Art, art, what is art? Is it copying faithfully a person’s face? A landscape? No, that is machinery. Painting Nature as she is, is not art, it is mechanical genius. The old masters turned out by hand the most perfect models, the most faithful copies of what they saw. That all their paintings are not alike is due to the fact that no two men see the same things the same way. Those old masters were, and their modern followers are, faithful depicters of the actual, but I do not call that art today, because we have outgrown it. It is old, and only the new should live. Creating a picture without models is art. They were successful, those old masters; they filled a place in our life that cannot be filled otherwise, but we have outgrown them. It is a most excellent thing to keep their paintings in the art museums as curiosities for us and for those who will come after us. Their paintings are to us what the alphabet is to the child. We moderns, if so you think of us, express the spirit of the modern time, the twentieth century. And we express it on canvas the way the great composers express it in their music. There is plenty of clear expression and fine enthusiasm in those three paragraphs. * * * * * There is, however, another side to Cubism and one not so easy to understand. Painting color harmonies for the sake of their emotional effect is easy of comprehension. But when the Cubist sets out to convey the impression, not of the surfaces, but of the very substance of things, he is attempting something very different from what has heretofore been considered within the sphere of painting. Possibly he is attempting something painting cannot do. The theory is so abstract and so scientific it comes near paralyzing the art. It is _too coldly logical_ and unemotional to produce great art, for great art is and must be fundamentally _emotional_. Of Picasso, the founder and leading exponent of Cubism, a sympathetic writer says: