The Principle of Inner Necessity

Stanisław Fijałkowski’s Encounter with Wassily Kandinsky

One hundred years ago, in 1910, Wassily Kandinsky completed the manuscript of his reflections Concerning the Spiritual in Art. The work grew out of loose notes gathered over at least ten years, emerging almost imperceptibly “from the habit of writing down thoughts”. Published towards the end of 1911, reissued and translated over the following decades, Kandinsky’s book became one of the classic theoretical statements produced in the early twentieth century, a period so rich in artistic programmes.

The motives and circumstances behind Kandinsky’s next book, Point and Line to Plane, were different. Published in 1926, it was a kind of textbook for students, a compendium of lectures that the painter, as a Bauhaus professor, had been giving for several years to students at this unique art school. The publication was the ninth volume in the Bauhaus Books series, edited by the school’s directors Walter Gropius and László Moholy-Nagy. Although Concerning the Spiritual in Art was a kind of proclamation, while Point and Line to Plane had a didactic purpose, Kandinsky maintained that the two books were organically connected. The Bauhaus textbook likewise went through new editions and translations, joining the canon of theoretical works that established the foundations of modern art.

Both of Wassily Kandinsky’s books, crucial to the history of twentieth-century thought about art, were translated from German into Polish by Stanisław Fijałkowski. His translation of Point and Line to Plane, made in 1959, was not published until 1986. Concerning the Spiritual in Art was published by the State Art Gallery in Łódź in 1996.

It is rare for an artist to devote time to translating the texts of another artist. After all, this is a sacrifice of part of one’s own life, time torn away from one’s own work. The effort undertaken by Stanisław Fijałkowski can be compared only to Jan Cybis’s Polish translation of Eugène Fromentin’s The Masters of Past Time, although in translational terms Kandinsky’s difficult German certainly presented greater problems than the flowing French phrases of the author of Les Maîtres d’autrefois. Taking on such labour springs from the laudable need to spread knowledge of the translated author, convey the lessons of their work and broaden the Polish reader’s intellectual horizon. Above all, however, it is the indication of a master, an expression of respect and admiration for him. It is a tribute. Stanisław Fijałkowski, an artist who began painting before the middle of the last century and continues to paint today, is a perfect embodiment of the Renaissance ideal of the pictordoctus—the learned painter. He not only paints; he also keeps a notebook. He is erudite in the old, positive sense of the word—not an encyclopaedist accumulating knowledge, but a seeker of wisdom. Over the course of a long life, the artist absorbs and processes his reading, reflection, art, nature, his own life and the life unfolding around him, fusing them into his painting. And he achieves an alloy of his own, a noble alloy. Criticism following in the wake of his work attempts analytically to break this alloy down into its elements and separate it into components. It therefore points to Władysław Strzemiński and Andrzej Wróblewski, to Barnett Newman’s abstractions and Gerhard Richter’s landscapes, to Carl Gustav Jung’s concept of archetypes and Kandinsky’s theosophy, to Caspar David Friedrich’s mysticism and Philipp Otto Runge’s Pietism, to the Talmud and the New Testament, Buddhist Heart Sutras and the Kabbalah, music and the resonance of current political events… Yet Stanisław Fijałkowski is closer to an alchemist searching for the philosopher’s stone than to an inventor working on an unknown metal alloy. As we know, moreover, in the process of fusion the ingredients lose their original properties; tracing them tells us little about the final work, even if they played a part in its creation. The exceptional situation represented by Stanisław Fijałkowski’s hommage to his master, Wassily Kandinsky, directs thought elsewhere. It authorises us to seek additions to his art in the great Russian’s reflections. Additions, not explanations. The alchemist’s work always remains a mystery. “The true work of art arises ‘from the artist’ in a mysterious, enigmatic, truly mystical manner”—Kandinsky himself was convinced of this.¹

Kandinsky does not write about angels, heaven or motorways. He does not write about the sudden appearance of Beatrice or—naturally—about the dates to which the titles of Stanisław Fijałkowski’s paintings refer us. He does, however, write about the “spiritual in art”, the construction of a painting, the language of forms and colours, the creative path, the artist’s freedom and obligations—in other words, matters fundamental to art. Today they are often pushed aside or even abandoned, but not by artists such as Stanisław Fijałkowski. His current exhibition at Atlas Sztuki is therefore also an opportunity to recall these fundamental matters, and at the same time to indicate the profound spiritual affinities of his art.

“The flexibility of individual forms, their inner capacity for transformation, their dynamics within the picture (movement), the predominance of literalness or abstraction in particular shapes on the one hand, and on the other the combining of individual forms into groups that construct the form of the whole picture; the principle of harmony or contrast among all the elements listed, that is, their mutual relation; the inhibition of one form’s action by another, but also the shifting, grouping or disintegration of individual shapes; the summary treatment of forms making up a group; the dialectic of covering and uncovering; combinations of rhythm and arrhythmia on a single plane; the opposition of purely geometric, abstract forms (simple or complex) to forms that cannot be geometrically defined; the differentiation of contours separating forms from one another (sharp or soft), and so on and so on…”—do these words not evoke the Motorways or the Paintings for Waleria? Do canvases from the Asking Questions cycle not appear before our eyes? This is naturally not a matter of superficial description displaying similarities, of formal analysis, or even of verbal-pictorial correspondances. It concerns an analogous understanding of the essence of a painting, its meaning and the principles of its construction. Two more quotations will reinforce this conviction. The first concerns the tasks that painterly composition should perform in order for the painting to arise as a whole: “…the many objects that make up the picture (real or abstract) would be subordinated to a single large form. They would be so adapted, so fitted to it, as to construct it. Each would present its own content more discreetly; it would serve first and foremost the compositional form of the work as a whole, and would essentially be one of its constituent parts. Individual forms are shaped in one way rather than another not because their own expression categorically demands it independently of the whole, but above all because their function is to serve that whole.”

Light touches of the brush that dynamise a uniform painterly field, quick lines crossing the canvas like basting thread not fully unpicked, particles of strong colour illuminating a muted plane, confidently guided thin lines cutting across the picture’s surface, a glow of colour seeping from beneath the frame drawn by the painter, supple, grass-like blades growing from beyond the edges of forms—all these small elements in Stanisław Fijałkowski’s painterly language work precisely in the service of the painting as a whole. Though subordinated, it is they that order it. They do not fragment but unite. They give the work coherence. Small as they are, they create the artist’s painterly idiom.

And the second quotation, a rather long one, but touching on a highly important feature of Stanisław Fijałkowski’s art: “…purely abstract entities, which have their own life, their own influences and their own possibilities of effect—the square, circle, triangle, rhombus, trapezium and countless others, increasingly complex and impossible even to define geometrically. All are equally entitled to exist in the world of abstraction. Between these limiting forms lie infinitely many forms containing both of the possibilities mentioned—some more material, others more abstract. All are at hand, and from them the painter draws the individual elements of his work. Purely abstract forms are not enough for the artist today. They are insufficiently precise. To confine oneself exclusively to what is imprecise would mean surrendering certain possibilities, impoverishing the means of expression and excluding what is so very human.”

The final sentences may come as a surprise, since Kandinsky has been permanently labelled a pioneer of abstract art. Indeed, considerable portions of his text are devoted to freeing painting from mimesis and naturalism. Yet—and this distinguishes Kandinsky sharply from many theoreticians of the avant-garde—he is neither a normativist nor a progressivist nor a doctrinaire. Above all, he wishes to restore painting’s spiritual, mystical dimension, but without eliminating what is “very human”. This is the most important sphere in which the Russian writing in German and his Polish translator meet.

Concerning the Spiritual in Art is said to resemble poetic prophecy more than a theoretical treatise on painting in the traditional form. It would be more accurate, however, to call Kandinsky’s text an artistic catechism. A catechism is a collection of principles of faith, not merely a set of rules of conduct—principles referring to a higher order. Chief among them is the “principle of inner necessity”, an unfailing guide leading painting to the heights of “pure art in the service of the Divine”. In his reflections, Kandinsky poses three “mystical questions”: should the artist, as creator, strive to express himself; should the artist, as a child of his age, express what characterises that age; and should every artist, in serving art, construct its own values? The first two questions are important, Kandinsky writes, but viewed across the centuries they lose their sharpness and significance: “we first become indifferent to them, until at last they disappear of their own accord. Only the third question, concerning the purity and eternal principles of art, remains perpetually relevant. With the passage of time it not only does not lose, but on the contrary gains, in sharpness. […] The process of art’s development consists in a distinctive separation of what is pure and eternal from what is personal or constitutes the style of an age.”

And then comes the conclusion: “The operation of inner necessity, and thus the development of art, is the constant externalisation of the eternally objective within the temporal and subjective. Or, to put it differently, the overcoming of the subjective by the objective.”

At this point one might doubt whether Stanisław Fijałkowski’s painting—so personal, so full of private references suggested by its titles—is consistent with the “principle of inner necessity”, with Kandinsky’s postulated “overcoming of the subjective by the objective”. An answer may be found in sentences concerning the artist’s freedom and the sources of his art: “the artist has the full right to rely on the inner foundations of his art, without imagining limitations imposed from outside. One might put it this way: the artist is free to use any form as a means of expression. […] Art never follows theory or precedes practice; rather, the reverse is true. Especially at the beginning, everything is a matter of feeling. Only by relying on sensitivity, particularly at the beginning of the path, can artistic truth be reached. The overall construction of a work may arise from purely theoretical premises, but that gain which is the foundation of true creative inspiration (and as though its essence) could never be achieved or worked out unless it were breathed into the work by the feeling that carries us. Since art acts upon feelings, it can do so only through feelings. Even with the most splendid proportions, even with the subtlest balancing of purely cerebral calculations and deductive deliberations, nothing true will ever emerge. Proper proportions do not result from calculations, nor can suitable ready-made weights be found. The proportions and weights are not outside but within the artist; they are what may be called a sense of limits, artistic tact—qualities innate to the artist. Intensified by rapture, they become a revelation of genius. […] Such a grammar of painting can only be sensed in moments and, if it ever comes into being, it will not be founded upon physical laws, but upon the law of inner necessity, which we may in all sincerity call a spiritual law.”

And finally, one more commandment from Kandinsky’s catechism, which Stanisław Fijałkowski appears to have observed throughout his long career: “…[the artist’s] eyes should be wide open to his own inner life, and his ears turned towards the place from which the voice of inner necessity can be heard. Then he will reach just as readily for a permitted means as for a forbidden one. This is the only path to bringing truly spiritual necessities to light.”

Kandinsky’s principles, written down a hundred years ago, can naturally be problematised and relativised. They can be respected and consigned to the archive. They can be regarded as a text with an important place in the history of thought about art, but one of historical rather than contemporary significance. They can be situated in the context of nascent modernity and the intertwining of spiritualist and synaesthetic inspirations, and set in relation to other anti-naturalist statements. Yet here, too, Kandinsky himself settles the matter, as though answering in advance those of us looking and reading from a distant postmodern perspective: “[…] We see that what all works have in common does not weaken with the passing centuries; on the contrary, it grows ever stronger. And it is constructed not upon what is external, but grows from the primordial root that is the mystical aspect of art. We also see that loyalty to ‘schools’, artists’ struggle to belong to a ‘movement’, and the search in art for ‘principles’ and means of expression dictated by the age must always lead us astray, causing an eclipse and finally a loss of expressive power. The artist must be blind and deaf to ‘recognised’ or ‘unrecognised’ forms, and must not succumb to the suggestions and demands of the present moment alone.”

The encounter between Wassily Kandinsky and Stanisław Fijałkowski sketched here is not about drawing precise parallels, tracing literally understood convergences or finding commentaries on specific canvases. It seems more important to evoke a spiritual bond, a profound “elective affinity” that induced the Polish painter to penetrate the thoughts of an artist two generations his senior. Did it also lead him to share Kandinsky’s faith in Art? Drawing on Kandinsky’s own terms, one might say that his reflections are like an “inner voice” audible in Stanisław Fijałkowski’s paintings.

But it is naturally difficult to resist the temptation of a dialogue, based on associations, between the thoughts and images of the two artists. Here are the Motorways—a cycle of paintings begun by Stanisław Fijałkowski in the early 1970s, numbered with Roman numerals and often bearing poetic titles, sometimes a precise date. In varying configurations they depict a ribbon of road climbing upwards beyond the horizon. Reading Kandinsky brings to mind the repeatedly recurring metaphor of a spiritual triangle moving forwards and upwards: “A correctly drawn diagram of spiritual life is a large triangle pointing upwards, divided into unequal parts. The closer to the bottom, the larger, broader and taller they are. The whole triangle moves slowly, almost invisibly, forwards and upwards; those who are lower down will tomorrow reach the place where the apex is ‘today’. This means that what is comprehensible today to those standing highest, but is obscure babble to all the rest, will tomorrow acquire meaning for them too and become the absorbing content of their lives. Sometimes only one solitary person stands at the summit of the pyramid.”

Finally, it is difficult to resist giving Kandinsky the floor once more as he professes his unwavering faith: “…despite all blindness, chaos and furious pursuit, that spiritual pyramid moves with irresistible force, slowly but nonetheless incessantly forwards and upwards.”

At the end of his reflections Concerning the Spiritual in Art, Kandinsky included eight reproductions as examples of “constructive tendencies in painting”. They comprise the Ravenna mosaic depicting the Empress Theodora and her retinue, Derick Baegert’s Crucifixion, Dürer’s Lamentation, Raphael’s Holy Family, Cézanne’s Bathers, and finally three works by the author himself: Impression, Improvisation, Composition II.

Many a painting by Stanisław Fijałkowski would be entirely at home among them. Do they not breathe “an atmosphere of inner silence”? Are they not “constructed upon silence, tranquil repetitions”? Do they not sound “like the words ‘Here I am’, spoken calmly and with dignity”?

1. All quotations are taken from: Wassily Kandinsky, Concerning the Spiritual in Art, with an introduction by Max Bill, translated from German into Polish by Stanisław Fijałkowski, Łódź, 1996.