CHAPTER IX
The Nude In Art. Chaste versus Sensual. Masterpieces of the Creator. The Mother the Best Teacher.
You cannot describe spirit. You only see results. Like the breath it is constant and you feel it; but like the wind, "thou canst not tell whence it cometh, nor whither it goeth, so is every one that is born of the spirit." The spirit that animates the face and actions, that lives and moves in the exquisite body of a dimpled babe, is fascinating. You feel that such purity and innocence hardly belong to this world.
Your ideal of life, of beauty, of values is high or low according to the gauge of your own spirit. With an artist striving for the ideal this is more noticeable. We realize how the ideal springing from the mind of man must needs be expressed through material media according to the laws of the arts and sciences, words as literature being classed as art. We also know that words are not always adequate to the full meaning or beauty of an idea of delicate import. Words stand for things, but the thing must come in contact with the mind before the spirit of it can touch spirit; the impression made depends upon the mental condition at the point of contact with the senses.
To illustrate: A little child was near an open window one May morning poring over a picture book. Suddenly she dropped her book and stood breathing in deep delight, with eyes full of wonder and question. What could it be?
"Mother," she exclaimed, "there is something here like—like—why, something like angels, Mother. What can it be?" and she cast about the room an inquiring glance.
"Look out of the window, dear," said her mother, "and you will see where it comes from."
The child looked into a mass of Parma violets just unfolding to the sun.
"I see white flowers, Mother, lots and lots of them, but—"
"You smell their fragrance, dear; you see only the violets, but it is their sweetness, their spirit that you love, because it touches your spirit, and you will remember the fragrance always—it is not like that of any other flower."
You have heard the clergyman in the pulpit read the words: "Consider the lilies how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin." There you have a panorama in words that form a series of instantaneous pictures in your mind; but words or pictures do not touch your soul as does the spotless lily, dewy with the purity and freshness that is its natal offering to the dawn. The flash
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