¸ÂÈù´Ù. ´Þ¸± ¼ö ¾ø¾î¼ ¾Æ±â »ç½¿Àº ¾î¹Ì¿¡°Ô ¸Å´Þ¸°´Ù, ±×¸®°í ¾î¹Ì »ç½¿Àº »óó¸¦ ÇӴ´Ù. »ç³É²ÛÀº ´Ù¸¥ È»ìÀ» Ȱ¿¡ ³õ´Â´Ù.
±¸°æ²ÛµéÀº , À̾߱âÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷¿¡ µû¸£¸é, ±»Àº µí ¾É¾Æ ÀÖ´Ù; ¾î¶² ÀÌ´Â ÇѼûÀ» ½¬°í ½ÉÁö¾î Èå´À³¤´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ´À²¼´Ù, ¼³¸í¸¸À»
µé¾ú´Âµ¥µµ, À̰ÍÀÌ ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀ̶ó´Â °ÍÀ». |
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What I am saying will be taken as a mad paradox, at which one can only be amazed, and yet I cannot help saying what I think — namely, that people of our circle, of whom some write verses, stories, novels, operas, symphonies, sonatas, paint various sorts of pictures, make sculptures, while others listen to them and look at them, and still others evaluate and criticize it all, argue, denounce, triumph, erect monuments to each other, and have done so over the course of several generations, that all these people, artists, public, and critics, with very few exceptions, have never, save in early childhood and youth, before they heard any reasoning about art, experienced that simple feeling, familiar to the simplest man and even to a child, of being infected by the feelings of another, which makes us rejoice over another¡¯s joy, grieve over another¡¯s grief, merge our souls with another¡¯s, and which constitutes the essence of art, and that therefore these people not only cannot distinguish true art from its counterfeits, but always mistake the worst and most false for genuine art, without noticing the genuine, because counterfeits are always more flashy, while true art is modest. |
³»°¡ ¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀº Á¤½Å ³ª°£ ¿ª¼³·Î ¿©°ÜÁú °ÍÀ̸ç, ±×¸®°í ±× Á¡¿¡
´ëÇØ »ç¶÷µéÀº ¿ÀÁ÷ ³î¶ó°ÚÁö¸¸, ³ª´Â ³»°¡ »ý°¢ÇÏ´Â °Í — Áï, ¿ì¸® ¹üÁÖÀÇ »ç¶÷µé,
±×µé Áß ÀϺδ ¿î¹®µé, ´ÜÆíµé, ¼Ò¼³µé, ¿ÀÆä¶óµé, ½ÉÆ÷´Ïµé, ¼Ò³ªÅ¸µéÀ» ¾²°í, ´Ù¾çÇÑ Á¾·ùÀÇ ±×¸²µéÀ» ±×¸®°í, Á¶°¢µéÀ» ¸¸µé¸ç, ¹Ý¸é
´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀº ±×°Íµé¿¡ ûÃëÇÏ¸ç ±×°ÍµéÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¸°í, ±×¸®°í ¶Ç ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷µéÀº ±× ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» Æò°¡ÇÏ°í ºñÆòÇϰí, ºñ³Çϸç, ½Â¸®¿¡ ÃëÇϰí,
¼·Î¸¦ À§ÇÑ ±â³äºñ¸¦ ¼¼¿ì¸ç, ¿©·¯ ¼¼´ë¸¦ °ÅÄ¡¸é¼ ±×·¸°Ô ÇØ¿Ô´Ù´Â °Í, ÀÌ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé, ¿¹¼ú°¡µé, ´ëÁßµé, ±×¸®°í ºñÆò°¡µé, Áö±ØÇÑ
¼Ò¼ö¸¦ Á¦¿ÜÇϰí´Â, Ãʱ⠾ ½ÃÀý ¹× û³â±â¸¦ »©°í´Â, ÀÌÀü¿¡ °áÄÚ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ °üÇÑ ¾î¶² Ãß·ÐÀ» µé¾î º¸Áö ¸øÇßÀ¸¸ç, ´Ü¼øÇÑ ´À³¦, °¡Àå
´Ü¼øÇÑ »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô ±×¸®°í ½ÉÁö¾î ¾î¸°ÀÌ¿¡°Ôµµ Ä£¼÷ÇÑ ´À³¦, Áï, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ´À³¦µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ Àü¿°µÇ´Â °ÍÀ» °æÇèÇÏÁö ¸øÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±×°ÍÀÌ ¿ì¸®·Î
ÇÏ¿©±Ý ´Ù¸§ »ç¶÷ÀÇ È¯Èñ¸¦ Áñ±âµµ·Ï, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ½½ÇÄÀ» ½½ÆÛÇϵµ·Ï, ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ¿µÈ¥¿¡ ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ¿µÈ¥À» °áÇÕÇÏ°Ô ¸¸µé¾î Áشٴ °Í,
±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀÇ º»ÁúÀ» ±¸¼ºÇÑ´Ù´Â °Í, ÇÏÁö¸¸, Áø½ÇµÈ °ÍÀ» ¾Ë¾ÆÃ¤Áö ¸øÇÑ Ã¤, ¾ðÁ¦³ª °¡Àå ÃÖ¾ÇÀÌ¸ç °¡Àå À§¼±ÀûÀÎ °ÍÀ» ÁøÁ¤ÇÑ
¿¹¼ú·Î ¿ÀÀÎÇÑ´Ù´Â °Í, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ¸ðÁ¶Ç°µéÀº ¾ðÁ¦³ª ´õ¿í Çö¶õÇϸç, ¹Ý¸é¿¡ ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼úÀº ¼ö¼öÇϱ⠶§¹®À̶ó´Â °Í —À» ¸»ÇÏÁö
¾ÊÀ» ¼ö ¾ø´Ù. |
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[Home]
[Up]
[Contents]
[Preface]
[Bibliographical Note]
[A Note on the Text]
[WHAT IS ART?]
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
[CONCLUSION]
[Appendix I]
[Appendix II]
[Notes]
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