I have at hand some of his earlier work along conventional lines, and I have seen tempera drawings of Moroccan scenes that would delight a Whistler, they are so delicate and so filled with subtle charm. Then I have a series of sketches, extending over a number of years, which show the development of his later works. * * * * * He has explained his theories at length in his book, “Ueber das Geistege in der Kunst,”[49] and in numerous articles, notably in “Der Blaue Reiter.” The keynote of the entire modern movement is found in the first sentence of his book, “_Every work of art is the child of its own times._” A man may so steep himself in history and tradition that all he does is reminiscent of the past, but such work marks no progress and such men are negligible factors in the advancement of mankind. It is the man who yields himself to _his times_, who absorbs all there is of good in the _life about him_, who sees everything, feels everything, who mingles with his respect for the achievements of the past a mighty admiration for the triumphs of the present--such a man is a leader among his fellows; brilliant thinker, daring adventurer, he blazes the way for the timid to follow. If we were Greeks of the fifth century we would carve the marbles they did. If we were Romans under the Caesars we would build the buildings they built. If we were Christians of the middle ages we would rear cathedrals. If we were English, French, German, Chinese, or Japanese, we would do the things they do, like the things they like. But we are none of these peoples; we are Americans living in an age of steam and electricity, of automobiles and aeroplanes, in an age of kaleidoscopic changes, of marvelous and startling developments. What _must_ happen in painting, music, sculpture? Exactly what has happened in architecture. Painting, music, sculpture that will go with our mighty steel buildings, with our factories and railroads. Painting, music, sculpture varied in form, as old and as new as the brain of man can conceive, but always and essentially _our own_. That is the secret, it must be characteristic of our age--_our own_. * * * * * This is not a placid age. It is an age of feverish activities, brilliant imaginings, profound emotions. Hence our art will not be placid, but will be an art of the imagination and the emotions. Venturesome souls will not be content to paint things, or even people, but they will paint _themselves_, not their _outer_ selves, but their _inner_; they will put on canvas what they _feel_. That is as near the final word in art as man can utter--to _paint_ instead of _speak_ his most subtle emotions. * * * * * In a recent article[50] Kandinsky summarises part of his theory as follows: A work of art consists of two elements, the _inner_ and the _outer_.