You have passed
into the fourth dimension of spatial realization. 'Time is past,' you
shout aloud, and laugh to find yourself on the inside of externality.
Cubism in architecture! Futurism, in very truth!
You visit again the galleries of the New Art, not to scoff, but in
earnest desire for enlightenment as to this thing which is so near to
consciousness and yet so far. You find yourself exclaiming:
'Ah, there is something here
Unfathomed by the cynic's sneer!'
As you gaze at the portrayal so strangely weird in form and color you
ask yourself where have I felt that, seen this, before? Immediately you
are transported in memory to the midst of a crowded street. In the mad
bustle and noise you are conscious only of mechanical power; of speed -
always of speed. Your voice far away - 'The child, oh, the child!' A
swooning sensation. Men's faces as triangles and horses with countless
legs. The chaos of primal forces about youthen darkness.
As the past fuses with the present you awaken to a larger privilege of
life than man now knows. You feel yourself encompassed by truth, vital
and strong. This art, erstwhile so baffling, stands revealed as the
struggle of a superhuman entity for self-expression.
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