The artist, at the
present stage of social evolution, would as soon think of worrying himself
about the formation of an academy, as of putting up for the St. Pancras
Borough Council. He has something else to do. He fears the deadly contacts
with those prim, restless, and tedious dilettanti. And of course he knows
that academies are the enemies of originality and progress.
* * * * *
That list was undoubtedly sketched out by a coterie of dilettanti. London
swarms with the dilettanti of letters. They do not belong to the criminal
classes, but their good intentions, their culture, their judiciousness,
and their infernal cheek amount perhaps to worse than arson or assault.
Their attitude towards the creative artist is always one of large,
tolerant pity. They honestly think that if only the artist knew his
business as they know his business, if only he had their discernment and
impartiality, and if only he wasn't so confoundedly ignorant and
violent--how different he would be, how much nicer and better, how much
more effective! They are eternally ready to show an artist where he is
wrong and what he ought to do in order to obtain their laudations
unreserved. In a personal encounter, they will invariably ride over him
like a regiment of polite cavalry, because they are accustomed to personal
encounters.
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