2 / Croce /
The Essence of Aesthetic
1. “What Is Art?”
In reply to the question, “What is art?” it might be said
jocosely (but this would not be a bad joke) that art is what
everybody knows it to be. And indeed, if it were not to
some extent known what it is, it would be impossible
even to ask that question, for every question implies a
certain knowledge of what is asked about, designated in
the question and therefore known and qualified. A proof
of this is to be found in the fact that we often hear just and
profound ideas in relation to art expressed by those who
make no profession of philosophy or of theory, by
laymen, by artists who do not like to reason, by the
ingenuous, and even by the common people: these ideas
are sometimes implicit in judgments concerning particular
works of art, but at others assume altogether the form of
aphorisms and of definitions. Thus people have come to
believe in the possibility of making blush, at will, any
proud philosopher who should fancy himself to have
“discovered” the nature of art, by placing before his eyes
or making ring in his ears propositions taken from the
most superficial books or phrases of the most ordinary
conversation, and showing that they already most clearly
contained his vaunted discovery.
And in this case the philosopher would have good reason
to blush — that is, had he ever nourished the illusion of
introducing into universal human consciousness, by
means of his doctrines, something altogether original,
something extraneous to this consciousness, the revelation
of an altogether new world. But he does not blush, and
continues upon his way, for he is not ignorant that the
question as to what is art (as indeed every philosophical
question as to the nature of the real, or in general every
question of knowledge), even if by its use of language it
seem to assume the aspect of a general and total problem,
which it is claimed to solve for the first and last time, has
always, as a matter of fact, a circumscribed meaning,
referable to the particular difficulties that assume vitality
at a determined moment in the history of thought.
Certainly, truth does walk the streets, like the esprit of the
well known French proverb, or like metaphor, “queen of
tropes” according to rhetoricians, which Montaigne
discovered in the babil of his chambrière. But the
metaphor used by the maid is the solution of a problem of
expression proper to the feelings that affect the maid at
that moment; and the obvious affirmations that by
accident or intent one hears every day as to the nature of
art, are solutions of logical problems, as they present
themselves to this or that individual, who is not a
philosopher by profession, and yet as man is also to some
extent a philosopher. And as the maid’s metaphor usually
expresses but a small and vulgar world of feeling
compared with that of the poet, so the obvious affirmation
of one who is not a philosopher solves a problem small by
comparison with that which occupies the philosopher. The
answer as to what is art may appear similar in both cases,
but is different in both cases owing to the different degree
of richness of its intimate content; because the answer of
the philosopher worthy of the name has neither more nor
less a task than that of solving in an adequate manner all
the problems as to the nature of art that have arisen down
to that moment in the course of history; whereas that of
the layman, since it revolves in a far narrower space,
shows itself to be impotent outside those limits. Actual
proof of this is also to be found in the force of the eternal
Socratic method, in the facility with which the learned, by
pressing home their questions, leave those without
learning in open-mouthed confusion, though these had
nevertheless begun by speaking well; but now finding
themselves in danger of losing in the course of the inquiry
what small knowledge they possessed, they have no
resource but to retire into their shell, declaring that they
do not like “subtleties.”
The philosopher’s pride is based therefore solely upon the
greater intensity of his questions and answers; a pride not
unaccompanied with modesty — that is, with the
consciousness that, if his sphere be wider, or the largest
possible, at a determined moment, yet it is limited by the
history of that moment, and cannot pretend to a value of
totality, or what is called a definitive solution. The ulterior
life of the spirit, renewing and multiplying problems, does
not so much falsify, as render inadequate preceding
solutions, part of them falling among the number of those
truths that are understood, and part needing to be again
taken up and integrated. A system is a house, which, as
soon as it has been built and decorated, has need of
continuous labour, more or less energetic, in order to keep
it in repair (subject as it is to the corrosive action of the
elements); and at a certain moment there is no longer any
use in restoring and propping up the system; we must
demolish and reconstruct it from top to bottom. But with
this capital difference: that in the work of thought, the
perpetually new house is perpetually supported by the old
one, which persists in it, almost by an act of magic. As we
know, those superficial or ingenuous souls that are
ignorant of this magic are terrified at it; so much so, that
one of their tiresome refrains against philosophy is that it
continually undoes its work, and that one philosopher
contradicts another: as though man did not always make
and unmake his houses, and as though the architect that
follows did not always contradict the architect that
precedes; and as though it were possible to draw the
conclusion from this making and unmaking of houses and
from this contradiction among architects, that it is useless
to make houses!
The answers of the philosopher, though they have the
advantage of greater intensity, also carry with them the
dangers of greater error, and are often vitiated by a sort of
lack of good sense, which has an aristocratic character, in
so far as it belongs to a superior sphere of culture, and
even when meriting reproof, is the object, not only of
disdain and derision, but also of secret envy and
admiration. This is the foundation of the contrast, which