The primitive
artist copied not for the sake of copying, but because he ascribed a
magical power to images. In the image he believed he somehow possessed
the object itself, and so could control it; to the image, therefore,
was transferred all the value and potence of the object. The object
represented was deeply significant; it was perhaps the animal upon
which the tribe depended for its food, its totem or guardian divinity;
or else, as among the Egyptians, it was the man himself, of whom the
image was meant to be an enduring habitation for the soul. If primitive
men had copied indifferent objects, then we might infer that the mere
making of an image was the end in view; but this they did not do, and
it has never been the practice of any vigorous group of artists. Only
when the means are valued instead of the end--technique in place of
beauty--does this occur. Through such a mistaking of aims, new
instruments of expression may be discovered, useful for a future genius,
but no genuine art is produced. The genuine artist copies, not for the
sake of copying, but in order to create a work of independent beauty.
This same transference of value to the image, with the consequent
freeing of the image from the model, can be observed even in
commemorative art. A king desires, perhaps, to perpetuate his memory;
how better than through some enduring likeness in stone or paint? While
he is alive and after his death this image will remind his subjects
of him and his valorous deeds.
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