E. Charlton Fortune

E. Charlton Fortune in her Portsmouth studioThe ten thousand turbulent experiments which the fine arts suffered during the last thirty years foretold the upheaval of civilization long before our terrible predicament came upon us. “Art “, says Chesterton, “is the signature of man“. By the time we were brought up short by the war, this signature showed all the symptoms of dipsomania. Never before had there been such baffled interest in painting and sculpture on the part of the layman, and never before had painters and sculptures snubbed him so consistently while they withdrew disdain to Olympian heights of hyphenated “schools“. There is only one kind of art, and that is good art; only one art period, and that is contemporaneous. No art has ever survived the cruel appraisement of time which was without merit, or which was made outside of its own era. In spite of mounds of books on art theories, on “art–appreciation “, and on “Scientific“ theories of design, the function of painting and sculpture boils down to the most sublime simplicity. The function of art is to give delight, and to give delight by means of the most adequate expression. This delight felt by the artist is transmitted to those whose sensibilities are tuned to receive it.

If the artist pauses in his work to consider too consciously his personal style – to look in the mirror, as it were – to examine his colour or his modeling, or to pat on the head his little personal ego, directly he loses contact with the largest issue. He becomes involved in all these technicalities of style which produce the hyphenated schools and make of the arts a confused battleground. It is only when he knows his profession thoroughly that the artist is able to give to his delight, all of the technical assistance of which he is capable. This “delight“, which is really the magical newness of apprehension, sets apart the creative mind. It can be transmitted to the layman through his own perception if his perception is not insulated against art by too much “learning”. The eye carries the message to the intellect by the way of the heart. It is because the journey through the heart is of such momentous importance, that many very simple people are able to understand great art without the aid of books, while desiccated intellectuals devour whole libraries in vain search for the secret. The chasm between art and the public is widened by floods of theories. The middle-man, the “art-appreciator”, who tries to bridge the gap by books and books, and still more books has not got the answer. Painting and sculpture must be seen, and seen over and over many times to be understood. One cannot “appreciate“ music by reading books, nor can he experience delight in it until he has heard it intelligently over and over again.
John the Apostle (Fortune’s Calvary, monastery cemetery)The greatest periods of art coincide with almost universal illiteracy. Great works of art were made for the service of religion and indirectly for the illiterate masses who possessed an unstifled sense of beauty. The art of Greece, Persia, Mesopotamia, and Egypt is all religious art, directly or indirectly used in religious rites. Later, Christian worship supplied the motive for nine-tenths of the art once in our churches and now filling our museums. “Propaganda-art“ religious art is called by the intellectuals of today, and it is the most despised of them all. The “metaphysical school“, which seems to be concerned neither with art or metaphysics, is sufficiently obscure to fit in nicely in our present epoch. “Sur-realism“, which deals with Freudian still-life, is approached with terrible gravity, because it may be explained by astrologers. Finally, we arrive at the “mystic school“, which successfully and proudly removes itself from all human explanation and defies all criticism. One wonders what Giotto or Fra Angelico, who across the centuries can lift up our hearts in obedience to their holy delight, would have thought of the “mystical art“ of 1942.

“The mystic picture is conceived differently. It springs from no other need than the urge of the painter to express himself. It is demanded from within and not imposed from without. It needs not have fine color or clever brush work since those qualities can only titillate while often distracting from the singleness of the message. Technique is not important. Finally the mystic picture is an instrument for the individual in spectator” (Davidson, “Understanding Modern Art“, P. 131). Instead of art, this summary would describe more perfectly the ectoplasm in a spiritualistic séance. The higher one mounts, the rarer the atmosphere, and beyond the ceiling lies the space reserved for those who love acuity. It is pierced by the apex of the Tower of Babel, where stands this “mystic school”. The poor layman, in spite of his very real interest in art, after thirty years of this sort of thing remains in complete bewilderment. He is sure of only one piece of solid ground. IF A PICTURE LOOKS BAD ENOUGH, IT IS SURE TO BE A GOOD ONE.

Tabernacle in Abbey church, designed and fabricated by E. Charlton Fortune

… Style in art is dangerous unless it is unconscious. It is the conscious style which breeds "styles" (just as the conscious colourist produces in his art isolated "colours" instead of integrated color which becomes part of the design). Style and painting is as individual as the artist who makes it, neither more nor less. It has the same importance as handwriting. The moment we begin fussing with the shapes of letters, after we have learned to write, the less personal writing becomes. Style, then, is a means of expression, and is not and never has been an end in itself. Every individual has a personal expression, not only in his writing, but in his gait, his speech, and if he is an artist, his technique. Once any of these become too pronounced, they interfere with individuality rather than enhance it. One must constantly endeavor to develop the easiest and clearest means of expression. Style must never be copied from someone else, no matter how desirable it may be to do so. Anything beyond this leads to affectation and "self-expressionism".
How can a serious artist become involved in styles, like a Parisian dressmaker, when he has before him a commission for a painting in a church? His job is cut out for him at the start. He must feel the reality of his subject with such newness and freshness that he becomes for the moment, almost clairvoyant. If, for example, he is to paint the Blessed Virgin, he must approach his subject with the same overwhelming excitement as that which invaded the shepherds at Bethlehem. His job is to get down on canvas with the greatest economy of means at his disposal this vital and intense moment. His colour must be dictated by the key in which his music is set. His form and design must be subservient to the significance of the painting. To keep all of this under control and to keep alive the freshness of vision for as many days as it takes to paint the picture – that is a whole-time job.

There is no higher destiny for a work of art than its installation in a church, where the very best is not good enough. The responsibility is tremendously heavy for the artist. For the clergy or donor who commissions it, the responsibility is equally heavy. In the acceptance of this mutual responsibility, lies the hope of the future of our Catholic art.

Monastery garden with Fortune’s Calvary (center)