Psychology - Robert S. Woodworth (trending books to read TXT) 📗

mystery stories to curiosity. Cynical stories, showing the "pillars of society" in an ignoble light, appeal to the self-assertive impulse of the reader, in that he is led to apply their teaching to pretentious people whom he knows about, and set them down a peg, to his own relative advancement. But here again we have to insist, as under the head of sports and daydreams, that interests of a more objective kind are also gratified by a good work of fiction. A story that runs its logical course to a tragic end is interesting as a good piece of workmanship, and as an insight into the world. We cannot heartily identify ourselves with Hamlet or Othello, yet we should be sorry to have those figures erased from our memories; they mean something, they epitomize world-facts that compel our attention. The appeal of art is partly emotional.

A very great work of art, the Apollo Belvedere or the Sistine Madonna, when you suddenly come upon it in walking through a gallery, may move you almost or quite to tears. Beautiful music, and not necessarily sad music either, has the same effect. Why this particular emotion should be aroused is certainly an enigma. "Crying because you are so happy" is similar {514} but itself rather inexplicable. In many other cases, the emotional appeal of art is easily analyzed. The pathetic appeals straightforwardly to the grief impulse, the humorous to the laughter impulse, the tragic to fear and escape. The sex motive is frequently utilized in painting and sculpture as well as in literature.

Art makes also an intellectual appeal.

It is satisfying partly because of this appeal, as is clear when we remember that many great works of art require mental effort in order to grasp and appreciate them. You must be wide-awake to follow a play of Shakespeare; you must puzzle out the meaning of a group painting before fully enjoying it; you must study some of the detail of a Gothic cathedral before getting the full effect; music may be too "classical" for many to grasp and follow. Unless, then, the artist has made a great mistake, the mental activity which he demands from his public must contribute to the satisfaction they derive from his works. If his appeal were simply to their emotions, any intellectual labor would be a disturbing element. The intellectual appeal is partly to objective interests in the thing presented, partly to interest in the workmanship, and partly to the mastery motive in the form of problem solution.

Perhaps we do not often think of a fine painting or piece of music as a problem set us for solution, but it is that, and owes part of its appeal to its being a problem. To "get the hang of" a work of art requires some effort and attention; if the problem presented is too difficult for us, the work of art is dry; if too easy, it is tame.

The mastery motive is probably as important in the enjoyment of art as it is in play and dreaming. It comes in once in the joy of mastering the significance of the work of art, and again in self-identification with the fine characters portrayed.

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Empathy in art enjoyment.

At first thought, some forms of art, as architecture, seem incapable of making the just-mentioned double appeal to the mastery motive. Architecture can certainly present problems for the beholder to solve, but how can the beholder possibly identify himself with a tower or arch? If, however, we remember the "empathy" that we spoke of under the head of play, we see that the beholder may project himself into the object, unintentionally of course, and thus perhaps get satisfaction of his mastery impulse.

Look at a pillar, for example. If the pillar is too massive for the load supported, it gives you the unsatisfactory impression of doing something absurdly small for your powers. If on the contrary the pillar is too slender for the load that seems to rest upon it, you get the feeling of strain and insecurity; but if it is rightly proportioned, you get the feeling of a worthy task successfully accomplished. The pillar, according to empathy, pleases you by arousing and gratifying your mastery impulse; and many other architectural effects can be interpreted in the same way.

Empathy can perhaps explain the appeal of the big in art and nature. In spite of the warnings put forth against thinking of mere bigness as great or fine, we must admit that size makes a very strong appeal to something in human nature. The most perfect miniature model of a cathedral, however interesting and attractive as it rests on the table before you, fails to make anything like the impression that is made by the giant building towering above you. Big trees, lofty cliffs, grand canyons, tremendous waterfalls, huge banks of clouds, the illimitable expanse of the sea, demonstrate cogently the strong appeal of the big. Perhaps the big is not necessarily grand, but the grand or sublime must be big or somehow suggest bigness. The question is, then, what it is in us that responds to the appeal of the big.

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Perhaps it is the submissive tendency that is aroused. This great mountain, so far outclassing me that I am not tempted in the least to compete with it, affords me the joy of willing submission. The escape motive may come in along with submissiveness--at the first sight of the mountain a thrill of fear passes over me, but I soon realize that the mountain will not hurt me in spite of its awe-inspiring vastness; so that my emotion is blended of the thrill of fear, the relief of escape, and the humble joy of submission. That is one analysis of the esthetic effect of bigness.

Empathy suggests a very different analysis. According to this, projecting myself into the mountain, identifying myself with it, I experience the sensation of how it feels to be a mountain. It feels big--I feel big. My mastery impulse is gratified. To decide between these two opposing interpretations ought to be possible from the behavior or introspection of a person in the presence of some big object. If he feels insignificant and humble and bows reverently before the object, we may conclude that the submissive tendency is in action; but if the sight of the grand object makes him feel strong and fine, if he throws out his chest and a gleam comes into his eye, then everything looks like the mastery motive. Quite possibly, the effect varies with the person and the occasion.

We have to think of art as a great system or collection of inventions that owes its existence to its appeal to human nature, and that has found ways, as its history has progressed, of making its appeal more and more varied. Art is a type in these respects of many social enterprises, such as sport, amusement, and even such serious matters as politics and industry. Each of these is a collection of inventions that persists because it appeals to human impulses, and each one appeals to a variety of different impulses.

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The Psychology of Inventive Production

To the consumer, art is play, but to the producer it is work, in the sense that it is directed towards definite ends and has to stand criticism according as it does or does not reach those ends. What is true of the producer of art works is true also of other inventors, and we may as well consider all sorts of controlled imagination together.

In spite of the element of control that is present in productive invention, the really gifted inventor seems to make play of his work to a large extent. Certainly the inventive genius does not always have his eyes fixed on the financial goal, nor on the appeal which his inventions are to make to the public. It is astonishing to read in the lives of inventors what a lot of comparatively useless contrivances they busied themselves with, apparently from the pure joy of inventing. One prolific writer said that he "never worked in his life, only played". The inventor likes to manipulate his materials, and this playfulness has something to do with his originality, by helping to keep him out of the rut.

That "necessity is the mother of invention" is only half of the truth; it points to the importance of a directive tendency, but fails to show how the inventor manages to leave the beaten path and really invent. Necessity, or some desire, puts a question, without which the inventor would not be likely to find the answer; but he needs a kind of flexibility or playfulness, just because his job is that of seeing things in a new light. We must allow him to toy with his materials a bit, and even to be a bit "temperamental", and not expect him to grind out works of art or other inventions as columns of figures are added.

When inventive geniuses have been requested to indicate their method, they have been able to give only vague hints. How does the musical composer, for example, free himself of {518} all the familiar pieces and bring the notes into a fresh arrangement? All that he can tell about it is usually that he had an "inspiration"; the new air simply came to him. Now, of course the air did not really come to him from outside; he made it, it was his reaction, but it was a quick, free reaction, of which he could observe little introspectively.

Perhaps the best-studied case of invention is that of the learner in typewriting, who, after laboriously perfecting his "letter habits" or responses to single letters by appropriate finger movements on the keyboard, may suddenly find himself writing in a new way, the word no longer being spelled out, but being written as a unit by a coördinated series of finger movements. The amazing thing is that, without trying for anything of the kind, he has been able to break away from his habit of spelling out the word, and shift suddenly to a new manner of writing. He testifies that he did not plan out this change, but was surprised to find himself writing in the new way. He was feeling well that day, hopeful and ambitious, he was striving for greater speed, and, while he was completely absorbed in his writing, this new mode of reaction originated.

We see in this experimentally studied case some of the conditions that favor invention. Good physical condition, freshness, mastery of the subject, striving for some result, and "hopefulness". Now, what is that last? Confidence, enterprise, willingness to "take a chance", eagerness for action and readiness to break away from routine? Some of this independent, manipulating spirit was probably there.

A soldier, so wounded as to paralyze his legs but capable of recovery by training, had advanced far enough to hobble about with a cane and by holding to the walls. One morning, feeling pretty chipper, he took a chance and left the wall, cutting straight across the room; and getting through without a fall, was naturally much encouraged and {519} maintained this advance. This might be called invention; it was breaking away from what had become routine, and that is the essential fact about the inventive reaction. This playful spirit of cutting loose, manipulating, and rearranging things to suit yourself is certainly a condition favorable to invention. It does not guarantee a valuable invention, but it at least helps towards whatever invention the individual's other qualifications make possible.

Another condition favorable to invention is youth. Seldom does a very old person get outside the limits of his previous habits. Few great inventions, artistic or practical, have emanated from really old persons, and comparatively few even from the middle-aged. On the other hand, boys and girls under eighteen seldom produce anything of great value, not having as yet acquired the necessary mastery of the materials with which they have to deal. The period from twenty