As we work along our various ways, there takes shape within us, in some sort, an ideal – something we are to become – some work to be done. This, I think, is denied to very few, and we begin really to live only when the thrill of this ideality moves us in what we will to accomplish.
The Machine is Intellect mastering the drudgery of the earth that the plastic art may live; that the margin of leisure and strength by which man’s life upon earth can be made beautiful, may immeasurably widen; its function ultimately to emancipate human expression!
Now a work of art is a work of nature, but it is a work of human nature. It is a work of the mind: and it’s a work of the mind in circumstances for an occasion which, to which, for which, and which it may be supremely natural and simple and effective.
