In fact, in the organization of space, music and poetry have an extraordinary freedom of action, while music has unlimited freedom. They can and do make spaces absolutely anything. But this is because half or even more of the creative work, and at the same time the difficulties of the artist, are shifted by the artist from himself to his listener. The poet gives a formula for a certain space and invites the listener or reader to imagine specific images by which this space should be manifested. This is a multifaceted task, allowing for different shades, and the author disclaims responsibility if his reader fails to find a solution that is sufficiently illustrative. Great works of poetry, such as the poems of Homer, Shakespeare's dramas, The Divine Comedy, Faust and others, require extraordinary efforts and enormous co-creation from the reader so that the space of each of them is really represented in the imagination quite clearly and holistically. The imagination of the ordinary reader cannot cope with these spaces, which are too rich and intricately organized for it, and the spaces in the mind of such a reader are divided into separate, unrelated areas. The material of poetry, words, is too little sensuously dense not to submit to any thought of the poet; but precisely for this reason he is not able to exert enough pressure on the reader's imagination to force it to reproduce what the poet thinks. The reader retains too much freedom, the unity of space in the work can easily sound to him an abstract formula, similar to the formula of science.

Music uses material that is even less bound by external necessity, still more amenable to any wave of the creative will. Sounds are infinitely malleable and are capable of imprinting the space of any structure. But precisely for this reason a piece of music leaves the listener the greatest degree of freedom and, like algebra, provides formulas capable of being filled with contents that are almost infinitely diverse. The task facing the listener of music allows for many solutions and, consequently, poses corresponding difficulties for the listener to choose the best one. The composer is free in his ideas, because his material has no firmness in it; But for this very reason it is not in the power of the composer to force his listener to carry out images and the corresponding organization of space in a certain sense: a significant part of co-creation lies with the performer of a musical work and then with the listener. Like science and philosophy, music requires a significant share of the listener's activity, although less than they do.

XXIV

Theatre, on the contrary, least assumes the activity of the spectator and least allows diversity in the perception of its productions. This is an inferior art, which does not respect those whom it serves, and does not seek artistic consciousness in them. And it does not respect itself, being given to the viewer without difficulty and without amateurism. This passivity of the spectator is possible here because of the rigidity of the material, its sensual saturation, which holds with the greatest definiteness and sensual impossibility, the form that the totality of the actors of the stage, from the poet and the musician to the crowbar, managed to impose on him. But it is not always possible to superimpose on this persistent material – living people, human voices, the sensual space of the stage – the forms conceived by the playwright or musician, and in most cases it is simply not possible at all. As living bodies, actors are too tightly connected to the space of everyday life to be transported, even temporarily, to another space; In any case, they cannot be transferred to every other space, especially if we take into account that in order to do so they would have to experience something to which they are in fact alien. When Shakespeare in Hamlet shows the reader a theatrical performance, he gives us the space of this theater from the point of view of the audience of that theater — the King, the Queen, Hamlet, etc. And we, the listeners, have no overwhelming difficulty in imagining the space of the main action of Hamlet and in it — the space of the play played there that is isolated and self-contained, but subordinate to the first. But in a theatrical production, at least from this point of view, Hamlet presents insurmountable difficulties: the spectator of the theater hall inevitably sees the stage on the stage from his own point of view, (and) not from the same point of view, the characters in the tragedy, sees it with his own eyes, and not with the eyes of the king, for example. In other words, the power of the impression of Shakespeare's tragedy as such is achieved by the potentiation of space, by the double isolation, before which the reader stops because he identifies himself, for example, with the king. But in a theatrical production, the spectator sees the scene on the stage to a large extent independently, not through the king, but by himself, and the two-degree of space is not given to his consciousness.

In other cases, when the structure of space departs even further from the usual structure, the stage does not allow such a reorganization of its space, and apart from claims, the actor of the stage does not manifest anything and, most importantly, cannot manifest it. Such, for example, are visions, apparitions, ghosts. Their spaces are subject to very special laws and do not allow coordination with the images of everyday space. Meanwhile, the sensual density of such phenomena on the stage necessarily correlates them with ordinary space, and the ghost remains only a person in disguise. When it is necessary to show the peculiarity of the space of the drama, for example, in Faust, the actors of the stage, under the pretext of being unstaged, save themselves from the corresponding difficulties by cutting the drama into pieces and throwing out the most essential, which gives spatial unity to the work. In these transitions it is often the most important, but in fact it is not theatrical, not in the sense of uninterestingness, but because of the powerlessness of the stage to organize itself spatially, as the poet demands. In reading Faust, I can imagine a space at first comparatively close to the ordinary, and then, through the realm of the Mothers, passing into something quite different. But if this transition through the kingdom of mothers were omitted on the stage, then absolutely nothing would remain of Faust as an artistic whole. Meanwhile, this transition could be shown only to a theurgist or a magician, by no means to a director. Or here is "The Temptation of St. Anthony". If they had decided to stage this work by Flaubert, then nothing would have come out except a funny ballet. After all, the whole essence of "Temptation" is the gradual transformation of space, from closed, very capacious, saturated and whole, into expanding, empty, indifferent, in the gradual erosion of existence by emptiness, chaos and death. In short, it is an artistically visual image of the Modern Age. In order to show such a transformation on the stage, it would be necessary to gradually reduce the size of the actor playing Antony, as well as the size of the whole setting, and already close to the beginning of such a play, both Antony and all the everyday objects known to us would have to be drawn to a point. As long as Anthony is seen as commensurate with the surrounding space, he will remain the measure of it, and of its directions and its scale; Consequently, the result will be a Euclidean canto-astronomical space, i.e., the staging of the play will not succeed.

A great deal can be said about this sensual rigidity and immobility of the stage, but what has been said is enough to understand the contrast between theatre, music and poetry. Architecture and sculpture have a certain affinity with the theatre, although, of course, the stubbornness of their material is incomparably less than that of the theatre.

XXV

In the middle between these and other activities stands painting with graphics, avoiding the difficulties of both poles of artistic culture and at the same time participating, at least in the organization of space, in the advantages of both poles. Is it not for this reason that the painter and the graphic artist are primarily called artists, and for their everyday use seem to be subdivided, that the epithets "artist" and "artistic" refer to drawing and depiction with paints, as if a musician, poet, sculptor, architect cannot be understood under the general concept of an artist? This, however, excessive narrowing of the concepts of "artist" and "work of art" testifies to the fact that, according to general recognition, painting and graphics most vividly and fully represent all art.

Indeed, the material of these related arts is not objective in itself and is devoid of its own form, perceptible to the naked eye. It is an almost indifferent possibility of becoming all that will be demanded of him, without resting his own form against the organization imposed on the material by the artist. As a word or a sound taken separately, paint and ink in themselves do not yet express almost anything, almost like a sound or a word. The intrinsic effect of these materials is almost zero; moreover, ink or pencil has even less than paint. Thus, being extremely abstract, these materials, nothing or almost nothing in themselves, can become everything or almost everything. In this respect, painting and graphics are close to poetry and music. But, on the other hand, painting and graphics, to a greater or lesser extent, provide images in which we recognize objects of the external world, known to us not only as visual images, but also for their functions, and therefore in their own way connecting our imagination and not allowing it to wander in uncertainty. In this sensual clarity, painting and graphics differ from algebraic polysemy in music and partly in poetry, and are close to the coercive power over the spectator of the theater.

In this way, the painter and the graphic artist not only demand from the spectator, but also give him, and give him, not already known to him, a sensual image, even if distorted, but not transformed as in the theater, but really new, enriching and representing the organization of spaces unknown to him.

That is why what is given by the theatre always has a taste of deception, illusion, in spite of the sensual dampness and saturation of everyday elements, which seeps here even apart from the intentions of the stage performer. What is given by music and poetry is perceived as a true reality, but distant, too far from the possibility of direct contact with it. What is given by graphics and painting is evaluated, in the extreme, as a revelation of a truly different reality, which, once we have learned from the artist, we know further in ourselves, because we now see it with our own eyes.

The usual classification of the arts has in mind the material of a given art and the instruments of its use, but does not take into account the work itself from this material and created by means of this tool. Thus, in this classification, the work of painting is a work of brush, and is characterized by the fact that it is made of paints; The peculiarity of an engraving is its cohesion with a chisel, a stichel or a needle, and moreover on wood, metal, etc. In the same way, works of architecture are (of) stone, wood, etc.; works of poetry are made of words. Further subdivisions of the arts are based on a more specific distinction between these materials and working tools. In short, the ingrained classification of the arts takes into account the sensuously material conditions of artistic creation and can be called production.

Meanwhile, art is an activity according to ends, not only as technology in general, but also to a much greater degree; for it is not compelled by the direct necessity of life and breathes the air of freedom, not depressed by concern for tomorrow. Art sets goals for itself and sees the meaning of its existence in the achievement of these latter. Obviously, the realization of these goals should be sought in the very essence of works of art, and, therefore, in the difference in goals is the source of the classification of the arts. Then works of art will be divided into separate categories according to their artistic essence, i.e. precisely as art. In this case, the student does not base himself on information received from the outside about how and from what the work is made, but on what is directly visible, heard, tangible, on what he receives from the work as such. Now he does not look for someone who tells him about the work, but the work itself tells him about itself and indicates where, in what category it should be placed. In a certain sense, it is then immaterial whether this work was made today or thousands of years ago, whether it was created out of self-interest by an artist who has sold his soul, or whether it was brought by angels directly from heaven: the researcher takes into account only what he perceives and is conscious of, and this, perceived and conscious, leads him to further conclusions. The point is in the form-generating goal realized in the artist's work.

The goal of art is to overcome sensual appearance, the naturalistic cortex of the accidental, and to manifest the stable and unchanging, the universally valuable and universally significant in reality. In other words, the artist's goal is to transform reality. But reality is only a special organization of space; And consequently, the task of art is to reorganize space, i.e. to organize it in a new way, to arrange it in its own way. The artistic essence of an object of art is the structure of its space, or the form of its space; and the classification of works of art must first of all bear in mind this form. Naturally, the question arises about the classification that competes (with the one) that we have called production. It is difficult to expect complete identity of the sections of the two classifications, which proceed from principles that do not coincide with each other. But, on the other hand, it is impossible to imagine the indifference of the production conditions of creativity in relation to the form-forming goal. Consequently, there must be some correspondence between the two classifications, and the possibility of a rupture of some industrial artistic groupings is not excluded, with the distribution of the torn into departments, from the point of view of production appearing alien to each other and very distant from each other. Thus, does not poetry fall into divisions, some of which may be related to music, others to architecture, others to painting, and others, finally, to sculpture? Or, in painting, especially fresco painting, rhythm always introduces the spatiality of the musical character, symmetry of the architectural; a very large convexity of volumes, painted but not playing with external light (Picasso, Rousseau)—sculptural spatiality, etc. In short, the classification of objects of art according to their spatiality may lead to regroupings and unexpected divisions and comparisons, although in other cases its categories may well cover the same classifications of production.