Mass Produced Original Paintings The Psychology of Art and An Everyday Aesthetics 1St Ed Edition Martin S Lindauer Full Chapter

Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the
Psychology of Art, and an Everyday

Aesthetics 1st ed. Edition Martin S.
Lindauer
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Mass-Produced Original
Paintings, the Psychology
of Art, and an Everyday
Aesthetics
Martin S. Lindauer
Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the Psychology
of Art, and an Everyday Aesthetics
“Why do so many “unsophisticated” people love the kind of art that critics and
connoisseurs demean – like cheap paintings sold in retail stores? If this kind of
“Hallmark” art is so popular, why have psychologists of art ignored it? A provoca-
tive read that makes us question the sharp divide between “great” and ordinary art.”
—Ellen Winner, Professor of Psychology, Director, Arts and Mind Lab, and Senior
Research Associate, Harvard Project Zero, Boston College, USA. winner@bc.edu.
617 413 7273. Author of How Art Works: A Psychological Exploration.
“Martin Lindauer adds to our understanding of art, art criticism, aesthetics, and
creativity with a unique perspective, namely by examining a kind of everyday art
that you might see in a mall or hotel. This focus on mass produced art eliminates
name recognition as an influence on a viewer’s judgment. Lindauer addresses fas-
cinating questions, including several concerning the impact of expectations based
on the fame of the artist and others concerning the evolution of art. His is a fresh
approach and his thinking, as is true of his other volumes, is provocative and
convincing.”
—Mark A. Runco, PhD. Director of Creativity Research and Programming,
Southern Oregon University, USA. runcom@sou.edu. www.markrunco.com.
Author of Creativity: Theories and themes: Research,
development, and practice.
“Psychologist Martin Lindauer takes factory-produced, mall paintings seriously, a

first for a book length study. Drawing upon evolutionary aesthetics, everyday aes-
thetics, cultural studies, and popular culture studies, and concepts like psychic
closeness, he has gone into malls to conduct empirical research into ordinary peo-
ple’s pictorial preferences. By demonstrating the differences but also the marked
similarities of viewer response to mass versus museum paintings, the book is a
theoretically informed and data-based challenge to modernist aesthetics and elitist
views of museum art.”
—Paul Duncum, Professor Emeritus, University of Illinois, USA, and Adjunct
Professor, University of Tasmania, Australia. duncump@gmail.com.
26 Leslie Street, South Launceston TAS, 7249. AUSTRALIA.
Author of Picture Pedagogy: Visual Culture to Enhance the Curriculum
“Lindauer’s book is unique for its interdisciplinary focus on mass-produced origi-
nal paintings and for advancing a number of controversial issues, including the
importance of originality, creativity, and signature recognition for the casual
observer. The book, supported by original research, expands the boundaries of
aesthetics by including the everyday kind. Lindauer is well qualified, having pub-
lished four books on the arts, literature, aesthetics, and creativity. His work will be
of interest to specialists as well as general readers attracted to the popular arts.”
—Scott Barry Kaufman, PhD. USA. info@scottbarrykaufman.com.
610-256-6144. Host of The Psychology Podcast and author of
Transcend: The New Science of Self-Actualization
“The book raises a host of issues, not only in the meaning of originality by mass-
producing “beauty,” but in raising the question of what may be gained in the dif-
fusion of paintings across mass culture. Here is a new perspective on the growing
interest in the aesthetics of everyday life, as well as engaging social, economic, and
psychological issues of mass-produced art.”
—Arnold Berleant, Professor Philosophy (Emeritus), Long Island
University, USA. ab@contempaesthetiics.org. 207-326-4306.
Author of Aesthetics Beyond the Arts
“Prof. Lindauer’ who has a distinguished career in psychology, has written a book
that is interdisciplinary, ground-breaking, free of jargon and a pleasure to read.
Philosophers of art, aestheticians, psychologists who do empirical aesthetics, soci-
ologists of art, art critics and artists will find that this study of the status of mass-
produced painting within the world of art provides a welcome new perspective.
Lindauer convincingly shows that there IS something of value to what is often
called “kitsch.””
—Thomas Leddy, Professor, Department of Philosophy, San Jose
State University, San Jose, California, USA. thomas.leddy@sjsu.edu.
408-679-4285 A member of the Editorial Board for the online
journal Contemporary Aesthetics, a blog, “Aesthetics Today,” and
author of The Extraordinary in the Ordinary:
The Aesthetics of Everyday Life
Martin S. Lindauer
Mass-Produced
Original Paintings, the
Psychology of Art, and
an Everyday Aesthetics
Martin S. Lindauer
State University of New York
College at Brockport
Brockport, NY, USA
ISBN 978-3-030-51640-6 ISBN 978-3-030-51641-3 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51641-3
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature
Switzerland AG 2020
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
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The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
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Also by Martin S. Lindauer
The expressiveness of perception: Physiognomy reconsidered

Psyche and the literary muses: The contribution of
literary content to scientific psychology.
Aging, creativity, and art
The psychological study of literature
To My Parents, Benj. and Helen,
Who made me feel and think that I was better than I was
and
To public, college, and university libraries and librarians,
my de facto research assistants
Contents
Part I Introduction 1
1 What This Book Is About 3
2 The Characteristics of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 15
Part II Critical Issues 27
3 Can Mass-Produced Original Paintings Be Called Art? 29
4 What’s Wrong with Mass-Produced Original Paintings? 39
5 In Defense of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 53
Part III Two Larger Contexts for Mass-Produced Original

Paintings: The Popular Arts and Evolution 69
6 The Popular Arts 71
7 Historical and Contemporary Approaches to the Popular

Arts 79
ix
x CONTENTS
8 Evolutionary Roots 87
Part IV Studies of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 97
9 An Overview of the Studies 99
10 The Findings105
11 Explanations119
Part V Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the Psychology

of Art, and an Everyday Aesthetics 127
12 The Psychology of Art: A Research Perspective129
13 Mass-Produced Original Paintings and an Everyday

Aesthetics135
14 Conclusions147
Index157
List of Figures
Fig. 1.1 Seascape 6

Fig. 1.2 Watercolor and ink Chinese landscape 7
Fig. 1.3 Stilllife 8
Fig. 1.4 Rustic landscape 8
Fig. 1.5 Street or urban location 9
xi
PART I
Introduction
CHAPTER 1
What This Book Is About
Abstract The book’s coverage is outlined. The reasons for focusing on

the visual arts, popular arts, and paintings not in the collections of art
museums are explained. Mass-produced original paintings are described
along with their importance to art criticism, the psychology of art, and
aesthetics; why they serve as a bridge between the popular and traditional
arts; and how their study interrelates science and the humanities. Noted,
too, is the place of mass-produced paintings in the fine arts, the popular
arts, evolutionary theory, history, cultural studies, aesthetics, and the social
sciences, especially psychology. The advantages of studying mass-produced
originals and their neglect by the artworld are introduced. The author’s
empirical and multidisciplinary approach is emphasized. Mass-produced
paintings are illustrated.
Keywords Mass-produced original paintings • The psychology of art •

Psychological aesthetics • The popular and traditional arts • Science and
the humanities • Multidisciplinary approaches
A sale at a Sears sold 39,000 pieces of art, $120,000 worth, in 10 days,

including 400 in a single day. Over 3000 people were present on each day
of the two-week sale.
(“Art sales in supermarkets,” 1995)
© The Author(s) 2020 3

M. S. Lindauer, Mass-Produced Original Paintings,
the Psychology of Art, and an Everyday Aesthetics,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51641-3_1
4 M. S. LINDAUER
People are interested in if not fascinated by the arts, and not just the
traditional ones: symphonies, ballet, literary classics, and other expressions
of the fine arts. But appealing to many who may know little if anything
about the arts listed above and don’t care to are the popular arts, also
known as commercial, decorative, mass market, and low-brow.1
Nonetheless, they are appreciated by people who rarely if ever attend or
read plays by Shakespeare and literary masterpieces; attend a performance
of Madame Butterfly and operas; sees a Fellini film retrospective in an art
film theater; or visit an art museum. Among the visual varieties of the
popular arts are mass-produced original paintings, the focus of this book.
It seems contradictory, though, to call mass-produced paintings origi-
nal since they imitate if not copy museum works.2 Derivative in subject
matter and style, highly familiar looking, and considered trivial, they are
not “genuine.”3 I’ll have more to say about this apparent conundrum
subsequently.
For now, though, look at the examples of mass-produced original
paintings. Depicted below are five frequent scenes: a seascape, a rustic
landscape, a watercolor and ink Chinese landscape, a street or urban loca-
tion, and a still-life. You may have seen one like these in your home as a
child or in the living room of a relative of a friend, own one now, and have
probably come across examples in motel rooms and other public places.
They raise the following question: Can “assembly-line paintings” be
considered “art” in the same way as masterpieces in museums are called
that? Mass-produced original paintings, despite the apparently clashing
juxtaposition of “mass-produced” and “original,” nonetheless touch on a
number of important questions. Begin with the fact that ordinary people
who don’t know much about art and don’t feel the need to do so, find
them approachable and pleasing, see beauty in them, like and buy these
paintings, and feel pleasure in looking at them. Contrast these attractive
features with the masterpieces in art museums, about which a modicum of
knowledge about art history, criticism, and theory adds to their enjoy-
ment. This raises the question (addressed in the studies reported in this
book) of how much one should know about art in order to appreciate it?
Nothing? A little? One can ask the same question of casual readers, occa-
sional listeners of music, and ordinary audiences of dance, opera, and
theater.
1 WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT 5
Another key question is raised in the course of examining mass-

produced paintings: “What makes a painting liked?” To which one can
add related questions: What makes it good or bad? Creative? Original? Is
the difference between museum and non-museum paintings obvious? Is it
justifiable for scholars and researchers to focus exclusively on “good”
(museum) paintings? If mass-produced originals are poor examples of art,
do they nonetheless deserve serious attention?
One can easily think of many other pertinent questions:
How important is skill compared to a work’s “message,” especially if it is

novel or insightful? Can a painting be decorative as well as inspire? What is
the difference between art that appeals to informed or unsophisticated audi-
ences? Can preferences for art include both high- as well as low-brow tastes?
Are there unexpected similarities between museum-caliber and pedestrian
paintings despite their obvious differences in quality? If so, what are they?
Are the masterpieces in museums the optimum if only basis for an aesthetic
experience?
These questions are addressed directly and indirectly, or partially, along

with others. What is the role of evolution and history in the development
of art, whether traditional (museum-caliber) or popular (mass-produced
original paintings)? What is the impact of signatures on viewers’ evaluation
of a work, especially if they are by recognized artists?
I do not promise definitive answers to these questions, or ones that will
satisfy all readers. How could I, or anyone, given the complexities of art
and the individual tastes of viewers? Experts have discussed these ques-
tions for centuries and have offered many answers. But a consideration of
contentious matters about art within the context of rather ordinary paint-
ings throws some unexpected light on works that hang in museums and
our reactions to them.
6 M. S. LINDAUER
Five examples of mass-produced original paintings
Fig. 1.1 Seascape

Fig. 1.2 Watercolor and ink Chinese landscape

8 M. S. LINDAUER
Fig. 1.3 Stilllife
Fig. 1.4 Rustic landscape

Fig. 1.5 Street or urban location
A close look at mass-produced paintings, as this book does systematically

for the first time, provides a more complete picture of art than is usually
the case: what it is, the audience it attracts, and the reasons for its appeal.
This promise rests on my emphasis on non-elitist and unsophisticated
viewers of rather commonplace paintings, rather than focusing, as most
treatments of art do, on sophisticated audiences of great works. But rather
than sharpening distinctions between the fine and low arts, traditional and
popular, high- and low-brow, I emphasize the amorphous and shifting
boundaries between mass-produced and museum paintings.
Mass-produced originals therefore have more significance than meets
the eye. Nonetheless, most academics, scholars, and researchers strongly
object to including them in discussions of art—except to censor, con-
demn, or ridicule them. The low opinion of mass-produced paintings is
reflected by their many negative synonyms: sofa-, factory-, assembly-line-
manufactured-, motel-, and manufactured-art; junk, kitsch, schlock, rub-
bish, and “dreck.”
10 M. S. LINDAUER
However, these labels miss a great deal of what is valuable about mass-
produced original paintings if we ask those who shop for, like, and display
them. What do they see, feel, and think about such works, especially when
compared to museum examples? Are mass-produced paintings really that
bad? The original research reported here (Part IV) examines these ques-
tions, along with the role played by age, gender, art background, and
setting.
In raising these issues, I must make this disclaimer: My expertise is not
in art history, theory, or criticism. To attempt to include what these fields
have written about the questions raised above would take me too far afield
and blur what I am trying to say (and would require much more than a
book-length treatment if not several books). My focus is much more
limited.
I am an empirically grounded (research-oriented) psychologist who
studies perception and the arts. I emphasize subjective and personal reac-
tions, observe people’s behavior, and obtain self-reports along with objec-
tive measures: ratings, checklists, questionnaires. These are completed
under standard conditions and carefully planned procedures. I concen-
trate on facts, the evidence.
But I recognize that a “hard-headed” approach of the sort outlined
above is not sufficient when it comes to the arts. Needed, too, is a qualita-
tive context, a framework, in which to place statistical data. That comes
from scholarly discussions of both the traditional and popular arts in the
humanities: history, philosophy, and popular culture. Additional contexts
are sociology and psychology, theoretical and research-oriented, evolu-
tionary arguments, and neuroscience. In short, I take a multidisciplinary
approach. The relationship between art and science need not be one of “a
conflict between cultures” (Chap. 14).
Aside from taking multiple perspectives, mass-produced original paint-
ings are examined along the following lines: their predominant subject
matter and colors; the artists and their production methods; their cost,
buyers, and sales outlets; and their evaluation in different settings by shop-
pers who differ in age, gender, and art background (Part IV). The primary
questions are these: Are mass-produced originals liked and, if so, to what
extent? How do they compare with museum paintings? What are the simi-
larities as well as differences between the two kinds of paintings?
Criticisms of mass-produced paintings are presented and addressed
(Part II). Covered, too, are the advantages of studying mass-produced
paintings compared to relying solely on museum examples.
Discursive and empirical coverage, as outlined above, demonstrate that

mass-produced original paintings are much more than clichés, mere wall
decorations. They have a more important place and significance than is
apparent, especially when professional biases favor museum works and the
high arts. A serious, thoughtful, and in-depth consideration of mass-
produced paintings, as I will argue, challenges the accepted wisdom of the
artworld of historians, critics, and curators; expands the scope of the psy-
chology of art; and broadens the meaning of aesthetics.
I have concentrated on one popular art: paintings. Other popular forms
are found in literature (e.g., the Jack Reacher adventure series), music (the
Beatles), and others (line dancing, for instance). But paintings stand out
because we live in a world in which visual depictions are prominent. The
movies, TV, computer screens, and advertisements are ubiquitous. “Mass
culture is traditionally characterized by the dominance of images, and in
this sense most mass culture can be understood as an appeal to the visual”
(Bermingham, 2006, p. 5; see also Taylor & Ballengee-Morris, 2003).
Paintings also have several advantages over other popular forms. Their
content is concrete, direct, and immediate. “A picture is worth a thousand
words.” A visual representation is equivalent or close to reality, closely
resembling a physical person, object, and place. Subject matter can usually
be captured by a fairly quick glance (although the underlying “message”
might take a bit longer). A quick look is usually sufficient to attract and
capture a viewer’s interest—or not. Within a millisecond or two, a decision
is made: Does the painting appeal to me or not, worth looking at or walk-
ing away?
A painting, moreover, hangs continuously on a wall in front of a viewer,
on a page in a book, or on the screen of a computer. It stays put, stationary,
and can therefore be continuously observed. Paintings, a stationary surface,
are read into and viewers can project and express their feelings and thoughts.
Furthermore, the words “paintings” and “painter” are often synonyms
(often implicitly) for art and artist. Paintings also frequently illustrate high
culture and high-brow tastes as well as discussions of originality, creativity,
and aesthetics. In addition, no special place is required to display a paint-
ing (aside from a wall in an art museum). Nor does it require traveling to
a place in a distant location in a remote part of a city; almost any location
with a wall (or bookshelf) at home or in a library will do. Paintings are also
easily photographed, reproduced, and stored in digital form.
Contrast these advantages with two other prime examples of the visual
arts, TV, and the movies. They, along with theater, require 30 minutes to
12 M. S. LINDAUER
a few hours to be looked at. Music takes even more time to run its course.
A literary work spans days or weeks to read.
Paintings therefore have a special and unique place. But why popular
paintings, mass-produced originals in particular? Alone among the popu-
lar arts, they mimic a traditional art form—museum paintings—in subject
matter and style; they look familiar. As such, less challenging than master-
pieces in museums, they are not as demanding, provoking, and stimulat-
ing, but more obvious. More easily understood, mass-produced paintings
are therefore more accessible to the general public than museum works.
They are more available, too, since they can be readily purchased in retail
outlets, often conveniently located in malls. Inexpensive, they are also
affordable, often less than $100 for a small canvas.
But the major factor in their favor is their similarity to museum paint-
ings. The overlap between the two serves as a bridge between cheap and
great paintings despite vast differences in quality and price. The overlap
between the popular and traditional arts, the low- and high-brow, also
reveals some unexpected parallels between mass and elitist tastes in the arts
and between unsophisticated and sophisticated arts audiences.
A cautionary note: I have relied on several frameworks to contextualize
mass-produced original paintings: art, history, popular culture, aesthetics,
science, evolution, psychology, and more. Each of these subjects is a major
field of scholarly and empirical study, requiring and deserving a book of its
own (as has already been done many times over).4 However, given the
space available, the patience of the reader, and my specialization as an
experimental psychologist, these major subjects can only be sketched in.
Much of art, and the questions it raises, cannot be pursued in this book.
That would take me too far afield from my narrower concerns. (Nor am I
qualified to act as an art critic or theorist.)
A great deal is thereby omitted or slighted, as experts in the aforemen-
tioned fields will be quick to point out. Interested readers are encouraged
to refer to the Endnotes and the cited references in the text for informa-
tion on areas slighted or secondary to my main focus. So much for pre-
liminary matters. Mass-produced originals paintings are described more
fully next.
Notes
1. The terms high- and low-brow originated in the nineteenth century’s dis-
credited pseudoscience known as phrenology, where high foreheads (brows)
were a sign of intelligence. The terms are also sometimes associated with the
letters “U” and “Non-U,” where the “U” stands for upper class.
2. A “copy” is not necessarily a shortcoming. As many as 200 or more prints,
for example, are made of the same subject (and numbered) yet each is
accepted as equal in merit (and price).
3. Not all mass-produced paintings look like museum art. Included are por-
traits of Elvis, sports figures, celebrities (real or imagined), ferocious-looking
tigers on black velvet, malnourished-looking but appealing children with big
eyes, and religious subjects.
4. When the research for this book began, the citation format for items
retrieved from the internet was not yet established. Hence, many internet
citations to which I refer do not have the dates on which they were retrieved.
However, all were accessed from 2016 on.
Another bibliographic matter. It was occasionally a necessity to cite a large
number of references. Rather than embed so many in the text, as is usually
done (at least when using APA style) and which I follow when the citations
are relatively few, detracts from the passage’s readability. In a few cases, I
have therefore listed references, when numerous, in the Endnotes as an eye-
saving device. I have also, contrary to current practice, included older refer-
ences (published more than five or ten years ago) for historical and other
reasons, such as citing authors who were one of the first to write about some
important aspect of a topic.
References
Art sales in supermarkets (1995). Newsweek, 65 (June 21), 75–78.
Bermingham, A. (2006). Introduction: Nineteenth-century popular arts. Visual
Resources: An International Journal of Documentation, 22, 1–6.
Taylor, P. G., & Ballengee-Morris, C. (2003). Using visual culture to put a con-
temporary “fizz” on the study of pop art. Art Education, 56, 20–24.
CHAPTER 2
The Characteristics of Mass-Produced

Original Paintings
Abstract Mass-produced original paintings are described, including

where and how they are produced; their subject matter, artists, and buy-
ers; outlets; and prices. The work of several well-known popular artists is
described (e.g., Thomas Kinkade), as are the anonymous Chinese artists of
Dafen village as well as internet artists. The justification for treating mass-
produced paintings as originals is discussed.
Keywords Mass-produced original paintings • Dafen village, China •

Thomas Kinkade • Internet artists • Originality
How can mass-produced original paintings be called original, a question

touched on in the introductory chapter. The same subjects (sunsets,
beaches, boulevards) are done over and over again in the hundreds if not
thousands (or more). However, each painting is a little different. Several
artists work on the canvases; they change, become fatigued, are inter-
rupted, and distractions occur. The paintings are also done at different
times and places. Purposeful changes are made, too, in order to make a
painting more pleasing to customers; some works are customized accord-
ing to buyers’ instructions. Artists, unconcerned about exactness, brighten
colors, thicken brushstrokes, and change the scale or perspective. Made-
to-order paintings are also tailored to meet the color schemes of interior

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51641-3_2
16 M. S. LINDAUER
designers (Tinari, 2007, p. 344). Thus, multiple copies with the same
subject can legitimately be called “originals” because they vary from one
another. In recognition of this ambiguity and its possible abuse, a
Massachusetts law protected buyers by requiring a work that is truly origi-
nal to be labeled “independently created and signed by the individual
artist.”1
A mass-produced painting’s credibility as original, genuine, and unique
is enhanced by a signature, often illegible. In addition, a slavish application
of thick and textured pigments is used (impasto); brushstrokes are obvious
(“painterly”); and surfaces are uneven with blemishes (antiqued). To
affirm a painting’s authenticity, prospective buyers are allowed if not
encouraged to hold up, re-orient, and touch it.
Subject matter, typically, is representational: realistic, pictorial, figural.
Landscapes, for example, imitate the Hudson Valley scenery of upstate
New York’s mountainous area. Typically done in the style of Romanticism,
the emphasis is on scenes from nature that evoke feelings and imagination
(see Fig. 1.2). Mimicked, too, are museum paintings of valleys, lakes,
woods, mountains, waterfalls, and sunsets similar to those by recognized
artists (Thomas Cole, Albert Bierstadt, Asher Brown Durand, Frederic
Edwin Church). The allegorical landscapes of night skies, morning mists,
barren trees, and ruins, in the manner of the German painter Albert
Bierstadt, are also favored. Still-lifes depict impossibly luscious fruits,
unrealistically gorgeous flowers, and appetizing-looking fish and game
(see Fig. 1.3). In general, scenes are bland, photographic-like, and not
radical in content or style.
A goodly number are similar to paintings by artists of the French salons
of the nineteenth century that conformed to the official criteria of the
established authorities (the academy). The salons—gathering places for
intellectuals, artists, and the leading figures of society—were influential in
training, monitoring, fostering, and exhibiting works of art (as well as lit-
erature and language) with the goal of protecting French culture. They
encouraged what they considered respectable works, usually classical, his-
torical, allegorical, and mythological while censoring radical examples.
Subjects are also frequently of foreign-looking (Parisian) streets and
cafe life (see Fig. 1.5); the canals of Venice; pastoral scenes of farms and
streams; fields of grass and trees with snow-capped mountains and valleys
in the distance; sunsets; a rowboat on a beach framed by a lighthouse; and
a calm (or rough) sea with a sailing ship racing nearby or at a distance.
Pictured, too, are generic cowboys, romanticized Indians (see Fig. 1.4),
and muscled horses galloping wildly across an idealized Western plain.
2 THE CHARACTERISTICS OF MASS-PRODUCED ORIGINAL PAINTINGS 17
Portraits are of impressive-looking (but unknown) dignitaries.

Impressionistic works portray washed-out and rainy urban scenes with
crowds, boulevards, parks, street scenes, and cafe life (see Fig. 1.5).
“Oriental” or Chinese-style paintings have broad and rough brushstrokes
(see Fig. 1.1). In short, the contents and treatments of mass-produced
original paintings are the clichés of (mostly) Western art.
Predominant colors are of special interest because shoppers choose
paintings that “go with” or match the rugs, furniture, and walls in a room
of their home. Colors vary with genre. Seascapes are primarily blues and
whites; landscapes are dark browns and deep greens; still-lifes favor soft
and light colors, like pink; and cityscapes are grays in washed-out dark
shades and blacks.
Shoppers are generally middle-class, the petit-bourgeois, ordinary peo-
ple. Unembarrassed by buying cheaply priced art by unknown artists in
retail outlets, they do not apologize for hanging “bargain-priced” paint-
ings in their living rooms. Instead, they are likely to boast about the “steal”
they got. Buyers do not reflect the values and ideals of the upper-middle
to upper classes and certainly not the wealthy, who buy paintings by rec-
ognized artists, hold them as investments, and donate them to museums
(Golden, 1974).
Mass-produced original paintings are not only purchased by homeown-
ers for living rooms. They are also bought by motels and hotels; by restau-
rants; for the foyers of upscale apartment houses and the entrances,
lobbies, and corridors of buildings and institutions; to decorate reception
areas and waiting rooms of hospitals and other public areas; and to fill the
corridors and offices of businesses and industries. Choices may be appro-
priate to a locale, reflect the clientele of an establishment, and owners’
preferences for pastoral, hunting, or industrial scenes. The walls of one
fast-food McDonald’s, for example, had depictions of nature that empha-
sized ruggedness and masculinity (Huddleston, 1978).
Architects budget mass-produced paintings for new buildings in the
same way they do heating and air-conditioning, at so much a square foot.
Interior designers order generic landscapes and made-to-order works by
the bulk in bales that hold thousands. Low-end art galleries also order
large quantities.
A typical canvas might sell for $100, more or less, depending on its size
and whether a frame and matting are included. Mass-produced paintings
can therefore be purchased by anyone on a tight budget. The average
18 M. S. LINDAUER
price at a Woolworth’s (a large chain of retail stores that went out of busi-
ness in the United States in 1983) was $150.
The paintings are widely available in retail shops that specialize in this
kind of art; outlets in malls and shopping centers; department and furni-
ture stores; souvenir and tourist outlets; and flea markets. Occasional and
temporary sales, advertised in local newspapers, also take place in motels
that attract thousands of shoppers on weekends (Reed, 1965a, 1965b).
Most mass-produced paintings are anonymous or with fictitious names,
produced overseas, and by untrained artists. However, many are by iden-
tifiable artists with recognizable names and sold at exclusive and franchised
galleries. Well known is Thomas Kinkade (d. 2012). (DeCarlo, 1999;
Flegenheimer, 2012; and Pincus, 2004 are a recent sample of the many
references to him.) Kinkade’s paintings are realistic and typically done in
saturated pastel colors with glowing highlights. Kinkade describes himself
as a “painter of light” since many of his canvases portray exaggerated
beams of light streaming out from behind windows as if there were
flames inside.
Mainly pastoral and tranquil, the paintings depict cozy-looking villages,
quaint cottages, colorful gardens, inviting town squares, lush landscapes,
peaceful streams, and snow-covered mountains in the distance. Favored,
too, are Christian themes (churches, crosses) and Biblical subjects. In gen-
eral, they evoke nostalgic and sentimental feelings.
Through the late 1900s and into the early 2000s, Kinkade’s work was
represented by at least 350 independently owned retail franchises from
which fees and commissions totaled $50 million. He also sold through
mail order and online. Apprentices, assistants, and craftsmen worked on,
completed, and touched up his work. Following his death, Kinkade’s
paintings continued to be produced and were signed “Thomas Kinkade
Studio Artists” or “new Kinkade originals.”
His name trademarked and his work licensed, Kinkade’s paintings were
used in celebratory tributes to Disney, Graceland, Yankee Stadium, Fenway
Park, and other notable places as well as events, historic buildings, the
opening of new housing communities, advertisements for the Daytona
and Indianapolis race tracks, and on Hallmark greeting cards and calen-
dars. Kinkade is the author or subject of over 120 books and novels; at
least one film refers to him. He has received many forms of recognition,
including an Artist-of-the-Year award and a place in the California Tourism
Hall of Fame. He has been called “America’s most successful artist.” It is
estimated that 5% of American homes own his work.
Critics, however, call his paintings awful and hideous; commercially

successful kitsch (or kitschy); without substance; and as “chocolate-box”
or “mall art.” In response, Kinkade asserts that his work emphasizes sim-
ple pleasures with life-affirming and moral messages that touch people,
inspire faith, and bring joy into their lives.
Leroy Nieman (d. 2012) is another trained, prolific, and popular
American artist (Grimes, 2012). His paintings of public life and leisure
activities, of athletes, musicians, celebrities, sporting events, and nightlife
are known for their flamboyant and bright colors (“gaudy, bold, bril-
liant”). His style is in the tradition of French Impressionism (think Renoir,
Degas) as well as others (Toulouse-Lautrec, Salvador Dali). Painting
quickly, he produced dozens of paintings a year, some in signed and lim-
ited editions of 250–500 copies. Nieman also worked in many media: oil,
enamel, watercolor, pencil, pastels, serigraphs, lithographs, and etchings.
His work routinely sold in the five-figure range; gross annual sales were
reported to be over $10 million. In 2002, one of his paintings sold for
over $105,000.
Nieman’s work has been entered in competitions, shown at exhibitions,
held in private collections, and hung in several museums. He was on the
faculty of several art schools, received honorary degrees and other awards,
is listed in several Who’s Who, authored many books, sketched on live TV
for an audience of millions, and was an illustrator for Playboy magazine.
Called one of the most popular artists in the United States (Grimes, 2012),
his high name recognition rivals other popular artists like Norman
Rockwell, Grandma Moses, and Andrew Wyeth (whose works are in
museums). Like Kinkade, though, critical respect has passed him by.
Ignored by major critics, his work is dismissed as garish, magazine-like,
and superficial.
Maxfield Parrish (d. 1966), an American painter, falls roughly in the
same group of trained and commercial artists with recognizable names as
Kinkade and Nieman do and with a wide and popular following. He is best
known for his idealized neo-classical imagery, androgynous figures, daz-
zlingly luminous oil colors (“Parrish blue”), and distinctively satu-
rated hues.
Other artists advertise made-to-order “museum quality oil paintings”
on the internet. Customers can order hand-painted reproductions of
famous paintings by choosing a subject from a list of A to Z (abstract, still-
life), by style or movement (Art Nouveau, Surrealism), by best sellers
(Water Lilies), by artist, or by museum holding. Photos can also be
20 M. S. LINDAUER
reproduced. Paintings at the time of this writing cost about $200 with a
money-back guarantee. One artist’s work is touted in the following terms:
Own a museum quality hand-painted masterpiece today at 50–75% below

gallery prices. We specialize in reproductions of famous oil paintings for sale
at affordable prices.
Customers are assured that
our artists stick with the style they are most suited for. Each artist in our
team is adept at different art genres—whether it be abstract, modern, cub-
ism, landscape, folk, expressionism, baroque, greek [sic], renaissance, or
gothic. …. We … replicate the technique used by the original artist. Are the
brush strokes bold or soft? Is the oil liberally applied?
In one ad, an example of the sequence of stages followed by an artist in

producing a Mona Lisa demonstrates a work’s authenticity.
We … get an essence of the original painting. Shadows, density, and con-

trasts in the subjects now begin to appear, while giving texture to each ele-
ment … the original and reproduction should be nearly identical.
Paintings can also be done, some ads note, with signs of age, such as
cracked surfaces. One site boasts that it normally takes 3–4 weeks to com-
plete a painting, of having sold over 7500 paintings since 1997, and that
the work is done in America, not China. To confirm the nationality of the
artists, photos are shown of members of the team, along with their names
and their specialty, for example, “Impressionism.” Free shipping is pro-
vided, too. There are also occasional specials.
Another internet site shows photos of subjects taken by the artist that
can be hand-painted, are museum quality, and reproduced on canvas in
oil, acrylic, or watercolor. The prices at this writing start at about $600
and increase to $1000 and more, depending on the particular subject cho-
sen, its size, and whether framed or not. Prints are cheaper ($60 to $100),
depending on whether they are framed or not; the latter and matting can
be chosen. Subjects available include “Mediterranean, Provence, Tuscany;
Venice; Rustic English Cottages; natural wilderness.”
A mass market for paintings at mid-level pricing is also available on
cruise ships for vacationing tourists. They are promoted as museum
worthy, although not as original or skilled. Paintings at a wide range of

prices are also sold at art fairs, clearinghouses for all kinds of art (Moore,
2012, p. 2447). In 2010, more than 260 major art fairs took place around
the world. The London Frieze Art Fair in 2011, for example, had around
60,000 visitors in four days.
Art galleries serve different economic levels, with offerings ranging
from the mass-produced kind, or close to it, to those bordering or at
museum quality (Crow, 2006). Upscale galleries are located near muse-
ums and in fashionable neighborhoods, like Madison Avenue in New York
City. They sell original paintings by recognized artists that are not as well
known, costly, rare, or original as those in museums. A step below are
boutique art galleries in less exclusive neighborhoods of a city. They dis-
play paintings at more moderate prices and aimed at a wider public. Chic
window displays and elegant interiors imitate the upscale galleries with
more expensive paintings. Further down the economic scale, less posh
than upscale and boutique galleries, are mid-level stores that project a
distinguished look that enhances the credibility of their paintings to buy-
ers with moderate incomes. The Wentworth Gallery, a Miami-based chain
for example, has shops in malls and resort towns. Their main stock is by
artists who are not (yet) listed in Who’s Who biographies and whose works
have not (so far) been purchased by museums. The hope, though, is that
they eventually will (Gibbon & Fitz, 1987). Sold, too, are small originals
and print versions by lesser-known artists at even lower prices for a less
discerning public and with more limited incomes.
A survey of 18 art galleries in and around Chicago reported that they
sold lesser and unknown artists who aspired to have their works installed
in museums one day, as did the gallery owners (Gibbon & Fitz, 1987).
The paintings depicted familiar themes, such as mothers with children and
sports, and were bought primarily to decorate a room in a home. Buyers
and gallery owners hoped the paintings would appreciate in value. The
paintings appealed to shoppers without much knowledge about art,
although gallery owners said their goal was to educate them. The average
price (in the 1980s when the survey was conducted) was $500, although
some sold for as much as $1000. Reproductions in back rooms cost less
than $100.
The galleries were financially successful. Some bought and sold large
lots to corporations, hotel chains, and other galleries; a few published
books on art. They also advertised, promoted, and held exhibitions.
Owners attended art fairs, gave out awards, had signings, and aimed to
22 M. S. LINDAUER
create “stars.” Art was treated like any other business, as a consumer prod-
uct that caters to a large public and aims to make a profit. Gallery owners
maintained that the paintings, although much lower in price and name
recognition than museum paintings, were authentic (read: original)
because they were individually painted and signed by the actual artists.
The owners also believed that the galleries served as potential gateways to
museum art. They also maintained that buying the paintings brought
viewers closer to the creative act, process, object, and person.
Mass-produced paintings of the anonymous kind and produced over-
seas are big business. Sales run into at least hundreds of millions of dollars
a year (Lindauer, 1991a, 1991b; Tinari, 2007). As reported earlier, a sale
at a Sears (in 1962) sold 39,000 pieces of art, $120,000 worth, in 10 days,
including 400 in a single day. Over 3000 people were present on each day
of the two-week sale (“Art sales in supermarkets,” 1995). Numbers like
these, adjusted for inflation, presumably characterize today’s market.
When one considers the cost of materials (paint, wood, canvas, brushes)
and the people involved (one or multiple artists, shipper, middlemen,
frame-maker, retailer) it is hard to see how a profit can be made on pur-
chases that cost so little. Keep in mind, though, that nearly all paintings
are done abroad in art factories where workers receive very low wages.
Mass-produced paintings are generally produced in one of two ways:
one artist does the entire painting or different artists paint various parts
(the sky, the grass, etc.). One group was reported to have as many as 60
crew members producing 500–1000 paintings a week (“Starving artists,”
2001). The total value of the paintings was estimated to be in the hun-
dreds of millions of dollars.
The paintings are produced in Mexico, South Korea, Taiwan, and
Hong Kong (Li, 2014). Most, though, are done in China. Art factories,
sometimes a whole village, employ thousands in hundreds of sweatshops
at very low wages (Reed, 1988; Tinari, 2007). Some 250,000 people in
about 20 Chinese cities, it is estimated, are involved. Art-making is con-
sidered to be like any other industry and a booming one at that.
In the once unimportant village of Dafen and nearby, about 10,000
painters operated in more than 800 galleries (Li, 2014). A bust of
Leonardo da Vinci sits on a main street. The Chinese government offi-
cially named the location “Dafen Oil Painting Village” after investing
about US $4 million to upgrade its product into a national brand.
Different stalls sell seascapes, others specialize in portraits (George
Bush, Osama bin Laden, the Chinese President). Some do copies of works
ranging from Vincent van Gogh to Tamara de Lempicka (an Art Deco
painter). Digitalized photographs are also printed onto canvasses. Higher-
quality works are sent to auction houses, mid-level works go to antique
stores, and the rest to flea markets. (Unclear is who determines which
paintings are of higher quality and where they are consigned.) The reve-
nue from auctions was reported to be over US $8 billion.
A painting is not credited to a specific artist, even if it is signed; the
name that appears is made-up and often not legible. A work does not
spring from an artist’s private life, experiences, motives, or feelings, as is
the case with museum paintings. A mass-produced work does not repre-
sent a creative act, process, or person, at least not in the usual sense of
these terms.
The artists—some would prefer to call them something else, perhaps
producers (or hacks)—are not professionally trained as a rule. They do not
expect (or hope) to display their work in museums or upscale galleries
given their method of production (imitating, copying) and they do not
aspire to achieve fame, fortune, and recognition. The paintings are tar-
geted for a market like any other kind of consumer goods.
The manager of one retail store in the United States (Chap. 10) guessed
that it takes an artist less than an hour to do a painting and is paid about
$10 for a work. An artist might paint up to 30 paintings over a 16-hour
day. One exceptional artist had 5600 works attributed to him in 2011
(compared to “only” 381 in 2000; Barboza, Bowley, Cox, & McGinty,
2013). Over a 20-year span, his work appeared in auctions 27,000 times.
More than 18,000 distinctive works are attributed to him.
Workshops also forge old Chinese masters from earlier centuries. A can-
vas may also be in the style of a known master and called an “original
creation” or “in the style of____.” They command better prices than exact
replicas. (Produced, too, are ceramic and jade pieces and antiquities.) As
might be expected of work done on so large a scale, problems arise. In one
private museum in China, for example, 40,000 “originals” were deter-
mined to be counterfeits of museum art.
The wholesaling of art in China has been explained in several ways.
Copying is generally accepted because students in art schools are taught
by imitating the masters, a practice no longer generally followed in Western
schools. Chinese also venerate the past, including its art. Another possibil-
ity is that the business and collection of art are indirect reactions to the
oppressiveness of the government, a way to sublimate or deflect criticism.
24 M. S. LINDAUER
Mass-produced original paintings are a success story, at least in popular

and commercial terms. But for scholars they raise a number of doubts and
qualms, if not fears. Are mass-produced paintings Art (with a capital or
even a small “a”)? Are they bad art?2 Do they somehow take something
away from our appreciation of “real” (museum) paintings? These and
other objections to mass-produced originals paintings, along with a rebut-
tal and defense, are discussed in the next few chapters (Part II).
Notes
1. Retrieved from https://malegislature.gov/Laws/GeneralLaws/PartI/
TitleXV/Chapter94/Section277C.
2. The term “bad art,” in my opinion, does not apply to mass-produced origi-
nal paintings. The work is skilled, competent, and developed; it does not
look amateurish or awkward. Some works labeled “bad art” ascended to
museum status. Some artists of the nineteenth-century Impressionist move-
ment, for example, were initially criticized for not knowing how to draw.
For a discussion of bad art in the context of museum paintings, see Arnheim,
R. (1974).
References
Arnheim, R. (1974/1954). Art and visual perception. Berkeley, CA: University of
Caliornia Press.
Art sales in supermarkets (1995). Newsweek, 65 (June 21), 75–78.
Barboza, D., Bowley, G., Cox, A., & McGinty, J. C. (2013, October 28). Forging
an art market in China. The New York Times. Retrieved from http://www.
nytimes.com/projects/2013/china-art-fraud
Crow, K. (2006, July 14). Shopping-mall masters. Wall Street Journal
(Eastern ed.). W1.
DeCarlo, T. (1999). Landscapes by the carload: Art or kitsch? The New York
Times, 7(1), 4.
Flegenheimer, M. (2012). Thomas Kinkade, artist to mass market, dies at 54. The
New York Times, 7, A20.
Gibbon, H., & Fitz, M. (1987). From prints to posters: The production of artistic
value in a popular art world. Symbolic Interaction, 10, 111–128.
Golden, A. (1974). The aesthetic ghetto: Some thoughts about public art. Art in
America, 62, 31–33.
Grimes, W. (2012). LeRoy Neiman dies at 91: Artist of bold life and bright can-
vases. The New York Times, 21, A1.
Huddleston, G. (1978). McDonald’s interior decor. Journal of American Culture,

1, 363–369.
Li, V. (2014). Original imitations for sale: Dafen and artistic commodification. Art
History, 37, 728–743. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-8365.12112
Lindauer, M. S. (1991a). Comparisons between mass-produced and museum art.
Empirical Studies of Aesthetics, 9, 11–22.
Lindauer, M. S. (1991b). Mass-produced art: Towards a popular aesthetics.
Journal of Popular Culture, 25, 247–256.
Moore, H. L. (2012). Laughing out loud: Art, culture, and fantasy. Cardozo Law
Review, 33, 2441–2452.
Pincus, R. L. (2004, May 16). Heaven on earth for Kinkade fans. The San Diego
Union-Tribune. Retrieved from http://legacy.sandiegouniontribune.com/
uniontrib/20040516/news_1a16pincus.html
Reed, C. (1965a). Art sales. In supermarkets. Newsweek, 65, 75–78.
Reed, C. (1965b). Originals. The New Yorker, 41, 36–38.
Reed, C. (1988). Off the wall and onto the couch! Sofa art and the avant-garde
analyzed. Smithsonian Studies in American Art, 2, 33–43.
Starving artists. (2001, October 15). The New Yorker digital edition. Retrieved
September 2, 2012, from Archives.newyorker.com
Tinari, P. (2007). Original copies: Philip Tinari on the Dafen oil painting village.
Artforum International, 46, 344–351.
PART II
Critical Issues
CHAPTER 3
Can Mass-Produced Original Paintings

Be Called Art?
Abstract The reasons for considering mass-produced paintings as art are

reviewed, including the ambiguous and changing meanings of art, origi-
nal, and creative. Discussed are changes in the status of art and reputation
of artists over time; the acceptance of forgeries as genuine; the role of
assistants by historical and contemporary artists; the origins and goals of
Pop Art; challenges by Marxists and feminists; and the role of gatekeepers
(critics, historians), investors, and donors in defining what is art and who
is an artist. It is argued that since art has no fixed meaning, various kinds
of art can be placed on a continuum. Mass-produced originals occupy a
place somewhere around the middle.
Keywords Art and artists, definition • Art and artists, ambiguities •

Art, challenges
The artworld—scholars, curators, critics, experts—would most likely

argue that mass-produced original paintings do not deserve the designa-
tion “art.” However, “art” is a rather complex and ambiguous term, since
it can be defined in a number of different ways (Feagin, 2003; Winner,
2018) which makes it difficult to assert that mass-produced paintings are
non-art, or maintain that position unequivocally.
Consider some of the many meanings of art. It is an expression of an
innovative concept, an original idea, an insightful vision. Content or style

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51641-3_3
30 M. S. LINDAUER
can be revolutionary, new, novel, and unique. Art reveals something that
lies behind the work itself. Denis Dutton (2000) takes a broadly cross-
cultural perspective to emphasize the following characteristics: intention-
ally pleasurable; displays skill; has a recognizable style; follows certain
established rules; gives audiences a certain experience in a language or
form that can be judged and appreciated; and has a special and distinct
status that is acknowledged by the public.
The word “art,” aside from definitional matters, has other problems. It
carries a halo of elitism and an aura of superiority that can be off-putting
to some. Authorship and signatures count a great deal, more than they
should, according to others. Anyone can paint an ordinary can of soup,
but it is highly valued and labeled art when Andy Warhol, a famous Pop
artist, does it. Difficult to define and distinguish, too, is art that is called
original, authentic, excellent, and valued. Definitional problems are also
magnified by the difficulty of assigning objective indicators to whatever
terms are used to define art, as well as experts agreeing on their usefulness.
The word art is thorny in additional ways. It is often used as an umbrella
term for many kinds of art: visual, auditory, literary, and performing.
Thus, paintings, music, novels, dance, and theater are all collectively called
art (or the arts). Complicating matter, too, are the numerous sub-divisions
that fall under each of the larger headings listed above. The visual arts
include oils and acrylics; prints; charcoal, black and white, and pencil
drawings; watercolors and pastels; and so on. Each major type and their
sub-types have distinguishable and unique characteristics as well as similar
and common features. Yet one term—art—covers them all. Art is not lim-
ited to paintings in museums, either, but refers to all sorts of activities that
do not involve art, such as the “art” of persuasion.
Adjectives closely associated with art add additional perplexities: origi-
nal or imitative, real or fake, unique or ordinary, good or bad. Art is also
associated with a number of complicated if not controversial topics like
beauty, aesthetics, creativity, merit, skill, and talent.
Associated with art, too, are several contentious issues (Currie, 1985;
Dutton, 2003; Hubard, 2007; Locher, Smith, & Smith, 2001; Locher &
Dolese, 2004; Vermazen, 1991). Who is a (“true”) artist as opposed to an
amateur, hobbyist, or dabbler? What is the place of untrained artists? The
so-called primitive artist Grandma Moses (Anna Mary Robertson) was
self-taught. Marcel Duchamp, a world-class artist, hired a sign painter to
do Tu m’ (1918) (Tinari, 2007). A number of different words are also
3 CAN MASS-PRODUCED ORIGINAL PAINTINGS BE CALLED ART? 31
used to describe recognized artists: genius, prodigy, creative, gifted, tal-

ented, skilled, good, first-rate.
Art can also be a decoration as posters, magazine covers, and advertise-
ments; for enhancing a room’s decor; and for filling a blank space.
Decorative art can eventually become “art,” appreciated aesthetically for
its own sake (e.g., a Toulouse-Lautrec print). The line between decoration
and art is often difficult to draw.
Even more perilous is defining the boundary between original and non-
original. Upscale art galleries sell “duplicate originals” or “original repro-
ductions,” euphemisms for replicas of works by well-known artists. Dali,
for example, painted and signed hundreds of copies of his works that were
in museums and priced them accordingly.
Judgments about what is art also change. What was once considered
acceptable and good varies over time (Kulka, 1996). Mediocre art or
worse becomes museum-worthy while the latter lose favor over the years.
Painters considered great today, like van Gogh, were not so honored in
their time. Conversely, some artists admired in bygone days are largely
unknown and forgotten after their work is reevaluated and placed out of
sight in storage. The seventeenth-century Dutch painters Govert Flinck
and Ferdinand Bol, whose works are highly similar to and often confused
with Rembrandt’s, are mostly unknown today. Caravaggio’s realism in his
time was thought of as vulgar; Monet’s haystacks were unimaginative; and
Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon was lacking in skill. But in time, these
works, initially considered shocking or deficient in some way, became
exemplary, favorites, wanted, and beloved (Moore, 2012, p. 2442).
Kitsch is not a positive way to describe a work of art (Greenberg, 1961).
Yet in other times and places, what we call kitsch today was not so judged.
A pseudo-impressionistic 1980s motel room painting would not be

“schlocky” in the 1880s when the Impressionistic style was a new invention
deemed radical and incomprehensible to viewers—and it might still be both-
ersome in a developing Asian or African context. Given time and familiarity,
our cultural imagination accommodates innovations. (Sheridan & Gardner,
2012, p. 282)
Thus, what is considered kitsch changes over time depending on shifting

tastes and evaluations. The same could be said for art that is called
good or bad.
32 M. S. LINDAUER
More problems. The status of a painting and an artist is not solely (or
primarily, in some cases) determined by the work itself but by whether it is
attributed to a “name” along with an authentic and verifiable signature.
Located in an established venue, like a museum, is another criterion. The
amount of money paid for a work also affects its status.
Forgeries, first-rate copies, or incorrectly attributed paintings, seem-
ingly genuine and highly rated, were once believed to have been done by
Master artists. Experts have been fooled for years if not centuries and
continue to be hoodwinked. Art-savvy dealers of modern art and their
clients were duped for decades by an artist who churned out “Pollocks”
and “Rothkos” that sold for millions (Gopnik, 2013). Pop Art, a highly
accepted kind of art, is a kind of forgery in that it imitates if not copies
the comics.
Rembrandt, as the painter of many works attributed to him, has been a
contentious issue for decades (Alpers, 1989). The authenticity of his paint-
ings is the subject of more articles than many other topics in art history—
including those about his art (Gopnik, 2006). Well-known works, such as
The Polish Rider, The Man with the Golden Helmet, A Girl with a Broom,
Saskia van Uylenburgh, The Wife of the Artist, The Mill, and others long
considered examples of his world-famous paintings have been questioned
as actually his. Hence the title of a show in Amsterdam, “Really
Rembrandt?” (Gopnik, 2006). In 1968, the Dutch government initiated
the “Rembrandt Research Project” in order to determine the real
Rembrandts. The project’s final decisions are not yet finalized as of this
writing—at least in the opinion of many curators and museum-goers—
who have seen their favorite Rembrandts become the work of unknowns.
Another well-known example is Hals’ Portrait of a Man, which was
auctioned for $10 million. Scientific studies, however, proved that it was
not his work, as experts insisted, but a copy. “That confirms, to no one’s
surprise, that the market value was all about the name and provenance of
the work rather than in the beauty” (“Editorial,” 2016, p. A20).
Fakes that look like originals and are accepted as such also raise a ques-
tion about whether great art(ists) have some irreproducible, special, and
unique quality. Surprisingly, though, originality has not always been
prized. In ancient Rome, Greek statues were copied, sometimes even
modified, without any indication on the part of the artist or public that
their meaning or significance mattered if it was not original (Gopnik,
2013). What was important was that its aesthetic value, beauty, and har-
mony were perceived and appreciated. Today, too, the notion of art as
singular and irreproducible is irrelevant for some, especially purchasers of

mass-produced original paintings.
Originality, furthermore, is not necessarily the ultimate defining feature
of art. In the past as well as today, artists like Michelangelo and the con-
temporary painter and sculptor Robert Rauschenberg depended on assis-
tants to complete their work. With some works by Warhol, viewers cannot
tell—and are not supposed to be able to, according to the artist—how
much was actually done by him or by someone in his art factory. Warhol
also occasionally attributed his works to others even though he had actu-
ally done them (Gopnik, 2013).
If art is made or supplemented by someone other than the artist whose
name is on the work, is the work less valuable than a completely solo piece?
A painting attributed to “Rembrandt’s assistants” or “From the workshop
of Rembrandt” has much less value monetarily and perhaps intrinsically
than one with Rembrandt’s signature. Not many investors would buy a
painting signed by “Anon.” Thus, it is often the signature of a celebrated
artist on a canvas that gives it value, attracts viewers, and sells.
The high status and the special place of fine art are also challenged by
some intellectual and social movements. Marxists attacked art for its class
biases and the kinds of people it celebrated: royalty, the powerful, wealthy,
the upper class, the military, and the aristocracy; corporate and business
interests; leisure pursuits; and victories in wars. Largely ignored were
depictions of ordinary people, the proletariat, workers, and laborers.
Similarly, feminists have pointed out that women artists have been
neglected or portrayed in paintings in stereotypical and prejudiced ways.
Art historians are also criticized for celebrating people, events, scenes, and
activities that are important to privileged (white) men. Minorities, too,
point to biases in art.
What is art, and whether it is judged good or bad, also depends on the
prejudices and preconceived notions of those supposedly in the know: art
historians, critics, scholars, curators, dealers, auction houses, and journal-
ists. The art in museums has the seal of approval by experts who decide
what is art or great art. Not included are what the masses accept and like.
Yet, who are the experts? Presumably, they have superior knowledge
and a greater understanding of art. But their credentials vary, depending
on the ties they have to an institution (university or museum, newspaper
or magazine); experience; books written and articles published; and certi-
fication by some official body (guild, art academy, museum). Name recog-
nition also counts. Gilbert Seldes, Dwight Macdonald, and Clement
34 M. S. LINDAUER
Greenberg, for example, are well-known and accepted arbiters. Yet “the
process of identifying the true art expert remains contentious and debat-
able, and as a consequence, so is the construction of knowledge itself in
the art world” (Arora & Vermeylen, 2013, p. 201). The diversity of views
among experts throws the reliability of their judgments about art and art-
ists into some doubt, as the following quote elaborates.
[E]mpirical studies have tended to find statistically significant but rather

weak associations between expert judgment (as a criterion of excellence) and
popular appeal (to ordinary consumers) or market success (with the mass
audience). Specifically, such studies have usually reported correlations [that
account] for an explained variance of less than 10%. (Holbrook & Addis,
2007, p. 415)
As a result, decisions by art experts have been protested, derided, and

rejected by other experts—nonprofessionals, too. The objections of family
members, for example, recently led to successful changes of statues of
President Eisenhower and Martin Luther King, Jr. in Washington, D.C.,
and the National Mall (Coughlin, 1991; Macnaughton, 2007).
Non-artistic considerations also play a part in determining what is art.
These include funding; political implications (statues of Confederate gen-
erals); manipulation by the government and other bodies for non-artistic
purposes, like propaganda; and assigning new meanings and evaluations of
works that were not originally intended.
People also feel intimidated if not threatened by what art experts say
about art in high-falutin language, which acts as a barrier to what audi-
ences may actually experience. Consequently, the public comes to believe
that they don’t know enough about the art they are looking at, only
sophisticated specialists do. In this connection, a letter-writer, D. Gozonsky
(2018), wrote the following response to an Op-Ed piece in The New York
Times entitled “The Classical Music Insecurity Complex.”
People react to art … on a deeply personal level. But when confronted with
labels that use “art-speak,” they are unable to decipher meaning from the
words they read, which only serves to dismay them more. I say trust your
eyes (and your ears) and enjoy the experience [of] a wonderful, visceral
visual experience.
A similar uneasiness casts a shadow over what constitutes good art.

The valuation of art is a nebulous process. The difficulty of defining quality

in the arts is one of the aspects that set cultural products apart from other
goods. … While members of the public no doubt express their opinions on
such matters, it has been conventionally left to the experts to determine the
relevancy of the art in question. Also, even though there is tension between
the economic valorization process by consumers (price) and the evaluations
made by actors in the art world (e.g. by artists, curators, dealers), this is still
limited to buyers who comprise a small minority of the larger masses. (Arora
& Vermeylen, 2013, p. 197)
The psychologist Steven Pinker (1999) has criticized the focus of

experts on the fine arts to the exclusion of the popular kinds.
But to understand the psychology of the arts… we must leave at the door
our terror of being mistaken for the kind of person who prefers Andrew
Lloyd Weber to Mozart. We need to begin with folk songs, pulp fiction, and
paintings in black velvet, not Mahler, Eliot, and Kandinsky. (p. 523)
He adds, “Think ‘motel room,’ not ‘Museum of Modern art’” (p. 526).
Along similar lines, Dutton (2009) begins his book on the evolutionary
basis of art, The art instinct, with a chapter on calendar art.
[C]alendars and the kinds of landscape illustrations that decorate them

across the world. [illustrate] the state of the arts worldwide today. [From
this] we can then look back toward what is known about human evolution
[and] construct a valid picture of … human nature, with its innate interests,
including tastes in entertainment and artistic experience. (pp. 3–4)
A major writer on art and evolution, Ellen Dissanayake (1992), argues

that art is not to be limited to high art or works in art museums that
require specialized intermediaries to explain it. When art is uninvolved
with life, different from other human activities, removed from life and
nature, esoteric and institutionalized, it needs mentors and interpreters,
informed, educated, and elite, to explain it. “Art [in this sense is] a privi-
leged kind of knowledge” (p. 173).
Thus, what makes something “art,” or to be called that, is open to
considerable question. Here is Seven Pinker (1999) again, stating the mat-
ter even more strongly (if not extremely). “[T]he tens of thousands of
scholars and millions of pages of scholarship have shed almost no light on
the question of why people pursue the arts at all. The function of the arts
36 M. S. LINDAUER
is almost defiantly obscure” (pp. 521–522). (Softening Pinker’s point, to

take a few examples, is that we know the effects of major and minor keys
in music, of certain colors and contrasts in paintings, and what the fre-
quent tropes in literature are.)
The variety of viewpoints on what is art, as sketched here, defies any
consensus. “[O]bjective quality assessments [of art] are virtually unattain-
able” (Arora & Vermeylen, 2013, p. 200). Whatever definition is offered,
it needs to be qualified, hedged with reservations, and laced with some
skepticism. More than the intrinsic value of a work, if that, puts it on a wall
in a museum (or on a stage, in a concert hall, or in the literary canon). Art
attracts controversy. Mass-produced paintings are not alone in that regard.
Hence a great deal of uncertainty casts a shadow over the special status
assigned to the art in museums. (So, too, the music heard in concert halls,
the novels in the literary canon, and so on, as well as the high arts in gen-
eral.) The meaning of art, as some fixed and agreed-upon definition, is not
absolute. What’s in a word, indeed? The label “art” is therefore a legiti-
mate matter of debate. The word by itself, out of context, is not self-
explanatory. What makes something “art” can be ambiguous if not
confusing.
The term “art” is therefore open-ended, not limited to certain well-
defined and specific examples that have been historically validated by
knowledgeable bodies. Perhaps for these reasons a definition of art, or at
least one that most can agree on, has baffled scholars for centuries as well
as triggered heated and lengthy debates.
Consequently, some have argued that anything can be called art if it is
based on a consensus of informed and respected authorities who call it
“art” (Becker, 1982; Dante, 1973; Dickie, 1974). However, one might
ask whether consensus is solely the province of experts, itself a matter of
disagreement, as noted earlier.
A definition of art, it therefore seems fair to conclude, albeit provision-
ally (and for some uncomfortably), is not obvious or stringent but chal-
lenging. Questions can therefore be legitimately raised about the certainty,
relevance, and distinction between art, quasi-art, and non-art; between
traditional art and popular art; between fine art and commercial art; and
between high- and low-brow art (Fisher, 2001). Similar doubts apply to
mass-produced original paintings. The many contending points of view
about art therefore require a fluid and open-minded perspective.
The problem of defining art might be minimized (but not resolved) by
relying on a relative or sliding scale on which to place particular examples.
Different kinds of art fall on a continuum, moreover, one subject to

change or modification. The traditional arts, the sort that hangs in muse-
ums (or performed by symphony orchestras, staged by professionals in
legitimate theaters, and the like), are more or less firmly established at the
extreme end of the scale. The non-traditional arts—popular, quasi,
kitsch—fall somewhere at the other end of the scale. The large middle area
is occupied by shifting and ambiguous exemplars. Mass-produced original
paintings probably fall somewhere in the middle of the continuum, closer
to the popular than traditional varieties. A more exact location cannot at
this time be determined since so little scholarly and empirical attention has
been paid to mass-produced paintings.
Perhaps we should turn to the marketplace, to people who buy art for
the home, for their opinions. If we look to the general public, a good case
can be made for including mass-produced original paintings under the
label of art. Not so quickly, say the critics. We turn next to their objections.
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CHAPTER 4
What’s Wrong with Mass-Produced Original

Paintings?
Abstract The shortcomings of mass-produced original paintings, accord-

ing to critics, are discussed. Covered in this chapter are their inferiority to
museum examples, the anonymity of artists, and the unsophistication of
viewers. Offsetting these objections are the deficiencies of museum paint-
ings: the waxing and waning of artists’ reputations, the rushed and over-
whelming nature of museum visits, the power and biases of experts and
donors, the difficulties in appraising art, the selectivity of museum attend-
ees, and the obscurity of modern art.
Keywords Mass-produced original paintings, limitations • Mass-

produced original paintings and museum works, compared • Museum
paintings, shortcomings
No one is called a connoisseur, aficionado, or cognoscenti of mass-

produced original paintings. They won’t be found on the walls of board-
rooms or in the homes of the rich, in upscale art galleries, and definitely
not in museums. Their artists, if called that, are not listed in Who’s Who
compilations and never will be even if their canvases were not anonymous
or had legible signatures (if signed). In short, mass-produced original
paintings are easy to disparage and deserve to be held in low esteem, at
least by experts, if mentioned at all. For critics, mass-produced originals

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-51641-3_4
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And as I thought of Yasma, and gazed at her handiwork, the full
sense of my wretchedness swept over me. Could she really be gone,
mysteriously gone, past any effort of mine to bring her back? Was it
possible that many a long bitter day and cold lonely night would pass
before I could see her again? Or, for that matter, how did I know that
she would ever return?—How attach any hope to her vague
promises? What if she could not keep those promises? What if
calamity should overtake her in her hiding place? She might be ill,
she might be crippled, she might be dead, and I would not even
know it!
While such thoughts blundered through my mind, I tried to keep
occupied by kindling some dry branches and oak logs in the great
open fireplace. But my broodings persisted, and would not be stilled
even after a wavering golden illumination filled the cabin. Outside,
the storm still moaned like a band of driven souls in pain; and the
uncanny fancy came to me that lost spirits were speaking from the
gale; that the spirits of the Ibandru wandered homelessly without,
and that Yasma, even Yasma, might be among them! Old folk
superstitions, tales of men converted into wraiths and of phantoms
that appeared as men, forced themselves upon my imagination; and
I found myself harboring—and, for the moment, almost crediting—
notions as strange as ever disturbed the primitive soul. What if the
Ibandru were not human after all? Or what if, human for half the
year, they roamed the air ghost-like for the other half? Or was it that,
like the Greek Persephone, they must spend six months in the
sunlight and six months in some Plutonian cave?
Preposterous as such questions would formerly have seemed, they
did not impress me as quite absurd as I sat alone on the straw-
covered floor of my log cave, gazing into the flames that smacked
their lean lips rabidly, and listening to the gale that rushed by with a
torrential roaring. Like a child who fears to have strayed into a
goblin's den, I was unnerved and unmercifully the prey of my own
imagination; I could not keep down the thought that there was
something weird about my hosts. Now, as rarely before during my
exile, I was filled with an overpowering longing for home and friends,
for familiar streets, and safe, well-known city haunts; and I could
almost have wept at the impossibility of escape. Except for Yasma—
Yasma, whose gentleness held me more firmly than iron chains—I
would have prayed to leave this dreary wilderness and never return.
Finally, in exhaustion as much of the mind as of the body, I sank
down upon my straw couch, covered myself with my goatskin coat,
and temporarily lost track of the world and its vexations. But even in
sleep I was not to enjoy peace; confused dreams trailed me through
the night; and in one, less blurred than the others, I was again with
Yasma, and felt her kiss upon my cheek, wonderfully sweet and
compassionate, and heard her murmur that I must not be sad or
impatient but must wait for her till the spring. But even as she spoke
a dark form intruded between us, and sealed our lips, and forced her
away until she was no more than a specter in the far distance. And
as in terror I gazed at the dark stranger, I recognized something
familiar about her; and with a cry of alarm, I awoke, for the pose and
features were those of Yulada!
Hours must have passed while I slept; the fire had smoldered low,
and only one red ember, gaping like a raw untended wound, cast its
illumination across the cabin. But through chinks in the walls a faint
gray light was filtering in, and I could no longer hear the wind
clamoring.
An hour or two later I arose, swallowed a handful of dried herbs by
way of breakfast, and forced open the cabin door. It was an altered
world that greeted me; the clouds had rolled away, and the sky,
barely tinged with the last fading pink and buff of dawn, was of a
pale, unruffled blue. But a white sheet covered the ground, and
mantled the roofs of the log huts, and wove fantastic patterns over
the limbs of leafless bushes and trees. All things seemed new-made
and beautiful, yet all were wintry and forlorn—and what a majestic
sight were the encircling peaks! Their craggy shoulders, yesterday
bare and gray and dotted with only an occasional patch of white,
were clothed in immaculate snowy garments, reaching far
heavenward from the upper belts of the pines, whose dark green
seemed powdered with an indistinguishable spray.
But I tried to forget that terrible and hostile splendor; urged by a hope
that gradually flickered and went out, I made a slow round of the
village. At each cabin I paused, peering through the window or
knocking at the unbolted door and entering; and at each cabin I sank
an inch nearer despair. As yet, of course, I had had no proof that I
was altogether abandoned—might there not still be some old man or
woman, some winter-loving hunter or doughty watchman, who had
been left behind until the tribe's return in the spring? But no man,
woman or child stirred in the white spaces between the cabins; no
man, woman or child greeted me in any of the huts.... All was bare
as though untenanted for months; and here an empty earthen pan or
kettle hanging on the wall, there a dozen unshelled nuts forgotten in
a corner, yonder a half-burnt candle or a cracked water jug or
discarded sandal, were the only tokens of recent human occupancy.
It was but natural that I should feel most forlorn upon entering
Yasma's cabin. How mournfully I gazed at the walls her eyes had
beheld a short twenty-four hours before! and at a few scattered trifles
that had been hers! My attention was especially caught by a little
pink wildflower, shaped like a primrose, which hung drooping in a
waterless jar; and the odd fancy came to me that this was like
Yasma herself. Tenderly, urged by a sentiment I hardly understood, I
lifted the blossom from the jar, pressed it against my bosom, and
fastened it securely there.
The outside world now seemed bright and genial enough. From
above the eastern peaks the sun beamed generously upon the
windless valley; and there was warmth in his rays as he put the snow
to flight and sent little limpid streams rippling across the fields. But to
me it scarcely mattered whether the sun shone or the gale dashed
by. Now there was an irony in the sunlight, an irony I resented even
as I should have resented the bluster of the storm. Yet, paradoxically,
it was to sunlit nature that I turned for consolation, for what but the
trees and streams and soaring heights could make me see with
broader vision? Scornful of consequences, I plodded through the
slushy ground to the woods; and roaming the wide solitudes, with the
snow and the soggy brown leaves beneath and the almost denuded
branches above, I came to look upon my problems with my first trace
of courage.
"This too will pass," I told myself, using the words of one older and
wiser than I. And I pictured a time when these woods would be here,
and I would not; pictured even a nearer time when I should roam
them with laughter on my lips. What after all were a few months of
solitude amid this magnificent world?
In such a mood I began to warm my flagging spirits and to plan for
the winter. I should have plenty to occupy me; there were still many
cracks and crannies in my cabin wall, which I must fill with clay; there
was still much wood to haul from the forest; there were heavy
garments to make from the skins supplied by the natives; and there
would be my food to prepare daily from my hoard in the cabin, and
my water to be drawn from the stream that flowed to the rear of
village. Besides, I might be able to go on long tours of exploration; I
might amuse myself by examining the mountain strata, and possibly
even make some notable geological observations; and I might
sometime—the thought intruded itself slyly and insidiously—satisfy
my curiosity by climbing to Yulada.
Emboldened by such thoughts, I roamed the woods for hours, and
returned to my cabin determined to battle unflinchingly and to
emerge triumphant.
It will be needless to dwell upon the days that followed. Although the
moments crawled painfully, each week an epoch and each month an
age, very little occurred that is worthy of record. Yet somehow I did
manage to occupy the time—what other course had I, this side of
suicide or madness? As in remembrance of a nightmare, I recall how
sometimes I would toil all the daylight hours to make my cabin snug
and secure; how at other times I would wander across the valley to
the lake shown me by Karem, catching fish with an improvised line,
even though I had first to break through the ice; how, again, I would
idly follow the half-wild goat herds that browsed in remote corners of
the valley; how I would roam the various trails until I had mapped
them all in my mind, and had discovered the only outlet in the
mountains about Sobul—a long, prodigiously deep, torrent-threaded
ravine to the north, which opened into another deserted valley
capped by desolate and serrated snowpeaks. The discovery of this
valley served only to intensify my sense of captivity, for it brought me
visions of mountain after mountain, range after range, bleak and
unpopulated, which stretched away in frozen endless succession.
But the days when I could rove the mountains were days of
comparative happiness. Too often the trails, blocked by the deep soft
drifts or the ice-packs, were impassable for one so poorly equipped
as I; and too often the blizzards raged. Besides, the daylight hours
were but few, since the sun-excluding mountain masses made the
dawn late and the evening early; and often the tedium seemed
unendurable when I sat in my cabin at night, watching the flames
that danced and crackled in the fireplace, and dreaming of Yasma
and the spring, or of things still further away, and old friends and
home. At times, scarcely able to bear the waiting, I would pace back
and forth like a caged beast, back and forth, from the fire to the
woodpile, and from the woodpile to the fire. At other times, more
patient, I would amuse myself by trying to kindle some straw with bits
of flint, or by returning to the ways of my boyhood and whittling sticks
into all manner of grotesque designs. And occasionally, when the
mood was upon me, I would strain my eyes by the flickering log
blaze, confiding my diary to the notebook I had picked up in our old
camp beyond the mountain. For the purposes of this diary, I had but
one pencil, which gradually dwindled to a stub that I could hardly
hold between two fingers—and with the end of the pencil, late in the
winter, the diary also came to a close.
Although this record was written merely as a means of whiling away
the hours and was not intended for other eyes, I find upon opening it
again that it describes my plight more vividly than would be possible
for me after the passage of years; and I am tempted to quote a
typical memorandum.
As I peer at that curiously cramped and tortured handwriting, my
eyes pause at the following:
"Monday, December 29th. Or it may be Tuesday the 30th,
for I fear I have forgotten to mark one of the daily notches
on the cabin walls, by which I keep track of the dates. All
day I was forced to remain in my cabin, for the season's
worst storm was raging. Only once did I leave shelter, and
that was to get water. But the stream was frozen almost
solid, and it was a task to pound my way through the ice
with one of the crude native axes. Meanwhile the gale
beat me in the face till my cheeks were raw; the snow
came down in a mist of pellets that half blinded me; and a
chill crept through my clothes till my very skin seemed
bared to the ice-blast. I was fifteen minutes in thawing
after I had crept back to the cabin. But even within the
cabin there seemed no way to keep warm, for the wind
rushed in through cracks that I could not quite fill; and the
fire, though I heaped it with fuel, was feeble against the
elemental fury outside.
"But the cold would be easier to bear than the loneliness.
There is little to do, almost nothing to do; and I sit
brooding on the cabin floor, or stand brooding near the
fire; and life seems without aim or benefit. Strange
thoughts keep creeping through my mind—visions of a
limp form dangling on a rope from log rafters; or of a half-
buried form that the snow has numbed to forgetfulness.
But always there are other visions to chide and reproach; I
remember a merry day in the woods, when two brown
eyes laughed at me from beneath auburn curls; and I hear
voices that call as if from the future, and see hands that
take mine gently and restrain them from violence. Perhaps
I am growing weak of mind and will, for my emotions flow
like a child's; I would be ashamed to admit—though I
confess it freely enough to the heedless paper—that more
than once, in the long afternoon and the slow dismal
twilight, the tears rolled down from my eyes.
"As I write these words, it is evening—only seven o'clock,
my watch tells me, though I might believe it to be midnight.
The blazes still flare in the fireplace, and I am stretched
full-length on the floor, trying to see by the meager light.
The storm has almost died down; only by fits and starts it
mutters now, like a beast whose frenzy has spent itself.
But other, more ominous sounds fill the air. From time to
time I hear the barking of a jackal, now near, now far;
while louder and more long-drawn and mournful, there
comes at intervals the fierce deep wailing of a wolf,
answered from the remote woods by other wolves, till all
the world seems to resound with a demoniac chorus. Of
all noises I have ever heard, this is to me the most
terrorizing; and though safe within pine walls, I tremble
where I lie by the fire, even as the cave-man may have
done at that same soul-racking sound. I know, of course,
how absurd this is; yet I have pictures of sly slinking feet
that pad silently through the snow, and keen hairy muzzles
that trail my footsteps even to this door, and long gleaming
jaws that open. Only by forcing myself to write can I keep
my mind from such thoughts; but, even so, I shudder
whenever that dismal call comes howling, howling from
the dark, as if with all the concentrated horror and ferocity
in the universe!"
Chapter XII
THE MISTRESS OF THE PEAK
During the long months of solitude I let my gaze travel frequently
toward the southern mountains and Yulada. Like the image of
sardonic destiny, she still stood afar on the peak, aloof and
imperturbable, beckoning and unexplained as always.... And again
she drew me toward her with that inexplicable fascination which had
been my undoing. As when I had first seen her from that other valley
to the south, I felt a curious desire to mount to her, to stand at her
feet, to inspect her closely and lay my hands upon her; and against
that desire neither Yasma's warnings nor my own reason had any
power. She was for me the unknown; she represented the
mysterious, the alluring, the unattained, and all that was most
youthful and alive within me responded to her call.
Yet Yulada was a discreet divinity, and did not offer herself too
readily to the worshipper. Was it that she kept herself deliberately
guarded, careful not to encourage the intruder? So I almost thought
as I made attempt after attempt to reach her. It is true, of course, that
I did not choose the most favorable season; likewise, it is true that I
was exceedingly reckless, for solitary mountain climbing in winter is
hardly a sport for the cautious. But, even so, I could not stamp out
the suspicion that more than natural agencies were retarding me.
My first attempt occurred but a week after Yasma's departure. Most
of the recent snow had melted from the mountain slopes, and the
temperature was so mild that I foresaw no exceptional difficulties. I
had just a qualm, I must admit, about breaking my word to Yasma—
but had the promise not been extorted by unfair pleas? So, at least, I
reasoned; and, having equipped myself with my goatskin coat, with a
revolver and matches, and with food enough to last overnight if need
be, I set out early one morning along one of the trails I had followed
with Karem.
For two hours I advanced rapidly enough, reaching the valley's end
and mounting along a winding path amid pine woods. The air was
brisk and invigorating, the sky blue and clear; scarcely a breeze
stirred, and scarcely a cloud drifted above. From time to time,
through rifts in the foliage, I could catch glimpses of my goal, that
gigantic steel-gray womanly form with hands everlastingly pointed
toward the clouds and the stars. She seemed never to draw nearer,
though my feet did not lag in the effort to reach her; but the day was
still young, and I was confident that long before sunset I should meet
her face to face.
Then suddenly my difficulties began. The trail became stonier and
steeper, though that did not surprise me; the trail became narrower
and occasionally blocked with snow, though that did not surprise me
either; great boulders loomed in my way, and sometimes I had to
crawl at the brink of a ravine, though that again I had expected. But
the real obstacle was not anticipated. Turning a bend in the wooded
trail, I was confronted with a sheer wall of rock, a granite mass
broken at one end by a sort of natural stairway over which it seemed
possible to climb precariously. I remembered how Karem and I had
helped one another up this very ascent, which was by no means the
most difficult on the mountain; but in the past month or two its aspect
had changed alarmingly. A coating of something white and glistening
covered the rock; in places the frosty crystals had the look of a
frozen waterfall, and in places the icicles pointed downward in long
shaggy rows.
Would it be possible to pass? I could not tell, but did not hesitate to
try; and before long I had an answer. I had mounted only a few yards
when my feet gave way, and I went sprawling backward down the
rocky stair. How near I was to destruction I did not know; the first
thing I realized was that I was clinging to the overhanging branch of
a tree, while beneath me gaped an abyss that seemed bottomless.
A much frightened but a soberer man, I pulled myself into the tree,
and climbed back to safety. As I regained the ground, I had a
glimpse of Yulada standing silently far above, with a thin wisp of
vapor across her face, as if to conceal the grim smile that may have
played there. But I had seen enough of her for one day, and slowly
and thoughtfully took my way back to the valley.
From that time forth, and during most of the winter, I had little
opportunity for further assaults upon Yulada. If that thin coat of
November ice had been enough to defeat me, what of the more
stubborn ice of December and the deep drifts of January snow?
Even had there not been prospects of freezing to death among the
bare, wind-beaten crags, I should not have dared to entrust myself to
the trails for fear of wolf-packs. Yet all winter Yulada stared
impassively above, a mockery and a temptation—the only thing in
human form that greeted me during those interminable months!
I shall pass over the eternities between my first attempt upon Yulada
in November and my more resolute efforts in March. But I must not
forget to describe my physical changes. I had grown a bushy brown
beard, which hid my chin and upper lip and spread raggedly over my
face; my hair hung as long and untended as a wild man's; while from
unceasing exertions in the open, my limbs had developed a strength
they had never known before, and I could perform tasks that would
have seemed impossible a few months earlier.
Hence it was with confidence that I awaited the spring. Daily I
scanned the mountains after the first sign of a thaw in the streams; I
noted how streaks and furrows gradually appeared in the white of
the higher slopes; how the gray rocky flanks began to protrude, first
almost imperceptibly, then more boldly, as though casting off an
unwelcome garb, until great mottled patches stood unbared to the
sunlight. Toward the middle of March there came a week of
unseasonably warm days, when the sun shone from a cloudless sky
and a new softness was in the air. And then, when half the winter
apparel of the peaks was disappearing as at a magic touch and the
streams ran full to the brim and the lake overflowed, I decided to pay
my long-postponed visit to Yulada.
Almost exultantly I set forth early one morning. The first stages of the
climb could hardly have been easier; it was as though nature had
prepared the way. The air was clear and stimulating, yet not too cool;
and the comparative warmth had melted the last ice from the lower
rocks. Exhilarated by the exercise, I mounted rapidly over slopes that
would once have been a formidable barrier. Still Yulada loomed afar,
with firm impassive face as always; but I no longer feared her, for
surely, I thought, I should this day touch her with my own hands! As I
strode up and up in the sunlight, I smiled to remember my old
superstitions—what was Yulada after all but a rock, curiously shaped
perhaps, but no more terrifying than any other rock!
Even when I had passed the timber-line, and strode around the blue-
white glaciers at the brink of bare ravines, I still felt an unwonted
bravado. Yulada was drawing nearer, noticeably nearer, her features
clear-cut on the peak—and how could she resist my coming? In my
self-confidence, I almost laughed aloud, almost laughed out a
challenge to that mysterious figure, for certainly the few intervening
miles could not halt me!
So, at least, I thought. But Yulada, if she were capable of thinking,
must have held otherwise. Even had she been endowed with reason
and with omnipotence, she could hardly have made a more terrible
answer to my challenge. I was still plodding up the long, steep
grades, still congratulating myself upon approaching success, when I
began to notice a change in the atmosphere. It was not only that the
air was growing sharper and colder, for that I had expected; it was
that a wind was rising from the northwest, blowing over me with a
wintry violence. In alarm, I glanced back—a stone-gray mass of
clouds was sweeping over the northern mountains, already casting a
shadow across the valley, and threatening to enwrap the entire
heavens.
Too well I recognized the signs—only too well! With panicky speed,
more than once risking a perilous fall, I plunged back over the path I
had so joyously followed. The wind rose till it blew with an almost
cyclonic fury; the clouds swarmed above me, angry and ragged-
edged; Yulada was forgotten amid my dread visions of groping
through a blizzard. Yet once, as I reached a turn in the trail, I caught
a glimpse of her standing far above, her lower limbs overshadowed
by the mists, her head obscured as though thus to mock my temerity.
And what if I did finally return to my cabin safely? Before I had
regained the valley, the snow was whirling about me on the arms of
the high wind, and the whitened earth, the chill air and the
screeching gale had combined to accentuate my sense of defeat.
It might be thought that I would now renounce the quest. But there is
in my nature some stubbornness that only feeds on opposition; and
far from giving up, I watched impatiently till the storm subsided and
the skies were washed blue once more; till the warmer days came
and the new deposits of snow thawed on the mountain slopes. Two
weeks after being routed by the elements, I was again on the trail to
Yulada.
The sky was once more clear and calm; a touch of spring was in the
air, and the sun was warmer than in months. Determined that no
ordinary obstacle should balk me, I trudged with scarcely a pause
along the winding trail; and, before many hours, I had mounted
above the last fringe of the pines and deodars. At last I reached the
point where I had had to turn back two weeks ago; at last I found
myself nearer to the peak than ever before on all my solitary
rambles, and saw the path leading ahead over bare slopes and
around distorted crags toward the great steel-gray figure. The
sweetness of triumph began to flood through my mind as I saw
Yulada take on monstrous proportions, the proportions of a fair-sized
hill; I was exultant as I glanced at the sky, and observed it to be still
serene. There remained one more elevated saddle to be crossed,
then an abrupt but not impossible grade of a few hundred yards—
probably no more than half an hour's exertion, and Yulada and I
should stand together on the peak!
But again the unexpected was to intervene. If I had assumed that no
agency earthly or divine could now keep me from my goal, I had
reckoned without my human frailties. It was a little thing that
betrayed me, and yet a thing that seemed great enough. I had
mounted the rocky saddle and was starting on a short descent
before the final lap, when enthusiasm made me careless. Suddenly I
felt myself slipping!
Fortunately, the fall was not a severe one; after sliding for a few
yards over the stones, I was stopped with a jolt by a protruding rock.
Somewhat dazed, I started to arise ... when a sharp pain in my left
ankle filled me with alarm. What if a tendon had been sprained?
Among these lonely altitudes, that might be a calamity! But when I
attempted to walk, I found my injury not quite so bad as I had feared.
The ankle caused me much pain, yet was not wholly useless; so that
I diagnosed the trouble as a simple strain rather than a sprain.
But there could be no further question of reaching Yulada that day.
With a bitter glance at the disdainful, indomitable mistress of the
peak, I started on my way back to Sobul. And I was exceedingly
lucky to get back at all, for my ankle distressed me more and more
as I plodded downward, and there were moments when it seemed as
if it would not bear me another step.
So slowly did I move that I had to make camp that evening on the
bare slopes at the edge of the forest; and it was not until late the
following day that I re-entered the village. And all during the return
trip, when I lay tossing in the glow of the campfire, or when I clung to
the wall-like ledges in hazardous descents, I was obsessed by
strange thoughts; and in my dreams that night I saw a huge taunting
face, singularly like Yulada's, which mocked me that I should match
my might against the mountain's.
Chapter XIII
THE BIRDS FLY NORTH
It was with a flaming expectation and a growing joy that I watched
the spring gradually burst into blossom. The appearance of the first
green grass, the unfolding of the pale yellowish leaves on the trees,
the budding of the earliest wildflowers and the cloudy pink and white
of the orchards, were as successive signals from a new world. And
the clear bright skies, the fresh gentle breezes, and the birds
twittering from unseen branches, all seemed to join in murmuring the
same refrain: the warmer days were coming, the days of my
deliverance! Soon, very soon, the Ibandru would be back! And
among the Ibandru I should see Yasma!
Every morning now I awakened with reborn hope; and every
morning, and all the day, I would go ambling about the village,
peering into the deserted huts and glancing toward the woods for
sign of some welcome returning figure. But at first all my waiting
seemed of no avail. The Ibandru did not return; and in the evening I
would slouch back to my cabin in dejection that would always make
way for new hope. Day after day passed thus; and meantime the last
traces of winter were vanishing, the fields became dotted with
waving rose-red and violet and pale lemon tints; the deciduous trees
were taking on a sturdier green; insects began to chirp and murmur
in many a reviving chorus; and the woods seemed more thickly
populated with winged singers.
And while I waited and still waited, insidious fears crept into my
mind. Could it be that the Ibandru would not return at all?—that
Yasma had vanished forever, like the enchanted princess of a fairy
tale?
But after I had tormented myself to the utmost, a veil was suddenly
lifted.
One clear day in mid-April I had strolled toward the woods, forgetting
my sorrows in contemplating the green spectacle of the valley.
Suddenly my attention was attracted by a swift-moving triangle of
black dots, which came winging across the mountains from beyond
Yulada, approaching with great speed and disappearing above the
white-tipped opposite ranges. I do not know why, but these birds—
the first I had observed flying north—filled me with an unreasonable
hope; long after they were out of sight I stood staring at the blue sky
into which they had faded, as though somehow it held the secret at
which I clutched.
I was aroused from my reveries by the startled feeling that I was no
longer alone. At first there was no clear reason for this impression; it
was as though I had been informed by some vague super-sense.
Awakened to reality, I peered into the thickets, peered up at the sky,
scanned the trees and the earth alertly—but there was no sight or
sound to confirm my suspicions. Minutes passed, and still I waited,
expectant of some unusual event....
And then, while wonder kept pace with impatience, I thought I heard
a faint rustling in the woods. I was not sure, but I listened intently....
Again the rustling, not quite so faint as before ... then a crackling as
of broken twigs! Still I was not sure—perhaps it was but some tiny
creature amid the underbrush. But, even as I doubted, there came
the crunching of dead leaves trodden under; then the sound—
unmistakably the sound—of human voices whispering!
My heart gave a thump; I was near to shouting in my exultation.
Happy tears rolled down my cheeks; I had visions of Yasma
returning, Yasma clasped once more in my arms—when I became
aware of two dark eyes staring at me from amid the shrubbery.
"Karem!" I cried, and sprang forward to seize the hands of my friend.
Truly enough, it was Karem—Karem as I had last seen him, Karem
in the same blue and red garments, somewhat thinner perhaps, but
otherwise unchanged!
He greeted me with an emotion that seemed to match my own. "It is
long, long since we have met!" was all he was able to say, as he
shook both my hands warmly, while peering at me at arm's length.
Then forth from the bushes emerged a second figure, whom I
recognized as Julab, another youth of the tribe. He too was effusive
in his greetings; he too seemed delighted at our reunion.
But if I was no less delighted, it was not chiefly of the newcomers
that I was thinking. One thought kept flashing through my mind, and I
could not wait to give it expression. How about Yasma? Where was
she now? When should I see her? Such questions I poured forth in a
torrent, scarcely caring how my anxiety betrayed me.
"Yasma is safe," was Karem's terse reply. "You will see her before
long, though just when I cannot say."
And that was the most definite reply I could wrench from him. Neither
he nor Julab would discuss the reappearance of their people; they
would not say where they had been, nor how far they had gone, nor
how they had returned, nor what had happened during their
absence. But they insisted on turning the conversation in my
direction. They assured me how much relieved they were to find me
alive and well; they questioned me eagerly as to how I had passed
my time; they commented with zest upon my changed appearance,
my ragged clothes and dense beard; and they ended by predicting
that better days were in store.
More mystified than ever, I accompanied the two men to their cabins.
"We must make ready to till the fields," they reminded me, as we
approached the village, "for when the trees again lose their leaves
there will be another harvest." And they showed me where, unknown
to me, spades and shovels and plows had been stored in waterproof
vaults beneath the cabins; and they surprised me by pointing out the
bins of wheat and sacks of nuts and dried fruits, preserved from last
year's produce and harbored underground, so that when the people
returned to Sobul they might have full rations until the ripening of the
new crop.
Before the newcomers had been back an hour, they were both hard
at work in the fields. I volunteered my assistance; and was glad to be
able to wield a shovel or harrow after my long aimless months. The
vigorous activity in the open air helped to calm my mind and to drive
away my questionings; yet it could not drive them away wholly, and I
do not know whether my thoughts were most on the soil I made
ready for seeding or on things far-away and strange. Above all, I
kept thinking of Yasma, kept remembering her in hope that
alternated with dejection. Could it be true, as Karem had said, that I
was to see her soon? Surely, she must know how impatiently I was
waiting! She would not be the last of her tribe to reappear!
That night I had but little sleep; excited visions of Yasma permitted
me to doze away only by brief dream-broken snatches. But when the
gray of dawn began to creep in through the open window, sheer
weariness forced an hour's slumber; and I slept beyond my usual
time, and awoke to find the room bright with sunlight.
As I opened my eyes, I became conscious of voices without—
murmuring voices that filled me with an unreasoning joy. I peered out
of the window—no one to be seen! Excitedly I slipped on my coat,
and burst out of the door—still no one visible! Then from behind one
of the cabins came the roar of half a dozen persons in hearty
laughter ... laughter that was the most welcome I had ever heard.
I did not pause to ask myself who the newcomers were; did not stop
to wonder whether there were any feminine members of the group. I
dashed off crazily, and in an instant found myself confronted by—five
or six curiously staring men.
I know that I was indeed a sight; that my eyes bulged; that surprise
and disappointment shone in every line of my face. Otherwise, the
men would have been quicker to greet me, for instantly we
recognized each other. They were youths of the Ibandru tribe, all
known to me from last autumn; and they seemed little changed by
their long absence, except that, like Julab and Karem, they appeared
a trifle thinner.
"Are there any more of you here?" I demanded, after the first words
of explanation and welcome. "Are there—are there any—"
Curious smiles flickered across their faces.
"No, it is not quite time yet for the women," one of them replied, as if
reading my thoughts. "We men must come first to break the soil and
put the village in readiness."
If I had been of no practical use to the Ibandru in the fall, I was to be

plunged into continuous service this spring. Daily now I repeated that
first afternoon's help I had lent Karem in the fields; and when I did
not serve Karem himself, I aided one of his tribesmen, working from
sunrise to sunset with occasional intervals of rest.
It was well that I had this occupation, for it tended to keep me sane.
After three or four days, my uneasiness would have amounted to
agony had my labors not provided an outlet. For I kept looking for
one familiar form; and that form did not appear. More than twenty of
the men had returned, but not a single woman or child; and I had the
dull tormenting sense that I might not see Yasma for weeks yet.
This was the thought that oppressed me one morning when I began
tilling a little patch of land near the forest edge. My implements were
of the crudest, a mere shovel and spade to break the soil in primitive
fashion; and as I went through the laborious motions, my mind was
less on the task I performed than on more personal things. I could
not keep from thinking of Yasma with a sad yearning, wondering as
to her continued absence, and offering up silent prayers that I might
see her soon again.
And while I bent pessimistically over my spade, a strange song burst
forth from the woods, a bird-song trilling with the rarest delicacy and
sweetness. Enchanted, I listened; never before had I heard a song of
quite that elfin, ethereal quality. I could not recognize from what
feathered minstrel it came; I could only stand transfixed at its fluted
melody, staring in vain toward the thick masses of trees for a glimpse
of the tiny musician.
It could not have been more than a minute before the winged
enchantress fell back into silence; but in that time the world had
changed. Its black hostility had vanished; a spirit of beauty
surrounded me again, and I had an inexplicable feeling that all would
be well.
And as I gazed toward the forest, still hopeful of seeing the sweet-
voiced warbler, I was greeted by an unlooked-for vision.
Framed in a sort of natural doorway of the woods, where the pale
green foliage was parted in a little arched opening, stood a slender
figure with gleaming dark eyes and loose-flowing auburn hair.
"Yasma!" I shouted. And my heart pounded as if it would burst; and
my limbs shuddered, and my breath came fast; and the silent tears
flowed as I staggered forward with outspread arms.
Without a word she glided forth to meet me, and in an instant we
were locked in an embrace.
It must have been minutes before we parted. Not a syllable did we
speak; ours was a reunion such as sundered lovers may know
beyond the grave.
When at length our arms slipped apart and I gazed at the familiar
face, her cheeks were wet but her eyes were glistening. It might
have been but an hour since we had met, for she did not seem
changed at all.
"Oh, my beloved," she murmured, using the first term of endearment
I had ever heard from her lips, "it has been so long since I have seen
you! So long, oh, how long!"
"It has been long for me too. Longer than whole years. Oh, Yasma,
why did you have to leave?"
A frown flitted across the beautiful face, and the luminous eyes
became momentarily sad. "Do not ask that!" she begged. "Oh, do not
ask now!" And, seeing her distress, I was sorry that the
unpremeditated question had slipped from my lips.
"All that counts, Yasma," said I, gently, "is that you are here now. For
that I thank whatever powers have had you in their keeping."
"Thank Yulada!" she suggested, cryptically, with a motion toward the
southern mountains.
It was now my turn to frown.
"Oh, tell me, tell me all that has happened during the long winter!"
she demanded, almost passionately, as I clutched both her hands
and she stared up at me with an inquiring gaze. "You look so
changed! So worn and tired out, as if you had been through great
sufferings! Did you really suffer so much?"
"My greatest suffering, Yasma, was the loneliness I felt for you. That
was harder to bear than the blizzards. But, thank heaven! that is over
now. You won't ever go away from me again, will you, Yasma?"
She averted her eyes, then impulsively turned from me, and stood
staring toward that steel-gray figure on the peak. It was a minute
before she faced me again; and when she did so it was with lips
drawn and compressed.
"We must not talk of such things!" she urged, with pleading in her
eyes. "We must be happy, happy now while we can be, and not
question what is to come!"
"Of course, we must be happy now," I agreed. But her reply had
aroused my apprehensions, and even at the moment of reunion I
wondered whether she had come only to flutter away again like a
feather or a cloud.
"See how quick I came back to you!" she cried, as though to divert
my mind. "I left before all the other women, for I knew you would be
waiting here, lonely for me."
"And were you too lonely, Yasma?"
"Oh, yes! Very lonely! I never knew such loneliness before!" And the
great brown eyes again took on a melancholy glow, which brightened
into a happy luster as she looked up at me confidently and
reassuringly.
"Then let's neither of us be lonely again!" I entreated. And forgetting
my spade and shovel and the half-tilled field, I drew her with me into
the seclusion of the woods, and sat down with her by a bed of freshly
uncurling ferns beneath the shaded bole of a great oak.
"Remember, Yasma," I said, while I held both her hands and she
peered at me out of eyes large with emotion, "you made me a
promise about the spring. I asked you a question—the most
important question any human being can ask another—and you did
not give me a direct answer, but promised you would let me know
when the leaves were again sprouting on the trees. That time has
come now, and I am anxious for my answer, because I have had
long, so very long to wait."
Again I noticed a constraint about her manner. She hesitated before
the first words came; then spoke tremblingly and with eyes
downcast.
"I know that you have had long to wait, and I do not want to keep you
in suspense! I wish I could answer you now, answer outright, so that
there would never be another question—but oh, I cannot!—not yet,
not yet! Please don't think I want to cause you pain, for there's no
one on earth I want less to hurt! Please!"—And she held out her
hands imploringly, and her fingers twitched, and deep agitated
streams of red coursed to her cheeks.
"I know you don't want to hurt me—" I assured her.
But she halted me with a passionate outburst.
"All I know is that I love you, love you, love you!" she broke out, with
the fury of a vehement wild thing; and for a moment we were again
clasped in a tight embrace.
"But if you love me, Yasma," I pleaded, when her emotion had nearly
spent itself, "why treat me so oddly? Why not be perfectly frank? I
love you too, Yasma. Why not say you will be my wife? For I want
you with me always, always! Oh, I'd gladly live with you here in
Sobul—but if we could we'd go away, far, far away, to my own land,
and see things you never saw in your strangest dreams! What do
you say, Yasma?"
Yasma said nothing at all. She sat staring straight ahead, her fingers
folding and unfolding over some dead twigs, her lips drawn into rigid
lines that contrasted strangely with her moist eyes and cheeks.
"You promised that in the spring you would tell me," I reminded her,
gently.
I do not know what there was in these words to arouse her to frenzy.
Abruptly she sprang to her feet, all trace of composure gone; her
eyes blazed with unaccountable fires as she hurled forth her answer.
"Very well then, I will tell you! I cannot say yes to you, and I cannot
say no—I cannot, cannot! Go see my father, Abthar, as soon as he
returns—he will tell you! Go see him—and Hamul-Kammesh, the
soothsayer."
"Why Hamul-Kammesh?"
"Don't ask me—ask them!" she cried, with passion. "I've told you all I
can! You'll find out, you'll find out soon enough!"
To my astonishment, her fury was lost amid a tumult of sobbing. No
longer the passionate woman but the heart-broken child, she wept
as though she had nothing more to live for; and when I came to her
consolingly, she flung convulsive arms about me, and clung to me as
though afraid I would vanish. And then, while the storm gradually
died down and her slender form shook less spasmodically and the
tears flowed in dwindling torrents, I whispered tender and soothing
things into her ear; but all the time a new and terrible dread was in
my heart, for I was certain that Yasma had not told me everything,
but that her outburst could be explained only by some close-guarded
and dire secret.
CHAPTER XIV
THE WARNING
Had it been possible to consult Abthar immediately in the effort to
fathom Yasma's strange conduct, I would have wasted only so much
time as was necessary to take me to the father's cabin. But,
unfortunately, I must remain in suspense. So far as I knew, Abthar
had not yet returned to the village; and none of the townsfolk
seemed sure when he would be back. "He will come before the last
blossom buds on the wild rose," was the only explanation they would
offer; and knowing that it was not the way of the Ibandru to be
definite, I had to be content with this response.
True, I might have followed Yasma's suggestion and sought advice
of Hamul-Kammesh, since already that Rip Van Winkle figure was to
be seen shuffling about the village. But ever since the time, months
before, when he had visited my sick-room and denounced me to the
people, I had disliked him profoundly; and I would about as soon
have thought of consulting a hungry tiger.
And so my only choice was to wait for Abthar's return. The interval
could not have been more than a week; but during all that time I
suffered torments. How to approach him, after his return, was a
question that occupied me continually. Should I ask him bluntly what
secret there was connected with Yasma? Or should I be less direct
but more open, and frankly describe my feelings? It was only after
much thought that I decided that it would be best to come to him
candidly as a suitor in quest of his daughter's hand.
I well remember with what mixed feelings I recognized Abthar's tall
figure once more in the village. What if, not unlike some western
fathers, he should be outraged at the idea of uniting his daughter to
an alien? Or what if he should mention some tribal law that forbade
my alliance to Yasma? or should inform me that she was already
betrothed? These and other possibilities presented themselves in a
tormenting succession ... so that, when at length I did see Abthar, I
was hampered by a weight of imaginary ills.
As on a previous occasion, I found the old man working among his
vines. Bent over his hoe, he was uprooting the weeds so diligently
that at first he did not appear to see me; and I had to hail him loudly
before he looked up with a start and turned upon me those searching
proud brown eyes of his.
We exchanged greetings as enthusiastically as old friends who have
not met for some time; while, abandoning his hoe, Abthar motioned
me to a seat beside him on a little mound of earth.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour our conversation consisted mostly
of questions on his part and answers on mine; for he was eager to
know how I had passed the winter, and had no end of inquiries to
make.
For my own part, I refrained from asking that question which
bewildered me most of all: how had he and his people passed the
winter? It was with extreme difficulty that I halted the torrent of his
solicitous queries, and informed him that I had a confession to offer
and a request to make.
Abthar looked surprised, and added to my embarrassment by stating
how gratified he felt that I saw fit to confide in him.
I had to reply, of course, that there was a particular reason for
confiding in him, since my confession concerned his daughter
Yasma.
"My daughter Yasma?" he repeated, starting up as though I had
dealt him a blow. And he began stroking his long grizzled beard
solemnly, and the keen inquiring eyes peered at me as though they
would bore their way straight through me and ferret out my last
thought.
"What about my daughter Yasma?" he asked, after a pause, and in
tones that seemed to bristle with just a trace of hostility.
As tranquilly as I could, I explained how much Yasma had come to
mean to me; how utterly I was captivated by her, how desirous of
making her my wife. And, concluding with perhaps more tact than
accuracy, I remarked that in coming to him to request the hand of his
daughter, I was taking the course considered proper in my own
country.
In silence Abthar heard me to the last word. He did not interrupt
when I paused as if anxious for comment; did not offer so much as a
syllable's help when I hesitated or stammered; did not permit any
emotion to cross his weather-beaten bronzed features. But he gazed
at me with a disquieting fixity and firmness; and the look in his alert
stern eyes showed that he had not missed a gesture or a word.
Even after I had finished, he sat regarding me contemplatively
without speaking. Meanwhile my fingers twitched; my heart thumped
at a telltale speed; I felt like a prisoner arraigned before the bar. But
he, the judge, appeared unaware of my agitation, and would not
break my suspense until he had fully decided upon his verdict.
Yet his first words were commonplace enough.
"I had never expected anything at all like this," he said, in low sad
tones. "Nothing like this has ever been known among our people.
We Ibandru have seen little of strangers; none of our young people
have ever taken mates outside the tribe. And so your confession
comes as a shock."
"It should not come as a shock," was all I could mumble in reply.
"Were I as other fathers," continued the old man, suavely, "I might
rise up and order you expelled from our land. Or I might grow angry
and shout, and forbid you to see my daughter again. Or I might be
crafty, and ask you to engage in feats of prowess with the young
men of the town—and so might prove your unworthiness. Or I might
send your request to the tribal council, which would decide against
you. But I shall do none of these things. Once I too was young, and
once I too—" here his voice faltered, and his eyes grew soft with
reminiscence—"once I too knew what it was to love. So I shall try not
to be too harsh, my friend. But you ask that which I fear is
impossible. For your sake, I am sorry that it is impossible. But it is
my duty to show you why."
During this speech my heart had sunk until it seemed dead and cold
within me. It was as if a world had been shattered before my eyes;
as if in the echoes of my own thoughts I heard that fateful word,
"Impossible, impossible, impossible!"
"There are so many things to consider, so many things you cannot
even know," Abthar proceeded, still stroking his beard meditatively,
while my restless fingers toyed with the clods of earth, and my eyes
followed absently the wanderings of an ant lost amid those
mountainous masses. "But let me explain as well as I can. I shall try
to talk to you as a friend, and forget for the time that I am Yasma's
father. I shall say nothing of my hopes for her, and how I always
thought to see her happy with some sturdy young tribesman, with my
grandchildren upon her knee. I shall say nothing of the years that are
past, and how I have tried to do my best for her, a motherless child;
how sometimes I blundered and sometimes misunderstood, and was
more anxious about her and more blest by her than you or she will
ever know. Let that all be forgotten. What concerns us now is that
you are proposing to make both her and yourself more unhappy than
any outcast."
"Unhappy!" I exclaimed, with an unconscious gesture to the blue
skies to witness how I was misjudged. "Unhappy! May the lightning
strike me down if I don't want to make her happier than a queen!"
"So you say," replied the old man, with just the hint of a cynical
smile, "and so you no doubt believe. We all set out in life to make
ourselves and others happy—and how many of us succeed? Just
now, Yasma's blackest enemy could not do her greater mischief."
"Oh, don't say that!" I protested, clenching my fists with a show of
anger. "Have you so far misunderstood me? Do you believe that I—
that I—"
"I believe your motives are of the worthiest," interrupted Abthar,
quietly. "But let us be calm. It is not your fault that your union with
Yasma would be a mistake; circumstances beyond all men's control
would make it so."
"What circumstances?"
"Many circumstances. Some of them concern only you; some only
Yasma. But suppose we begin with you. I will forget that Yasma and I
really know very little about you; about your country, your people,
your past. I am confident of your good faith; and for that reason, and
because I consider you my friend, I do not want to see you beating
your heart out on the rocks. Yet what would happen? Either you
would find your way back to your own land and take Yasma with you,
or else you would live with her in Sobul. And either course would be
disastrous.
"Let us first say that you took her with you to your own country. I
have heard only vague rumors as to that amazing land; but I am
certain what its effect would be. Have you ever seen a wild duck with
a broken wing, or a robin in a cage? Have you ever thought how a
doe must feel when it can no longer roam the fields, or an eagle
when barred from the sky? Think of these, and then think how
Yasma will be when the lengthening days can no longer bring her
back to Sobul!"
The old man paused, and with an eloquent gesture pointed to the
jagged, snow-streaked circle of the peaks and to the far-off,
mysterious figure of Yulada.
"Yes, yes, I have thought of that," I groaned.
"Then here is what we must expect. If you should take Yasma with
you to your own country, she would perish—yes, she would perish
no matter how kind you were to her, for endless exile is an evil that
none of us Ibandru can endure. Yet if you remained with her in
Sobul, you would be exiled from your own land and people."
"That is only too true," I sighed, for the thought was not exactly new
to me.
But at that instant I chanced to catch a distant glimpse of an auburn-
haired figure lithely skirting the further fields; and the full
enchantment of Yasma was once more upon me.
"It would be worth the exile!" I vowed, madly. "Well, well worth it! For
Yasma's sake, I'd stay here gladly!"
"Yes, gladly," repeated the old man, with a sage nod. "I know you
would stay here gladly—for a while. But it would not take many
years, my friend, not many years before you would be weary almost
to death of this quiet little valley and its people. Why, you would be
weary of us now were it not for Yasma. And then some day, when
unexpectedly you found the route back to your own world, you would
pick up your things and silently go."
"Never! By all I have ever loved, I could not!" I swore. "Not while
Yasma remained!"
"Very well, let us suppose you would stay here," conceded Abthar,
hastily, as though skimming over a distasteful topic. "Then if your life
were not ruined, Yasma's would be. There are reasons you may not
be aware of."
"There seems to be much here that I am not aware of."
"No doubt," Abthar admitted, in matter-of-fact tones. And then, with a
gesture toward the southern peak, "Yulada has secrets not for every
man's understanding."
For an instant he paused, in contemplation of the statue-like figure;
then quickly continued, "Now here, my friend, is the thing to
remember. Take the migration from which we are just returning. Do
not imagine that we make such a pilgrimage only once in a lifetime.
Every autumn, when the birds fly south, we follow in their wake; and
every spring we return with the northward-winging flocks."
"Every autumn—and every spring!" I gasped, in dismay, for Abthar
had confirmed my most dismal surmises.
"Yes, every autumn and every spring. How would you feel, my friend,
with a wife that left you five months or six every year? How do you
think your wife would feel when she had to leave?"
"But would she have to leave? Why would she? After we were
married, would she not be willing to stay here?"
"She might be willing—but would she be able?" asked Abthar,
pointedly. "This is no matter of choice; it is a law of her nature. It is a
law of the nature of all Ibandru to go every autumn the way of the
southward-speeding birds. Could you ask the sap to stop flowing
from the roots of the awakening tree in April? Could you ask the
fountains not to pour down from the peaks when spring thaws the
snow? Then ask one of us Ibandru to linger in Sobul when the frosty
days have come and the last November leaf flutters earthward."
Abthar's words bewildered me utterly, as all reference to the flight of
the Ibandru had bewildered me before. But I did not hesitate to admit
my perplexity. "Your explanation runs contrary to all human
experience," I argued. "During my studies and travels, I have heard
of many races of men who differed much in habits and looks; but all
were moved by the same impulses, the same natural laws. You
Ibandru alone seem different. You disappear and reappear like
phantoms, and claim to do so because of an instinct never found in
the natural world."
My companion sat staring at me quizzically. There was just a little of
surprise in his manner, just a little of good-natured indulgence, and
something of the smiling tolerance which one reserves for the well-
meaning and simple-minded.
"In spite of your seeming knowledge, my friend," he remarked at
length, "I see that you are really quite childish in your views. You are
mistaken in believing that we Ibandru do not follow natural laws. We
are guided not by an instinct unknown in the great world around us,
but by one that rules the lives of countless living things: the birds in
the air and the fishes in the streams, and even, if I am to believe the
tales I have heard, is found among certain furry animals in the wide
waters and at times among swarms of butterflies."
"But if you feel the same urge as these creatures, then why should
only you out of all men feel it?"
"No doubt it exists elsewhere, although weakened by unnatural ways
of life. Did it ever occur to you that it may have been common to all
men thousands of years ago? Did you never stop to think that you
civilized folk may have lost it, just as you have lost your keenness of
scent and sense of direction? while we Ibandru have preserved it by
our isolation and the simplicity of our lives? As your own fathers may
have been five hundred generations ago, so we Ibandru are today."
"But if your migration be a natural thing," I asked, remembering the
sundry mysteries of Sobul, "why make a secret of it? Why not tell me
where you go in winter? Indeed, why not take me with you?"
A strange light came into Abthar's eyes. There was something a little
secretive and yet something a little exalted in his manner as he lifted
both hands ardently toward Yulada, and declared, "There are truths
of which I dare not speak, truths that the tradition of my tribe will not
let me reveal. But do not misunderstand me, my friend; we must
keep our secrets for the sake of our own safety as well as because
of Yulada. If all that we do were known to the world, would we not be
surrounded by curious and unkindly throngs? Hence our ancient
sages ordained that when we Ibandru go away at the time of falling
leaves we must go alone, unless there be with us some
understanding stranger—one who has felt the same inspiration as
we. But such a stranger has never appeared. And until he does
appear, Yulada will weave dread spells over him who betrays her
secrets!"
The old man paused, and I had no response to make.
"But all this is not what you came to see me about," he continued.
"Let us return to Yasma. Now that I have told you of our yearly
migration, you can judge of the folly you were contemplating. But let
me mention another fact, which even by itself would make your
marriage foolhardy."
"What fact can that be?" I demanded, feeling as if a succession of
hammer strokes had struck me on the head.
"Again I must go out of my way to explain. For many generations, as
far back as our traditions go, there has been one of our number
known as a soothsayer, a priest of Yulada. His mission is to read the
omens of earth and sky, to scan the clouds and stars, and to tell us
Yulada's will. Sometimes his task has been difficult, for often Yulada
has hidden behind a mist; but at other times his duty has been clear

Mass Produced Original Paintings The Psychology of Art and An Everyday Aesthetics 1St Ed Edition Martin S Lindauer Full Chapter

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Mass Produced Original Paintings The Psychology of Art and An Everyday Aesthetics 1St Ed Edition Martin S Lindauer Full Chapter

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Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the

Psychology of Art, and an Everyday

“Psychologist Martin Lindauer takes factory-produced, mall paintings seriously, a

ISBN 978-3-030-51640-6 ISBN 978-3-030-51641-3 (eBook)

Cover pattern © John Rawsterne/patternhead.com

The expressiveness of perception: Physiognomy reconsidered

1 What This Book Is About 3

2 The Characteristics of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 15

Part II Critical Issues 27

3 Can Mass-Produced Original Paintings Be Called Art? 29

4 What’s Wrong with Mass-Produced Original Paintings? 39

5 In Defense of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 53

Part III Two Larger Contexts for Mass-Produced Original

6 The Popular Arts 71

7 Historical and Contemporary Approaches to the Popular

Part IV Studies of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 97

9 An Overview of the Studies 99

Part V Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the Psychology

12 The Psychology of Art: A Research Perspective129

13 Mass-Produced Original Paintings and an Everyday

Fig. 1.1 Seascape 6

What This Book Is About

Abstract The book’s coverage is outlined. The reasons for focusing on

Keywords Mass-produced original paintings • The psychology of art •

A sale at a Sears sold 39,000 pieces of art, $120,000 worth, in 10 days,

© The Author(s) 2020 3

Another key question is raised in the course of examining mass-­

How important is skill compared to a work’s “message,” especially if it is

These questions are addressed directly and indirectly, or partially, along

Five examples of mass-produced original paintings

Fig. 1.1 Seascape

Fig. 1.2 Watercolor and ink Chinese landscape

Fig. 1.3 Stilllife

Fig. 1.4 Rustic landscape

Fig. 1.5 Street or urban location

A close look at mass-produced paintings, as this book does systematically

Discursive and empirical coverage, as outlined above, demonstrate that

The Characteristics of Mass-Produced

Abstract Mass-produced original paintings are described, including

Keywords Mass-produced original paintings • Dafen village, China •

How can mass-produced original paintings be called original, a question

© The Author(s) 2020 15

Portraits are of impressive-looking (but unknown) dignitaries.

Critics, however, call his paintings awful and hideous; commercially

Own a museum quality hand-painted masterpiece today at 50–75% below

Customers are assured that

In one ad, an example of the sequence of stages followed by an artist in

We … get an essence of the original painting. Shadows, density, and con-

worthy, although not as original or skilled. Paintings at a wide range of

Mass-produced original paintings are a success story, at least in popular

Huddleston, G. (1978). McDonald’s interior decor. Journal of American Culture,

Can Mass-Produced Original Paintings

Abstract The reasons for considering mass-produced paintings as art are

Keywords Art and artists, definition • Art and artists, ambiguities •

The artworld—scholars, curators, critics, experts—would most likely

© The Author(s) 2020 29

used to describe recognized artists: genius, prodigy, creative, gifted, tal-

A pseudo-impressionistic 1980s motel room painting would not be

Thus, what is considered kitsch changes over time depending on shifting

singular and irreproducible is irrelevant for some, especially purchasers of

[E]mpirical studies have tended to find statistically significant but rather

As a result, decisions by art experts have been protested, derided, and

A similar uneasiness casts a shadow over what constitutes good art.

1 What This Book Is About 3

2 The Characteristics of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 15

Part II Critical Issues 27

3 Can Mass-Produced Original Paintings Be Called Art? 29

4 What’s Wrong with Mass-Produced Original Paintings? 39

5 In Defense of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 53

Part III Two Larger Contexts for Mass-Produced Original

6 The Popular Arts 71

7 Historical and Contemporary Approaches to the Popular

Part IV Studies of Mass-Produced Original Paintings 97

9 An Overview of the Studies 99

Part V Mass-Produced Original Paintings, the Psychology

12 The Psychology of Art: A Research Perspective129

13 Mass-Produced Original Paintings and an Everyday

Fig. 1.1 Seascape 6

Another key question is raised in the course of examining mass-

Keywords Mass-produced original paintings, limitations • Mass-

No one is called a connoisseur, aficionado, or cognoscenti of mass-