I - Aesthetic Foundations

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Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenm
ent
Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch
einrich Christoph Koch, Johann Georg Sulzer, Edited by Nancy Baker, Thomas Christense
Book DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511518348
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Chapter
I - Aesthetic foundations pp. 25-54
Chapter DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511518348.003
Cambridge University Press

AESTHETIC FOUNDATIONS
1 AESTHETIC [AESTHETIK] (vol. I, pp. 47-50)

Aesthetics is the philosophy or science of fine arts in which the general
theory as well as the rules of the fine arts are drawn from the nature
of taste. Properly speaking, the word signifies the science of feelings,
which in Greek is called aistheses. The primary goal of the fine arts is
to awaken in us a vivid feeling for the true and good. Thus, the theory
of fine arts is based upon the theory of indistinct knowledge and feelings.
Aristotle long ago noted that all art precedes theory. Even the rules
governing an art are known before the general principles upon which
they are based. A few lucky artists endowed with genius have been
able to produce a variety of works that could please before one
recognized the reason for this pleasure. Aristotle was one of the first
to draw rules from them. But neither his work in poetry nor that in
rhetoric can be considered to constitute a complete theory of these
arts. {48} Drawing upon the best examples of speech and poetry from
his time, he was able to note carefully what was pleasing and to deduce
rules. But he remained at the level of feeling, without trying to discern
the reason for these rules, or to inquire if the orator or poet had
exploited the full potential of their arts.
Subsequent critics who came after this wise Greek followed his
steps, and offered some new observations and rules, without however,
finding any new principles. As far as I know, it was DuBos who was
the first of the modern critics to construct a theory of art upon
general principles and to draw from these the justification for its
rules.1 His theory is founded upon the premise that every person at
l In his well-known and excellent work, Reflexions critiques sur la poesie and et la peinture (Paris, 1719).
[S.]
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26 Johann Georg Sulzer
certain times has the need to exercise his emotions and engage his
feelings. However, he was content to limit himself to drawing only a
few basic rules from this premise, and thus remain as empirical in his
methods as were his predecessors. Still, his work is full of excellent
observations and rules.
It was our own Baumgarten who was the first to try to set the
whole philosophy of the fine arts upon firm philosophical grounding,
and for which he coined the name "aesthetics." He began with Wolffs
theory on the origins of pleasurable feelings, which this philosopher
believed to find in the indistinct perception of perfection. In the
theoretical part of his work — the only one that has yet appeared —
this sharp-minded philosopher treats the whole science of beauty or
sensible perfection in all its different forms, while at the same time
showing its opposite forms of ugliness. It is to be regretted, though,
that his much too limited knowledge of art precluded his extending
his theory beyond oratory and poetry. But even in these areas he
failed to treat the notion of beauty in all its manifestations.
One must thereby count aesthetics among the under-developed
philosophical sciences. Since it is the intention of the author that the
present work should encompass the whole of this science, even if it
does not at first appear so systematic, it should be appropriate to
outline here the general plan of aesthetics.
First of all, one must establish the purpose and nature of the fine
arts. After showing that the main purpose of the fine arts is to
manipulate emotions through the arousal of sensations, both pleasant
and disagreeable, we must look into the origin of these sensations,
discovering it in the nature of the soul, or deducing the answer from
the teachings of philosophers. Next, we must consider the various
kinds of pleasant and disagreeable objects, and see what their affect
is in relation to ones temperament. {49} In order to account
adequately for the specific varieties of pleasure and disagreeableness,
whether theoretically or by studying works of taste with the utmost
attention, one must thoroughly treat the subject in a hundred different
articles. All of these articles together will constitute the theoretical
part of the philosophy of art.
The practical part of this work must elucidate the different kinds
of fine art and establish their particular character and limits. (See the
articles "Art," "Poetry," "Eloquence," "Music," "Painting," etc.) At
the same time, we need to consider the question of genius, and

Aesthetic foundations: sentiment 27
determine whether taste is inbred or may be acquired through

education. We will also need to identify the foremost aids for attaining
a satisfactory completion to each art.
Each of the fine arts produces works that differ from others both
in their inner structure and their specific purpose. All of these various
types are strictly determined. This can be seen in the case of poetical
forms such as the epic, the lyrical, and the didactic; in respect to
painting, such genres as the historical, allegorical, and the moral can
be strictly determined and the character of each type deduced from
firm principles.
From these sources, the rules governing the realization of an art
work can be drawn. This is as true of the most general rules concerning
the invention, disposition and the general working out of the whole
as it is of the rules that determine the selection, invention, assessment,
coordination, and effect of every individual part.
This, then, constitutes the subject of aesthetics, a science that can
aid the artist in the invention, disposition, and realization of his works,
that can help the amateur form his judgments, and even help him
derive greater pleasure from the work of art. This is a use that coincides
with the aims of philosophy and morality.
Aesthetics is based, as are all other theories, upon a few simple
principles. One needs to know from psychology how our sensations
arise, whether they be of a pleasant or disagreeable nature. Two or
three propositions that may offer a general solution to these questions
can constitute the principles of aesthetics. From them, one can
determine, on the one hand, the nature of all aesthetic objects, and
on the other hand, the procedure or rule by which these objects
ought to be presented to ourselves or the state of emotion we should
be in to best enjoy their affect. All of this can be laid down in just
a few words, and should be sufficient to teach any sensible person
how to finish a work of art. [...]
2 SENTIMENT [EMPFINDUNG] (vol. II, pp. 53-59)

This word possesses a psychological as well as a moral meaning, and
both are encountered frequently in the theory of art. Used in the first,
more general sense, sentiment is to be understood in contrast to clear
knowledge, and signifies some notion only in so far as it makes a pleasing
or displeasing impression upon us, affects our desires, or awakens ideas

of good or evil, the pleasing or the repugnant. On the other hand,

knowledge of an idea may affect our powers of imagination, or allow
us to recognize the character of a thing with some degree of clarity.
(The reader who has paid careful attention to the specific differences
we have described between sentiment and knowledge will easily see
how it can happen that sentiments can sometimes contradict knowledge,
how the former can find something good that the latter rejects. Sentiment
differentiates between things that please us, while knowledge judges that
which is true or false.) With knowledge, we deal with objects that lie
wholly outside ourselves. {54} With sentiments, however, we are
concerned less with an objects character and more with whether it
makes a good or bad impression upon ourselves. Knowledge can be
either clear or obscure; it can be unambiguous and complete, or it can
be confused and circumscribed. Sentiments, however, are either keen or
weak, pleasant or unpleasant.
Taken in a moral sense, sentiment is a feeling that through constant
repetition and reinforcement, becomes the cause of certain inner or
external actions. This is how it comes about that when we encounter
objects similar to those that at one time aroused in ourselves sentiments
of honor, integrity, or thankfulness, these same sentiments can be
quickly resurrected and become the dominating force behind our
actions. These are the sentiments that in their differing mix and
strengths determine the moral character of men. In this way, one says
of some men that they have no feelings or sentiment, which is to say,
no dominating sentiment of honor, integrity, humanity, patriotism, etc.
Those persons with somewhat dulled senses who have never felt
anything with the slightest bit of animation, and for whom the most
pleasant or disagreeable sentiments can be awakened only through the
strongest impressions, such people have little sentiment in the psy-
chological sense of the word. Those, however, upon whom objects
have only temporary effect, whether they be strong or weak, and for
whom no particular sentiment may dominate, such people lack that
moral feeling that the French call sentimens, and what we often
designate as character [Gesinnung].
Just as philosophy and science have knowledge as their ultimate
goal, so the fine arts have the goal of sentiment. Their immediate aim
is to arouse sentiments in a psychological sense. Their final goal,
however, is a moral sentiment by which man can achieve his ethical
value. If the fine arts are ever to become the sister of philosophy, and

not just a gaggle of loose wenches one calls upon for diversion, they
must be guided by reason and wisdom in their stimulation of sentiment.
This is a law that also applies to the sciences. "Nisi utile est, quod
facimus, stulta est sapientia," one poet has written, as modest as he is
wise. ["Wisdom that produces nothing useful is foolish."]2 The science
that makes no discrimination in the elucidation and development of
ideas, for which every idea is treated as equally important whether
or not it may be useful or not, such a science spins a web in which
it will catch only flies. It makes a mockery of true knowledge.
Common sense dictates that we not take seriously those sciences and
mechanical arts that concern themselves with only wearisome trifles.
Should not this law of utility, this essential component of wisdom,
also then be part of the fine arts? What reasonable artist would debase
himself such that he would preclude himself and his art from the laws
of wisdom and its general philosophical tenets? [...] {55}
Since it is the primary duty of the fine arts to awaken sentiments,
and since in the carrying out of this task reason and wisdom are
indispensable, an important question then arises in the theory of the
arts: How should these sentiments be handled?
The most general answer to this question is not difficult. On the
one hand, a person must possess a degree of sensibility for the beautiful
and ugly, for good and for evil, since an insensible person may be as
amoral as some droll animal. On the other hand, it is important that
the sentiments this person have in his soul correspond to both the
general and specific circumstances of his life, and by whose harmonious
mixture arises a moral character fitting to his standing and vocation.
The fine arts must meet both these needs of man. They must provide
him with a moderate degree of sensibility as well as establish a good
mixture of dominating temperaments in his soul. Under certain cir-
cumstances, they must sometimes stimulate one's sensibilities to the
same degree as one s dominant temperament in order for them to be
effective. Anyone who thinks that the artist must do nothing more
than employ various kinds of sensations in a pleasant mix following
his own taste, and that by such a play of sensations an amusing diversion
may be created, such a person has a shallow conception of art. To be
2 From book 3 of Phaedrus s fables, "The Trees Under the Patronage of the Gods" ("Arbores in
Deorum Tutela"). Sulzer, however, slightly altered Phaedrus's penultimate line, which in the
original reads: "Nisi utile est quod facimus, stulta est gloria" (Unless what we do is useful, it is
foolish). From The Fables of Phaedrus, trans. P F. Widdows (Austin, 1992), 75. [C]

sure, we need not throw such works of art out. They serve, as do
many pleasant still-lives, to amuse the sensibility of the heart. But just
as the beautiful adornments of nature are only the clothing that
shrouds the driving forces necessary for the general support and per-
fection of all being, so do all pleasant works of art accrue their worth
by virtue of the greater power lying under their beautiful clothing.
A well-ordered sensibility of the heart is thus the most fundamental
goal of the fine arts. In this way every part of one's soul seeks to stir
those passions that awaken delight, as well as sorrow. As man has urges
that both drive him forward and hold him back, so must he have
sensitivity to the beautiful and the ugly, for good and for evil. To this
end, the almost unending variety of objects and scenes from the world
are useful, whether they be lifeless or animated, physical or ethical.
All matters of taste must be treated in every genre, whether the
painting, the narrative, the ode, the epic, or the drama, such that the
soul may exercise its sensibility, that it can feel the pleasure of the
beautiful and the good, the repulsiveness of the ugly and evil. {56}
The artist has only to take care that everything stands clearly before
us in its most authentic form so that we can sense it. He is on guard
against all that is vague or ineffective, zealous to find the most accurate
depiction of all objects, and diligent in thinking of a good form for
his work whereby its totality becomes interesting.
But he must not forget the common-sense rule that one not over-
step the bounds of sensibility. Just as it is a great imperfection to lack
a reasonable amount of sensibility, since it causes one to be stiff and
dormant, so is an excess of sensibility very harmful, as it is effeminate,
weakening, and unmanly. This important admonition for moderation
seems especially appropriate for several of our German poets, who
are otherwise considered to be among the best. They seem to hold
the illusion that emotions can never be stimulated too much. They
would have all pain become madness and despair, abhorrence taken
to the highest degree of horror, every desire turned into delirium,
and every tender feeling to melting. This is done with the aim of
making man a pitiful, weak thing, one for whom desire, tenderness,
and pain become so overwhelming that no effective energy is retained,
and all steadfastness and manly courage is drained.3 [...] {57}
3 Sulzer is probably referring here to the circle of post-Anacreontic poets led by Friedrich Gottlieb
Klopstock (1724-1803). [C]

The most important service the fine arts can offer to man consists
without doubt in the well-ordered dominating desires that it can
implant, by which the ethical character of man and his moral worth
is determined. A sense for justice and a general uprighteousness, true
honor, patriotism, freedom, humanity, and so forth - all of these are
the general forces by which order, community, peace, and welfare are
achieved in the ethical world. [...]
The fine arts have two ways of unleashing man's sensibilities. One
way is to follow Horaces dictum, that in order to move someone,
you should be moved yourself.4 The other is the animated depiction
or performance of something by which sensibilities may flow forth.
Whoever will arouse pity must bring an object of pity before our
eyes in the most animated manner. Practically all kinds of poetry
follow one or the other of these two ways. Both the epic poet and
the playwright can stimulate our sensibilities in a way that is so vivid,
so strong and admirable, that our hearts are fully moved. In this way
Bodmer depicted Noahs overwhelming fear of God and his conse-
quent guiltlessness and divine soul in such a way that every sensible
person could identify with it. The ode and song poet experiences
himself those feelings that he wishes to instill in our hearts. He opens
his own heart so that we can see for ourselves the most vivid effects
of these feelings, and we can open our own heart to his so that it
may be moved by the same feelings and inflamed by the same fire.
[...] {58}
One more comment should be added to our observations that will
make them truly useful to the artist. We wish to warn the artist who
would arouse sensibilities not to do this based on some general ideal.
Just as one who seeks all men as friends can be a friend to none, so
it is that there is no righteous citizen to be found in any society who
fits the universal ideal of a perfectly cultured man. {59} Any sentiment
that is to be truly effective must have a real and particular subject. To
be sure, there are quite general sentiments of mankind that are valid
in all lands, at all times, and among all people. But even these must
be particularized by each person according to his situation and context.
The universal righteous man must be educated differently depending
upon whether he is to be a good citizen of Sparta, of Athens, or of
4 Cf. Horace's famous maxim: "Si vis meflere,dolendum est primum ipsi tibi" (If you would have
me weep, you must feel grief yourself). Horace's exhortation to affective empathy was a mainstay
of German empjindsam aesthetics. [C]

Rome. We would advise no artist to try to work with an eye to all

people and all posterity; this would be a way of no use for any people
and for no time. Homer and Ossian, the Scottish bard, thought neither
of posterity nor of universality, but rather of the people who lived
among them, when they dictated the songs that would end up being
read for generations after them. Sophocles, Euripides, and Horace did
not write for mankind, but rather for the Athenians and Romans. The
more the artist keeps the particular conditions of his time and place
in mind, the more likely it is he will find the right means by which
to stir sentiments. At the very least, the artist should pass by those
subjects that lie on the distant horizon in favor of those closer to
home. [...]
3 INSPIRATION [BEGEISTERUNG] (vol. I, pp. 349-50)

All artists, even those possessing just a little genius, confirm that they
sometimes experience an extraordinary feeling in their soul by which
their work is made uncommonly easier. Ideas suddenly develop
themselves with seemingly no effort, and the best of them flow forth
in such abundance as if the product of some higher force. Without
doubt, this is what one calls "inspiration." An artist finding himself in
such a state looks at his art work in a totally different light. His genius,
led as if by divine force, discovers ideas without effort, and is able to
express them in an optimal manner. The inspired poet pours out
spontaneously the most excellent thoughts and ideas; the orator is able
to judge his words with the greatest confidence, feel with the keenest
sensitivity, and find words possessing the most powerful and lively
expression; the inspired painter suddenly finds the picture he had sought
standing complete right in front of his face. All he need do is put it
down on canvas to the best of his ability; his hands appear to be guided
by some extraordinary force, and with every movement of his finger,
the work takes on added life.
What is one to make of such an unusual occurrence, something
whose origins are of such interest to philosophy, and whose effect so
indispensable to the artist? Whence comes this extraordinary effect of
the soul, and how can it have such a happy effect?
Such heightened effects reveal themselves either in the craving or
imaginative forces of the soul, both with equal success; in the one
through devotional, mannered, tender, or cheerful rapture; in the other

Aesthetic foundations: inspiration 33
through a heightened ability of genius, through the richness, thor-

oughness, solidity and luster of one's ideas and thoughts. Thus enthu-
siasm is a double art: one part works primarily upon the senses, the
other upon the imagination.
Both have their origins in the vivid impression made upon the
soul by some object of particular aesthetic force. {350} If the object
is unclear such that the imaginative powers cannot develop freely, if
one's impression of its effects are more vivid than one's knowledge
of its essence, which is the case with all general passions, then in all
these cases attention is turned to one's sensations, and the entire power
of the soul unites in the most animated feeling. If on the other hand
the object that has made the strongest impression can be viewed in
a pure form, and its spirit captured in its many parts, then in such a
case one s power of imagination is agitated along with one's senses
and becomes firmly attached to the object. Reason and imaginative
powers both strive to present themselves fully and with the greatest
clarity and vividness. In the first case enthusiasm springs from the
heart, while in the second instance it comes from the inspiration of
genius. Both deserve to be viewed somewhat more intricately in their
nature and their effects.
The enthusiasm of the heart, or the heated efficacy of the soul that
are expressed primarily in one's sensations, are awakened by profound
works in which we see nothing very clearly that the imaginative
powers can hold on to, where the attention is directed from the object
itself to what the soul is feeling and its own desires. In this way, one's
mind loses sight of the object itself, and feels all the more its animated
effects. The soul becomes, in essence, all feeling; it knows of nothing
outside, but only of what is inside itself. All ideas of things outside
itself recede into darkness; the soul sinks into a dream, whose effects
for the most part restrain one's reason as much as enliven one's feelings.
In this situation, one is not in a position conducive to careful reflection
or reasoned judgment. One's inclinations are expressed freely and with
animation, the mainsprings of one's powers of desire develop uncon-
strained.
Since one's powers of imagination are no more capable of differ-
entiating reality from fancy, anything possible seems to be real. Even
the impossible becomes possible. The coherence of things is evaluated
not through judgment, but through feeling. What is absent becomes

present, and the future becomes now. Whatever has some connection
to the emotions present in the soul moves to center stage. [...]
4 ORIGINALITY [ORIGINALGEIST] (vol. Ill, pp. 625-28)

We call originality that quality of some men who in their thoughts and
deeds distinguish themselves from others through their uniqueness. Their
character is of a special, singular kind. But here we will consider
originality in so far as it relates to individual works of art and how it
contributes to the particular features that distinguish the work from
those of all other artists.
Originality must be distinguished from imitations, as we have
elsewhere remarked (s.v. "Imitation"). In numerous places in this work,
it has been pointed out that the true origin of all fine arts is to be
found in the nature of human feelings [Gemuthes]. Works of fine art
originate with men possessing greater sentiments and a livelier imagi-
nation than normal, yet who also possess a keen feeling for beauty;
such artists are inspired by an inner drive and not by foreign examples;
their works are essentially expressions of genius and sentiments which
are endowed with form and character only after careful consideration.
These artists are inventors, who although perhaps not the first in their
genre, as there were certainly predecessors, were original in that they
created the works of art out of an impulse from their own genius,
and not through imitation. Generally speaking, such geniuses possess
a sufficient amount of individuality in their inventions as well as their
taste, that they can be said to be original. If these individuals also
happen not to have had any forerunners, they were also the founders
of their art, as nature endowed them with all that was necessary for
this purpose. They are, as Young said, coincidentally original [zufdllige
Originate].
One can recognize such originality in persons by the irresistible
drive they have for their art, by the way they overcome all obstacles
that lie in the way of their work, by the way invention and practice
come so easily to them, {626} by the way all necessary material for
a work flows instantaneously from their imagination, and by the way
they are always able to find something special and unique, even in
those fields where nature has already provided an abundance of similar
geniuses. Of course there are gradations even here, and some original
artist may have more fortitude and cleverness than another. This is

Aesthetic foundations: originality 35
how it comes about that some produce inventions of a totally new

kind, while others retain the forms and styles they have received. In
this sense, they are imitators. This is how the poet Horace, who imitated
well-known forms, still possessed originality; Klopstock, however,
invented new forms. In music, our Graun was undoubtedly original,
although none of his forms were. In painting, Raphael was certainly
original, although he retained unusually more received forms than
someone like Hogarth. One can thus be original and still conform
in many other ways to the ordinary. In many of his works, Virgil is a
simple imitator; yet he is still individual enough so that we consider
him to possess originality. [...]
Sooner or later, every artist with originality will be a cause of
notable change in the domain of taste, one that might even influence
the general ethical climate of his time. This is because the greatest
riches will always be found in those places that can only be seen by
the few daring men who have forged new paths. They are the true
leaders of men. Thus, Luther was a great original in that he led many
people from the well-trodden paths of their faith and religious
practices, and established a new way. In matters of taste, such changes
are much easier since there is nothing to constrain ones freedom.
Those of our poets who had the audacity to liberate German verse
from the shackles of rhyme schemes were the cause of an important
revolution in our poetry. Although Gleim was himself an imitator of
Anacreon, he was still original enough to found a new school of
poetry.5 Bodmer and Breitinger were also coincidentally original art
critics, although they were still responsible for significant changes in
the domains of taste in Germany.6 Glory is always the most lustrous
gift of originality; but its most precious treasure is the originality it
may confer upon the most important parts of the fine arts.
Anything original possesses a kind of value that is impossible to
achieve by imitation, however excellent the latter may be. Art alone
profits from this. But sometimes imitation can attain the goal of art
that not everything original can. There are connoisseurs in the pictorial
arts who prefer original works over copies, and they are of course
Johann Ludwig Gleim (1719-1803) was one of the most prominent of a group of German
Rococo poets, active at mid century, known as the "Anacreontics" because of their imitations of
the amorous and hedonistic poems of Anacreon. [C]
For more on Bodmer and Breitinger, see the Introduction by Thomas Christensen, p. 3 above.
[C]

justified in so far as the works are used for study of art. {627} But
if the issue is the capacity of a work effectively reaching the general
goal of art, an imitation can well have far more worth than an original.
This must always be kept in mind in the evaluation of originality,
where sometimes the most original work will not always be the most
preferred.
La Fontaine displayed the greatest originality in the narration of
his fables, while Aesop is to be preferred in his execution [of this
genre], at least in its most important parts.7 It could well be that some
writers could be simple imitators of the Phrygian author and produce
fables far exceeding in value those of the French author. As novelists,
both Richardson and Fielding are originals, each in their own way;
one appeals more to the heart, the other to the mind and temperament.
Perhaps Fielding is more original in his way than is Richardson, but
the art of the latter is more important.8
Montesquieu and Rousseau were just as original in their writings
on social contracts; each opened up a new area or provided a new
point of view. For the politician unconcerned with the welfare of
men, each of these authors is important, just as moral philosophers
acknowledge their worth. [...] {628}
We cannot let pass in silence the question why originality is so
rarely found. It is more likely due to a mania for imitation than any
stinginess on nature s part to distribute her gifts. One can find geniuses
who are perfectly capable of being original, yet who sometimes
succumb to this mania. Germany herself possesses men of great genius
who are gifted by nature with many choice talents, and who could
be extraordinarily original in more than one field. Yet one finds them
frequently imitating others, despite the fact that their originality always
shines through. Sometimes it is the young Crebillon who inspires
them to imitation, sometimes Diderot, sometimes Sterne. A few of
these original artists may also lack courage; seeing how certain existing
art works cause such general wonderment, how critics elevate these
same works as models, and how general rules are even deduced from
these works and applied to all works of the same kind, such artists
7 Jean de La Fontaine (1621-95), who along with Boileau, Moliere, and Racine comprised the
legendary literary sodete des Quatre Amis, was known primarily through his books of fables
modeled upon Aesop's more famous tales. [C]
8 Here the question is only the way a novel may be used to educate the heart, as there have been
considerable objections justifiably raised concerning the particulars of Richardson's style. The
author of Agathon [Wieland] has raised a number of important comments on this subject. [S.]

Aesthetic foundations: order 37
do not trust themselves to forge a different way. They fear that any
ode that is not Horatian or Pindaric, or any tragedy that is not
patterned after a Greek model, can never attain praise. Thus they allow
their own genius to be collared by the yoke of foreign rules. In France,
many original artists surfer from such anxieties, as they seem to hold
that no work is worth anything if it is not similar to something made
during the much-glorified reign of Louis XIV We [Germans] are
somewhat freer in our judgments, as we have not such a long tradition
of home-grown models. Still, it sometimes happens that some critics
withhold their approbation of certain art works simply because they
diverge from normal forms. The genius appears sometimes proud, but
always confident in his work, persevering against the nagging of the
imitative critic; an impartial public will call him to take encouragement
from Horaces words "Sapere aude" [Dare to Know].
5 ORDER [ORDNUNG] (vol. Ill, pp. 614-17)

One says that something is orderly when rules can be found that account
for how its parts are put together or follow one another. The word
"order" can also be used in a more general, metaphysical sense, in which
one or more rules govern the specific way all parts are positioned or
ordered in relation to the whole. In the majority of cases this results
in uniformity. A series of numbers such as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 or 1, 2, 4, 8, 16
is orderly since in both cases the various numbers succeed each other
following a certain rule, and thus display a kind of uniformity. One can
easily see that in the first series, each successive number is greater by
one than the previous number, while in the second series, each successive
number is double that of the previous number. {615} Order exists, then,
whenever things stand in relation to, or follow one another, following
certain rules. It is determined by the rule or law by which these things
stand in relation to, or follow one another. And as soon as one discovers
it, one recognizes or notices that the things are related by a rule, even
when these rules do not seem to have any purpose or are the result of
any intention. One sometimes hears raindrops pattering upon the roof
in constant time. In the succession of raindrops one hears order without
purpose. Each drop seems to dissipate as the next drop follows it. This
is the law of succession by which order arises. It could happen that a
handful of round objects thrown randomly into the air fall to the earth
in straight lines and equally distant from one another. We discover order

and laws in this pattern even though it is not a consequence of anyone's

intention. Where no law can be discerned to account for the connection
of things, no rule of uniformity found, then we say that things are
unorderly. For example we say this about trees in the woods if we
cannot notice any rule by which uniformity in their position might be
discerned.
Order can be quite simple, but it can also be quite intricate, as its
laws can have more or fewer connections depending upon the number
of parts. There are many different kinds of order determined by the
differences of intention in which one assigns a rule of uniformity to
any succession of things. However, so that we do not get mired in
metaphysical speculations that are too general, but stay with that which
is essential to the general theory of the fine arts, we will only speak
of those things that accrue aesthetic energy through order, even if
this order is not everywhere so uniform. Only in this way can the
primary effects of order be distinguished from its secondary effects.
We might react with complete indifference to a collection of stones
that we casually observe scattered in a field. But when these same
stones are transformed into some artistic object through order, then
we contemplate them with attention and take great satisfaction in
them. Here no individual part possesses any aesthetic power or
meaning by itself; it is the specific ordering of stones that pleases us,
and the material itself- that which makes up each individual stone
- takes no part in this effect. Isolated taps upon a drum or anvil do
not interest us. But as soon as we notice any order in these taps,
especially if they become metric or rhythmic, they accrue aesthetic
force.
It is a totally different matter with those things whose individual
parts already possess such force, as in speech, where each word means
something, or in a painting, where every figure can engage our mind
or heart. If order is brought to such objects, a kind of effect arises
caused not only by the order, but also by the material of the ordered
things. {616}
In that we are here concerned with order and its effects, it is better
to consider the material force of the ordered objects separately. That
is, we should contemplate the pure form of the objects without regard
to their material. In short, we are here interested in order, not
disposition (Anordnung), since this last word always seems to be
confused with order, but is really determined only by the material of

Aesthetic foundations: order 39
the things. Order is not simply a consequence, though, of the rules

of contiguity or succession. When a single rule defines the ordering
of something, it can be said to produce what we generally call
"regularity" {Kegelmdfiigkeii), as when soldiers stand in lines and columns.
If, however, the ordering of something is defined by several rules, such
that several conditions must be met to produce this ordering, we
would consider the result to be somewhat more elevated than simple
regularity. Herein arise qualities such as symmetry, eurhythmy, and
beauty.
Order calls attention to the object; it conveys pleasingness and
makes the object intelligible by impressing it upon our imagination.
That which is unordered is unremarkable. When contemplated, it is
not retained in our memory, since it has no intelligible form. The
effect of order upon our power of imagination on the contrary, attains
a high level of pleasingness and enjoyment. When it unites much
variety with exactness in a whole, it can cause a kind of beauty that
is extraordinarily pleasing. Such order can be seen in many beautiful
mosaics or parquet floors made of wood, in which many small
triangular and rectangular pieces are set, producing a very pleasurable
variety of forms and relations. Even things of a moralistic or emotional
nature can be laid out in a kind of pure ordering.
The ordering might be fanciful, but also something well thought
out, something simple and pleasing, or also something complex and
lively. So multifarious is the effect of order, that a simple change in
the order of beats played upon a drum is sufficient to distinguish one
piece from another and provide all varieties of passionate expression.
The artist can thus employ order in a number of ways. In some
works, it is the only aesthetic means by which they may become truly
tasteful. This is how many buildings can be considered as works of
fine art; while the various parts of the building were made not on
account of genius or taste, but rather by plain necessity, they are placed
in an orderly way in relation to each other. Some gardens also have
the character of a work of taste solely on account of order. In music,
there are many short but pleasant melodies that have no real aesthetic
other than a pleasing order of notes. A poet might pen an epic verse
whose contents are also without aesthetic, but through the ordering
of syllables produce a beautiful tone that approaches epic dignity. This
is not seldom the case with Homer. Just the tiniest amount of order
or trace of regularity can be sufficient to elevate a work to the rank

of fine art. {617} Still, if one were to rank works of art, any work
with a pleasing order, but whose contents lack any aesthetic worth,
would occupy the lowest class. An order that is perceived as too simple,
however, is not suitable for works whose contents have nothing of
excellence. They would be seen to be feeble since one would discover
at one glance what little aesthetic they had. Nothing is more insipid
than a poem of meager content following the same versification
throughout. Weaker contents must always be helped by sophisticated
order in which there is a kind of rhythm. This is how buildings that
otherwise have nothing remarkable about them sometimes convey an
artistic appearance. This is also how certain compositions, dances, and
sometimes even short lyrical poems become moderately pleasing; one
would pay no heed to them were it not for the decoration afforded
by their order.
The most important thing for the artist to keep in mind in regard
to order, at least as it impinges upon the form of a work, is that
anything which is a product of order must be perfectly suited to the
material of the work. In this way, weak content can be compensated
through the charm of order, and most crucially, no disadvantages occur
through the luster of order. The architect who has succeeded in finding
the basic form of a truly magnificent cathedral would want to tone
down the beautiful and intricate eurhythmy of the smaller parts lest
they detract from the main impression the building is to make. There
will be no more need to stimulate the fantasy where these impressions
are conveyed strongly enough. Perhaps this is why the Greeks, with
their refined taste, preferred to set those hymns in which the heart
was calmed through devotion and adoration not by complex lyrical
verses, but by simple hexameters.
Intricate order has more charm than simple order. But this charm
appeals more to one's fantasy, and can potentially weaken those
impressions conveyed to one's reason and heart. Also, intricacy is not
always as easy to remember as is simplicity. Thus, if one is dealing
with material of a work that should be firmly retained, the simplest
order is to be preferred over the most intricate. Everyone will see
that a song or ode set to our older simple lyrical verse forms is much
easier to remember than the more complex verse forms of the Greeks.
For the same reason, one will see in regard to music that melodies
composed for dancing, which by necessity should be quite easy to

Aesthetic foundations: relation 41
comprehend, must always have much simpler rhythms than those of

a similar character composed for the harpsichord.
6 RELATION [VERHALTNISS] (vol. IV, pp. 646-48)

The size or prominence of a part is understood in comparison to the
whole to which it belongs. Size and prominence are indeterminate ideas
that can increase and diminish without limit. One can speak of things
being large or small, heavy or light, only in relation to one another.
In an object composed of parts, a good relation between parts exists
when no single part is either too large or too small in comparison
to the whole. Our judgment concerning the relation of parts arises
either from the nature of things or from custom. These have made us
so used to specific proportions that any deviation from them strikes
us as contradictory or exaggerated. Upon viewing an object that is
quite familiar or commonplace, we cannot help but expect to see
what we are used to. Thus if something is notably larger or smaller
than expected, it will awaken two sorts of ideas that are in some
respects contradictory. In things that are determined only by custom,
judgments concerning relations can differ from one person to another.
However, there can also be judgments concerning relations that
originate from the nature of a thing itself. If a part of some whole
is of a size that contradicts its nature or arrangement, we would
certainly find this disparity offensive. {647} A column that is extremely
high and narrow strikes us as too weak to carry its load. Two identical
parts of the body that serve the same function, such as the arms, feet,
or eyes, must be of equal size according to their nature. A violation
against such a relation contradicts this fundamental rule.
An object will be perceived as well proportioned only if no one
of its parts is of a size that contradicts either custom or nature. When
no single part calls attention to itself owing to its size, one has the
complete freedom to comprehend the whole and feel its effect. It is
through good relations, then, that one perceives the true unity of a
thing; the impression it makes can become perfect because no one of
the parts from which the whole is made calls attention to itself. A
lack of such good relations, however, is harmful in that the dispro-
portionate parts distract our imagination away from the whole, and
subsequently gives offense through the contradictions that every

misrelationship causes. Nothing can be beautiful, then, without

perfection of relations.
Relations are manifested in many ways other than extension. In any
object in which parts should coalesce in a harmonious whole, relations
and misrelations can occur. Even in those things that are meant to
arouse inner feelings, a part can possess too much or too little stimu-
lation for the purpose of the whole. The contemplation of relations
occurs whenever there are parts whose effect can be measured.
In objects visible to the eye, there can be relations between the
sizes of parts in which some of them might be too large or too small;
there can also be relations of light by which a part might be too
bright, or in another too dark. Further, relations can exist based on
strength or stimulation, in which one part might be judged prettier,
or more stimulating, quieter, or stronger as stipulated by the whole.
In objects that are heard, relations occur between notes in regard to
their duration, loudness, pitch, and in their charm or vigor. It would
thus be a mistake to believe that good relations are to be found only
in the pictorial arts or architecture. Every artist must observe them,
since from them comes symmetry, or harmony, or the true unity of
the whole.
The question then arises as to what the artist must think about in
order to secure good relations between parts in each work. Various
philosophers and artists have remarked that the most pleasing relations
are those that can be expressed by the most easily measured numbers,
such as those used for the consonances of music. One need not seek,
however, answers that are so secret or mysterious here. The reason
soon becomes clear when we view things in their proper perspective.
A relation consists of two elements, since it entails comparison or
contrast. The size of every part is determined only in relation to the
size of the other part with which is compared. If the parts are too
disparate there can be no juxtaposition of the two. {648} One
compares the size of the mouth or the nose with the size of the face,
but not with the size of the whole statue. If, however, some object
is a part of a main part, then one compares it with this main part,
and in turn with those [minor] parts that themselves make up the
parts of this part: the finger with the hand, the hand with the arm,
and all of these with the entire body and its main parts - the limbs
and torso. Thus one should compare like parts to one another, or to
the parts that directly constitute a whole. Things of widely differing

Aesthetic foundations: unity 43
sizes cannot make a whole when considered together. A town can

become a district when joined to a few nearby fields, hills, and woods.
But a town joined to a small garden can never make up a district,
rather it will remain a town. The garden can be taken out and the
town remains. In just this way, a man might have a finger that is too
large or too small, or even missing altogether, yet remain beautiful. It
is his hand that is no longer beautiful.
We can thus clearly see that one can judge the relation between
parts only when these parts are on the same level. In music, one
compares the notes of chords distant from the tonic to one another,
and no longer to those belonging to the tonic. In architecture, one
compares smaller elements not to the whole building, rather to the
cornice or whatever other section they are a part of. [...]
7 UNITY [EINHEIT] (vol. II, pp. 26-28)

Unity is that in which we envision multiple things as parts of a single
thing. It arises from a connection between parts that disuades us from
seeing anything other than a single entity. Drinking glasses that are
placed upon a table close to one another have no real connection; one
can consider each as a single entity. On the other hand, springs and
other such parts of a clock have such a connection to one another that
any one of them separated from the others can never constitute a whole,
rather only a part. Thus there is unity in a clock, but not in the collection
of drinking glasses upon a table.
The nature of a thing is the cause of its unity, since it is by this
that we know why every part is there, and even why this nature
would surfer change if some part were not there. Unity is thus in
every object that has a nature, and consequently in every object in
which it is possible to say or conceive what it should be. When
something is just what it should be, that means that everything that
appertains to it is really present.9
Unity, then, is the cause of perfection and beauty; perfection is that
which is entirely and completely what it should be, while beauty is
that perfection one senses or feels. It follows, then, that an object
displeasing to contemplate has no unity, or its unity is hidden from
9 The notion of some object being "what it should be" makes reference to a venerable idealist
concept of ethical perfectionism and plenitude articulated most strongly in the eighteenth
century by Leibniz and Christian Wolff. [C]

us because we cannot determine whether the thing is that which it

should be. If we have some kind of tool, but no idea as to what it
is to be used for, we are incapable of judging whether it is perfect
or not. So it is for any object that either pleases or displeases us.
Whenever our attention is focused upon an object, we form in our
mind either a clear or obscure idea of its nature, which is to say, we
imagine what it should be, or at least what its nature might be. We
then compare this ideal to the object, much as we might compare a
picture to our own conception of the original. An agreement between
reality and our ideal pleases us, while any discrepancy between the
two displeases us, since we have found a contradiction, and it is
impossible to imagine at the same time two contradictory things.
These thoughts on unity may seem to be overly subtle. {27} But
they are critical to the precise meaning of several fundamental aesthetic
ideas. When philosophers tell us that perfection and sensible beauty
are related in that both consist of variety in unity, the artist can easily
understand this explanation through the help of the preceding
discussion. He will understand that every work that should be perfect
or beautiful must have a specific nature by which it becomes a single
thing, and from which one can form a clear conception. He will see
that its diverse parts are such that through them the work becomes
the thing that he envisions it to be. In this way an architect who is
charged with designing a building will first try to form as clear a
picture of it in his mind as possible. He will then seek out and
coordinate the diverse parts of the building such that from their
coalescence, the building becomes exactly what it should. The painter
will first let himself form a clear idea of the thing he is envisioning,
and only thereafter use his imagination to seek out the details whereby
the thing becomes what it should.
One s idea of the nature of some object by which it achieves unity
may not always be clear, and it is worth noting that perfection or
beauty are not always essential to an object. It is sometimes sufficient
simply to feel the perfection and beauty of some object, even if these
qualities are somewhat obscured. It is in just this way that we can
feel the perfection and beauty of the human body, despite possessing
a very obscure notion of its nature. We might have only the slightest
idea concerning the specific affection a song, ode, or elegy seeks to
express, yet it can still be sufficient enough to find the work very
beautiful. But when we can form no idea of unity, and when we

Aesthetic foundations: unity 45
cannot feel how the variety we see fits together, the individual parts
of some object may please us, but the whole will never be able to
awaken in us any pleasure.
It follows from this that every individual part of a work that is
conceptually ill-suited to the whole, that possesses no relation with
the other parts and thus stands in opposition to the unity, is an
imperfection and blemish that causes displeasure. This is what happens
in a story when we encounter an event that contributes nothing
essential to the spirit of the story, or in a drama when we find a
character who does not fit in with the others, and thus violates the
work's unity.
A far more substantial mistake occurs, however, if several essential
unities are haphazardly joined together in a single work. Such a work
relies upon two main ideas that have no connection other than a
casual one. Yet we are suddenly expected to conceive of them as a
single idea. It really becomes impossible to say what the work is
supposed to be. Examples of this that may be cited are Raphaels
famous painting of Christ's transfiguration, or Ludovico Carracci's
painting in which the Archangel Michael hurls fallen souls into the
abyss while at the same time St. George is slaying the dragon.10 {28}
In many plays there is sometimes more than one story, so it becomes
impossible to say what the whole is supposed to be.
Everything we have said concerning unity also applies to the unity
of an object's nature. Besides this kind of unity, though, there are other
kinds that one can more or less call accidental unities. A historical
painting might possess full unity with respect to its characters and
story, but be entirely without unity in regard to accidental things. For
example, the painter could portray each figure with a unique shading
of light and thereby dispense with the overall unity of lighting, or he
could paint each group of characters with their own particular color.
Even in these accidental things, however, any lack of unity is offensive,
since when we envision a particular history, the idea of unity in regard
to place and time will also occur to us. If we find something that
contradicts this idea, we will necessarily feel dissatisfied. Therefore, the
artist who wishes to make his work perfect must think about not
only the unity of its nature but also the unity of its accidental elements.
10 The painting of Christ's transfiguration by Raphael to which Sulzer refers was painted around
1520 and now hangs in the Vatican museum. I have not been able to identify the painting Sulzer
describes by Lodovico Carracci. [C]

From these remarks, it is easy to see how important to the evaluation

of any work is the discovery or recognition of a work's nature and
its ensuing unity. Whoever cannot at least dimly feel what a thing
should be and how its parts cohere will be able neither to recognize
nor to sense its perfection. This is undoubtedly how it happens that
there can be so many differing opinions about the same thing. Without
any doubt, we judge every object following an innate concept of the
ideal, and by which we accept or reject things that are in some object
as either suitable or contradictory. Whoever cannot imagine such an
ideal will be incapable of judging anything that he hears or sees. He
will notice only the impression of each individual part as a self-
sufficient thing. If he is satisfied with these parts, he will judge the
whole as beautiful. So it happens that one person might find a given
speech beautiful since he is pleased by individual elements of style
and expression by themselves, while another person who perceives a
glaring deficiency in the plan of the whole finds the speech unbearable
to listen to.
8 VARIETY [MANNIGFALTIGKEIT] (vol. Ill, pp. 361-62)

During the evolution of man's faculty of reason, there seems to have
arisen a natural need for diversity in our ideas and sentiments. As pleasant
as certain things are, one can become immune to them through con-
tinual repetition, and eventually even weary of them. Only by frequent
changes, which is to say, variety in those objects which are the con-
cern of the spirit and mind, can one's attention be retained. The reason
for this natural inclination is easy to discover: it is part of the inner
activity of the spirit. But it reveals itself only after man has attained a
certain ability for self-reflection, and after he has enjoyed pleasures that
are deeply moving. Semi-primitive people who cannot count beyond
the number three, such as the American Indians, can sit the whole day
long and mindlessly play the same tune upon their flutes a thousand
times without feeling bored.
This desire for change contributed greatly to the gradual perfection
of man, since it sustained and expanded his activities, and caused
almost a daily increase in his ideas. This is what really constitutes the
true inner richness of men. Even though the love of variety arises
from its inner effectiveness, the latter is strengthened through the
former. The more one wishes to enjoy changing and varied ideas, the

Aesthetic foundations: variety 47
more will be his need to try to augment their number. This is how
man has slowly learned to utilize all his internal and external natural
abilities and talents, how he has slowly approached the condition of
perfection by being all that he is capable of.
Because works of art are supposed to be entertaining and provide
new stimulus to all parts of our imaginative powers, there must be
sufficient variety among the many things presented to us in every
work. All artists of genius reveal themselves in their works by the
fruitfulness of their genius. In the Iliad, the number and kinds of
battles is endless; the entries made by the various heroes are almost
too numerous to count. But each is still accurately and fully differ-
entiated in character from all the others.
The variety that pleases most, though, is that which one finds in
objects that have a natural connection to one another. It would be
as annoying for every minute of the day to be totally new and without
any connection to the previous ones as it would be for every minute
to repeat itself endlessly. Any book that consists of an extensive
collection of disparate thoughts, each possessing no relation to one
another, although all of beauty and importance, would certainly be
varied. But it would be a book no one could read. For this reason,
there has to be a thread drawing together the many different things
so that they are not arbitrarily joined, but rather have a natural
connection to one another. {362} Variety must appear as the constantly
varied effects of a single cause, or as the different forces that act upon
a single object, or things of the same kind that are distinguished by
their individual shadings. The closer things cohere in their variety, the
more delicate will be the enjoyment they provide.
This kind of variety must always be strictly observed where much
is happening. A good historical painter will show us not only the
faces of various people, he will ensure that within the tableau there
is pleasing variety in their positions, their relative proportions, and in
their clothing. The poet is not satisfied only with a variety of thoughts;
he must also ensure variety in expression, idiom, rhythm, tone, and
other such matters. The composer must be concerned not only with
an agreeable variety of pitches, but that the harmonies and melodies
themselves are likewise varied.
When speaking of variety, an artist need not be a genius to realize
that it arises through the accumulation of many differing ideas and
pictures. It does require true genius and a sure taste, however, to be

able to find a diversity of appropriate things that can serve ones needs,
select and use the right quantity so that it does not cause confusion,
rather it appears to be a whole that cannot be altered in anyway In
works of artists that lack these two qualities, one will find either a
poverty of thought, or an inappropriate piling up of ideas not well
related to one another. This is what happens in the music of some
composers, who either repeat the same idea throughout a single work
in different keys and rely upon the same two or three chords for the
entire harmony, or on the contrary, write a series of individual musical
ideas totally unrelated to one another. Only the composer possessing
the necessary genius for his art knows how to present the main idea
in a variety of forms by changing its accompanying harmonies,
developing it, and altering it through the addition of subordinate but
still coherent ideas, so that the ear is continually engaged from
beginning to end.
It has already been noted that a lack of variety betrays a poverty
of genius. Could we not deduce from this, at least in a few' cases, a
rule for judging the genius of an entire nation? For instance, would
one not conclude that a nation lacks genius whose works of art all
had the same identical form, whose houses were all built following
the same model, whose comedies were all modelled upon the same
plan, and whose odes were all written in the same key and performed
in a single way?
9 TASTE (GESCHMAK) (vol. II, pp. 371-73)

Taste is really nothing other than the capacity to sense beauty, just as
reason is the capacity to recognize that which is true, perfect and just,
and morality the capacity to feel that which is good. Sometimes the
word is used in a narrower sense to designate the general taste of man
and the degree to which it has developed.
One calls something beautiful when it presents itself to our
imagination in a pleasing manner and with no reference to any other
quality; it pleases us despite our not knowing what it is or what
purpose it serves. Beauty pleases us not because reason finds it perfect,
or our moral sense finds it good, but because it flatters our imagination
by presenting itself in an attractive, pleasing form. The inner sense by
which we may enjoy this pleasure is taste. If, as we have elsewhere
shown, beauty is real and not just something imagined (s.v. "Beauty"),

Aesthetic foundations: taste 49
then taste is also something real in our soul to be distinguished from

other faculties. Namely, it is the intuitive capacity to recognize beauty,
and something that aids us in enjoying this recognition. The nature
of taste can be known only as clearly as the nature of beauty allows
it to be known and analyzed. But as we have already treated this last
point in the article on "Beauty," we will restrict ourselves here to
that which relates to the effects of taste.
One can consider the faculty of taste in the soul from two
perspectives: {372} as an applied tool with which the artist can choose,
order and decorate, and as something enjoyable for the amateur in
that it arouses pleasure and enhances one's disposition to better enjoy
works of art. The artist of taste tries to give every object upon which
he works an attractive form as well as to make sure that it also engages
the imagination. His precedent here is nature, who is never satisfied
in only making her work perfect and good, but everywhere strives
for beauty of form, pleasingness in color, or the closest conformity
of form with the inner nature of the thing.
The artistss reason and genius ensure that his work possesses all
parts necessary to its inner perfection. But taste is what makes it a
work of fine art. A house which provides everything that is needed
for shelter becomes a work of fine architecture when someone with
taste also ensures that the whole has a pleasing appearance, and every
part of the house has a decorous form appropriate to its function and
place. A speech in which one says everything that serves his purpose
becomes a work of eloquence through a pleasing disposition of its
parts, through beautiful turns of phrases, through harmony, and other
sensible manipulations of expression.
Taste, then, is as essential to the artist as is reason and genius. Each
of the higher gifts of decorum, sense, and invention cannot make an
artist. But, so too, taste without the accompaniment of reason and
genius can never make a great artist, as a beautiful form can never
be a substitute for material that has no intrinsic worth. One occa-
sionally meets men whose souls are filled with an excess of taste, yet
who are lacking in reason. These are men who observe nothing but
extrinsic beauty, and are fully content with a beautiful piece of
clothing, paying no heed of what lies underneath it. This is charac-
teristic of the refined taste of a dilettante, someone to be found in
all the fine arts. They constitute the superficial element of the human

species, whose works never penetrate the fantasy, never touch our
reason or heart. [...]
On the other hand, there are men of reason and genius who lack
taste. They fancy themselves as artists, although their works are never
true works of art. Their ideas and inventions are excellent ones, but
they are unable to achieve the effect one expects in a work of art.
Artists of great talent who lack taste are like those learned and
loquacious men one often meets whose gloomy and awkward nature
frightens others into not profiting from their good sense and heart.
{373} Thus the unity of every higher gift with taste constitutes the
true artist.
It has been noted already that true beauty exists in pleasing forms.
One also sometimes applies the term beauty more broadly to include
that which has qualities of notable, sensible perfection, truth, correct-
ness, and perhaps even of goodness (in so far, at least, as this last
quality is evident from ones intuitive understanding). Taste can also
be of service to this broader sense of beauty. It suggests to the
imagination not only a beautiful form, but can unite to it beauty
(which originates in the domain of truth and goodness) in such an
integral manner, that the resulting object draws together all at once
ones reason, imagination, and heart. [...]
10 MUSICAL EXPRESSION
[AUSDRUCK IN DER MUSIK] (vol. I, pp. 271-74)
The most important, if not the only, function of a perfect musical

composition is the accurate expression of sentiments and passions with
all their particular shadings. Any work that fills our imagination full of
harmonious tones but without touching our heart can be compared to
a painting of the sky at twilight. We may be entranced by the pleasing
mixture of differing colors; but we certainly will not see anything in the
patterns formed by the clouds which will touch our heart. Now; if we
hear in a song not just the most perfect succession of notes, but also a
speech that seems to be the outpourings of a sensitive heart, the pleasing
engagement of the ear serves as a kind of inducement to the soul by
which it can succumb to all the sentiments brought forth through the
expressiveness of the song. The harmony commands our complete
attention, stimulating the ear so that it can give itself over to the more
refined feelings aroused when the nerves of the soul are touched.

Aesthetic foundations: musical expression 51
Expression is the soul of music. Without it, music is but an

entertaining diversion. But with it, music becomes the most expressive
speech overpowering the heart. It compels us to be tender, then to
be resolute and steadfast. It can quickly bring forth our pity, and just
as quickly, admiration. At times it ennobles and elevates our soul, while
at other times it enfeebles it with effeminate emotions.
But from where does the composer attain this magical power by
which he so irresistibly controls our hearts? Nature herself must have
endowed him with the basis of this power, as his soul responds to
every kind of sentiment and passion. After all, he can only express
that which he himself keenly feels. The effect of temperament upon
art is illustrated by the cases of two of the most admired composers
in Germany: Graun and Hasse.11 Nature endowed Graun with a soul
full of tenderness, gentleness, and kindness. Although he had mastered
all the secrets of his art, he was most comfortable in expressing tender,
pleasing, and altruistic feelings. More than once Graun failed miserably
when trying to express emotions of boldness, pride, or resolution. On
the other hand, nature endowed Hasse with greater courage, bolder
emotions, and more passionate desires, and he was more successful in
expressing these emotions which were closer to his character than
those that were tender or delicate.
It is important that the artist know himself, and whenever possible
decline undertaking anything contrary to his character. But this is not
always up to him. {272} An epic poet must be able to place himself
in a variety of conflicting emotions in order to portray a character
who is submissive, or perhaps even cowardly, or one who is bold. This
also happens to the composer, who must seek recourse in diligence
and practice when nature refuses him her support.
Here it is appropriate to reiterate what we have recommended in
the previous article to the artist in regard to practice. Beyond this,
the composer must undertake special study of the character of all
passions, and view all men from only this perspective. Every passion
must be seen not simply in respect to its idea, but in respect to its
particular character: voice, register, tempo, and rhetorical accent.
Whoever notices these things can correctly understand a speech even
if he cannot understand the words. The tone betrays joy or pain. In
11 Carl Heinrich Graun (1701-59) andjohann Adolf Hasse (1699-1783) were the two composers
of opera seria most favored by Frederick the Great, and whose works received almost exclusive
royal privilege in Berlin. [C]

the individual notes one can even distinguish intense or moderate

pain, deep-rooted tenderness; strong or mitigated joy. The musician
must apply the greatest care in studying natural expression, for however
much song may differ from speech, it has much that it can learn from
it. Joy is expressed with full tones, a tempo that is not rushed, and
moderate gradations of dynamics and pitch. Sadness expresses itself
more slowly; it wells up from deep within the breast and with subdued
tones. Every sentiment of language has something special about it.
The composer must study and learn these with the greatest care, for
only by this means will he attain correct expression.
Next, he should consider the effects of these various passions upon
ones temperament; the flow of impressions and sentiments. Every
passion is actually a series of moving impressions. This is already
revealed by the phrase we use to express passion: the movement of
emotions [Gemuthsbewegung]. There are passions in which impressions
flow evenly like a gentle brook. There are other passions which flow
onward faster and with more turbulence. In a few, the succession of
impressions rush forward as if a raging stream whose banks are swollen
after a heavy rain, sweeping away everything that stands in its way.
Sometimes the feelings caused by these impressions are like the wild
sea crashing before the shore, retreating back only to surge forth again
with renewed strength.
Music is perfectly suited to portraying all kinds of these movements
and making them sensible to the soul via the ear. But this can only
be done if the composer is sufficiently accomplished and possesses
enough knowledge to imitate these movements in harmony and
melody. If he is not lacking in talent, he will find numerous means
available for this purpose. These means are: (1) The basic progression
of harmony without regard to meter. This harmony should be light
and unconstrained so to express gentle and pleasant affections. One
should not find too many intricacies or ponderous suspensions.
However, to express violent or other vehement affections, the har-
monic progressions should be interrupted by modulations to distant
keys; {273} there should be greater intricacy, the use of many unusual
dissonances, and quickly-resolving suspensions; (2) Meter, by which
the general character of every kind of movement may be imitated;
(3) Melody and rhythm, which are themselves capable of portraying
the language of all emotions; (4) Changes in the dynamics of notes,
which may contribute much to expression; (5) The accompaniment

Aesthetic foundations: musical expression 53
and particularly the choice and mixture of accompanying instruments;

And finally, (6) Modulation to, and digression in, foreign keys.
The composer must carefully think about each one of these,
weighing critically the effect of any changes. In this way he will be
in a position to express every passion with the utmost precision and
energy. We have examples of passions that differ from one another in
only the smallest gradation, yet which prove to be no obstacle in the
art of music. One such example, found in Graun s comic opera Europa
Galante, is the aria "Dalle labbre del mio Bene." The qualities of
tenderness and authority are combined, expressing perfectly the
character of an Ottoman Seraglio. This is a wonderful proof of musics
capacity to express the most nuanced emotions.
But even Graun and other composers of the first rank will often
be found committing errors of expression, proving the need for the
greatest care and diligence in order to achieve the most perfect
expressiveness. We thus exhort all who seek to attain what is most
essential in art to take careful note of the preceding remarks as well
as what follows.
Every composition, whether it is vocal or instrumental, should
possess a definite character and be able to arouse specific sentiments
in the minds of listeners. It would be foolish of the composer to
begin composing without having established the character of his work.
He must know whether the language he will set down is that of a
man who is proud or humble, courageous or timid, master or servant,
tender or tempestuous. Even if he stumbles upon his theme by chance,
or he arbitrarily selects it, he must still examine its character carefully
so that he can sustain it while composing.
Having established the character of the piece, the composer must
next place himself in the emotional state to which he would wish to
bring others.12 The best thing to do would be to imagine some event,
situation, or state which highlights most naturally what he wishes to
present. When his imaginative forces have been sufficiently fired up,
he should begin working, being on guard against mixing any musical
period or figure that is inconsistent with the character of his piece.
Many composers are often seduced by a fondness of certain pleasant
sounding and expressive musical ideas into over-repetition. One must
keep in mind that such repetition weakens the expressiveness, and is
12 See note 4, p. 31 above. [C]

appropriate only for certain narrowly-centered sentiments and passions.

{274} But there are other emotions in which ones impressions are
always changing, sometimes becoming stronger, sometimes weaker, or
sometimes transforming by degrees into something entirely different.
In such cases, the frequent repetition of the same expressive idea is
unnatural.
If the composer is to set in song some pre-existing text, he must
first contemplate what is the true spirit and character of the words,
as well as the essential mood in which such a text would be delivered
as a speech. He would consider the circumstances and intentions of
the speaker in order that he might determine the general character
of the song. He would choose the best key, the most appropriate
meter and rhythms that reflect the emotions, and intervals that are
naturally suited to the ebb and flow of the emotions. These charac-
teristics should be maintained through the whole piece, but especially
in those places where the words require particular emphasis. [...]


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Cambridge Books Online

Aesthetics and the Art of Musical Composition in the German Enlightenm

Selected Writings of Johann Georg Sulzer and Heinrich Christoph Koch

Book DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511518348

Online ISBN: 9780511518348

Hardback ISBN: 9780521360357

Paperback ISBN: 9780521035095

I - Aesthetic foundations pp. 25-54

Chapter DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511518348.003

Cambridge University Press

1 AESTHETIC [AESTHETIK] (vol. I, pp. 47-50)

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determine whether taste is inbred or may be acquired through

2 SENTIMENT [EMPFINDUNG] (vol. II, pp. 53-59)

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of good or evil, the pleasing or the repugnant. On the other hand,

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Rome. We would advise no artist to try to work with an eye to all

3 INSPIRATION [BEGEISTERUNG] (vol. I, pp. 349-50)

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through a heightened ability of genius, through the richness, thor-

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4 ORIGINALITY [ORIGINALGEIST] (vol. Ill, pp. 625-28)

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how it comes about that some produce inventions of a totally new

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5 ORDER [ORDNUNG] (vol. Ill, pp. 614-17)

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and laws in this pattern even though it is not a consequence of anyone's

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the things. Order is not simply a consequence, though, of the rules

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comprehend, must always have much simpler rhythms than those of

6 RELATION [VERHALTNISS] (vol. IV, pp. 646-48)

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misrelationship causes. Nothing can be beautiful, then, without

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sizes cannot make a whole when considered together. A town can

7 UNITY [EINHEIT] (vol. II, pp. 26-28)

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us because we cannot determine whether the thing is that which it

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From these remarks, it is easy to see how important to the evaluation

8 VARIETY [MANNIGFALTIGKEIT] (vol. Ill, pp. 361-62)

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9 TASTE (GESCHMAK) (vol. II, pp. 371-73)

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then taste is also something real in our soul to be distinguished from

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The most important, if not the only, function of a perfect musical

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Expression is the soul of music. Without it, music is but an

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the individual notes one can even distinguish intense or moderate

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