ape, for example, it is
necessary simply that the masses and the tones stand in balancing
relation; the perfect symmetry of geometric exactness, characteristic
of Hellenic and Renaissance art, is not required. In the work which
embodies the artist's perception of the universal harmony, there must
be rhythm, order, unity in variety; so framed it becomes expressive
and significant

As the symbol of beauty, the work of art is itself beautiful in that it
manifests in itself that wholeness and integrity which is beauty.
Every work of art is informed by a controlling design; it
subordinates manifold details to a definite whole; it reduces and
adjusts its parts to an all-inclusive, perceptible unity. The
Nuremberg key must have some sort of rhythm; the rug or vestment
must exhibit a pattern which can be seen to be a whole; the canvas
must show balance in the composition, and the color must be "in
tone." In any work of art there must be design and purpose.

In nature there is much which to the limited perception of men does
not appear to be beautiful, for there is much that does not manifest
superficially the necessary harmony. The landscape at noonday
under the blaze of the relentless sun discloses many things which are
seemingly incongruous with one another. The dull vision of men
cannot penetrate to the unity underlying it all. At twilight, as the
shadows of evening wrap it round, the same landscape is invested
with mysterious beauty. Conflicting details are lost, harsh outlines
are softened and merged, discordant colors are mellowed and
attuned. Nature has brought her field and hill and clustered
dwellings into "tone." So the artist, who has perceived a harmony
where the common eye saw it not, selects; he suppresses here,
strengthens there, fuses, and brings all into unity.

Harmony wherever perceived is beauty. Beauty made manifest by
the agency of the human spirit is art. Art, in order to reveal this
harmony to men, must work through selection, through rejection and
emphasis, through interpretation. It is not difficult to understand,
then, that the exact reproduction of the facts of the external world is
not in a true sense art.

The photograph, which is the most exact method of reproducing
outward aspect, is denied the title of a work of art; that is, the
photograph direct, which has not been retouched. To be sure, the
photograph is the product of a mechanical process, and is not, except
incidentally, the result of